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bedlam-barbie · 10 days ago

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After hours

Or Attention part 7

Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!reader; Salesman x recruiter!reader

Warnings: 18+ only; rough intimacy; unprotected sex; self-destructive coping mechanisms; bruises; physical assault; voyeuristic intensity toxic relationships; possessiveness; jealousy; unresolved tension; heavy angst; graphic violence; emotional whiplash; emotional manipulation; sexual tension; grief; guilt

Word count: 5.1k

Summary: In the stillness of the Host’s office, In-ho is faced with everything he's buried—his grief, his guilt, and his for the woman who keeps slipping through his fingers. she finds herself drifting toward danger, drawn to Gong Yoo like a moth to flame—his mouth sharp, his hands unforgiving, his obsession unmistakable. What started as sparring turns into something far more depraved, a violent rhythm of teeth, heat, and whispered promises neither of them intend to keep. But in the world they belong to, nothing stays hidden. Especially not from Hwang In-ho. When In-ho walks in on them in the middle of a moment too raw to deny, the fallout is immediate, violent, and unforgiving—because some things were never meant to be shared.

Author’s note: This work contains mature content intended for adult audiences. Reader discretion is advised. Darlinggg, guess who’s back from jaill? This chapter is a bit explicit, please bear that in mind! I wrote this over the course of this week and I am very excited to share it with you, please let me know your thoughts!

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Headquarters ; 11:45 PM; The Host’s office

When In-ho arrived at the Host’s office, the old man was already seated, his silhouette poised in the plush black leather armchair that faced the expansive windows overlooking the Seoul skyline. In-ho had been here many times before, yet the room never failed to impress—or unsettle—him.

The office was a study in shadows and luxury, its interior steeped in understated opulence. Black marble stretched across the massive desk like a frozen river, gleaming faintly under the dim, amber-hued lighting. Behind it, another leather chair sat with quiet authority, unoccupied for now. The faint but unmistakable scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the deeper notes of aged whiskey—a blend that hinted at decades of habit and power.

Despite the elegant austerity of the space, it was the towering, floor-to-ceiling windows that always stole In-ho’s attention. Draped in heavy velvet curtains that were now drawn back, the windows framed the city like a living painting. Seoul shimmered beyond the glass, its lights flickering like restless stars. The night pulsed with quiet life, and in the background, a soft stream of old jazz trickled from a speaker tucked into a corner—scratchy saxophones and languid piano chords that curled around the silence.

It was a room built for control. Quiet, cold, and deliberate. But in moments like this, with the city glittering below and music breathing softly in the dark, it felt almost like a sanctuary.

“Sir,” his voice greeted Il-nam politely, almost automatically.

“Ah, Frontman,” the old man said with a faint smile, as though the title amused him more than it impressed. “Come, take a seat. Pour yourself a glass.”

In-ho nodded and moved without question, the routine familiar. He approached the liquor cart, noting how the labels were untouched since his last visit. He chose a bottle—one he suspected Il-nam expected him to—and poured carefully. No spills. No second guesses.

He sat beside the old man, in a matching leather chair that always felt a touch too yielding, too worn, as though it had been shaped by countless others before him. He removed his mask slowly, almost reverently, and placed it next to Il-nam’s golden owl. His mask looked clinical, geometric—designed to obscure. Il-nam’s, by contrast, radiated myth and menace. Even now, unmoving, it seemed to watch him.

For a moment, they said nothing. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was deliberate. Owned. Il-nam’s gaze remained fixed on the glowing skyline, a kingdom sprawling beneath his feet. The music—a low, aged jazz melody—hummed in the background like a ghost of another era.

Il-nam lit a cigar, the flick of his lighter echoing faintly in the still room. He didn’t ask, merely extended the box. A gesture not of hospitality, but of testing. In-ho accepted with a measured nod, striking a flame of his own. He inhaled, feeling his lungs burn.

“You know,” Il-nam said, voice soft but sure, “you’ve always been my most calculated soldier. The most loyal.”

The compliment hung in the air like smoke—sweet on the surface, but cloying underneath.

“It’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you. Trusted you.” He took a long draw from his cigar. “And why, soon enough, this will all be yours.”

He gestured lazily with his glass, encompassing the room, the operation, the view—the illusion of power.

“But tell me, dear boy... do you still want it?”

Dear boy.

The words, though gently spoken, landed like a leash. Il-nam wasn’t asking permission. He was measuring resolve.

In-ho stared out at the city, at the flickering lights that once seemed full of possibility. Now, they looked distant. Cold.

“I do,” he said quietly. “I always did.”

“You like her. The Dancer,” Il-nam said flatly, not so much accusing as stating an unavoidable truth.

In-ho froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for it to register. Of course, he should have known better than to expect privacy. Nothing escaped Il-nam, not in his world. The Host didn’t need to ask questions. He already knew the answers. Always had.

There was no use denying it. Not to him. He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he let the silence settle, took a slow sip of his whiskey, and kept his eyes on the glittering skyline. But his mind had already drifted—back to the rooftop pool, to her. Midnight steam rising around them like ghosts. The bruises on her skin. The fury in her voice. The way she clung to him like she hated herself for needing him.

He’d stepped into the water, fully clothed, unable to stay away. They’d burned, both of them—on the edge of something dangerous, something inevitable. She’d dared him to feel. He had. Too much.

The memory still ached like a fresh wound. And yet, like all things with her, he buried it deep beneath the mask.

“It’s irrelevant where my affections lie, sir,” he said finally, voice clipped and composed. “What matters are the games.”

Il-nam gave a soft, breathy chuckle—not mocking, but close.

“Oh, my dear Frontman. There is still so much you do not understand.”

He leaned forward slightly, cigar pinched between two fingers, the ember glowing like an eye in the dark. His voice was calm, but his words were razors.

“When I die—and that day is fast approaching—there will be a power vacuum. The VIPs will sense it before the smoke even clears. They’ll circle like sharks. Each one more grotesque and ravenous than the last. And the thing about sharks,” he added, tapping ash into the crystal tray, “is they don’t respond to logic. They respond to blood, charm, seduction. Instinct.”

In-ho said nothing, but his jaw tensed.

“And the VIPs?” Il-nam continued, pausing for dramatic effect. “They’re enamored by her. Utterly. They watch her like she’s an eclipse—rare, dangerous, and beautiful enough to forget how dark the world gets when she’s near.”

He swirled the liquor in his glass, eyes not leaving In-ho’s face.

“You, on the other hand... you’re cold. Sharp. Detached. That’s what makes you perfect for this role. You don’t bend. You don’t bleed. But she? She could sell water to a dying man in a desert. And he’d thank her for the privilege.”

There was a beat of silence before In-ho responded. His voice was calm, but edged now. Controlled—barely.

“What exactly are you trying to imply, sir?”

Il-nam exhaled, the smoke curling like a spell around his words.

“Oh, I’m not implying anything, my boy. I’m telling you. You need her. Or someone like her. But preferably her.”

He looked at In-ho now, finally. Really looked. The smile on his lips was gentle, almost paternal. But there was steel behind it. Calculation.

“You may hold the leash soon, but don’t fool yourself—you’ll still need to lead the pack. And they won’t follow a statue. No matter how perfectly carved.”

In-ho looked away again, glass resting on the arm of the chair, half-forgotten. His reflection stared back at him in the window—sharp-suited, expressionless, hollowed by years of serving something he barely understood. Beside him, Il-nam’s presence loomed like a fading god still pulling strings from the edge of death.

Maybe this was another test. Or maybe it was already too late to resist what the old man was orchestrating.

“I’ll do what’s required,” In-ho said quietly.

Il-nam smiled, pleased. He always was when people said exactly what he expected them to.

“I know you will.” Il-nam’s voice was calm, composed—until a dry cough broke through, shaking his frame. He waved it off with a trembling hand, then continued, eyes glinting with old amusement. “She was meant for you, you know. I saw her that night—drenched in someone else’s blood—and I thought, Yes. She’ll need taming, of course. But who better to handle that fire than my Hwang In-ho? Someone who won’t be threatened by the blaze. Someone she can push against without burning the whole operation to the ground.”

He said it like a compliment. Like it was a clever match he’d orchestrated from the start. A blade paired with a steady hand. Fire to thaw the ice—but not melt it. It had been three years since that night. Since Il-nam had plucked her from chaos and offered her a place in his empire. And every day since, she had proven herself—intelligent, ruthless, magnetic. A perfect match, the old man believed. Not just for the game, but for In-ho.

And In-ho hated it.

Hated the way Il-nam spoke of her—as if she were a weapon to be wielded, a pawn to be positioned. A beautiful, dangerous thing meant to be managed. But he couldn’t deny the truth behind it. The appeal. The way fire and ice sparked when they collided. The way she looked at him—not with fear, but with challenge. And how, despite everything, he kept coming back.

Even he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. Not about what he felt.

“So do something about it,” Il-nam said, voice dipping lower now, sharper. “Because while you hesitated… the Salesman didn’t. And he’ll fight tooth and nail to keep her.”

“Sir, with all due respect... he’ll get bored. A month, tops.”

In-ho wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Il-nam—or himself.

Because for all Gong Yoo’s many faults, boredom had never looked like this. In all the years In-ho had known the man, he had never seen him so consumed by anyone. Not a player, not a contact, not even a target. And that? That unsettled him.

Because if the Salesman’s loyalty started to bend beneath the weight of this growing obsession, if she became the exception—then they were all standing on thin ice with fire licking at their heels.

“Maybe,” Il-nam replied, with a shrug that felt too casual. “Maybe not. But never underestimate someone like him. The second you do, you wake up with a knife in your back.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharpening with age-worn precision. “He doesn’t hesitate. And he doesn’t miss. You, of all people, should know that.”

The words struck like a match across old wounds. Designed to provoke. To stir the memory.

And it did.

The image came unbidden—his wife, frail and fading. A hospital bed they couldn’t afford that reeked of antiseptic and too many goodbyes. A transplant they never reached. The waitlist stretched into forever, and they had no money, no time. He remembered the way her fingers would clutch his sleeve in the middle of the night when the pain grew too much. The way she’d whisper that it was okay to let go if he had to. That she could bear the pain, as long as their child lived.

And then, the man at the station. The smile, too polite. The voice, too smooth. A simple game. A simple offer. One that had rewritten everything.

Gong Yoo had offered him a miracle.

And when In-ho came back?

There was nothing left. Only ashes. A funeral. A child he’d never hold. A man he barely recognized in the mirror. And the Salesman—still watching, still smiling—as if he had known all along that this was exactly how it would end.

A part of In-ho would always blame him. For presenting the choice. For knowing the weakness. For seeing the rot before In-ho even admitted it was there. He had exploited it with precision. And it didn’t matter that now, as Frontman, In-ho outranked him. Didn’t matter that in less than a year, he would be Host—superseding every operation the Salesman had ever touched.

Because every time they met, every time that smug smirk crossed his lips, In-ho saw it. The truth.

Gong Yoo remembered the man he used to be.

And In-ho would be damned if he let that man take her.

Headquarters ; 01:30 AM ; the training center

The training center was silent, save for the soft, ambient hum of recessed LED lights lining the ceiling. The air inside was cool and sharp, climate-controlled and pristine. Every surface gleamed—polished steel, matte black floors, smooth concrete walls. Sleek. Minimal. Efficient.

It was a space built for precision, not comfort. The kind of place where noise felt out of place, where even footsteps seemed too loud.

At the center of the room was a state-of-the-art sparring ring, its floor a stretch of smart fabric capable of tracking movement and impact in real time. The ropes were taut, clean, reinforced with carbon fiber. Cameras were mounted unobtrusively in the corners, always watching, recording every jab, dodge, and fall.

Along the perimeter, modern gym equipment stood in sharp lines—treadmills, resistance rigs, weight racks, and combat simulators, all sleekly designed in monochrome tones. Digital panels blinked softly on each machine, ready to scan IDs and log sessions automatically.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone—clean, controlled, like a lab meant for violence. Not a trace of sweat lingered. Any sign of effort or exertion was erased almost instantly by the facility’s ventilation and sanitation systems.

Every mark left here was temporary. Every drop of blood, cleaned before it dried. Here, the pain was calculated. Efficiency was sacred. Weakness wasn’t mocked, it was corrected.

Her and Gong Yoo had been sparring for over two hours now, locked in a relentless rhythm inside the ring. Sweat clung to their skin, but neither seemed eager to stop. The space around them faded into the background. It was just the two of them, circling, dancing, daring.

The air was thick with heat and adrenaline, despite the sterile chill pumped in by the overhead vents. Their breath came in sharp, steady bursts. Their sweat slicked the floor beneath them, pooled in the hollow of their spines, dripped down the curve of her jaw and the arch of his collarbone.

And still, they didn’t stop.

Each time she came close, just inches from landing a blow, Gong Yoo slipped away like silk through her fingers. His movements were infuriatingly fluid, all lean grace and unearned ease. He dodged not just her fists, but the rules. He played with her. And yet, she refused to back down. That was the thing about her—she didn’t surrender. She sharpened.

Their match was no longer just sparring—it was a storm waiting to break. Sweat and friction and something deeper that neither of them dared to name.

“Again, princess,” he said, voice low and maddeningly smug as he sidestepped her roundhouse. “The second you actually hit me, we can go home.”

His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged space, cutting through the silence like a blade. She landed hard on her feet, pivoted fast, and glared. Her ponytail whipped over her shoulder like a challenge.

She rolled her eyes, resetting her stance. “You do realize no one’s calling you ‘home,’ right?”

He smirked. “Yet you’re still here, chasing me like a lovesick schoolgirl.”

Their movements were sharp, controlled—like a tango with consequences. Footwork, counters, sidesteps. Each strike felt rehearsed, but only because they had done this so many times before. Gong Yoo’s style was all cocky grace and calculated evasion. He didn’t fight fair, and he didn’t need to.

So she adapted. She stopped aiming for perfection—and started aiming to win.

She moved—fast, sharp, untelegraphed. A fake-out high, then a sweeping low kick. He jumped, barely clearing it, landing with a grin. His breath hitched slightly, but he covered it with laughter.

Their fight had turned into something else entirely. A rhythm. A seduction. The space between them thrummed with energy—charged, magnetic, volatile.

Her next blow was wild—not clean, but close. It grazed his shoulder, enough to twist him off-balance for the first time all night. He recovered with a spin, teeth bared in a grin that looked far too satisfied.

“Oof,” he teased, shaking out his arm. “Was that desperation I felt? Or are you just dying for an excuse to touch me?”

“If I wanted to touch you,” she snapped, voice breathless and biting, “you wouldn’t still be standing.”

“Is that a threat,” Gong Yoo asked, stepping forward slowly, deliberately, “or a promise?”

She smirked. “Depends. You planning on dodging that too?”

She didn’t back down. Not an inch. Her eyes burned into his—furious, electric, locked in. “Depends. You planning on running from that too?”

He chuckled, but there was something darker in his eyes now—something focused. Intense. “I’d be stupid not to. You hit like you mean it. Like you hate me.”

“I do,” she said, without missing a beat.

He tilted his head, almost admiring her. “Funny. You fight like you want me to stay.”

Their breath mingled now—fast, hot, clouding the inches of air between them. His chest rose and fell in time with hers, soaked through and heaving. Her fists were still raised, but her fingers were twitching—ready, waiting.

“You’re insufferable,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, soft and low. “But you like that.”

She stepped in, faked a right, then threw her elbow—fast, brutal, aimed for the side of his jaw. He caught it with one hand, inches from his face. Their skin met—damp, electric. A breath passed between them.

A heartbeat.

His fingers curled around her arm, not tight—but firm. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, just once. Barely there. Like a secret.

“You’re good,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said.

Gong Yoo leaned in, just enough to feel the heat of her skin. “But I’m still better.”

Her smirk was sharp as a blade. “Then stop talking and prove it.”

His laughter still echoed through the training center, low and infuriatingly pleased with himself, when she moved.

Not to strike. Not to fake. To finish it.

She didn’t lunge with a punch. She closed the space with purpose—shoulder brushing his chest, lips parted, breath hot from exertion and something far more dangerous. Her body pressed against his, slick with sweat, every inch of her radiating heat and intent.

He opened his mouth—probably to drop another smug line—and that’s when she kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was a collision of mouths and months of games. Of too many nights spent circling each other like loaded guns and not nearly enough time spent unloading the tension between them.

She bit his bottom lip, just enough to make him hiss, and then twisted her hips, hooking her leg behind his. Caught completely off-guard, Gong Yoo hit the mat with a thud that echoed off the polished walls, sharp and satisfying.

By the time he registered what had happened, she was already on top of him—thighs straddling his waist, hands pinning his wrists to the mat above his head. Her breath was ragged, her pulse racing through her skin like a war drum.

“Still think I’m slow, Salesman?” she panted, smirking down at him.

Gong Yoo looked up at her with a familiar heat in his eyes—half impressed, half aroused, and entirely hers for the moment. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, his chest rising against her thighs. That sharp jaw, always clenched when he was trying not to give in, was now slack with something caught between restraint and the urge to ruin her.

“You cheated,” he growled, wrists flexing beneath her grip.

“No,” she said, leaning closer until her lips brushed his again, ��I know how to play you.”

He bucked his hips—just enough to make her grip tighten, enough to feel the tension snap taut between them. “You’re cocky for someone who usually ends up on their back.”

“I like being on top,” she whispered, voice wicked in his ear.

He grinned, all teeth and threat. “So do I.”

Then, in a blur of movement, Gong Yoo twisted his wrists free and rolled, slamming her into the mat beneath him with a guttural sound ripped straight from his throat. Now he was on top—legs bracketing her hips, one hand pinning both of hers, the other tangled in her hair. His grip was firm, strong enough that if he squeezed any harder, it would bruise.

His face hovered just above hers, their noses nearly brushing, his breath ragged and hot. “You think I forgot what your mouth tastes like?” he rasped. “You’re playing with fire, little girl”

She bit her lip, her legs shifting beneath him, wrapping around his waist with slow, deliberate pressure, pulling him closer into her. “If you miss it so much…” her voice dropped, husky, breathless, “take it.”

His mouth crashed into hers again, this time without hesitation.

It was all tongue and teeth, frustration and hunger. Gong Yoo’s mouth devoured her, one of his hands mapping her body like he already knew the terrain but needed to rediscover every inch, finally settling on her hip bone, gripping into the soft skin hard. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting down on his lip until he groaned into her mouth.

They didn’t break for air. Not at first.

Because that was how they fought best. Not with fists or strategies. With dominance. With surrender. With a desperation they only ever allowed to surface when it was just the two of them, locked in a room where no one could see the truth behind the masks.

Her voice broke the moment between kisses, low and breathless. “You’re stalling, psycho killer. What happened to going home after I landed a hit?”

His lips ghosted down her neck, his breath scorching. “Who said we were leaving yet?”

And just like that, the sparring match was long forgotten.

In one smooth, unrelenting motion, Gong Yoo was back on his feet, dragging her with him like she weighed nothing. Her legs were still wrapped tight around his waist, her hands locked around his shoulders, and a startled gasp slipped from her lips before she could catch it.

“Hey!” she started, but it died on her tongue when she saw the look in his eyes.

Predatory. Determined. Starving.

He smirked, that maddening, slow curl of his lips that always meant trouble. “No need to thank me,” he said, breath warm against her jaw. “Just figured I’d be a gentleman and help you clean up, princess.”

Before she could snap back, he was already striding across the floor with her still clinging to him—carrying her like a victory. Every step jostled her against him, the friction of his body between her thighs sending sparks straight through her core. She clenched tighter on instinct, and he hissed softly, eyes narrowing like a man walking willingly into a fire.

He shoved open the shower room door with one shoulder, steam from earlier sessions still clinging to the tiles like ghosts. The scent of heat and sweat clung to the air—intimate, heavy, charged. The sound of water still dripping from one of the nozzles echoed in the background like a slow, steady heartbeat.

“You’re filthy,” Gong Yoo muttered, pressing her back against the nearest sink counter. “Wouldn’t want to send you home covered in sweat and attitude.”

“Then put me down,” she said, smirking despite herself.

“I plan to,” he murmured. “Eventually.”

With deliberate slowness, he set her down atop the sink’s cool marble edge—his hands lingering on her thighs, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make her shiver. He stood between her knees, chest heaving, heat radiating off him like a second skin. His hands slid up, unbuttoning her shirt with fluid ease, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Because he had.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes, breath catching as each button slipped free, revealing skin beneath fabric, inch by inch. His gaze dragged over her like a physical touch, lingering on every old bruise, every fresh mark he’d half-forgotten he left.

“You always look best like this,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “Wrecked. Smirking. About to lose control.”

“And you always talk too much,” she whispered, tugging his shirt open in one sharp movement, buttons scattering across the tile. He flinched, not in pain, but in pleasure.

He stepped closer, pressing her back slightly against the mirror, hands finding her waist, gripping tight.

“I think you like when I talk,” Gong Yoo growled against her neck. “Especially when you’re like this—wet and trembling and pretending you're still in control.”

She dragged her nails down his chest. “Try me, psycho.”

He did.

His mouth was on her collarbone, then her throat, trailing heat in his wake. Every kiss was a claim. Every bite a threat. The mirror behind her fogged with the rising heat, her breath smearing across the glass as he pressed harder, deeper, pulling another gasp from her lips.

She reached between them, fingers already undoing his belt, and he caught her wrist mid-motion, holding it firm.

“I’ll take care of that,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered back, breathless. “I’m just getting started.”

And then he kissed her—really kissed her—his mouth crashing into hers with enough force to make her head tip back. His grip on her hips tightened, and she responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into her like she could fuse their bodies through sheer will.

Without another word, Gong Yoo moved again—deliberate, controlled, commanding. He turned one of the showers on, steam immediately hissing into the air as hot water spilled from the nozzle, fogging the glass and beading against the polished tiles. The room filled with heat, the sterile cold replaced by something carnal, heavy, undeniable.

Then he was back on her, peeling off the rest of their clothes with a carelessness that made it clear: he wasn’t interested in ceremony. Shirts, pants, underthings—all discarded in a tangled pile on the floor, forgotten, like everything else that wasn’t this.

With practiced ease, Gong Yoo lifted her again, arms locked under her thighs as he carried her into the cascading stream. The moment her back met the shower wall, she gasped at the contrast—the cool tiles against her spine, the scalding water pouring over their skin, and him, pressed between her legs like he belonged there.

His mouth found hers again in a kiss that was all tongue and hunger, the kind that left no room for air or thought. She arched into him, body slick with water and need, her fingers digging into the nape of his neck as if she could anchor herself against the force of him.

“You’re insatiable,” she purred against his lips, her voice a breathy tease laced with challenge.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark, jaw tight. “And you’re a goddamn menace.”

His hands gripped her hips as he pushed her harder against the wall, the muscles of his forearms flexing with restraint he was barely holding onto. Her soft curves molded to the hard lines of his body—the planes of his chest slick against her breasts, her thighs tightening around his waist with every shift of his hips.

Gong Yoo’s hand slid up her side, a featherlight touch that barely grazed her ribs, her waist, the underside of her breast—enough to drive her mad. She whimpered, low and needy, pushing against him, trying to chase the contact he was withholding with maddening precision.

The disapproving moan she gave made his lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Patience,” he murmured, voice low and rough in her ear. “You’re always in such a hurry to come.”

Her head dropped back with a soft growl, water trickling down the column of her throat. “And you’re always playing games.”

He ghosted his mouth down her neck, tongue flicking over the pulse hammering beneath her skin. “Because I know how much you hate losing.”

His fingers finally dipped lower, teasing the inside of her thigh, finally settling on her core rubbing it with his thumb with maddening slowness. Her whole body tensed, suspended between need and anticipation, every nerve ending alight and screaming for more.

“I swear to God, if you don’t—”

He silenced her with a rough kiss, one hand gripping her jaw as he deepened it, claiming her mouth like it was his to own.

“I will,” Gong Yoo growled between kisses. “But not until I hear you beg for it.”

Her moan was a curse, her nails dragging down his back. “You're evil.”

“You knew that the first time you let me touch you,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “And you still came back.”

And she had. Again and again.

Because no matter how sharp the fight, how brutal the burn—they always came back.

The sound of the water masked everything—the moans, the gasps, the soft thud of bodies against tile. Gong Yoo’s breath was ragged against her neck, his hand finally sliding lower, slipping past the place where teasing became something else entirely.

She was clinging to him, her head thrown back, legs wrapped tight around his waist, both of them drowning in the heat and the pressure of everything they refused to name.

They didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t see the man standing there—until it was far too late.

Hwang In-ho froze in the threshold, a wall of stillness in a room thick with steam and sin. The heat hit him first—the blast of humidity, the scent of sweat and sex in the air—but it was the sight that carved the air from his lungs like a blade.

Her.

Pinned to the shower wall.

Her back arched, her lips parted in ecstasy, arms wrapped around Gong Yoo’s neck like he belonged there.

Gong Yoo—bare, soaked, inside her like it was his right.

In-ho didn’t speak.

Didn’t shout.

He moved.

The rage was silent. Cold. Controlled. It boiled behind the impassive set of his face, behind the dead calm of his eyes. Before either of them could register his presence, he was on them.

In a blur of motion, In-ho ripped Gong Yoo off her, fingers digging into his shoulder and yanking him back with brutal force. She let out a shocked cry as Gong Yoo stumbled, still slick from the water, barely catching his balance before—

One hand grabbed the bastard by the shoulder, tearing him away from her like ripping flesh from bone. The other curled into a fist and swung. The punch landed with a sickening crack—jaw, bone, blood. Gong Yoo’s head snapped to the side, body slamming into the tile wall, water spraying violently around them.

In ho drove his knuckles into Gong Yoo’s face with brutal precision—left, right, again, again—each strike more savage than the last. His fist collided with flesh and cartilage, splitting skin, bursting blood across the pale tiles.

His chest heaved. Water poured down his face, mixing with sweat, blood, and something darker—everything he had buried beneath the mask for years.

Grief. Jealousy. Guilt. Rage.

All of it.

And in the shattered silence, In-ho stood over him, soaked, shaking, hands clenched—his heart pounding like a war drum.

He didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

122 notes · View notes

bedlam-barbie · 13 days ago

Text

....i am not sobbing you are

AU: In-ho wins the games, his wife survives, and Jun-ho becomes an uncle

based on this ask

An AU in which In-ho wins the games and comes home to his wife. Yuna doesn't die and they have their child! In-ho has ptsd due to his experience in the games, but he tries very hard to be a good father!!

This is more fluff than anything else

(Warnings: 7k words, ptsd, tooth rotting fluff, I wrote this instead of sleeping)

ao3

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

In-ho ran.

His boots slammed against the hospital floor, echoing through sterile hallways he knew far too well. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Twenty-four missed calls.

Sixteen unread messages.

His inbox was full.

His screen wouldn’t stop lighting up – Jun-ho, Yuna, their mother, unknown numbers, voicemail alerts piling on top of each other.

He had been gone six days. No goodbye. No word. No explanation. His stomach dropping lower with every notification.

Jun-ho had blown up his phone. Yuna had called until it went to voicemail. She must’ve thought he was dead.

Maybe he was.

He had dreamed of this. Of rushing here too late. Of walking into a quiet room, white sheets, stillness.

Please.

He nearly crashed into a nurse but didn’t pause to apologize. The elevator felt too slow, so he took the stairs two at a time. He knew the floor. Knew the hallway. Knew exactly where to go.

Room 412.

He rounded the corner too fast and almost slipped. His vision blurred from exhaustion, sweat, and something too close to panic. He forced himself to keep moving, hand reaching out before he even reached the door.

He shoved it open.

And stopped breathing.

Yuna was there. Alive. Awake. Sitting up in bed.

She turned toward the door at the sound, and her tired face lit up with a smile so soft, so relieved, it knocked the air from his lungs. Her eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “In-ho?”

His knees gave out.

He crossed the room in seconds, dropped beside her bed, and took her hand in both of his like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“You’re okay,” he said. His voice cracked. “You’re really okay.”

Yuna nodded slowly. “I kept calling. I didn’t know where you were. I was scared –”

“I know. I know.” His head dropped against her lap. “I’m sorry.”

Her hand moved to his hair, gentle and slow. She brushed her fingers through the strands like it calmed her too.

“You came back,” she whispered. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jun-ho stood quietly by the window, arms folded, eyes rimmed red. Their mother sat beside him, her hand gripping a paper cup so tightly the sides crumpled. Neither said anything. Not yet.

“I thought I’d be too late,” In-ho murmured. His fingers tightened around hers. “I thought you – God, I thought you were gone.”

In-ho clung to her hand as if it could prove this was real. That she was alive. That there was still a future waiting for them.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The hallway outside the maternity ward was hushed, the lights dimmed for the late hour. In-ho stood just beyond the doors, one hand resting against the cool metal as he tried to slow his heartbeat.

He still couldn’t believe it.

A son.

He turned the corner and spotted them – Jun-ho and his stepmother – sitting side by side in the waiting area. His stepmother’s cardigan was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her face tired but glowing. Jun-ho sat forward, elbows on knees, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

In-ho approached quietly. The second Jun-ho looked up, In-ho gave a tiny nod.

“She’s okay,” he said softly. “They’re both okay.”

Jun-ho let out a breath like he’d been holding it in all night. Their mother pressed a hand to her chest, eyes glistening.

“They’re only allowing one visitor at a time,” In-ho added. His eyes met hers. “I was going to bring you in first –”

But she reached over and gently nudged Jun-ho’s arm. “Go on,” she said with a warm smile. “He should meet his uncle first.”

In-ho blinked, surprised, then gave her a soft, grateful smile. He placed a hand on Jun-ho’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “He’s waiting.”

Jun-ho stood awkwardly, smoothing down his shirt like it might help with the nerves. He followed his brother down the corridor, silent, the only sound the distant beeping of monitors and the soft hum of the hospital at night.

They stepped into the room.

Yuna lay in the bed, pale and exhausted but beautiful as ever. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she saw Jun-ho, she smiled.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but warm.

Jun-ho stepped forward, hesitant. “Hi. I – I wasn’t sure if –”

“Come in,” she said. “He’s right here.”

In-ho sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, his hand gentle as he reached down and lifted the small bundle from the bassinet. The baby stirred, let out a soft noise, and then settled again as In-ho cradled him close.

He turned slightly, holding the newborn so Jun-ho could see.

“This is your nephew,” In-ho said. His voice was quieter now. “His name is Hwang Seo-jun.”

Jun-ho’s eyes widened just a little.

“It’s subtle,” In-ho added, glancing at him with the barest hint of a smile. “But I wanted part of your name in his.”

Jun-ho blinked fast. His hands stayed at his sides, unsure what to do. “He’s… he’s really small.”

Jun-ho stood still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the tiny bundle in In-ho’s arms. His throat bobbed in a quiet swallow.

“Can I…?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

In-ho gave a small nod. “Yeah. He won’t bite. Yet.”

That earned the faintest smile from Jun-ho as he slowly reached out, fingers trembling just a little. His hand hovered uncertainly near the baby’s. Then, gently, he offered his pinky.

Seo-jun stirred.

Tiny fingers – wrinkled and impossibly small – wrapped around Jun-ho’s without hesitation.

Jun-ho froze.

His mouth parted slightly, his eyes locked on the connection. He let out a soft breath, like the moment had taken it right out of him.

“He likes you,” Yuna said sleepily, watching the two of them with fond eyes.

In-ho let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm in his chest. “You did the exact same thing when you were born,” he said, glancing up at Jun-ho. “Wrapped your hand around my finger and wouldn’t let go.”

Jun-ho looked at him then, eyes wide. “I did?”

“You did,” In-ho said. “You were just as stubborn back then, too.”

A small laugh escaped Jun-ho – shy, surprised. He didn’t pull his finger away. He just stood there, letting Seo-jun hold onto him like it meant something.

And it did.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Yuna noticed the little things first.

The way In-ho always sat with his back to the wall. How he flinched at sudden sounds – even the kettle clicking off or the soft squeak of Seo-jun’s rattle dropping to the floor.

The way he barely slept.

He told her he was just restless. That the baby’s cries kept him up. But she’d wake up at two, three in the morning and find him already awake, staring out the window with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

He always seemed cold, even when the room was warm.

He held Seo-jun gently, but not often. Not without hesitation. Sometimes she’d catch him staring at the baby’s tiny face like he didn’t know what to do with the love curling in his chest – and the fear that came with it.

Once, the TV crackled when she changed the input. A quick burst of static and flashing light. In-ho dropped the remote. His whole body jolted like someone had struck him.

He played it off. Picked the remote up without looking at her.

But she saw.

She always saw.

He never told her what really happened during those six missing days. He’d only said, “I had to survive something. And I did.”

The rest, he kept locked away.

She never pried. But she tried.

She started leaving warm tea by his side when he came in late from a walk. She learned what songs helped him sleep – soft, instrumental things that didn’t startle. She gently guided Seo-jun into his arms during the quieter moments.

Sometimes, he’d hold him. Sometimes, he’d say he needed a moment. And step away.

Some nights, he wouldn’t come to bed until the sun had started rising.

And when she’d ask if he wanted to talk, he’d smile – a soft, polite smile that never reached his eyes – and say, “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But she could see it in his hands. The tension in his shoulders. The way he locked himself away behind silence.

Yuna sat with Seo-jun one afternoon, humming while he slept against her chest. In-ho stood at the window, unmoving.

She watched his reflection in the glass. The straight line of his jaw. The set of his mouth. The haunted edge to his eyes.

He didn’t speak.

And she didn’t push.

But she whispered anyway, just loud enough for him to hear: “I don’t need all the answers. I just need you to let me in… even a little.”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t move.

But his hand, resting at his side, curled into a loose fist. A tremble ran through it. Barely there.

And she hoped – one day – he’d stop flinching from her touch.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the nightlight in the corner and the city lights filtering through the curtains.

And then –

The crying started.

It wasn’t loud at first. Just the soft, broken wail of a newborn stirring awake. But to In-ho, it was piercing. Immediate.

His eyes snapped open.

He sat upright before he was fully conscious, breath caught in his throat.

Wailing. Flickering light. Darkness. A spotlight overhead. A voice screaming.

His body tensed.

Across the room, the nightlight buzzed softly – then flickered once.

He flinched.

For a second, he wasn’t in the bedroom. He was back there. In the games. In the dead silence before a scream. In the endless dark.

His hands curled into fists on the blanket. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.

“In-ho,” came a soft voice.

He didn’t answer.

Yuna sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her face. Seo-jun’s cries filled the space between them now, louder, sharper – but she didn’t move toward the crib. Not yet.

She looked at In-ho.

He was facing forward, but his eyes weren’t seeing the room.

The flicker of light. The sound. The helpless cry.

It was too much.

“In-ho,” she said again, gently, her voice a little firmer now. She reached out and touched his arm.

His muscles jumped under her fingers.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “It’s just the baby. You’re home. You’re safe.”

He blinked once. Then again. Slowly, like he was surfacing from underwater.

Seo-jun kept crying, unaware. Unbothered. Just needing comfort.

In-ho swallowed hard, his breath coming in slow, uneven bursts. He looked toward the crib. Then at her.

“I’ll get him,” she said softly, already swinging her legs over the side of the bed. But she didn’t stand yet. She kept her hand on his arm.

“You’re okay,” she whispered again. “It’s over.”

He gave a slow nod, still trembling slightly. “I know,” he murmured. “I just – when the light flickered, I thought –”

“I know,” she said, and leaned in to press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to explain.”

He let out a shaky breath.

Yuna stood and crossed the room, her steps soft against the floor. She lifted Seo-jun from the crib, cradling him to her chest, rocking him. She held Seo-jun close, swaying gently as his cries faded into soft, sleepy sounds. Her hand moved rhythmically across his back, comforting, instinctive.

Behind her, In-ho sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, his shoulders still tense from the aftershock.

The room had settled again – quiet now except for the baby’s breathing and the faint hum of the city outside.

Yuna didn’t say anything right away.

She didn’t ask what he had seen behind his eyes when the light flickered. She didn’t ask why he’d flinched like a gun had gone off. She never asked what had really happened during those six days he disappeared. Where he’d been. What he’d done.

Eventually, he had told her just enough to explain the money.

Just enough to explain the nightmares.

He called it a mistake. A dangerous place he’d gotten out of. He’d used phrases like I couldn’t leave until it was over and a lot of people didn’t make it.

She was smart. She hadn’t needed the details.

He looked up at her now, eyes shadowed, raw. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For waking you. For… that.”

Yuna turned toward him, their son tucked into the crook of her arm. “You didn’t wake me,” she said softly. “He did.”

A tiny pause. Then: “And you don’t have to say sorry.”

In-ho nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Still.”

She walked back to the bed and sat beside him. He looked at Seo-jun, who had settled again, his small mouth slightly open as he slept.

Yuna rested her head gently against In-ho’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she reminded him, almost a whisper. “I know there are things you’re carrying.”

In-ho stared ahead, unmoving. Then his head dipped forward, just slightly. His voice came quieter than before.

“I don’t want to put it on you.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re doing your best.”

They sat there like that for a long time – her hand stroking Seo-jun’s back, his shoulder leaning into hers, the weight of silence between them not heavy, but safe.

She never asked.

And he was grateful. More than he could say.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The afternoon light spilled golden across the living room floor, casting long, warm shadows. Seo-jun sat wobbling in the center of the rug, one chubby hand gripping a stuffed animal, the other resting against the couch for balance.

In-ho sat nearby, cross-legged on the floor, just watching.

Jun-ho was on the other side of the room, crouched down with his hands out like a coach at the starting line. “Come on, buddy,” he grinned. “You’ve got this. Show your samchon what you’ve got.”

Yuna stood behind the camera, already snapping pictures like her life depended on it. She kept whispering to herself, “He’s going to do it. He’s going to do it.”

And then – he did.

Seo-jun pushed off from the couch.

One step. Wobbly. His little arms stretched out for balance. Then another.

In-ho didn’t breathe.

The tiny feet moved forward, uncertain but determined. Seo-jun’s eyes lit up as he locked onto his father. A third step, shaky – but he didn’t fall.

Then, with a squeal, Seo-jun reached out. His little hands stretched forward as he toddled toward his father with all the trust in the world.

In-ho caught him just before he would have tipped, wrapping his arms around the tiny frame, holding him close.

“You did it,” he whispered, his voice thick in his throat. “You really did it.”

Behind him, Jun-ho let out a cheer. “That’s my nephew!” He turned to Yuna, already laughing. “Did you get that?”

“I got all of it,” she said, already clicking through her camera, eyes shining.

But In-ho didn’t look up.

He looked down at his son – this bright, living thing full of laughter and wonder. His small face pressed against In-ho’s shoulder, arms clumsily clinging to his neck.

And all In-ho could think was: ‘I almost never had this.’

He almost hadn’t made it back. Six days. That was all it took to nearly erase this moment from ever existing.

He could’ve died in that place.

Yuna would’ve grieved. Jun-ho would’ve never known the truth. Seo-jun would’ve been born without a father.

Or worse – so much worse – Yuna could have died before he came back.

There was a time whem he had imagined rushing into that hospital too late. No heartbeat. No movement. Just silence.

He’d survived hell. But he could have come back to nothing.

No Yuna.

No Seo-jun.

No laughter in this room.

No warm light pouring across the floor.

It would have all been gone.

But now –

Now his son giggled. Warm and real and alive.

A tremble passed through him, but he tightened his arms around his son.

He still flinched at loud noises. Still dreamed of screams and blood. Still woke up some nights with his pulse racing like a hunted man.

But this?

This was why he came back.

Seo-jun wriggled a little, giggling against his neck.

In-ho smiled. A real one. The kind that hurt because it was so full.

“Appa’s got you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, he truly believed it.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Some days, In-ho could fake it well enough.

He’d paste on a tired smile when Seo-jun bounded into the room, arms outstretched and breathless with excitement. He’d crouch down, ruffle his hair, ask about the cartoon he’d just watched or the tower he was building.

He wanted to be present. Desperately.

But some days – he just couldn’t.

On those days, he’d sit on the couch with Seo-jun in his lap, one arm looped gently around the toddler’s waist. Seo-jun would chatter away, swinging his legs, holding a toy truck in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other.

And In-ho would stare at the wall.

Not thinking. Not feeling. Just drifting.

He could still feel the warmth of Seo-jun’s small body against his chest. He could hear the echo of his voice – “Appa, look! Vroom vroom!” – but it felt like it was all happening somewhere else. Like he was behind glass.

Distant.

He’d nod when he was supposed to. Maybe murmur a soft, “Mm,” or “That’s cool, buddy.”

But inside, he wasn’t here.

Seo-jun would eventually twist around and press a small hand to his father’s cheek. “Appa?”

Sometimes, that was enough to pull him back. Sometimes not.

Yuna would notice from the kitchen and quietly come in, crouch beside them, and say, “Why don’t you show me how fast the truck goes?”

And Seo-jun, always trusting, always bright, would scramble down with a proud grin and demonstrate on the floor.

In-ho would blink slowly, his arms falling to his sides. Breathing, but barely there.

Yuna never scolded. Never asked what was wrong in that moment.

She’d simply sit beside him later, after their son had gone to bed, and rest her hand on his knee. Not asking him to speak. Just reminding him he wasn’t alone.

Because some days, he could carry the weight.

And some days, it carried him.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The house was too quiet.

Which, in In-ho’s experience, never meant anything good.

He stepped out of the bedroom and paused, listening. No giggles. No shouting. No thuds or crashes.

That was the first red flag.

He turned down the hall and into the kitchen – only to stop short at the sight before him.

Seo-jun stood on a chair, face and hands absolutely covered in flour. His little palms were pressed into a mess of cookie dough, smushing it with more enthusiasm than skill. Beside him, Jun-ho wore an apron that read ‘World’s Okayest Uncle’ and looked entirely unbothered by the chaos erupting on the countertop.

“Please tell me,” In-ho said slowly, “that you’re not letting my four-year-old operate the mixer.”

Jun-ho glanced up, grinning. “Relax. I unplugged it. We’re just kneading now.”

“Kneading?” In-ho raised an eyebrow. “That’s not kneading, that’s pulverizing.”

“I’m making a mountain,” Seo-jun declared proudly, holding up a misshapen lump of dough. It immediately fell apart and stuck to his shirt.

“See? He’s a natural,” Jun-ho said with mock pride.

In-ho pinched the bridge of his nose but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips.

Yuna entered a second later, took one look at the scene, and burst out laughing. “I leave you alone for twenty minutes and suddenly we have a toddler baker and an apron that looks like it’s been through a war.”

“I’m teaching him life skills,” Jun-ho said, puffing his chest out.

“You’re teaching him how to cause a health hazard,” In-ho muttered, walking over to wipe flour off Seo-jun’s nose. “Seriously, how did this even start?”

“He said he wanted cookies,” Jun-ho shrugged. “I said I wanted cookies. Next thing I knew, we were making them.”

Yuna leaned into In-ho’s side, still laughing softly. “You’ve got your hands full, you know.”

“I’m aware,” In-ho sighed. “With two of them.”

She tilted her head up toward him. “Our children, huh?”

In-ho scoffed, but his expression softened.

She wasn’t wrong.

He looked across the kitchen – Jun-ho now helping Seo-jun shape a cookie into what was definitely not a star – and felt a warmth settle low in his chest.

He remembered holding Jun-ho’s tiny hand on the first day of school. Teaching him how to tie his shoes. The way he’d fallen asleep against In-ho’s side after crying about a scraped knee. The way he looked at In-ho – not just as a brother, but like he hung the stars.

And now there was Seo-jun. A whirlwind of energy and light. His son.

His second chance to protect something innocent.

“Yeah,” In-ho said quietly. “Both my boys.”

Yuna leaned her head on his shoulder. “And neither of them can be left alone in a kitchen.”

Just then, a loud bang echoed from the oven area, followed by a delighted “Oops!” from Seo-jun.

In-ho groaned. “I’m not cleaning that.”

“I’ll get the camera,” Yuna said, already turning.

And In-ho stood there, flour in the air, cookie dough on the walls, and love wrapped up in laughter and mischief – watching the two hearts he’d helped raise turn chaos into joy.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Some days were good.

In-ho would wake early, fix Seo-jun’s favorite breakfast – eggy toast cut into stars – and watch him wobble around the apartment in mismatched socks. They’d build towers from blocks and knock them down together, and In-ho would feel almost normal again. On good days, In-ho remembered how to laugh.

But on the bad days –

He couldn’t leave the bed.

His body wouldn’t move the way it should. His chest stayed tight. His hands stayed cold. The past clung to him like a second skin.

On those days, even Seo-jun’s light footsteps in the hall felt too loud. Even his tiny voice, calling, “Appa?” from the living room, was too much.

He hated it. Hated needing space from his own son. Hated needing space from his wife. Hated needed space from everyone he loved. But it was the truth.

In-ho just couldn’t move.

On those days, it was Jun-ho who showed up.

Somehow, Jun-ho knew. He always did. He’d appear like clockwork – never announcing himself, never asking questions. No knocking. No fanfare. Just the quiet sound of the door creaking open and his familiar voice saying, “Alright, kiddo. Samchon’s here. Let’s go cause some trouble.”

Seo-jun’s face would light up. “We going on an adventure?”

“The best kind,” Jun-ho would grin, hoisting him up with ease. “Let’s go terrorize the bakery.”

Yuna would help zip his jacket, pack his little backpack with snacks and wipes and an extra sweater. She’d glance back toward the bedroom once, quietly, and then let them go.

In-ho stayed curled beneath the blankets, listening to the door click shut.

Later that afternoon, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

He rolled over, sluggish, and checked it.

Jun-ho had sent photos.

The first showed Seo-jun in his bright yellow jacket, arms flung wide, tongue out as he stood in front of a giant pile of leaves. Another had him sitting on Jun-ho’s shoulders, pointing dramatically into the distance like he was giving battle orders. The last was a blurry selfie – Jun-ho cross-eyed, Seo-jun mid-laugh, a smear of chocolate across his cheek.

In-ho stared at the screen for a long time, his eyes burning.

A little while later, the front door opened with a bang, followed by the thump of boots and a voice shouting, “Appaaaa! We’re hoooome!”

Tiny feet pounded down the hallway.

Then Seo-jun appeared in the doorway, flushed and grinning. “Appa! We saw a GIANT dog and Samchon almost dropped his coffee and I got a cookie bigger than my face and I didn’t even spill it this time and I picked you a leaf but Samchon said we couldn’t keep it ‘cause it was soggy!”

He scrambled up onto the bed without waiting for permission, plopping down beside In-ho like he owned the space.

In-ho managed to sit up, arms open just enough.

Seo-jun immediately leaned in, wrapping his arms around his father’s middle in a surprisingly tight hug for someone so small. “Did you miss me?”

In-ho let out a soft breath. “Always.”

Seo-jun grinned. “I missed you, too. But Samchon says you’re not allowed to be sad ‘cause you’re the coolest Appa ever.”

In-ho huffed a quiet laugh, blinking fast.

Behind them, Jun-ho leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with quiet eyes and a subtle smile. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

And In-ho…

He still felt heavy. Still felt the weight of what could’ve been. But for now, it was enough to be here. To have this.

He hadn’t left the bed.

But love had come running to him, on little feet and loud stories – arms full of warmth.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

It started with a pebble.

Seo-jun picked it up on the walk home from preschool – tiny, smooth, and perfectly shaped for a child’s pocket. He held it up like a treasure. “Appa, look! Can we play the throwing game again? Like you showed me?”

In-ho froze.

They’d played it once, months ago. Biseokchigi. A game from his childhood. One he’d played on cracked sidewalks with Jun-ho, both of them laughing and arguing over whose turn it was. In-ho had taught it to Seo-jun with a soft smile, back when the days felt light enough to try.

But now –

Now he saw the stone in his son’s hand and felt his chest tighten.

Because he had played that game. But not in the park. Not with laughter. But with heavy metal discs, with blood on the ground and screams in his ears. It had been real. Deadly.

He saw it again, just like that. The metal cylinders. The teams. The weight of survival pressing down on every move.

“Appa?”

In-ho blinked, swallowing hard. “Not today,” he said, voice rougher than he meant.

Seo-jun frowned. “But it’s fun –”

“I said not today.” It came out too sharp. Too fast.

Seo-jun looked startled, the pebble still clutched in his hand. His lip trembled just a little, and he lowered his arm.

From behind them, Yuna stepped in. “Hey, love,” she said gently to their son. “Why don’t you show me instead? I need someone to teach me.”

Seo-jun hesitated – then brightened, the moment already passing like clouds clearing. “Okay!”

He ran ahead, calling out instructions over his shoulder.

In-ho stood still.

Yuna stepped beside him, her voice soft. “It was one of the games, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he said, barely above a whisper, “We used to play it all the time. Me and Jun-ho. I taught him when we were kids.”

Yuna reached for his hand, holding it without speaking.

“I didn’t think it would –” He cut off, jaw clenched. “I thought I could give it back to Seo-jun. The good part of it. But now, every time I see him holding a stone, I just see…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

Yuna squeezed his hand once. “Then we find new games. Ones that are just his.”

In-ho nodded, slowly. His eyes were still on their son, who was now showing Yuna how to knock down imaginary pebbles with exaggerated concentration.

“I wish he’d never have to know,” In-ho murmured. “What the world can really be like.”

“He won’t,” Yuna said gently. “Not if we can help it.”

And so they stood there in the golden hour light, watching their son play a version of a game that, for now, was just that – a game.

And In-ho prayed it would stay that way.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Seo-jun yawned as In-ho carried him down the hall, his head nestled against his father’s shoulder, arms draped sleepily around his neck.

“Appa,” he mumbled, half-asleep, “Samchon said the cookie was a spaceship.”

In-ho chuckled softly. “Did it fly well?”

“It crashed.”

“Of course it did.”

In-ho nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and gently lowered Seo-jun into bed. The boy clung to his sleeve for a second before letting go, rolling onto his side with his stuffed dog tucked under one arm.

In-ho pulled the blanket up over his son’s small frame, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “Goodnight, little explorer.”

“’Night, Appa,” came the sleepy reply.

He watched for a moment – just a moment – as Seo-jun’s breaths deepened and evened out. Then he slipped quietly from the room and padded barefoot down the hallway.

When he stepped into the living room, he found Yuna curled in the armchair, a book in her lap and a grin playing on her lips.

She nodded toward the couch.

Jun-ho was slumped sideways, head resting against the cushions, arms folded like a grumpy teenager. His mouth was slightly open. One sock had slipped halfway off.

Yuna held a finger to her lips, eyes sparkling. In-ho rolled his eyes fondly.

He crossed the room and crouched beside the couch. “Jun-ho,” he whispered, tapping his shoulder gently. “Come on. Don’t sleep out here.”

Jun-ho stirred with a groan. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, eyes barely open.

“I know. Let’s go. Your room’s ready.”

Jun-ho blinked, disoriented. “It’s not my room anymore.”

In-ho snorted. “It’s always your room.”

He helped Jun-ho to his feet and guided him down the hall with a hand on his back, the same way he had when they were young and Jun-ho would fall asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The guest room was dim, neatly made, with the same desk Jun-ho used in high school and a blanket Yuna insisted was ‘for guests,’ though it had been Jun-ho’s since university.

In-ho pulled back the covers and waited as Jun-ho sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Don’t tuck me in,” Jun-ho muttered sleepily.

In-ho raised a brow. “I wasn’t going to.”

A beat.

Then he gently tugged the blanket up anyway, tucking it snug under Jun-ho’s arms. Just like always.

Jun-ho cracked one eye open and mumbled, “You’re such a liar.”

In-ho smirked. “Go to sleep, brat.”

He turned to leave – but paused at the door. He glanced back once, saw Jun-ho already half-asleep, breath evening out, the same way Seo-jun’s had just minutes ago.

Two boys. Different generations. Same heartbeat in his chest.

He switched off the light and closed the door with a quiet click.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:13 a.m.

The house was silent.

Too silent.

In-ho sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his shirt damp with sweat. The sheets behind him were tangled, kicked off during another restless sleep. His hands were clenched, resting against his thighs. He hadn’t even realized they were shaking until he tried to stand.

He moved like a ghost through the hallway. Past Seo-jun’s room – door cracked open just slightly, the soft hum of a nightlight glowing inside.

In-ho paused there.

He stepped inside, just enough to see his son curled up in a little ball, his stuffed dog held close. Breathing steady. Peaceful. Untouched by anything dark.

‘Stay that way,’ In-ho thought, his throat tightening. ‘Please, stay that way.’

He closed the door quietly and made his way to the kitchen.

He didn’t turn on the lights.

The moment he opened the fridge, the cooling fan clicked on – and the hum, low and sudden, sent a jolt through him.

He froze.

It sounded just like the fluorescent buzz of the dormitory.

Too much like the silence before someone died. The pause before a name was called. That hum that settled in the bones right before a life ended.

His breath caught.

He pressed a hand against the counter, grounding himself, fingers spread wide. The world around him stayed still, but inside, everything tilted.

He saw the games again.

The red light.

The cracked floor.

The way someone reached out for him before falling – someone he couldn’t save.

“In-ho?”

He flinched so hard he nearly knocked a glass off the counter.

Yuna stood in the doorway, wrapped in a sweater, eyes soft with concern. “Hey,” she said gently, voice low. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“I know,” he said, too quickly. His voice was hoarse.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make him explain.

She crossed the room and reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his – thumb brushing back and forth until his breath started to even out.

“Come back to bed,” she said after a long pause. “Just lie down. You don’t have to sleep. Just breathe.”

He nodded, but didn’t move.

Yuna stepped in closer and rested her head against his shoulder. “You’re here,” she whispered. “With me. With us. It’s over.”

He closed his eyes.

He wanted to believe her. Some nights he almost did.

But tonight, the Games were too loud in his head.

Still, he let her guide him back to bed – her hand in his, steady as a heartbeat.

And when he finally laid down beside her, back against familiar sheets, her warmth beside him, the buzz in his chest slowly began to fade.

It wasn’t peace. Not yet. And In-ho didn’t think he would ever find peace again.

But it was enough to get through the night.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

It was a Saturday afternoon, the sun warm and high, the kind of day made for running barefoot on the grass and laughing too loudly.

In-ho sat on the back step, a cup of tea growing cold between his hands. He watched from a distance as Seo-jun darted across the yard, stick in hand, waving it like a prize.

Jun-ho accepted the stick with a bright smile, crouching down to arrange a handful of narrow sticks in a tidy pile.

“This one’s called Tuho,” Jun-ho explained, his voice light, patient. “It’s a game your Appa taught me a long time ago.”

Seo-jun tilted his head. “Like… throw-the-stick-in-the-pot game?”

“Exactly that,” Jun-ho grinned. “It’s all about aim and focus. And maybe a little bit of luck.”

He motioned to the small vase he’d set up a few feet away. “Start from here. One stick at a time. If you get it in, you win.”

“What do I win?”

Jun-ho leaned in, mock serious. “Bragging rights. And maybe a popsicle later.”

Seo-jun lit up. “Game on!”

From the back porch, In-ho watched them quietly. He sat on the steps with a blanket draped over his lap and a cup of barley tea cupped between his hands, untouched and cooling.

Tuho.

He hadn’t thought about that game in years.

He used to play it with Jun-ho in the hallways of their old apartment building when the weather had prevented them to go to the festival. The two of them using rolled-up paper when they didn’t have real sticks. He remembered Jun-ho being too small to aim properly, throwing with both hands and celebrating wildly if the stick even bounced off the edge.

Now those memories were tainted with blood.

He couldn’t touch them without feeling it.

Seo-jun tossed his first stick – it missed completely and landed with a dull thunk in the grass.

“Oops,” he giggled. “I’m just warming up.”

“Sure you are,” Jun-ho teased. “Try again, champ.”

In-ho smiled faintly. Not a mask. Not forced. Just soft and small and real.

Jun-ho looked up and caught his eye.

For a second, neither of them said anything. But Jun-ho gave a small nod – barely a movement – before turning back to Seo-jun with the same playful energy.

“He used to cheat at this, you know,” Jun-ho said to his nephew with a smirk. “Your dad would distract me with snacks or sudden coughing fits.”

“I did not!” In-ho called, his voice dry.

Jun-ho laughed. “He absolutely did. But I was still the best at it.”

Seo-jun turned and beamed at In-ho. “Appa, did you really?”

In-ho met his eyes and smiled, just enough to reach his son. “Maybe. You’ll have to ask your samchon who really won those games.”

Jun-ho winked. “Me. Every time.”

Seo-jun giggled and went right back to playing, crouching to line up his shot.

From this distance, the sounds were muted. No loud crashes. No sirens. No flickering lights.

Just the voice of his brother. The joyful squeals of his son. The gentle rhythm of a game passed down, unchanged.

Yuna slipped outside and sat beside him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“They’ve been at it for twenty minutes,” she whispered. “And Jun-ho’s let him win exactly eight times.”

“He’s too soft,” In-ho murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“No,” she said. “He’s perfect for him.”

They watched Seo-jun launch another stick – this one bounced off the rim and just slipped in. The boy shrieked in delight, throwing his arms in the air. “Did you see that?! Appa, I did it!”

In-ho raised a hand in a small wave. “I saw,” he called back. “Nice shot.”

And for a second – for just that second – it felt like the past couldn’t touch them.

He watched his brother pass on all the good pieces of their childhood – the games, the stories, the laughter – untouched by what came after. He watched Seo-jun soak it up like sunlight, unburdened and free.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Seo-jun lay on his stomach, doodling with crayons. Jun-ho was stretched out on the couch, half-watching a soccer game and half-dozing, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach.

Seo-jun’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Samchon?”

Jun-ho hummed. “Mm?”

“Who’s your Appa?”

Jun-ho blinked, the question tugging him out of his half-sleep.

“My what now?”

“Your Appa,” Seo-jun repeated, turning to look up at him with curious eyes. “I have Appa. You have to have one too.”

Jun-ho propped himself up on one elbow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Ohhh, that guy. You know, I think he got lost on the way to the toy store and just never came back.”

Seo-jun scrunched his nose. “That’s silly.”

Jun-ho chuckled. “Yeah, it is.”

But Seo-jun didn’t drop it.

He rolled onto his back and looked at Jun-ho with those same stubborn eyes he’d inherited from In-ho. “But you must have had an Appa. Everyone has one. Where’d yours go?”

Jun-ho sighed, dropping the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table and sitting up fully. He held out his arms. “Come here, kiddo.”

Seo-jun scampered over and plopped into his lap, looking up expectantly.

Jun-ho ruffled his hair. “You know your Appa is my hyung, right?”

“Yeah,” Seo-jun said proudly. “He’s older than you.”

Jun-ho smirked. “Way older.”

Behind them, a voice called out dryly from the kitchen, “Hey! I heard that.”

Jun-ho turned his head just as In-ho stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

Jun-ho didn’t look away. He didn’t drop the smirk either – but it softened at the edges, something warmer beneath the teasing.

He kept his eyes on In-ho as he spoke again, quieter this time.

“When I was little, your Appa taught me everything. He made my lunch, walked me to school, sat through all my bad recitals. He even made up stories when I couldn’t sleep. And,” Jun-ho paused for the dramatic effect, “he made me brush my teeth even when I didn’t want to!”

Seo-jun giggled. “He still does that to me!”

“See? Told you he’s been doing this a long time.”

In-ho rolled his eyes, but the smile was already tugging at his mouth. Seo-jun turned to glance at his father in the doorway, eyes wide.

Jun-ho smiled, still looking at In-ho. Like the words weren’t for Seo-jun at all. Like they’d waited years to be said.

“I didn’t have a dad around. Not really. But… I never felt like I was missing anything. Because your Appa… he was there. Always.”

In-ho’s expression flickered.

Jun-ho saw it – the way his brother’s shoulders shifted, the small break in his steady posture.

Seo-jun blinked up at Jun-ho, then back at In-ho. “So… Appa was your Appa too?”

Jun-ho laughed softly. “Something like that.”

Seo-jun grinned, clearly pleased with the logic. “Okay.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, “That means we’re like brothers.”

Jun-ho raised a brow. “I thought I was your uncle.”

“Uncle-brother,” Seo-jun said with a yawn.

Jun-ho wrapped his arms around the little boy, resting his chin on top of his head. “I’ll take it.”

In-ho blinked hard, eyes shining. He turned his head slightly, trying to hide it – but Yuna had walked in just in time to see.

She didn’t say anything. Just quietly reached out and touched his hand.

In-ho stood there a moment longer, watching Jun-ho hold his son – the boy he’d raised holding the boy he was raising. He shook his head, he didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t need to.

Both his boys were right there.

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bedlam-barbie · 22 days ago

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【Ｈｗａｎｇ　ｉｎ－ｈｏ】

- 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘓𝘦𝘦 𝘣𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨-𝘩𝘶𝘯

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bedlam-barbie · 23 days ago

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NSFW Alphabet: Hwang In-Ho (The Frontman)

Because I was not inspired to write for attention and decided to be disgusting about my man

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)Secretly excellent at it—but he’ll pretend he’s not. He’s the type to silently run a bath, leave warm towels, bring you tea without saying a word. You’ll wake up under expensive blankets, your favorite playlist quietly playing. His hands are gentle after the storm.He’ll hold you—wordlessly, tightly—like if he lets go, he might lose you. It’s not sweet, it’s possessive

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)On himself: His eyes. Intense, expressive, full of secrets. He knows they intimidate and seduce. On you: Your mouth. He watches every word, every whimper, every bite of your lip like it’s scripture. Also? Your thighs. He could worship them for hours.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)Controlled. Always. He holds back until he chooses. Finishes inside like it’s a claim, but only after eye contact that says “mine.” When he's angry or desperate, he might finish on your stomach, jaw clenched, breathing heavy like he regrets everything and nothing.

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)He has a voicemail from you saved on his private burner phone.

You don’t even remember leaving it—drunk, laughing, calling late one night after a night out. You were rambling, teasing him, voice slurred and soft as you said: “I know you won’t pick up. You never do. But... I wish you would. I miss you. Even when I hate you.” You ended the message with a sigh and whispered “Goodnight, Hwang.”

He’s never responded. Never brought it up. But he listens to it when he’s alone, in the dark, sitting on his penthouse balcony with a glass of Yamazaki in hand. The sound of your voice—unfiltered, tired, and vulnerable—is the closest thing to love he allows himself to feel.And sometimes, after hearing it?

He fucks his own hand with your name on his lips and a silent apology burning in his chest.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)Extensive. Precise. Clinical. He’s not messy. He’s not experimental. He knows what works and how to break you open with a single thrust. Sex with him is strategy—pinned wrists, controlled breathing, building you up just to break you down. But when the emotions leak through? It’s unhinged. Animalistic. Unrepeatable.

F = Favorite Position Bent over his desk. Skirt up, panties pulled to the side. One hand around your neck, the other around your mouth. He fucks you like a decision—deliberate, final.

Alternatively: flat on your stomach, his full weight on top of you, whispering into your ear, “Take it. You wanted this.”Every stroke is meant to remind you who you belong to.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)Absolutely not. His humor is dry, scathing, and rare. Sex is sacred. If you try to make a joke mid-act, he’ll grip your jaw, force eye contact, and say something like:

“Open your mouth again, and I’ll make sure you can’t speak at all.”

...And then, he’ll do it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)Neatly groomed, though not obsessively so. He’s classic, subtle, and never sloppy. He doesn’t expect anything specific from you, but if you do wax or shave, he’ll notice and murmur something quiet and filthy against your skin.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)He is terrified of intimacy—but craves it more than air. If you touch him softly, cup his cheek? He’ll break a little. The most intense moments aren’t during sex—it’s afterward, when he lets you see how hollow he feels. Every kiss, a vow. When he holds your face and looks into your eyes while he's inside you, you’ll know: he wants to say “I love you.” He just can’t.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)Rare. If he needs release, he’ll find you. But when he does take matters into his own hands? It’s dark. Angry. Filled with shame. He bites his lip to stay silent, closes his eyes, and imagines your tears, your begging, the way you whisper please, sir when you're right on the edge. He always finishes fast—and hates himself for it.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Control/ Edging: He tells you when to come. If you disobey, he punishes.

Breath play: He loves your gasps. The fluttering panic. The trust.

Praise: “Good girl.” Said low, like a gift.

Obedience training: He'll teach you to kneel, wait, earn every inch.

Possession: He wants you marked. Bruised. Filled. His.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)His office. His car. A private lounge above a gala full of VIPs. Somewhere dangerous, but with a locked door. He likes the thrill of control amidst chaos. Sex on the rooftop overlooking Seoul? One of his best memories.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)Emotion. Conflict. The moment you call him out, touch his wounds, or stand your ground—that’s when he snaps. Love and rage are entwined for him. When you show him you're not afraid, he needs to consume you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)He won’t do sharing. He won’t let you top. And he won’t fake softness. He’ll never say “I love you” during sex—because when he does say it, it’ll destroy him. And you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)Devastatingly good at giving. Tongue slow, deliberate, reverent. He takes his time, looking up at you with heat and apology in his eyes. Receiving? Loves receiving—especially when you're on your knees, hands bound, mascara running. .

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)Controlled. Ruthless. He wants you to struggle to breathe. To cry. To plead. But he’s not reckless. He watches your reactions like a hawk. And when you’re right there? He’ll stop. Whisper in your ear: “You’ll come when I say.”

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)Only if he’s angry or desperate. If he’s pulling you into a dark hallway, lifting your dress, and fucking you with one hand over your mouth? You’ve really pissed him off—or someone else touched you. Either way? He finishes fast. Deep. And leaves you shaking.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)Calculated. Always. He won’t get caught. But he likes the illusion of danger. He’ll fuck you in the boardroom at midnight. In his car outside your apartment. Just to prove you’re his.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)Unmatched. One round? He’s just warming up. Three is typical. Four if he’s punishing you—or himself. He doesn’t stop until your legs won’t hold you. And even then, he’ll make you beg for more. “Use your mouth then, sweetheart.”

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Under lock and key. Velvet-lined drawer. Restraints, gags, blindfolds. Leather cuffs with your initials burned into them. He’ll never use a vibrator unless it’s to tease you to tears. He prefers his hands. His control.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)Master of denial. He’ll edge you for an hour, then pull out and say, “You haven’t earned it.” He wants you desperate. Crying. So broken that when you finally come, it's an exorcism. And he watches the whole thing unfold with a dark smile.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)Low. Hoarse. He doesn’t moan. He growls. He gives you commands in a quiet, dangerous voice. The only time he loses it? When you whisper, “Please, sir. I’m yours.” Then, you’ll hear a sound so raw it’ll haunt your dreams.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)He once fucked you in full uniform—black mask on, gloves on, over his desk while footage of the Games played in the background. He never took it off. He needed to disappear in that moment. And he needed you to know: even when he��s a monster, he still chooses you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)Lean. Muscled. All sharp lines and quiet power. His back is littered with old scars. His thighs are strong, his hands are huge. And yes—he’s big. Thick, veiny, and perfectly curved. When you first saw it, you paused. He laughed. Quiet. Dangerous. “Don’t worry. You’ll take it.” And you did.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)High. Painfully high. But buried under work, duty, guilt. He wants you all the time, thinks of you at meetings, dreams of you in silence—but he’ll never act unless he has to. When he does? It’s a damn storm.Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)He doesn't sleep. Not really. After sex, he watches you. Traces your skin like it’ll vanish. He memorizes your breathing, listens to your heartbeat. If he does fall asleep with you? It’s the only time he dreams peacefully.

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bedlam-barbie · 23 days ago

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I’m not the same since Russian roulette scene

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bedlam-barbie · 27 days ago

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bedlam-barbie · 28 days ago

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i miss my wife.

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bedlam-barbie · 29 days ago

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Oo can u plz explore and write about an AU where Sangwoo survives instead and takes up GI Hun's role in season 2 + In Ho imitates Gi Hun's personality and traits as well <33 I also want to see what Sangwoo's thoughts and perspective would be if he rejoined the games instead of Gi Hun

Hey! Thank you so much for your request! I really appreciate the idea, but I don’t think I’d be able to do it justice. I want to make sure I write characters and perspectives authentically, and since I don’t have the right experience or understanding, I worry I wouldn’t be able to portray it in a way that feels genuine and respectful. I hope you understand, and I really appreciate you thinking of me!

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bedlam-barbie · 29 days ago

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word

I’d let Gong Yoo do the nastiest things to me idc

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bedlam-barbie · 29 days ago

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I have no words just-

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bedlam-barbie · 29 days ago

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well I finally posted again, a new chapter of Attention. However, I just wanted to let you know that I am officially taking requests for Squid game, so if you have any ideas you’d like to explore I am more than happy to help💗

who I will be writing for:

In ho

Salesman

Jun ho

Sang woo

Gi hun

Nam gyu

Dae ho

Please be respectful! I only write x reader fics, so I won’t be taking requests for ships between characters. I also don’t write smut, but I’m open to more explicit or intense scenes where appropriate.

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bedlam-barbie · 29 days ago

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Hate the way

Hate the Way

Or Attention Part 6

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader; salesman x recruiter!reader; love triangle intensifies

Warnings: toxic relationships; emotional whiplash; possessiveness; jealousy; unresolved tension; heavy angst; bruises; emotional manipulation; push and pull dynamics; self-destructive coping mechanisms; mild violence; implied past intimacy; longing

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: The business trip ends, but the weight of the past lingers. A tense encounter on the rooftop pool in Jeju leaves wounds deeper than bruises, solidifying the emotional battlefield between her and In-ho. Back in Seoul, she finds herself caught between the suffocating silence he left behind and the undeniable pull of Gong Yoo, who refuses to be ignored. As she drowns her thoughts in whiskey and sharp words, she is forced to confront the cycle she keeps repeating—and whether she’s ready to break it before it breaks her.

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The rest of the business trip weekend passed in a blur, a haze of meetings and fleeting moments, and before she knew it, she was back in Seoul—back to the quiet sanctuary of her apartment in Hannam-dong. The moment she stepped through the door, a wave of ease washed over her, like an exhale she'd been holding for too long.

Her home was a spacious retreat, designed with a minimalist elegance that still radiated warmth. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one side of the living room, inviting in soft, golden light during the day and the shimmering glow of Seoul’s cityscape by night. The furniture followed a neutral palette—creamy beiges and soft whites—creating a sense of calm that soothed the edges of her busy life. Yet, the space was far from sterile. Every corner whispered a story, a memory, a layer of her personality.

Bookshelves lined the walls, brimming with novels and memoirs, poetry collections, and well-worn travel journals. Nestled beside them were stacks of vinyl records, some brand new, others crackling with the nostalgia of decades past. A sleek, vintage-inspired record player stood in the corner, always ready to fill the space with music that matched her mood—whether soft jazz on rainy evenings or upbeat tunes for lazy Sunday mornings.

But her favorite corner of the apartment was the small, intimate balcony. A humble escape, it offered a perfect view of the bustling streets below. Here, she spent countless hours, lost in the comfort of books and the slow ritual of sipping coffee or wine. She'd watch the city breathe beneath her, its people moving like stories waiting to be told. On quieter nights, the balcony became her haven for reflection, where the hum of Seoul met the quiet of her thoughts.

However, an unease lingered beneath the surface of her comfort—an elusive feeling she couldn’t quite place. Something was off, a disturbance in the familiar rhythm of her space. Her gaze swept across the room, searching for the source of the disquiet, until it landed on the coffee table in front of her sofa.

There it was. A bottle of whiskey. Unopened. A dark satin bow tied neatly around its neck, an elegant contrast to the amber liquid inside. Beside it, a solitary glass, crystal-clear and heavy, waiting as though it anticipated her company. She stepped closer, curiosity pulling her in. Her fingers grazed the bottle, tracing its smooth surface, and she read the label. Yamazaki. Japanese. Old. Expensive.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, accompanied by an exasperated roll of her eyes. Gong Yoo. Of course. Who else would be bold enough to break into her apartment and leave such an audacious gift? This was exactly his style—a silent intrusion, a quiet mark of mischief left behind like a secret signature. She wasn’t even a whiskey drinker, but she knew this particular brand well. Not for its taste, but because it was his favorite.

She turned the bottle slightly, and there, stuck to the back, was a yellow post-it note. His handwriting was unmistakable—casual, a little crooked, like it had been scribbled in haste but with intent.

"Thought you might like a drink similar to how you like your men—sharp and twice your age. - psycho killer"

Her laugh came unbidden, soft and warm, echoing in the quiet of the apartment. It was the kind of humor only he could get away with—teasing, irreverent, and laced with an intimacy that only years of knowing each other could bring.

But underneath the humor, there was a trace of something else. A quiet message between the lines. An acknowledgment of the connection they shared, the games they played, and the way he always seemed to know how to get under her skin. The bottle wasn’t just a gift—it was a statement, a mark of his presence, even in his absence.

For a moment, she just stood there, holding the note between her fingers, the warmth of his mischief lingering in the room. Her fingers traced the handwriting absentmindedly and she felt a familiar warmth overwhelming her body. She opened the bottle, the satisfying pop of the cork breaking the silence, and poured herself a glass. She deserved it—no, earned it—after the weekend she had endured. The amber liquid caught the light as it swirled into the glass, rich and sharp, promising a burn that might distract her from the thoughts clawing their way back into her mind.

But the memories were relentless. They pressed against her, uninvited and heavy. The last night of the business trip, after the fight. After the silence. The moment when In-ho had cornered her, his eyes shadowed with suspicion, his words sharp and low as he asked about the bruises he'd glimpsed beneath the edge of her collar during the meeting.

And then he saw the rest.

The knife-thin cuts. The dark, blooming bruises on her hips. The fading hickeys pressed between her breasts like secret, sinful whispers. Traces left by Gong Yoo. Marks of possession, of surrender. The memory of it still pulsed beneath her skin, a lingering ache she wasn’t ashamed of. She had let him mark her. Wanted him to. Even now, she felt no regret. Because for one night, she wasn��t just owned—she was wanted, consumed. A need met, sharp and undeniable.

And if In-ho was going to be a fucking coward, too scared to reach for her, too hesitant to claim what was offered, then he could suit himself. She wasn’t going to wait for him. Not anymore.

She forced the thoughts aside, pushed them down until they dissolved into the burn of whiskey at the back of her throat. No. She had made her choice. She wasn’t going to waste tears on a man who couldn’t choose her in return. She had better things to do. Stronger things to be.

But the lie tasted bitter.

God, can you be more pathetic?

And the answer, unfortunately, was yes. Because Hwang In-ho had always brought out her most vulnerable, most humiliating side. He peeled her open, raw and exposed, reminding her of every weakness she fought so hard to hide. He reminded her of her father—cold, stoic, impossible. A man she had spent her life trying to impress, trying to win over with every perfect moment, every achievement, every selfless sacrifice.

Because what if this time, it was enough?

What if this time, he smiled? What if this time, he said, "I’m proud of you. I love you." What if this time, she didn’t have to try anymore?

But it never came. It never would. And still, she bent. Still, she broke.

And now, here she was—years later, older, wiser, or so she had thought—trapped in the same vicious cycle. Repeating old patterns like a song stuck on loop, each verse cutting deeper. Another man. Another disappointment. Another battle waged between her pride and her longing.

A man who would rather carve out his own tongue than admit what he felt for her. A man who claimed her body and discarded her heart in less than twelve hours. Who burned her with his touch, then left her to smolder alone. And as if that wasn’t complicated enough, In-ho wasn’t just any man. He was her boss.

Cold. Unreachable. Dangerous.

And yet, he was also the man whose hands had left bruises on her hips, whose mouth had written secrets against her skin. The man who didn’t need to say the words because his body had said them for him—fierce and consuming, as though she was the only thing he craved. But when morning came, when the heat between them cooled and reality crept back in, he was gone. Silent. Distant. As if it had meant nothing. As if she had meant nothing.

But the worst part?

The worst part was that if In ho walked through that door right now—if he looked her in the eye and said, “I choose you. It’s always been you,”—she would crumble. She would run. She would fall into his arms like it was instinct, like it was survival. She would forgive him with a kiss and let him break her all over again.

Because deep down, beneath the anger, beneath the pride, beneath the armor she wore so carefully, she wanted to be chosen. Just once. Unconditionally.

You’ve really done it, dancer.

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound, brittle and sharp.

You’re officially the poster child for daddy issues.

The whiskey burned its way down, but it didn’t take the ache with it. It never did.

So, like always, when she felt low, she reached out to Gong Yoo. Because he was an ass, but he was also the closest thing she had to a friend. Or a lover. Or whatever twisted in-between thing they were doing now.

She took another sip of the whiskey, letting it burn slow and sharp, before setting the glass down and picking up her phone. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, debating. And then—she caved.

[Princess]: Breaking into my apartment is an odd way to show affection, Hannibal Lecter.

[Psycho killer]: It’s not breaking if you leave your window open.

A laugh almost slipped out, but she bit it back, shaking her head as she glanced at the open window across the room. She took another slow sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch before typing.

[Princess]:That's not how that works.

[Psycho killer]:It is when it's me.

Of course. That cocky, untouchable arrogance. She rolled her eyes and picked up the glass again, tipping it back as she thumbed out her reply.

[Princess]:You’re an ass.

[Psycho killer]: And yet, here you are. Drinking my whiskey. Thinking about me.

[Princess]: I’m thinking about how you need new material.

[Psycho killer]: And I’m thinking about how you need to stop pretending you don’t like it when I leave you little gifts.

She swallowed, the words sticking. Her gaze lingered on the bottle, on the dark bow still tied around its neck, like a silent reminder of him.

[Princess]: What’s next? Dead bodies on my sofa?

[Psycho killer]: Only if you ask nicely

Her breath caught for just a second—half a laugh, half a choke. She stared at the message, rereading it twice, her pulse skipping. She shook her head, muttering, "Psycho," under her breath.

And yet, she didn’t reply. She didn’t know how.

Instead, she set her phone aside and reached for the whiskey again, letting it burn, hoping it would drown out the echo of his words.

But her phone buzzed one more time.

[Psycho killer]: Enjoy it, princess. It tastes better when you think of me.

She closed her phone and let it fall to the coffee table with a soft thud, her fingers brushing against the smooth screen like she wasn’t quite ready to let go. The ghost of a smile lingered on her lips, fragile and fleeting. That was the thing about Gong Yoo—he could always make her forget. Even if just for a second. His words were like smoke and silk, wrapping around her, pulling her under until the chaos in her head quieted. Until the ache in her chest dulled.

But it never lasted. Not really.

Because the silence always found her. And with it came the memories.

Her gaze drifted to the window, but all she saw was the rooftop. The silver shimmer of water beneath the moonlight. The echo of In-ho’s voice. The burn of his hands.And the almost-kiss that never happened.

She could still feel it. The weight of his body close to hers, the tension vibrating between them like a live wire, begging to snap. His breath against her skin. The rough press of his fingers curling into her wrists. The broken words that hovered in the space between them, heavy with things neither of them could say.

And it had been her who stepped back.

Her who said no. The memory hit like a bruise she’d forgotten about, sharp and sudden. And for a moment—just a moment—she wondered if she'd made a mistake. If she should’ve let it happen. Let him kiss her. Let him win.

What if that had been it? The moment that broke the stalemate. The moment that cracked his walls and finally, finally let her inside?

But no.

She forced the thought down, shoved it deep where it couldn’t hurt her. Because she knew better. She always knew better.

With In-ho, nothing was ever simple. Never easy. Wanting him was like bleeding slow and pretending it didn’t hurt. Every step toward him left her stumbling two steps back, and it wasn’t just exhausting—it was annihilating.

And she was done.

She was done letting him drag her into this half-life. Done letting him take pieces of her, only to vanish when it mattered.

Because if he wanted her—really wanted her—he needed to stop hiding behind duty and fear. He needed to fight for her. Not pull her close just to let her go again.

And if he couldn’t do that?

Then she would rather burn alone.

She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t chase. Wouldn’t be the girl who kept waiting for scraps.

Not anymore.

She swallowed hard, the whiskey burning her throat on the way down, but it wasn’t enough to chase the bitterness from her mouth.

Because there was still that part of her—the weak, traitorous part—that ached. That still wanted him to come after her. To choose her. To stop being such a fucking coward.

But that wasn’t her problem anymore.

And if he couldn’t see it?

Then he didn’t deserve her at all.

24 hours ago - Jeju Island ; 02:33 AM ; hotel rooftop pool

As she passed the illuminated Rooftop Pool sign, she slowed, her eyes lingering on it for a beat. A midnight swim—cool water and solitude—seemed like the perfect escape from the weight pressing down on her chest.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as thoughts of Hwang In-ho flooded her mind. He was nothing if not consistent, always keeping her at arm’s length. Just when she thought she had finally reached him, peeling back the layers of stoicism and guilt, he would pull away, retreating behind walls she couldn’t breach.

She wasn’t blind. She saw the way his eyes searched for her in crowded rooms, the flicker of something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface. But God, it hurt—the constant push and pull, the dance between almost and never quite.

A pang of frustration gripped her chest. She wished she could shake him, yell at him to snap out of it. To forget his duties, his guilt, and whatever self-imposed shackles he clung to—if only for ten minutes. Ten fleeting minutes where he was just hers.

But wishes didn’t change reality. And tonight, like always, she was left standing alone in the aftermath, chasing shadows of a man who refused to be caught.

With a resolute breath, she turned toward the pool. If nothing else, the water would be there—cool, cleansing, indifferent to everything else weighing her down. She made her way to the pool. Once there, she stripped off her clothes and got in. It was an unusually warm night for spring in Korea but she did not complain, she let the water wash away the day and the smell of sex off her skin.

The water was cold, but not enough to numb her. She wished it was. Wished it would burn, would choke, would drag her under. Anything but this unbearable stillness pressing against her ribs. She floated on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as the fluorescent lights above flickered and hummed. Her skin was raw—marked by greedy hands and teeth, by the remnants of another night spent lost in the Salesman’s grip. He took as much as she let him. Maybe more. Maybe too much. But she hadn’t stopped him.

Didn’t want to stop him.

Because for all his cruelty, for all his jagged edges, he looked at her like she mattered. Touched her like she was something precious, even as he left bruises in his wake. His brand of affection was twisted, possessive, wrong—but it was something. And something was better than nothing.

The door creaked open. She didn't flinch. She knew who it was before she even turned her head.

In-ho.

He didn’t speak right away, just stood there in the doorway, his mask absent but his expression unreadable. A cigarette burned between his fingers, tendrils of smoke curling around him like ghosts. His gaze swept over her, taking in the bruises, the faint red imprints of hands that weren’t his. His throat bobbed. “You’re hurt.”

She huffed a bitter laugh, closing her eyes again. “No shit.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Then—the quiet sound of fabric shifting, the soft rustle of movement. When she opened her eyes, he was stepping into the pool, boots and all, water lapping against his shins, soaking into his clothes.

She frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”

His expression didn’t change. “Come here.”

It was barely a command. More a request. One she wanted to refuse—should refuse—but she didn’t. Couldn’t. Her limbs felt heavy as she waded toward him, stopping just within reach. He lifted a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers brushed the bruises on her wrist. A gentle touch. A stark contrast to the ones that had put them there. Something inside her twisted.

His jaw clenched. “Did he—”

She cut him off before he could finish. “Don’t.”

A sharp inhale. His fingers curled into a fist at his side. “I told you to stay away from him.”

A cruel smile tugged at her lips. “And I told you I don’t take orders well.”

His nostrils flared. This time, he did take the bait. He grabbed her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold her there. Enough to make her feel it. “Do you like this?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “Letting him use you?”

She tilted her head, feigning curiosity. “Jealous?”

His fingers flexed against her skin, grip tightening before he seemed to catch himself. He let go like she burned him, but the fire in his eyes didn’t dim. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing to yourself.”

She took a slow step closer, her breath mingling with his. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

His jaw tensed. “You think he cares? That you’re anything more than a fucking game to him?”

“Maybe,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips nearly brushed his ear. “But at least he doesn’t pretend.”

Something inside him snapped.

In one brutal motion, he had her pinned against the cold tile, the shock of it tearing the breath from her lungs, sending ripples slicing through the water. His hands clamped around her arms—firm, unyielding. His breath was hot, ragged, furious as it ghosted across her skin, his body trembling with something volatile. Something dangerous.

“You want me to stop pretending?” His voice was low, guttural—scraped raw from the inside. His fingers pressed into her skin, hard enough to leave marks, but not cruel. Not yet. It wasn’t anger that laced his grip. It was desperation. Pleading.

“You think I don’t fucking feel this?”

The words punched through her, sharp and staggering. Her heart thundered in her chest, a brutal rhythm of want and fear, fight and surrender. She could push him away. She could end this, crush it with a word, break whatever fragile thread still bound them together.

But she didn’t.

Because this—this—was real. This anger. This heat. This hunger that cut deeper than skin.

His lips hovered over hers, so close she could taste the smoke clinging to his breath, could feel the trembling restraint in the air between them. One breath. One wrong move, and it would all shatter.

“Tell me to walk away,” he rasped, voice broken and trembling. “Tell me to stop.”

She should have.

But instead, her fingers curled into the soaked fabric of his shirt, clinging like a woman drowning. She stared up at him, defiant, unflinching.

“Make me.”

The words cracked like lightning.

The tension snapped—loud, violent, inevitable.

He dragged her closer, his hands searing against her hips, fingers digging deep enough to bruise, but still, still, he didn’t move. His lips hovered, shaking with restraint, with everything he wouldn’t say.

His breathing was ragged. So was hers.

And for a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but this. The space between them. The war inside them.

And she hated it.

Hated how much she wanted this. Hated how her body betrayed her, how her pulse jumped beneath her skin, craving the burn of his mouth. Craving him.

Because she knew what would come after. The silence. The regret. The ache.

And wasn’t that always the way with him?

He’d take her, devour her, and leave her bleeding in the morning. Always running. Always leaving her to pick up the pieces.

The fury came slow, simmering beneath the surface of her skin, rising with every heartbeat.

And when it broke—when it finally broke—it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow, painful pull from her chest, a crack in her ribs that split her open.

She shoved him back, her hands trembling—not from weakness, but from the sheer force of everything she had been holding back.

“No.”

The word came low and rough, scraping its way out of her throat. She wasn’t even sure who she was saying it to—him, herself, the ghost of what they could’ve been.

“You don’t get to do this.” Her voice gained strength, shaking but furious. “You don’t get to pull me in and push me away like I’m nothing. I’m done playing this game with you!”

“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, trembling, as if saying the words tasted like poison.

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh that echoed off the walls. “What else would you call it?” Her chest ached, her throat burned, but she forced the words out like knives. “You haunt me like a fucking ghost. Always watching, always waiting, just close enough to ruin me, and then you disappear. Over and over again.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, the fire in her chest too hot to extinguish. “And I let you. Every. Damn. Time.”

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He looked at her like he hated her. Like he hated himself.

“I never wanted this for you.”

The words struck like a blade. She staggered a step, but caught herself, swallowing the pain like venom.

“Oh, give me a fucking break.” She stepped closer, fire pulsing under her skin. “You come here judging me for the way I sleep with another man, and now what? Now you’re concerned? Now you care?”

The air between them burned, thick with tension, with everything they wouldn’t say.

“You don’t get to do that, In-ho.” Her voice trembled, but it didn’t falter. “You don’t get to act like this is about me when we both know it’s not.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his jaw clenched tight, like it was taking everything he had to swallow the words he wanted to say.

She swallowed, chest heaving. “You either man up and stop running, or I walk away. For good.”

Silence. His gaze flickered, searching her face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything to hold on to. But there was nothing left for him to find.

So she turned. Climbed out of the water without looking back. Because she knew—if she met his eyes, if she let herself waver even for a second—she’d stay. And for once in her life, she chose herself.

In-ho watched her go, chest heaving, words strangled somewhere between his throat and his pride. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire burning in his gut. Fury. Frustration. Something darker he refused to name.

How dare she walk away from him? How dare she look at him like he was the one at fault? As if she hadn’t just spent the night tangled in the arms of a man who would throw her away the second she stopped being a novelty. As if she wasn’t his before she was ever the Salesman’s.

Had she lost her mind? Or had the bastard really sunk his claws in so deep that she couldn’t see what was right in front of her?

His breath hitched, his own thoughts slicing through him like knives. No. No, that wasn’t fair. He could hate the Salesman all he wanted, but this—this—wasn’t just his fault.

This was his.

He had let it happen. Hell, he had made it happen. Pushed her away, pulled her back, over and over, like some sick, twisted game where neither of them could win. And now?

Now, he was paying the price.

And the worst part?

He knew he deserved it.

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