#The Recruiter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gnohomotho · 2 days ago

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May I play with you?「✦Pt.2✦」

Pairing: The Salesman // The Recruiter x fem!reader Summary: Oh man, you're screwed. Can you save your friend? Can you play the game right? Or are your cards all wrong, closed off with a deranged man who is enthralled with you? Simple truth or dare, or is it far worse for you? And is that large hand caressing your thigh more intricate than you thought? This one is roller-coaster, please strap in. Warnings: I think I may see what everyone saw in this hot lunatic NSFW language, obsession, kidnapping, bondage, gagging, guns, using said guns, abuse, fondling, drugging, no consent and dubious consent, mentions of death, threat of death, mentions of sexual themes and a very enamoured maniac. MDNI, 18+. Porn with a plot. Word count: 6k A/N: *chuckles* I'm in danger. ˙ᵕ˙ Seriously, this man is quite something, doing my best here but I do finally see why so many requests featured this handsome mother----. Link to previous Link to next Gorgeous gif by @lenoirexv! If you enjoy my works, I'm grateful for every like // reblog // follow // request // message! ♥

Mishko, Mishko, Mishko…

You ran.

The train would take too long.

You dodged dark streets and glittering puddles, streetlamps casting an orange glow that only helped fuel your desperation. Your eyes, momentarily dizzy from each scene leaving a burnt image of itself the faster you ran, darted to your phone screen, and you followed the little red square as if life depended on it. Masterfully dodging inhabitants, your own feet, reflecting puddles.

Every light was hope you clung to. The rhythmic move of your dark tights blurring against the reflective surfaces reminding you to hurry.

Surely he isn’t that unhinged, surely this is all a big stupid joke. Maybe Mishko put you up to this.

Maybe he’s in on it, yes, you huff as you turn another corner into a dark alley, coat flying behind you. You didn’t even notice it start to rain again. Droplets cling to your hair which clings to your face.

You stop before what looks like a motel. A tall building with a burnt-out sign, barely flickering a pink glow around letters that no longer work. It has begun to pour.

Your hair clings to your head and your shoulders, as if trying to shield you from the oncoming inevitable.

You walk up the soaked path, noting the dead flower garden. Though you detest roses, you’d give anything to see some kind of life reassure you that life indeed has a place in the decrepit building.

Doorbell? Knock? Tear down the door? No time for that, you look at your phone one last time to make sure you’re breaking into the right place and run against it shoulder first.

It was unlocked and you fall inside unceremoniously, catching yourself mid-stumble.

Your coat only just now catching up whooshes past your legs and swings back, the crinkling sound and your hurried breaths the only thing you can register. Everything is so eerily…silent.

Like a forest with no life, indicating a predator on the prowl.

“Mishko?!”

You yell into unlit hallways, the ominous reddish pink barely reflected from the outside the only means of light. This place won’t even let light in, let alone hope.

Nothing. Nobody answers.

Just the tapping and flow of rain on a tin roof, drips and water hitting the ground, the downpour covering all else.

You begin to check each empty room, each room with a door, anything. So hectic you don’t notice your breath and vision unable to keep up. You’ve wrapped your arms around you, and you don’t even notice. If anyone were to see you, they’d think someone stole Death’s cape and was trying to blend in with little success.

All you get in return is creaking floorboards, the stench of rotting wood, and a place that looks at best deserted. At worst like the cliché scene of a murder.

How did I manage to turn this into such a tragedy in a matter of minutes?

You drag the hair out of your face and stare ahead. The way up is blocked. One room left. One more shaky breath, as deep as you can muster in your burning shallow lungs. Your fists clench.

You dart to the door, but rest your hand on the doorknob, not moving. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You’re…so sure yet terrified.

It all feels so…gaudily maquette-like. Fake. Like you’re unknowingly on a theatre stage, not knowing the play for the amusement of an unseen audience.

Until you open the door, this is all just a bad dream and none of it counts. No real-world repercussions. Until you twist the knob on the door. You feel water on your cheeks and realise it is no longer rain. Almost angrily does your hand shoot up, pushing the moisture from your eyes – you need to see clearly, not cry, for goodness’ sake. Even though your lips are quivering and your breath running through a barely open throat, your resolve strengthens.

You kick the door open ready to jump at or be jumped, but you are ready.

Yet the sight that greeted you left you as unprepared as could be.

Your colleague, your friend, sits tied up, mouth gagged, eyes carved with terror and tension.

They meet yours with utter confusion and blind fear. The moment he sees you, he immediately stops blinking, pleading at you with no words, arms wrestling against the ropes. His head is shaking so vigorously you see droplets of sweat fly away, even in the pale-yellow light from the streetlamps outside. You’re almost paralysed but act on nothing but impulse and placid resolve to get him out.

“Mishko!” Your voice is barely a cracked tone, you’re chilled to the bone and shaking but cannot let your friend be hurt. Continue to be hurt.

“Hold on, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

You run to him, kneel to him, softly placing a hand on each cheek, his forehead, checking his body for harm. No blood. No bruises. Yet. You put his shaking face in your own shivering hands and cup his cheeks.

“Please, just nod or shake your head. Are you hurt?”

You gaze into his soft dark eyes darting back and forth chaotically, tears streaming down his face.

But he shakes his head, and you feel the vibrations going through him, his stifled breathing, his attempts to speak.

You pull his face to yours and lay your forehead on his, knowing that calms him down when he’s panicked. “Oh, thank god, Mishi, Mishi...” And you’re also providing a human shield should anyone wish to visit.

With a gentle whisper, you try to assess the situation and look like you’re not panicking out of your mind yourself.

He’s tied to a chair, there’s furniture in the room, a window. The dark red carpet doesn’t do anything to ease your mind, and the walls are ostentatiously empty. No potential weapons. One way out.

You look back at him, his eyes visibly wishing to convey something. With a slow gaze you follow his chaotic movements and whisper once more, slowly, barely above the rain outside.

“Are we alone?”

His eyes stop darting like tennis balls across the room and gaze into you with utter desperation. Very slowly his head moves to make an almost unnoticeable motion from left to right.

Your heart drops.

You guide your hands to his cheeks and try to hush both him and yourself again.

“Shh, Mishi, it’s ok. I’ll get you out of here.” Fuck fuck fuck… “It’s ok. It’s going to be ok.” Why are you lying to the both of you?

You fling the coat down for more range of motion and resolve to compartmentalise – the gag. Then ropes. Then window.

Although the light provided should be enough, and your fingers are usually long and nimble, the gag is well knotted, and you can’t seem to get rid of it yourself even though you’re doing your level best.

Fingers shaking, paralyzed, losing feeling. Rain pouring through your thoughts. You feel your own mind begin to try to leave the horrendous situation but you drag it back kicking and screaming.

With exasperation and a huffed curse you leave the back of his head unable to undo the gag, instead endeavouring to fish out your phone---but suddenly your friend starts frantically shaking his head, staring above you and behind you, looking to your phone and vigorously trying to convey disagreement.

“No…phone? Ok…don’t worry.” You go back to him, trying to undo the ropes instead, but you did dial out a small emergency number. Just didn’t press ‘call’.

“Got it. I’ll get you out.” You both inadvertently yet subconsciously hold him through the ropes as you lower to get rid of the restraints and search for a way to undo the knots. They’re good, but the ropes were too thick for any intricacies.

“Almost…almost…”

You’re breathing so fast that the sharp intakes of air are actively hurting your throat.

The sharp movements and concentration against your own cold shivers and the hush of rain outside completely envelop you, and you don’t notice something very important.

Your friend has stopped fidgeting under you.

Even though your arm is halfway around him fighting with the restraints, his heart beating into it is the only motion you feel now. His breathing is low, turned to muffled whimpers. His body language is pointed to a single source, no longer aiding your rescue attempts. A chill runs through you.

“Mishko?” You barely utter his name, fear gripping your shoulders.

Just as you were before the door, now you do not wish to continue the next few seconds lest you find out the source of his paralysis and breath turned to whimpers. Your eyes are caught in a wide look into nowhere, clutching your friend’s chest with your arm unmoving, and you do not wish to recognize what made his startled breath stop.

And the source was delighted to make itself known.

❥❥❥

The voice carves through the thick silence; through rain, through caught breaths, through your shivers turning the atmosphere blurry, like a hot knife through butter.

“What a pair of lovebirds.”

The familiar voice.

That self-satisfied smile.

That curve of inflection that could be making a sales pitch.

All have been burnt into your brain; you don’t even have to turn around to see. And you don’t. You cup your friend’s face once more and stare directly into his eyes, ignoring the visitor entirely for one last whisper.

“Look at me. Mishi. I’ll get you out. It’s ok. It’s all ok. I promise, I’ll get you out.”

A firm hand on your cold, soaked through shoulder reminded you of how futile your words felt. The shirt clung to your skin so closely that his fingers felt like they were directly on you with no layer between, exacerbated by the sensitivity of your tingling neck.

You shake out of the grip, pushing the hand away as you would a worrisome insect, and spin around. Now face to face with what you knew was waiting for you, but hoped against hope against it.

In dim light reflecting orange streetlamps and burnt out pink signs, half enveloped in shadows now in full height driving nails of frost through your spine…

Is that charming face, reptile-like smile, the smart suit, and the eyes…eyes far darker than you remember from the subway.

Looking down at you with such feigned pity your heart skips several beats, and your breath catches in your throat anew.

❥❥❥

“Clever girl…” he articulates to himself with feigned surprise, as he rests his hand back to his side, almost hurt that you deprived him of your touch so fast.

But he continues, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. His eyes are following your friend, reminding you of a predator satisfied with its ensnared prey and enjoying the seconds before its feast.

“The lady got here so fast I didn’t even get a say in the way the evening was going to go,” he sighs, leaning into the area behind you as if he’s reading the latest headline of Gardening Weekly.

Calm. Jovial. Nonchalant.

You cannot even gather a reply; you’re in a state of shock. Your friend’s muffled crying slaps you in the face and you shake through and through, mustering the words.

“What the hell, what in the god damn hell is wrong with you?! He didn’t do anything---”

The salesman’s hand lifts to his face with a single finger resting against his smiling lips.

“Hush, miss Y/N. Nobody’s harmed…just yet.” He smiles his cheshire grin and steps closer. You don’t step back, firmly planted between the man and your friend.

Amusement flickers in his eyes. Almost a hint of affection curled in something depraved and waiting, yearning to leap out.

“Brave little lady, aren’t you…” his hand lifts to your cheek and you still.

Refuse.

To move.

His eyebrows lift, and he makes a small, cut off movement to your skin. Teasing. Closing the distance.

Then another.

Those lips slightly open, the plastic smile, those dark eyes piercing you…was that an “ah?” sound as he moved to you?

You still don’t flinch.

“And. One. More.” He smiles as he brushes your skin.

Eyes so sickeningly soft and hands so falsely gentle you feel nauseous.

Suddenly, the salesman grabs your cheeks into his hand, his large palm and long fingers easily able to hold your jaw and dig into your skin with no effort at all.

“Very brave little lady…” his words curl into a slow purr in exaggerated amusement. He pulls his hand away, leaving you with red indentations on each cheek and an aching shivering jaw.

“Perhaps…a very naïve little lady. With such adorable new dimples.” His head cranes to one side, studying you. As he straightens slowly, brushing down his suit, he simply asks as if nothing were terribly wrong:

“Now that we’re all here, how about a game?”

❥❥❥

Truth or dare?!

Did you hear that right?

“Truth or dare…?” You utter, the salesman nodding with a polite, closed-lip smile. Somehow, the man is closer to you than he seemed before. You can once again smell his cologne, the spicy mix of his contemptuous persona and effort he must be putting into this play.

“Quite self-explanatory. Dare – one of you must do as they are told, or there will be consequences.”

You don’t even manage to muster a flinch as he pulls out a gun in place of a spinner.

You know you’d flinch back into him, slowly realising how far ahead he thinks in the game behind the game.

As he lays his briefcase down beside the table, he leans into you, brushing the tip of your ear as if whispering a secret.

His hand strokes your hair as he does so, periodically, ever so lightly.

You feel his hot breath on each millimetre of your earlobe and neck, driving ice through your back anew. He remains there before speaking, as if knowing exactly what he’s doing to you and relishing it.

“And truth, as in, ‘truth be told, I would far prefer my little lady in place of her boring paramour as we speak, tied and pleading with those big doll eyes of hers that leave me no rest, begging for me’ but rules should be respected.” His smile never fades as he pulls away and sees you visibly shiver from your toes to your ears.

❥❥❥

All three of you sit at the dingy table, the gun lying in the middle.

The salesman kindly did undo your friend’s gag but left him tied up. You can see Mishko's mind racing and his mouth uttering unsaid words, eyes darting from you to the salesman and back to the gun on the table repetitively. His soft brown hair clings to his forehead as yours does to your skin, though it’s through sweat and tears – and you want nothing more than to reassure him.

Yet you’re very aware that every word can and will be used against you.

You don’t want to tempt the volatile substance of a man now uncomfortably close to your side – you feel like you’re swimming in a room full of ether trying not to light a match with each breath.

The salesman remains ever jovial.

“I think the lady should go first.” He coos, cocking his head to you, sinking those eyes into yours. How is his hair still perfectly in place, how does he still look charming while I feel like I’m the one to blame and doing everything wrong?!

You touch the gun and make sure to not even brush the trigger, motioning it to spin. The barrel points to the salesman.

“Oh my…” he turns to you, self-satisfied eyes closed into coin slots and a smile playing with each corner of his mouth. He leans into you, so close your noses threaten to touch and whispers:

“Dare.”

“I dare you to let him go.” You reply, in monotone, not pulling away. Not playing his game.

He pulls away in feigned disappointment, mouth curling into a frown.

“How disappointing…but no, I can’t do that, we wouldn’t have enough players. The game wouldn’t work. Try again, little lady, and…try to play fair.” He nudges the gun with a single finger never letting his gaze off you. “I don’t like to be bored.”

“Take away any weapons you still have on you, your phone, any recording devices – all electronics, anything – take it out and place it far away from reach.” Your mind was racing, you tried to think of something better – like daring him to take out every single bullet from the gun’s chamber, but you were sure the rules wouldn’t let you sabotage the game.

Wordlessly, he shifts through his pockets, still gazing at you. Nothing.

Breast pocket, nothing. A pat in a playful manner to indicate emptiness, you hate him so much in this moment your eyes will set fire to the table.

With a single circular elegant leg motion, he slides his briefcase away from the ground below the table, circling his leg back and laying a hand on your thigh as he straightens back into the chair.

“Such a clever girl.”

He spins the gun, still resting his other hand on your thigh. The place where he caresses seems to burn straight through into the chair. You daren’t move and feel the outline of his watch digging into your skin as he ever so teasingly moves his hand up.

The gun lands on your friend, whose eyes dart from the barrel to your face, wordlessly pleading for help. Your lips curl into a voiceless whisper of his name, trying to say “don’t worry, it’s ok” but he doesn’t look like he’s even remotely there.

His eyes dart to your legs to see the contrast of a large hand covering your upper thigh, almost digging into your tender flesh as you sit, paralysed, and it seems the gears in his head are spinning for dear life.

Once more you understand that you’re behind on the game behind the game; he’s not the only piece of collateral in this room. He’s playing you against each other while the both of you are each other’s bargaining chips.

“T…truth…” his shaky voice stumbles out, and you realise it’s the first time this cursed evening you’ve heard him speak. It hits you like a brick of reality – it’s not a game, the gun is loaded, and you’re fucked.

“Mishi…” you whisper, unable to contain the fear and sorrow and in your voice, unable to stop the worry lining your face from spilling out. Don’t try anything. Please let me take care of it.

The salesman smiles and rubs your thigh, momentarily letting you go as he gathers his hands under his chin, gazing from you straight into your friend. He leans into his words and the table creaks in utter indifference.

“Do you love her?”

❥❥❥

That self-satisfied cheshire grin, as if he laid down a royal flush. Your heart stopped in your throat. The man before you, frozen in place. Everything could have stopped breathing and held its breath, and you wouldn’t notice.

You’re growing dizzy, this must be a bad dream. Just a bad dream. This is so stupid, so fucked up, so stupid!

Your friend looks like he’s going to be sick.

“As…as…a…friend…friend…y--yes…”

Perhaps it was your hypervigilance, your head-counting proclivities, but you could sense the atmosphere stiffen around you, air growing hard to breathe. Did you imagine it, or did the man beside you somehow darken without moving a brow? You say nothing, but your eyes growing wide and inability to speak say enough. You don’t take another breath.

Both your hand and the hand of the salesman darted for the gun at the same time, only yours failed to grab it first and landed straight on the salesman’s wrist.

With undue resolve you do not let go, trying to keep his pinned arm locked and unable to raise from the table.

From the corner of your eye which is darting from your friend to the gun, you see a head lift in amusement and slowly lean down to one side, mouth growing from an open expression of entertained indulgence into a closed mouth grin, watching you from your periphery.

“Amusing, little lady. As much as I enjoy your tender fingers grabbing me, do let go. Or I will be forced to end the game prematurely for lack of viable players.”

With heavy reluctance, you let go of his wrist, pulling your arm away.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t break the rules. Please.”

It’s barely a whisper and he doesn’t react. Merely takes the gun and places a finger on the trigger.

“I truly dislike people who do not listen. People who speak so much and say so little. I detest people who are impolite, people who break the rules so carefully put in place to protect them, people who think they can just skirt by and cheat and…” he stands up, gun pointed straight at your friend, “…waste my time and my breath. Say it once, why say it again? Let’s see…” he lets the gun grow limp in his hand, checking the chamber.

“Mhhm.” The gun is pointing at your friend again. The salesman’s stance is straight, arm outstretched, a perfect line with the gun’s barrel.

“First time player’s privilege,” he says, the joy leaving his voice entirely. “Answer truthfully, one last chance.”

“Y…yes, I do, I …I…love her, please…please…don’t shoot----I----”

The gunshot rings through your ears leaving your head a ringing, blurry mess and your voice sounding screams without your influence into a slow-motion void.

For a moment you cannot see, won’t look, growing sick from the sudden chaos and noise and a heart stopped with the unforgiving shot.

Forcing yourself to open your eyes into the smoke and horror, you see the salesman still holding the gun. He is unmoving, dominant arm cocked slightly to the side of your friend’s shivering form. A bullet hole gapes in the wall behind him, narrowly missing his head.

“Was it that hard?” He purrs, sitting back down, straightening his suit as he does so. Treating the gun as a mere extension of his arm, nothing more.

He lays it back on the table and spins it. Through the fog and frozen shock, you register something about your friend being in no position to spin, favours, you don’t know anymore, you want to drop dead or faint or just wake up…

“Be glad there is a lady present, young man – I could have just as easily asked you how often you’ve touched yourself to thoughts of those ethereal legs alone.”

His tone darkens, and a very short glance in his direction shows something…ominous in his penetrating, dead eyes. His movements have grown slow, underlined in their oddness, as if he were moving in honey. The way he cocked his head with that smile frozen in place as he spoke could chill a corpse.

“Or…how often you’ve offered her tea with a little bit of that pesky white powder still undissolved…hm? Poor little thing doesn’t even know why she missed our dates – she’d never stand me up like that! I thought it so odd. When I found out. I was a tad. Angry. Hm…My little lady. Helpless in the crude intentions of another. Tell me. Will she or I ask you first, just what exactly did you have planned? The two of us know your sick answer to that...”

The salesman lifts his eyebrows, his hand teasingly back to caressing your thigh – this time, with added fervour. His unblinking eyes, his speeded breaths, his focused demeanour – he’s grown excited. And the fingers of his large hand echo it directly in the way he grabs at the inner side of your thigh, almost prying your legs apart the more you push them together.

“…Does she know about the photographs? Does she know about where your dirty, undeserving, pitiful little hands have been? I bet she’d be very eager to find out…where the audacity you had when she was conscious ends and the depravity of the trash you are once she is not begins.”

As if on cue, the hand stops and merely rests in your lap. You realise that a large part of his words was reverberating through the walls and the rain, loud and sharp with something resembling cold venom, cold anger, cold…abhorrence. You look down at the hand in your lap.

Resting there. Perfectly cut nails. Strong fingers. Still.

You think you’d very much like to hold it, but don’t move.

❥❥❥

All of a sudden, you shiver straight through.

You've grown so cold.

The tension in your thighs gives way to weakness.

The words turn poisonous in your ears and against your wishes, you feel violated.

Less by the hand on your thigh stroking its fingers upwards, now having stopped, satisfied with your surrender.

As silly as it seems, even to you in your current state. Violated.

More so by his words, because...you know. You know it's true and feel disgusting. Your brain somehow compartmentalised too hard and the scene in front of you fades away leaving only your thoughts and fears; circling a maelstrom to drag you down with no sound.

His clingy love, his unwanted touches, his abuse of your kindness – your gestures of care swallowed by shallow need and hormonal outbursts.

On those late evenings.

Wherever you were, he was.

Wherever you tried to make a place for you with boundaries.

There he was.

Playfully violating them.

Ignoring your tenth 'no thank you'.

Stealing touches and hugs and even playing on your compassionate strings, asking for cuddles and head pats and telling you to softly caress his hair as he leaned into your chest and dragged his head down to your breasts pretending to search for a tense heartbeat.

All because he was stressed. He needed it. He needed you and pretended that what he gave back was adequate. Though all you wanted was safety, peace, and to be left alone. That never featured in the equation.

You remember how it was always suddenly four, five in the morning. The bitter taste in your mouth. The way the tea tasted funny. How clouded your head was.

Suddenly, the soaked shirt clinging to every inch of your skin feels so very exposing. The mess of a friend in front of you blurs as you try not cry.

So fucking stupid, Y/N. So fucking stupid.

Naked, violated, stupid.

You register the lower, slow voice, almost mocking in its sympathy and disdain.

"Oh, now, look at what you've done. And I was being so very reserved, ignoring a chance to ask for a truth I thought better of asking sooner. Anyhow. No matter. Tell me, young man…"

The salesman lifts a hand, leaving it to hover over the gun but only caressing the air above it.

"Tell us what you told your colleagues, when discussing that interesting study you grew so invested in. I hear it was quite the riot among men of your position. Tell me what got you so mesmerised, so...worked up as miss Y/N worked hard only a few rooms away. Careful, don't let your trousers grow too tight when you do..."

His hand lightly brushed the gun's trigger.

"...my fingers are itchy."

"That's…that's against the rules," you half-whisper, half-rasp into air that barely carries your words.

The hand on your thigh begins to slide up and down, as if reassuring you. The whole dynamic is so fucked up you feel your limbs losing sense of touch, growing colder. So cold they might as well be stone.

"So is making my little lady so disconcerted. Pardon the rudeness, miss Y/N, if you may. But I am so very interested and want you to hear it with me. Let the trash talk."

You know he's making that puppy-eyed expression in your direction, toying with you. You don't even have to look.

"Making my dear so very…" his hand finds yours and holds your dead fingers between his warmth, rubbing them in what has to be faux, manipulative, performative care. This is all pretend. He's lying. You know he's lying. One worse than the other. Your sister was more correct than she knew.

Funny. It would remind you of a play you liked, a fun performance where a bloke goes by each member of the audience with a list, yelling as he scratches out lines - "Twit, dumbass, twit, dumbass..." he stops mid-performance and gazes with hope to the back of the audience and announces: "Ah! But back there! There's a change! Two dumbasses right next to each other!" You don't laugh, but feel that is very much your situation.

"…cold." He frowns and rests his hand in your lap with yours still inside.

Now you look. His face isn't smiling. His voice isn't warm. His lips aren't cheeky, his eyes are zoned in and glassy. Aimed at the man ahead like a bayonet right under the chin.

What's happening to you? Is it the transfer of affect? Your emotions both high and subdued? The tension, shock, adrenalin find each nook in your body and mind, forcing you to cling desperately to the safest thing around?

Or spewing over everything like a sickening cloud of mustard gas and clouding rational thought? Which is it?!

Your breath had grown slow, shallow, and the walls of the dingy room were fading together in nondescript floating blurs. You heard him. You heard someone you trusted, cared for, when all was said and done, speak of what you were aware of but didn't know the details of.

A study concerning human behaviour and what some men would do, should they face no consequences.

The salesman nudged the gun if the words were growing slow.

You learned that the friend you trusted would endeavour to do things to you that you hoped were only categories in bad adult content. You learned he thought of you that way and dreamed of it, even if he hated himself for it afterwards. He did try it, over and over. He lied to you. Over and over.

Couldn’t help himself.

Limp, lifeless, dead eyed – no consequences.

Fair game.

You felt like being sick and setting the whole building on fire, the two of them included.

❥❥❥

So, you did what any rational person in your situation would do.

You stood up.

“I need some fresh air,” you hear your lips mumble and don’t even register that the hand doesn’t try to stop you. Mechanically you turn around and walk slowly towards the exit. Two voices follow you out:

“Of course, miss Y/N. The game is paused. Do come back as soon as you can. We’re having such fun, aren’t we?”

And:

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way…I thought you felt…I thought you would…”

You don’t even turn around as you hear the blunt sound of something slapping against something else hard. No more voices follow.

You only walk to the very first door and when you are nearly sure you’re at least partly alone, you sink to your knees in sobbing shivers that make no sound, only force your face to grimace and your hands to hold you around your body in nothing short of desperation and being done.

Why don’t I just play a truth and lie? He’ll shoot me. Everything works out. Boom. Peace. Maybe a dare, so I can ask to shoot the gun into the wall. And shoot myself. Fuck. Such a dumb bitch you are, Y/N. All your fault.

You’re leaning against the doorframe, half outside, and the rain is helping wash your thoughts away. How you wish it would go straight through and dissolve you with it.

“Tender flower, tender flower…” a voice humms behind you as if caught in a fond memory. You don’t look up or behind you. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re beginning to feel like you have nothing much to lose, over something so...silly.

“You know, you remind me of my favourite flower, little lady.” The voice stops beside you and you still don’t lift your head. You just stare into the pavement, far away from yourself.

The salesman bends down to be level with you, hands behind his back. Head cocking to the side in his usual manner, almost in a play of affection. Your heart sublimates from frost straight to anger and then…nothing. You grow numb again. But do look into his eyes as he speaks, noting the small smirk.

“Beautiful white blossoms, sharp, geometrical. Elegant. Everything in place, everything in order. Even closed, the flowers seem to sleep in a manner that exudes quiet beauty. Leaving one waiting for them to open, just to see them in bloom.”

Is he truly that mental?

“But what I appreciate most about this flower is the fact…that its leaves have nothing but sharp prickles around every edge. They themselves carry a smooth surface with unnoticeable little hooks should anyone try to touch their flowers. The stems are thorny, even in their dark, mesmerising stature and grace. And the parts hidden below ground…where the life of the plant resides…are safely covered by a shell enclosed in sharp thorns.”

He is truly that mental.

“And…” he leans closer, making sure to not touch you, but you can see that small smile and those piercing dark eyes almost caressing you through the rain, “the whole plant is deathly poisonous. Not only does it help you die, but you will desire death every second that your hallucinating brain cannot see its own lungs unable to lift…as you suffocate on dry land, slowly, slowly…so very slowly.”

He smiles as if remembering a fond memory.

“The blossoms carry the poison. The leaves carry the poison. The stem carries the poison. The seedpods and their precious seeds are the most poisonous parts of the whole plant. Imagine that. The grace of the plant, the beautiful life-giving hidden piece, the essence itself…so very lethal.”

You look up at him. You know the plant he’s describing. You know it because it happens to be one of your favourites too. Your lips open just a tiny bit and you see something else in those eyes for only a little fleeting while. Something you’re surely placing there yourself. You really must be damaged, out of it, desperate.

But you speak nonetheless:

“…Funny…the whole flower, in its beauty…with each sharp edge and prickle…simply says…don’t touch me. It won’t hurt you until you transgress and grab at what doesn’t belong to you…But the being wordlessly says…Don’t touch my flowers. Don’t touch my leaves. Don’t touch my stem. And don’t fucking touch me.”

You see his smile grow in a small act of genuine amusement. The salesman’s eyes are looking at you, through you, but you sense no lies in that look now.

He genuinely looks…affectionately satisfied. Am I high? He looks…sweet.

“What if I were to be very cautious with each blossom, and ask the plant for permission when she’s feeling shy? Would she bloom in my presence? I know her well, I know where I may and may not lay my fingers – I have studied her quite closely. I know when to let her grow in peace and gather strength in solitude. Tell me, miss Y/N. Would she bloom for me if I tended to her?”

“Depends. What if the plant asks you to throw her into a wall?”

A very surprised chuckle escapes his lips and wanders into the night rain.

“Then I’ll take her upstairs and arrange for that to be possible. Anything for her little lethal, tender heart.”

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onceinablueberrymoon · 2 days ago

Note

I feel like the recruiter would totally be a girl dad 😭😭

recruiter (salesman) as a girl dad headcanons!

i absolutely see where you're coming from, and i agree LOL

here are some headcanons for the recruiter as a girl dad! the beginning part is about reader's pregnancy and his feelings throughout that. this is also mostly from the recruiter’s side of things, instead of my usual second person POV.

this is not related to my husband!salesman x pregnant!reader series, btw.

notes: pregnancy; fem!reader; fluff; the recruiter is whipped for reader; he gets feelings lol

please enjoy! ٩>ᴗ<)و

once the recruiter learned that he would be a father, he wasn’t sure how to feel.

when he first fell for you, he didn’t know he could love anyone in this cruel world. but somehow, you had weaved your way into his life, and now he couldn’t imagine it without you.

but now that you were pregnant, would he have space in his heart for one more?

he refused to talk about his feelings, instead choosing to focus his attention on you. he made sure you were comfortable, well fed, and satisfied in every way.

he generally ignored the baby for the first few months. he didn’t talk to them and didn’t want to touch the slight swell of your stomach. instead, he chose to lavish the rest of you with affection instead.

it wasn’t until your second trimester, when the baby started kicking, that he was forced to recognize the magnitude of the situation.

there was a real person inside of you. one that was part him, whether he liked it or not.

but he had to remind himself that it was also part you. the person he cared about most.

you had been so excited when you found out you were expecting, and it made his heart ache.

he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was scared. your health had been less than stellar throughout your pregnancy, and he couldn’t bear to lose you. he would sacrifice a hundred of his own children without hesitation if it meant you could live.

once he had gathered his resolve, he was determined to do everything in his power to care for the child. not for their sake, but for yours.

he liked to plan ahead: doctor’s appointments, buying all the necessary equipment with you before you were too uncomfortable to move.

he tried to be present for all your appointments, because it would make you happy. but sometimes his schedule wouldn’t allow for it.

on occasion, he would find you talking aloud to your baby. the one time you had caught him looking, you invited him to talk to them too. he was initially dismissive of the idea, but the pleading look in your eyes convinced him to try. he propped himself up next to your swollen belly, and, after your gentle encouragement, he started telling the baby how wonderful their mother was.

your happiness was all the reward he needed.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅

once the baby was born, the recruiter sighed in relief. while you had gone into labour earlier than expected, you delivered your child safely. all that mattered to him at that moment was that you were okay.

the nurses had whisked your baby away, but your husband’s attention was all on you, who had been breathing heavily after pushing for so long.

he had been so focused on you that he didn’t even know that the baby was a girl. he only realized when the nurse commented that the baby looked like her mother.

looking at her in your arms, he was struck by just how true that statement was.

even though she was still scrunched up from just having been born, he was able to see your features so clearly.

when you passed her to him, he was enamoured, completely intrigued by this tiny person in his arms.

and when she opened her eyes, his breath hitched slightly.

they were his.

while he knew how genetics worked, it baffled him how clearly the two of you shone through your daughter.

it was so odd to see himself reflected in someone else. he had never seen himself in anyone, not even his parents.

even though his daughter had just been born, he felt connected to her in a way he couldn’t describe. he supposed this is what you meant when you said you shared a bond with the baby.

there was no question – he was absolutely smitten by his daughter.

in that moment in the hospital delivery room, he had committed to doing anything for her, just as he had committed the same to you.

all those dismissive feelings he had during your pregnancy vanished, and were instead replaced with the need to protect this innocent life from the cruel and violent world she had been born into. a world he had helped sustain for most of his life.

he would do his best to shield her from life’s harsh realities. anyone who dared harm her would face his wrath, and he wouldn’t think twice before swiftly ending their life. anything for his daughter.

and you.

your daughter made him fall even more for you, which he didn’t think was possible. but the way you cared for her unlocked a part of him.

your kindness, your unconditional love… he never had that during his childhood, when his father was out gambling and drinking. he was grateful that you showered your daughter with love so that she wouldn’t have to bear the same burdens he had.

he also made sure to spend time with his daughter and to be a present father even though his work schedule could be demanding. his daughter had opened up a new side of him: one that enjoyed playing games for no reason but having fun.

just as you had showed him that not all people were trash, his daughter had shown him the goodness of life, and that, just maybe, the world wasn’t so bad after all.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅

tags: @muchwita

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meadowfics · 2 days ago

Text

not your concern

the salesman x f!reader

part two to the regular

warnings: mentions of death, I used the actor's name as a placement name for the salesman (who's real name is not known or canon)

one year.

three hundred and sixty-five days of marriage. when you had agreed to his offer, you never thought life would turn out this way. better than you expected, even. there had not been a single time when you had to think about money.

gong yoo had taken care of everything before you even had the chance to. rent? nonexistent. bills? never crossed your mind. your old habit of checking your bank balance every night before bed? unnecessary.

your life, once dictated by numbers, debt collectors, and sleepless nights at that rundown café, had transformed into something entirely foreign. no financial stress. no work. only comfort.

he had only one rule: never ask about his work.

fine, you thought at the time. you had worked enough in your life, exhausted yourself in ways you never wanted to again. so you stayed out of it. no questions. no curiosity. just… existing in the life he gave you.

in your free time, you indulged in things you had once pushed aside… painting, skincare, even sightseeing. sometimes, you spent entire afternoons in art galleries, admiring brushstrokes and colors.

other times, you lost yourself in the quiet ritual of self-care, trying every serum, every mask, every oil you once could never afford.

it was a strange kind of freedom. one you had to get used to.

as a husband, he had been nothing short of great. loving, attentive, surprisingly kind. not once had he been cold or dismissive. he touched you like he cherished you, looked at you like he meant it.

intimacy between you both was never lacking. it was fulfilling, tender, and, above all, real. he wasn’t a sugar daddy figure at all, just an older man that you’ve grown to love, just after getting the ring.

nothing to complain about. no reason to question anything.

until one encounter on a late afternoon.

you remember the scent of fresh herbs and ripe fruit filling the air as you browsed through the produce store, picking out what you needed for dinner. cooking had become something you enjoyed since you no longer had to work long shifts.

now, you had the time to make meals from scratch, experiment with recipes, and create something warm for whenever your husband returns home. it was a simple pleasure, one you never got to indulge in before. its been turning out great, since gong yoo always compliments your skill in culinary.

you grabbed a bunch of green onions, then turned to head toward the tomatoes when—

thud.

"oh my… sorry! excuse me," you said instinctively, stepping back.

the man you had bumped into didn’t move right away. he was dressed in all black, a cap pulled low over his face, obscuring most of his features. something about him made you uneasy, but he didn’t seem outright dangerous.

still, you weren’t in the mood for small talk, so you moved to step around him.

"wait," his voice stopped you.

your fingers curled slightly around the plastic bag in your hand.

"...yes?"

"i have a question..”

the man says, determined for an answer that you’ll say.

“go ahead?” you say in confusion.

you hope it's not a date proposal, you’re already married to the man of your dreams.

“do you know a man who’s always in suits? plays ddakji with strangers all around seoul? hands out cards with shapes on them afterward?"

your heart nearly stopped.

he was describing gong yoo.

your husband.

your expression remained unreadable, the years of learning to mask your emotions paying off. you blinked once before shaking your head, feigning confusion.

"i’m sorry, i haven’t seen anyone like that before."

you had no reason to trust this man. your loyalty was to your husband, not to some stranger lurking in a grocery store asking odd questions.

the man hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if studying you.

"i ask because i’m looking for him," he continued, "he’s partially responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people every year."

the man's words were absurd. ridiculous, even. you almost wanted to scoff. sure, you didn’t know the details of your husband’s job, but murder? hundreds of people dying because of him?

yeah, right.

"i’m sorry, but i have no clue who you’re talking about," you said, shaking your head again, reinforcing the lie.

the man exhaled through his nose.

"you’re protecting him," he stated. not an accusation, just a fact.

this time, your heart did stutter.

he knew.

you kept your face neutral, but the blood in your veins felt like ice.

"you must’ve gotten the wrong person," you said smoothly, forcing out a small, apologetic smile,

"i’m sorry, but i have to go."

without waiting for a response, you walked to the register, casually placing your items on the counter. your fingers trembled slightly as you tapped your card, but otherwise, you kept yourself composed.

as soon as you stepped outside, you checked, subtly, carefully, if the man was following.

he wasn’t.

still, the unease didn’t leave you.

clutching the bag of produce a little tighter, you made your way home, the stranger’s words replaying in your head.

when you returned home to your sky-rise penthouse, the tension in your chest still hadn’t fully dissipated. the city lights casted soft glows along the sleek, expensive interior of your home. it was a lifestyle you had grown accustomed to, one of quiet luxury, security, and ease.

however, placing the bag of produce on the marble kitchen island, you let out a slow breath. that encounter had shaken you more than you wanted to admit. you weren’t naive. you knew gong yoo’s work wasn’t normal.

the idea that he was responsible for people’s deaths? that part didn’t fit or make sense.

before you could spiral too much, the sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts.

"y/n, sweetheart, i'm home," his familiar voice filled the space.

you turned, greeted by the sight of your husband stepping inside. he loosened his tie as he walked toward you, the usual warmth in his expression unchanged.

as always, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a soft kiss against your temple before pulling back just enough to look at you.

"how was your day?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"fine," you replied, but your hesitation must have been obvious. he tilted his head slightly, silently prompting you to continue.

you sighed, leaning against the counter.

"something strange happened today. i ran into this man at the store. he asked if i knew someone who plays ddakji in subway stations and hands out cards to strangers."

gong yoo’s expression didn’t change. not even a flicker of surprise, even though he knew exactly who you were talking about.

seong gi-hun.

"what did you say?"

"i told him i didn’t know anyone like that," you admitted, "but then he said he was looking for you because you’re responsible for… the deaths of hundreds of people every year."

for a moment, there was only silence between you.

suddenly, gong yoo exhaled lightly, a small, almost amused smile on his lips, "and do you believe him?"

you hesitated.

"...i don’t know. i mean, i don’t know much about what you actually do."

he reached out, gently cupping your chin, his thumb brushing over your jawline.

"you don’t have to. that’s not your concern."

he said it so easily. so calmly.

you searched his eyes for something, anything, but all you found was unwavering certainty and really, what more could you ask for?

as long as you were comfortable, as long as you weren’t in danger, what reason did you have to dig any deeper? you had agreed to this life a long time ago, and it had given you everything you never thought you’d have.

so, you nodded.

"you’re right. it’s not my concern."

he smiled, pleased with your answer, and pressed another kiss to your forehead.

"good girl."

just like that, the subject was closed.

you turned back to prepping dinner, the encounter at the store already beginning to fade from your mind.

after all, you had everything you could ever want so why question it?

masterlist

#the recruiter #the salesman x reader smut #the salesman squid game #squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game s2 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x y/n #squid game x you #the salesman #seong gi hun #seong gi hun x reader

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k1ru-https · 2 days ago

Text

Filth teaches filth.

#squid game #squid game 2 #the salesman #the recruiter #gong yoo #the salesman squid game #squid game fanart #art #fanart #horror art #kdrama

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bedlam-barbie · 1 day ago

Text

Heathens

Or Attention part 5

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

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

Word count: 4.3k

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

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

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

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

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

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

It was a pure, savage release.

And he thrived in it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was the red lipstick.

That damn red lipstick.

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

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

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

A challenge.

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

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

But that, of course, would come later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just a game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re having fun,” she observed.

He smiled. “You make it easy.”

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

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

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

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

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

She knew it, too.

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

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

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

This was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it should have been enough.

"Salesman, you’re up."

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

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

Unlike her.

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

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

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

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

He needed this.

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

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

And that had to stop.

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

So he would win this fight.

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

The bell rang, and Gong Yoo moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

He smiled.

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

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

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

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

It never lasted. Nothing ever did.

Except for her.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t turn. He wouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting. That reaction again. Unfortunate. Inconvenient.

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

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

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

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

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

Toys.

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

But she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

His jaw ticked, but his response came effortlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhaled slowly, watching her.

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

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

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

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

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

And when she left, it finally hit him.

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

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

How pathetic. How fucking pathetic.

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

By her.

And worst of all?

He didn’t even want to fight it.

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limolib · 21 hours ago

Text

Re-blooming

(Alt ending to Wilted lemon trees)

The recruiter x reader

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Warnings; No reader body/race/age descriptions (if any pls lmk), but in my mind there’s an age gap. A little ooc. NO USE OF Y/N, I still don’t refer to the recruiter with a specific name. English is not my first language. Some description of injury.

WC: Just 2k 🤏🏻

Summary; Alt/fluffy ending to wilted lemon trees (for the fluff girliesss). I don’t think this could be read alone tbh :p

A/N: hope you enjoy this cause I wrote it instead of paying attention to my lectures and now I’m hashtag regretting it

He watched through the scope as the car approached his made up end spot. Welcome to the final show. The car you picked out was unassuming, grey and very much a family car but he caught your alias pretty easily. You were speeding down an empty backcountry road, almost at your sweet sweet escape, not on his watch though. He shot the bullet, hitting your tires immediately, causing the car to flip over into a nearby ditch. He abandoned his position, taking his gun with him to ensure the job is done. The wreck caught up in flames, the light from the fire casting a yellow glow onto the surroundings. He approached your position under the turned-over car. Your back was to the ground as your hands were reaching for your gun, but it was too far away, plus he kicked it from your line of sight with his polished shoe. You panted, looking down at your lower body with defeat, the wreckage making it difficult to move. He watched you, so helpless and at his mercy and he couldn’t help but feel a little bad. Just a little.

“Bad time to say that suit looks great on you?” You coughed. “Brings your face out.”

“Get up.” he kicked your side softly, causing you to cough more.

“Way to kick a woman when she’s down.”

The flames from the car had reached your legs, that's for sure, but the fact that you were not crying out in pain right now was concerning.

“Cmon now, don’t give up so easily.” He dropped his weapon, hurrying over to attempt to lift the car a little to give you crawl space. The metal of the door burnt his hands, but he endured, for you. You shimmied out on your elbows and collapsed once more, panting heavily with a bloodied nose from impact. He picked his gun back up and stood over you, feet at your sides with the weapon aimed at your head. Your hands came up slowly in surrender.

“You win.” There was a hint of teasing in your tone, though he was unsure as to why.

His jaw clenched, grip tight on the firearm as he looked into your tired eyes. He needs to do this. Now.

“Just like back in Cairo, huh?” You coughed, causing him to smile a little.

“You and I remember Cairo very differently.”

The memories of that time crawled into his mind involuntarily, especially how the air felt that night. You studied his face from your position on the rough floor, conflicted and hesitant.

“Was this not what you wanted?” You croaked.

He didn’t answer, only kept his gaze trained on your face.

Cairo must’ve left a lasting mark on him.

Your eyes were already getting blurry from a combination of blood loss, the adrenaline wearing off and the newly felt pain.

“Just kill me, babe.” You coughed.

That seemed to do the trick, as he knelt down to smack you on the head with his gun. As you finally succumbed to unconsciousness, you heard a shot ring out, then felt the sharp pain in your abdomen; the final domino in your blacking out spell.

. . .

There was an unfamiliar warmth on your face easing you out of the state you were in. Kind, welcoming, gentle. Your senses began making their way back to you, the sweet birdsong melody engulfing you warmly. There was a waft of fresh air all around, the kind you smell deep in the countryside when the next city isn’t for hours. Then, pain.

So so so much pain, everywhere. At the sensation, your eyes shot open, but they were instantly shot back shut due to the intense light on your pupils. You blinked a few times, willing yourself to beat the force of the sun beaming down on you. When your eyes finally adjusted to lights, you attempted to sit up, wary of the unfamiliarity of the surroundings. It was futile, the pain knocking you immediately back down, a handcuff at your wrist also limiting your movement. You were shackled to the bed. More pain was elicited when you’d attempted to pull on the chain.

“Don’t do that.” You hadn’t even noticed his presence, posted in a dark corner with the light from the window only hitting his lower half. You took a second to take the room in whilst propped up on one arm.

It was a small bedroom with very little indication as to who lived in it before, only a few boxes of belongings strewn about. The floor was a mess, bills and other varieties of papers covering the small carpet. The walls had what you could assume were certificates of achievements adorning them, a wide variety of colours and sizes. By the bed lay a singular teddy bear, brown and innocent, and the only indication of this being a child’s bedroom.

Your eyes made their way back to him, observing as he leaned forward slowly, allowing the sun to hit his blemish-free face. Well, almost blemish free, save for a small scar on the bridge of his nose.

“Kinky” you jiggled the chain.

“You were strongly against any and every form of help I tried to offer you.” He tilted his palm to show a nasty bite mark on it. “You wouldn’t let me stich, sedate or transport you. Or anyone else for that matter. Caused me a lot of trouble.”

He got up slowly from his spot, opening the door by his side and disappearing outside.

You got up as well, the chain being long enough to allow you some movement in the small room. You padded over to the certificates, bare footed and a little cold. They were almost all academic achievements, all dedicated to one-

“Is that your name?” You didn’t have to turn around to feel his presence there behind you.

“Yeah.” His hand came up to your side, grasping your wrist gently to undo the cuff. You couldn’t tear your eyes from his name though, it felt like a gigantic leap forward, like he’d just given you the moon and stars. It was so fitting for him.

“You live here?”

“Used to.”

“And then?”

“You know.”

Growing up, the games, it was a stupid question really, you were just so giddy and so barely able to think straight.

He exited the room wordlessly once more, leaving you to your curious exploration. You lipped over to one of the boxes by the bed, small and unassuming, the outside adorned with little hand drawn hearts and other shapes. Inside, a modest collection of old photos, mostly of him and his father. Camping, fishing, playing, bathing. There were few where his mother made appearances in, mostly just him and his dad. He looked so eerily normal, smiles wide and carefree like he wouldn’t grow up to be a murderer. You must’ve spent a good amount of time flipping through each photograph, soaking in the normalcy they held. The smell of food began filling your senses, alerting you of your previously quiet hunger. You limped over slowly to the door, then out through the hallways to where you could hear some plates and pans clinking. There he was, back to you over the small stovetop cooking what you could assume was a steak. He wore a plain white shirt, a little loose on his form, paired with a pair of plaid pants.

He’s in his pyjamas. You held back a giggle by biting your lip.

You still don’t know why he brought you here, or why he hadn’t killed you yet.

“Is that the only meal you know how to make?”

“You know the answer to that. It’s just convenient. And you need to restore your iron.”

He turned around, revealing a very pretty blue apron with lemons on it. He plated the tempting meal and took the apron off, sitting down on the small kitchen table, opening the seat by his side for you to take. You descended onto the chair slowly, wincing at the pain from your side. He dug into his plate with his usual class, but your curiosity prevented you from eating anything, the questions on your mind already too filling.

“What’s the plan here? Wine, dine and end my bloodline?”

He dropped the utensils, a hand coming up to rub his eyes at your stupid play on words. There was a small smile on his lips when he looked back up at you.

“No. You’re already dead.”

You exaggerate a look around the place, eyes wide and breath loud. “Spooky.”

He gave you a tired look and sighed.

“I regret not killing you.”

“You don’t mean that”

“I do, actually.”

He turned back to his meal, mentally preparing himself for what looks to be a lifetime of lame jokes.

“I faked it all. The body, the death. Had to shoot you for authenticity and all. Also because the bullet had your name so I didn’t want to waste it.”

You poked his side, earning no reaction from him.

“They didn’t check after me, loyalty pays off I guess.”

“Where are we?”

“About an hour drive out of Seoul, it’s cozy here. Has its charm. I can keep you safe and keep my job at the same time.”

“Oh? So when you’re out playing villain, what do I do? I’m not your little housewife.” There was a small smile in your words.

“Is that so bad? Weren’t you the one who wanted white picket fences and wrap-around porches?”

“You wanted it too, hotshot. Or else you wouldn't’ve kept me alive.”

He slumped back, hands dropping the utensils once again, turning his face to look at you.

“Must you be difficult?” He sighed.

Your hand came up to fix his slightly disheveled hair out of his face. “You’re just so entertaining.”

His eyes were on the hand he had on the table now, watching as he cracked knuckle after knuckle, the other hand at his side. He pushed his tongue out into his cheek, taking a few deep breaths to try to cool his anger. His throat bobbed heavily before he pushed up suddenly from his spot, taking a few short strides to the outside. You irritated him endlessly, making his feelings for you all the more infuriating. You followed him a minute later, finding him leaning on the house front, one leg over the other as he watched the empty field opposite. He had his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched tightly as he tapped his head on the wall gently. You brought your hand up to touch his bare bicep, causing him to sigh and shut his eyes, his shoulders relaxing. In a swift movement, he brought your form flush into his, engulfing you in his embrace, a hand coming up to press your head into him, scratching at your scalp a little.

“I risked a lot to get you here I-” he let out a shaky breath. “You need to work with me to keep our peace. Seoul isn’t safe right now, it won’t be for a while, for you anyway. I know it’s a huge contrast, but…we can figure it out when you’re feeling better, okay?”

So he got it all, the job, the girl, the looks. You…weren’t mad, nodding into him.

He used his hand to angle your face to look into his.

He kissed you then, it was new. Unsure and a little innocent, unfitting for who either of you were. You smiled against his lips, pulling away to look at him once more. His arm found your waist, the other coming up to interlace with yours. You swayed gently to no music, moving in tandem to the sound of nothing. It was mostly him, though, being a surprisingly great dancer. He hummed a soft song you were unfamiliar with, eyes boring into yours somberly .

I won’t say I’m in love.

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