felixvsp

[felixvsp]

just imagine...

what it would be like to tease Chan during a blowjob?

This audio inspired me to write this one. Gotta love whiny sub chan.

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

⋆｡°✩

You’re on your knees, bare, grounded by the coolness of the floor. Your spine is straight, your chin tilted slightly upward, and your eyes, sharp, unrelenting, are locked on Chan’s face. He’s standing in front of you, or at least trying to. His legs are stiff, thighs tight, but they tremble just enough to betray how close he is to collapsing.

You trail your fingers up his thighs, light and lazy. When you reach the waistband of his boxers, you press your palm against the wet patch that’s already spread across the front. It’s hot. Soaked. You press harder, feeling the outline of him, the way he twitches beneath the fabric like he’s begging for friction. His breath stutters above you.

He’s panting.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, already sounding wrecked.

You hook your fingers under the waistband and pull it down in one fluid motion. His cock is flushed, dripping, the tip already glistening with thick, wet precum. It’s obscene how hard he is. He hisses when the air hits him, like it hurts.

And still, your eyes never leave his.

You tilt your head and run your tongue over your bottom lip, just once, slowly. You want him to see. To watch you tasting your own anticipation.

Then, without warning, you lean forward and press a kiss to the very tip of his cock, soft, deliberate. A whisper of your lips. He groans like it punches the air out of his lungs.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice a low, knowing hum. “Aw, cute. You already falling apart?”

His jaw clenches. He nods, barely.

You start with your tongue, a slow lick from the base to the tip, long and indulgent. You trace every vein, every curve, every sensitive ridge. You don’t take him in, not even a little. You lap at him like you’re savoring a melted piece of candy, flicking your tongue over the head, swirling it around the tip, catching every drop that leaks from him.

Your hands stay on his thighs, holding him still. You can feel how hard he’s trying not to move, how his legs tremble just slightly under your grip. He’s breathing through his teeth now, sharp, quick gasps, and when your lips wrap around the head just barely and you suck, he stumbles forward a half-step.

“Ffffff—” he hisses. It’s not even a word, just the ghost of one. Like his brain can’t catch up to what his body’s feeling.

You look up at him through your lashes. He’s flushed red, neck, cheeks, ears. His head tilts back, chest heaving. One hand flies to his hair, gripping it tight like he’s holding himself together.

“Please,” he chokes out after a second. “Baby. Please… let me—let me fuck your mouth, just— just take me already.”

You pull back instantly, lips glistening, and shake your head once, slowly.

“Nah,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

He groans, high-pitched, raw. Like it physically hurts to be denied.

You lean in again, dragging your tongue under the shaft this time, teasing along the sensitive underside. His cock jumps against your lips when you press another soft kiss to the head. You keep working him like that, not with your throat, not with anything he wants, just your tongue and lips, wet and slow and utterly cruel.

He whimpers. He’s not even trying to hold back now. The sounds fall from him like he doesn’t care anymore, quiet, desperate moans and broken gasps.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Oh—fuck—oh my god.”

His hand drops down, hesitant, and cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes your lower lip, wet from your own spit and his precum. You part your lips, letting your tongue flick out just enough to touch the pad of his thumb.

His eyes flutter shut.

“God, you can’t be real” he whispers, thumb now sliding over your tongue, like he needs proof. Like he’s losing his mind.

You hum, lips curving into a wicked little smile around the head of his cock. He moans again, louder this time. His knees buckle just a little, and you tighten your grip on his thighs to steady him.

He’s trembling. Eyes glassy. Lips parted.

And you’re not stopping. You want to see him cry for it.

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, firm, steady. He jolts under your touch, the wet sound of your saliva and his precum making it even filthier. And then, then, you start moving your lips again, your tongue dragging in long, smooth licks while your hand strokes him in time. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to devastate him.

He gasps like he’s been punched, again.

“F-fuck, baby, please—” His voice breaks. He’s shaking, his hips jerking despite himself, and you don’t even stop him this time. You want to feel that desperation, that need boiling out of him. Every time your tongue flicks under the head, you feel it, the way he twitches in your hand, the way his thighs tense, like his body can’t decide if it wants to run or collapse.

You moan softly around him, a low, decadent hum, and his knees buckle. He grabs the back of your head without thinking, but there’s no pressure. He’s not trying to force anything. He just needs something, anything, to hold onto while he falls apart.

You spit, let it drip onto him, mix with his precum, then use your tongue to smear it across the head. Your mouth never goes deep, just your lips and tongue working the first inch, again and again and again.

“God—fuck, I c-can’t—” His voice is a mess of moans and hiccuped breaths now. His whole body’s shaking. You tighten your grip, your mouth still working the head with just enough suction to make him sob.

You glance up.

His eyes are glassy. His jaw’s slack. Tears are brimming in his lower lashes, clinging there, unspilled. He looks so fucking wrecked. So beautifully gone. You see it happen, the moment his chest jerks forward with a silent cry, his mouth dropped open, nothing coming out at first. And then...

“Ah—ah, f-uck—oh my God,” he sobs, actually sobs, the sound raw and wrecked and completely helpless.

You don’t stop.

You lick him again, slower this time, dragging your tongue along the underside as your hand works him in steady, firm strokes. Your spit is dripping down your chin now, strings of it connecting your lips to his cock, but you don’t care. You want to be messy.

His breathing’s a fucking mess now, short, shallow pants laced with curses and cries.

He’s moaning. Over and over and over again.

You don’t think he even knows he’s crying, his cheeks are streaked, his mouth open, and he’s a fucking mess. Tears spill as he throws his head back, moaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers. And his cock’s so red, so swollen, twitching with every stroke of your tongue.

You wrap your lips around him again and suck, hard.

He screams.

Not loud, he doesn’t even have the strength for that. It’s a strangled, broken moan, muffled by how tightly he’s biting his knuckles now, trying to keep it together. But he’s not together. Not even close.

The slick, wet sounds are obscene, pure filth, echoing between your bodies as his hips jerk again and again.

You flick your tongue right against the slit, fast, delicate little licks that make him jolt. Then slower, broader ones, tracing the shape of him, teasing the underside just below the crown.

You let your lips close around just the tip, warm, soft suction, the barest pull that makes him groan your name through clenched teeth. You swirl your tongue around him while your hand strokes him just a little faster, tighter.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—fuck, fuck, please—can I? Baby, can I come? Please, please let me—fuck, I’m—”

You hum around him, nodding just barely.

That’s all it takes.

He shatters.

He cries out your name, high and desperate, a full-body moan ripped straight from his core, and he comes in your mouth in thick, hot spurts. His whole body convulses, trembling violently as he spills down your throat, and he cries. Real tears. Gasping, wrecked, eyes squeezed shut as his body folds forward from the force of it.

You don’t swallow.

You don’t let him fuck your mouth.

You don’t give him that satisfaction.

You let it drip out of your mouth slowly, mixed with spit, down your chin, so he can see exactly what you’ve done to him. And when he finally opens his eyes, red-rimmed, dazed, ruined, you look up at him with a smile, lips swollen, chest rising slow.

And Chan?

Chan drops to his knees in front of you, shaking, panting, crying, like he belongs there.

Like you own him now.

His eyes find yours, glassy, wide, so fucking broken. And you hold his gaze, steady, dominant, lips still wet, chin sticky, your body glowing with the heat of control. You see it all in him: the tears, the ruined expression, the desperation in his parted lips, slick with spit he hasn’t even noticed is there.

You smile. Slow. Wicked. Pleased. Looking at him with the most soft eyes, like you didn’t just ruined him.

You tilt your head just slightly, watching him try to make sense of what you’ve done to him. He’s never looked more yours than he does now, trembling, on his knees, breathing like he’s forgotten how. That wrecked sound he made? It’s still echoing in your ears.

He reaches for you, hands shaking, unsure, and cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment. His thumbs trace over your cheeks, slow, reverent. Then lower, brushing your bottom lip, damp and swollen. His breath catches when his thumb drags across the slick, sticky mess coating your chin.

You don’t look away. Not for a second.

You lean into his touch, just enough to make him feel it, and flick your tongue out against his thumb. Soft. Filthy. Deliberate. Giving it a little kiss in the end.

His eyes flutter, and he whimpers.

“…You ruined me,” he breathes, voice wrecked and raw.

You grin wider.

“I meant to.”

And the way he shudders at your voice, fuck.

You could watch him unravel forever.

-

taglist @velvetmoonlght @anjian03 @nightmarenyxx @nebugalaxy <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

+++ authors note: I kinda liked this way of posting fics. It’s not a story, only a very detailed situation that I can’t stop thinking about… I might do it more often.

[felixvsp]

Hiii! I love your work so much! I hope you’re doing well.

can I request Minho x reader. where Minho catches reader obsessing over his thighs. So he makes her ride is thighs and then fucks her?

Please don’t mind how horny this is😭

Oh I don't mind at all 😈

Lowkey I hope I did this request justice, it's not hard to drool over any of Stray Kids' thighs lol

Thigh Ride

Summary: Minho, being the very observant boyfriend he is, had noticed you staring at him from across the living room. Little did he know, you were looking at his thighs, silently drooling over them in your own world. But he'd soon know. They call him Lee Know for a reason, after all. And you were about to know, too.

Pairing: Minho X Reader (F!)

Genre: Smut (18+)

Warnings: dirty talk, degradation, thigh riding, a bit of nipple play, unprotected penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it, please!), Dom! Minho, creampie, cockwarming, Minho's a lot nicer at the end I promise, 100% 18+ (seriously like if you're a minor don't read pls and thank you <3)

Word Count: 1.7K

Minho caught you staring at him around 15 minutes ago.

The two of you were in your living room, each of you in your own worlds. Minho had been watching some show Jisung had gotten him into. And you had been drawing away on your iPad, occasionally scrunching your nose at something you didn't like, or reaching over to grab a sip of your water.

And from time to time, your eyes would drift over to your boyfriend. Minho was an observant man, and so it was hard for him to miss small details. The only thing he couldn't figure out was what your eyes were so entranced by.

It wasn't his face. If you were looking at his face, your eyes would look more dreamy...an idiot in love look, as Seungmin called it. It wasn't his chest, either. He was wearing a hoodie, there was no way it was that. That canceled out his arms, too. And as much as Minho loved having sex with you, he hoped it wasn't his crotch.

It didn't bother him at first, though. But it wasn't until Minho shifted and spread a bit more on the couch when he heard you shift as well. Your thighs rubbed together slightly, your tongue coming out to lick your lips.

Maybe it was his crotch.

Minho shifted his eyes to look at you, seeing how your gaze was cast down. And because Minho couldn't keep himself from teasing, he smirked, speaking up.

"Are you trying to will my dick to get hard?"

"Wh-What?" That got your attention. Your eyes looked at him, clearly shocked by what he said. And then, a pillow went flying towards him. Minho just laughed, hearing your voice scold him. "Minho! Don't say that!"

"Sorry, sorry! You were just staring at my crotch, so I just assumed that you were horny--"

"I wasn't staring at your crotch!"

"Yes you were!"

"I wasn't! I wasn't staring at anything!" You honestly didn't know why you said that. Minho didn't know why you said that, either. You knew just as well as him that he knew.

"You weren't, huh?" Minho just shrugged, looking back to the TV. "Whatever you say, my love."

You just shook your head, looking back to your iPad. You weren't aware that Minho was watching you closely through his peripheral vision, seeing you look back over at his lower body not even 2 minutes later.

You couldn't help it. Minho's thighs looked so...ride-able. The way that his jeans were pressed against his leg, the way that they sat against the couch while he was spread in that manspread position...god, you could feel yourself salivating. You just wanted to go over there and just--

"You're staring again." Fucking Minho. "You must seriously be craving to get fucked if you're staring at my crotch like that-"

"I told you, I'm not looking at your crotch."

"Then what are you looking at?"

"I'm not looking at anything." You blushed, looking back to your iPad. But Minho? He didn't like that answer.

"Oh, are we getting shy now?" Minho sat forward, making his thighs look that much better before narrowing his eyes slightly. It was like he was trying to pull your soul out of your body. "You don't get to be shy after staring at me like that. What were you looking at?"

And just like that, you had been caught red handed. Shit.

"I was looking at your thighs." You spoke softly, your voice barely carrying across the room. But Minho heard you. He heard you crystal clear.

"My thighs, huh?" He watched as you nodded, only to smirk. "Well, come take a closer look."

"What-"

"Sit." It wasn't a question. And you knew better than to disobey. You got up and walked over, letting him guide you onto his thigh. And the second you sat, Minho pulled you down for a kiss.

And while it surprised you, you kissed him back, melting into the kiss. Your arms naturally found their way around your neck, his hands gripping your waist just enough. And the second that you felt his tongue glide against yours, your hips moved against his thigh. It took less than a second for Minho to just barely pull away, his breath ghosting over your lips as he spoke.

"Gotcha." Fucking. Minho. "You actually got yourself worked up over my thighs...such a little slut, huh?"

"Min, don't-...I-I'm not-" And that was when you felt Minho press his thigh up against your clothed crotch, making you gasp.

Your clit was already so sensitive, and you were already so wet...it didn't help that you were in pajama shorts. Just pajama shorts. You had no panties on to give yourself a bit more coverage. And those pajama shorts? They were thin.

"You're such a little liar..." Minho's voice was raspy, low, sexy as hell. He knew exactly what to say to make you go crazy. He always did. "You and I both know that your slutty mind couldn't stay out of my pants...you've probably been wanting to hump my thigh like a bitch in heat."

He was right. You did. And the whine you let out as your hips moved against his thigh confirmed that.

"I fucking knew it..." And with that, Minho's grip tightened on your hips. "Ride it then."

"What-"

"Ride my thigh, just like the little slut you are." Minho's voice was still low, but it was harsh.

"B-But--"

"That wasn't a question, princess." You were stuck whether you liked it or not. You knew that. His grip was too tight for you to escape. And you'd be lying if you didn't want it. And so, you moved.

The fabric of your pajama shorts dug into your slit, rubbing against your clit just right to make you whine and shudder. And Minho's thigh curved just right to make it that much more comfortable. Not to mention how Minho would occasionally lift his thigh to press against your clothed pussy even more.

"M-Minho--"

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Minho just smirked, one of his hands slipping under your shirt to find your right nipple, pinching and pulling. You just cried out, your head going to his shoulder. "See, this is why you should just admit when you're horny instead of being a denying little brat. Then I wouldn't have to treat you like a slut."

And as he hissed those words, he tugged on your now hard nipple, making you cry out. You could feel the gush of your pussy, feel how your arousal gushed onto his thigh. Minho felt it, too. It's what got him to lose control.

"Fucking christ...get up."

"Hu-Huh--"

"Get. Up." With that, Minho lifted you up with one hand, his other going to his pants to undo them and get his cock out.

It didn't take him long to pull it out and pull your sleep shorts to the side, lining you up to him before pushing you down on his length. The only thing you could do was moan out pathetically. It was music to Minho's ears. The sweet beautiful sound only he could create.

"Fuck...tight..." But it didn't stop Minho from lifting you up again, only to thrust up into you, making you moan out and hug him close.

His pace was absolutely brutal. Each thrust made a slap, his pubic bone going right against your wet little clit, giving you more pleasure than you could've ever imagined. Not to mention how he used the full length of his dick, too. Not an inch was wasted.

It felt phenominal.

"God, you feel so fucking good..." Minho's arms wrapped around you, holding you close to him. One went between your shoulders, the other went down so his hand could grip onto your ass to hold you in place. He was purely using you for your pleasure. You knew that. He knew that. You both knew that. But neither of you cared.

The only thing that mattered is that you were both feeling good. At least, that was what Minho thought. He was making his girl feel good, and he was feeling good because his girl was feeling good.

Well, your pussy was also tight and hugging his cock perfectly, occasionally clenching to make it tighter. But mostly the first reason.

Unfortunately, you were getting closer. Minho knew your signs. You were getting louder, your body was starting to shake, and your hands were grabbing at him.

"Minho, I-I'm gonna-"

"Wait..." Minho grunted his command, hearing your protesting whine. "I know, princess, I know, just--...fuck, I'm close, just a little more..."

If he was being honest, he didn't know why he asked you to wait. Probably because you could always get oversensitive, which meant you got whiny and shaky. But he also wanted to be the one to cum first. And that's what happened.

With a final thrust, Minho let out a groan as he exploded. And you weren't very far behind. The second you felt him come undone, you followed suit, your body trembling as Minho held you close, his cock buried deep inside of you.

"Easy, easy...deep breaths, I've got you..." Minho's demeanor changed up almost instantly, his hand running along your back as he talked you down, feeling your pant against his body. "You did so well, such a good job...take it nice and easy, beautiful..."

And with a few minutes, you slowly came back to reality. You now stayed up against Minho, sitting in his lap as his now soft dick rested within you.

"Feeling better?" Minho gently whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses against your shoulder and neck. You nodded, nuzzling in closer to him. "Wanna get cleaned up? Or stay like this? Hm, baby?"

"Stay like this..."

"Alright..." Minho just smiled, happy and content, just like his girl.

How couldn't he be? He had you in his arms, tuckered out because of him. You had been thoroughly satisfied, and in turn you had satisfied him. And nothing, NOTHING, could ever interrupt this incredible moment between the two of--

"So...you have a thing for my thighs, huh?"

Lee. Fucking. Minho.

Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @miss-daisy04 @kayleefriedchicken @wolfs-archive @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @wolfs-howling @rose-w-00-d @skzlover24

[felixvsp]

Stray Kids finding your stan account

Hyung Line x Reader

TW: suggestive and cursing

Hyung Line | Maknae Line

Bang Chan

Lee Know

Changbin

Hyunjin

[felixvsp]

[felixvsp]

texts with situationship!felix ✧

• felix as your toxic(ish) situationship

• suggestive/smut

• this was requested but i accidentally deleted the ask😭 this is for u anon

[felixvsp]

“the vote”

frontman!in-ho x you

after the second game, it was time to cast your votes- “x” or “o”. although the team had agreed on ending it then and there, in-ho had betrayed you. overwhelmed by deceit, you refused to talk to him after that, making him desperate to win your trust back.

“78 million per person, that’s good enough right?” dae-ho ran towards the team, enthusiastically pointing at the scoreboard.

“to be honest, i don’t care if it’s not enough, i just wanna get out of here.” you half-heartedly joked. in-ho looked up from the floor, catching your gaze. he could see past the facade you were putting up.

at that moment, in-ho wished that he could reveal his real identity to you, show you exactly who he was and the power he had. he wanted to help you.

there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t give for you to make it out of here alive, but it wasn’t that easy. afterall, you weren’t suppose to be his prime objective, and he couldn’t let the games end just like that.

“we will start with player 456. please proceed to the podium.”

“gi-hun, you’re up!” jung-bae said, grabbing the man.

“we can end this right now.” jun-hee added, making gi-hun nod, his eyes filled with determination.

everyone held their breaths as gi-hun stalked closer and closer to the two buttons. with one final look at everyone, his hand came down hard on ‘x’, making the team cheer loudly.

“y/n.” you heard a familiar voice call out to you from behind. it was in-ho, or should you say, young-il.

you gave him a small smile, quietly slipping away from everyone else to take your stand beside him.

“are you okay?” you asked, making him chuckle.

“i’m okay, y/n.” he replied throwing his arm gently around your shoulder.

“then why are you acting so weird?”

he sucked in a breath, shaking his head. “it’s just… i-i don’t know-are you sure ending the games right now is the right thing to do?”

your eyes narrowed. “what are you saying?”

“i just think, i mean, the 78 million can barely cover your debts. how are you going to continue on? you don’t want those loan-sharks coming after you again, do you?”

“young-il, whatever’s going on with you right now, it’s not making you think rational-”

“but y/n-”

“-no, young-il! what if you die in the next game?! what if we die?!”

“player 289, please proceed to the podim.”

that was your number.

“i hope you make the right choice.” you muttered under your breath before slipping out of his hold and walking away from him.

in-ho watched intensely, full of guilt and shame as you hit the “x” button. he gazed longingly as you headed to the other side of the room with the others who wanted to leave, head never lifting up from the ground once to look at him.

“you know she only reacted that way because she cares about you, right?” jung-bae awkwardly shifted to in-ho’s side, nudging his elbow.

but in-ho was having none of it. he shot jung-bae a look that pierced through his soul, sending shivers down his spine. jung-bae gulped and raised his hands in defeat, backing off.

when it finally came down to the last number, player 001, in-ho was ready. however, you already knew deep down he was planning to stay, but you had a small sliver of hope he would change his mind.

but of course, he didn’t.

the “o’s” had won. again.

you couldn’t believe it.

with a huff, you walked back to your bed, ignoring in-ho who chased after you.

after that, in-ho didn’t see much of you. even ehen the team had gathered for meal time, you didn’t show up. in-ho thought that by now, you would’ve came to your senses, or at least cooled doen enough to talk to him again. but he was wrong.

as the team chattered about what they think the next game might be, in-ho grabbed another serving. then, he looked up and down for you.

eventually, his eyes landed on a small figure on the other side of the room. crouched down and slumped on the cold cement floor with your back against the wall.

“y/n, sweetheart. do you wanna come back and sit with us?” he tried to ask nicely, his figure hovering above you, but you refused to look up. “are we really gonna do this?”

still no reply.

in-ho sighed, kneeling down, placing the food on the floor beside him. he placed a hand on your knee, the other gently grabbing your face, forcing you to look at him.

“can you at least eat?” he beckoned, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

your eyes were cold. that warm, inviting look you once had now gone. in-ho didn’t like that.

“i’m not hungry.” you told him flatly.

“y/n.” he said in a warning tone. “eat.”

“no thank you.”

in-ho didn’t know what came over him. it was like a protective drive that made him want to take control of you. so he grabbed your arm and pulled you along with him as he walked back to the group, picking up the extra serving along the way.

“what-?! let me go, you psycho!” you raised your voice, trying to wriggle out of his grip but it was tight.

he had dragged you all the way back to your team.

“now sit.” he instructed.

“w-what?”

“sit, please?” contradicting his tone, his gaze softened when he looked at you. his eyes almost begging.

after much hesitation, you slowly sat down. in-ho made sure to take the empty space beside you.

“now, will you please eat?”

“i-”

“or do you need me to feed you?”

that question caught you off guard, you nearly choked as no words came out of your mouth.

you simply nodded, picking the food up and eating silently as in-ho engaged in the conversation the team was having.

after few minutes later, you had gobbled down the lat of your food. in-ho smiled to himself, he knew you were starving afterall, he saw pass your little white lie.

“hey.” he whispered, nudging your shoulder causing you to look up. “are you still hungry?”

“a little, but i’m okay.” you replied, but your stomach failed you, grumbling as your eyes trailed down to in-ho’s uneaten food.

“finish it.” he said, offering you what was left.

“you’re kidding.” you laughed, but it dropped when he didn’t falter. “seriously?”

he nodded. “you need all the energy you can get, sweetheart. i can’t have you passing out on me mid-game.”

“i might just do that to get your attention.”

“you already have all my attention, y/n.” in-ho said lovingly, ruffling your hair. “so, does this mean you forgive me?”

“nope.” you said, popping the ‘p’. in-ho couldn’t believe it.

if that wasn’t enough to win you back he didn’t know what could.

but in-ho loved a good challenge.

the next day, a new game was introduced.

mingle.

“oh, we are so dead.” you moaned as you stepped into the arena. this game was set to eliminate and everybody knew that.

“what the hell kind of game is this?” dae-ho groaned, coming to your side.

“we just have to stick together, we’ll make it out alive.” said jun-hee.

then, in-ho scooped you over to him easily by taking your arm. “i want you by my side the whole time.”

he was dead serious. looking at him, there was not one single fiber in his body that was kidding.

“understood?”

“yes.” you complied.

and just like that, the game had begun.

as the platform beneath you started to move, panic shot through you.

‘9’

the lights dimmed.

a blaring alarm sounded.

flashing lights of red and white engulfed your vision.

“that group over there!” you heard gi-hun yell amongst the chaos. your eyes shot to where he was pointing.

you grabbed them and without wasting any time, the nine of you dashed to the nearest room, closing the door shut behind you.

there was a moment of silence, everyone trying to catch their breath.

“is everyone alright?” the old lady from the other team was the first to speak up.

when everyone was accounted for, she turned to you. “thank you, young lady. without you i don’t think we would have made it on time.”

you shook your head. “it’s no problem, miss. i’m glad everyone is safe.”

in-ho stood beside you, watching the exchange. his heart warmed at the sight of your kindess. even in a place like this you had the heart to think about others.

that was something he could never have.

“good job, y/n.” in-ho praised you, placing a kiss to your temple.

a few rounds had passed and gi-hun speculated that this would be the final round.

“how do you know?”

“final round. they’re going to seperate us into twos.” gi-hun explained as the platform started to spin. “there’s only about a hundred of us left and less than fifty rooms. it’s the easiest and most efficient way of getting us to turn against each other.”

he was right.

one glanced at the players and you could see the change in demeanour. it was every man for himself. no one was willing to make a sacrifice for another.

when the platform came to a halt, low and behold, it was the number 2.

you searched around for jun-hee. if anyone should make it out of that place, it was her and her unborn child.

just as you spotted her among the crowd, a hand grabbed your waist, hauling you away from everyone. you looked up to see in-ho.

despite wanting to ensure jun-hee’s safety, one glance at the timer made you realise that you didn’t have the time to. so, you followed in-ho’s lead into the nearest room.

just as you thought you were clear from the danger, you came face to face with the most obnoxious person in the games. thanos.

“señorita!” he exclaimed, yanking you out of in-ho’s embrace. “come with me.”

“young-il!” you screamed, thrashing and kicking but thanos’ hands only tightened.

at the lost of your warmth, in-ho immediately went back for you.

there was only 40 seconds left.

he ran right up to thanos, drew his fist back and with all the energy he could muster up, threw a punch straight into his face.

“jesus! what’s your problem, old man?!” thanos yelped out in pain, his hands flying to his face.

in-ho didn’t stop there. he practically pounced on the man, grabbing him by the collar and landing blows left and right. you stumbled away from the mess, eyes growing wide after the violence you didn’t know in-ho was capable of.

quickly, your crawled back to them, pulling in-ho away from thanos as the timer continued to go down.

“young-il, let go!”

but he wouldn’t listen.

“young-il, that’s enough!”

it wasn’t until in-ho locked eyes with you, then he stopped. with tears nearly spilling from your eyes, he stopped in his tracks, turning his attention from thanos to you.

10 seconds

he immediately scooped you up from the ground, not waiting for you to protest before he headed straight for an empty room. with you in his arms, he could feel your body trembling.

when the two of you got into the room safely, he placed you carefully on the ground. he too sank to the floor, he opened his mouth to say something but before he could, you buried yourself to his side, catching him off guard.

nevertheless, he opened his arms, wrapping them around you.

you felt like a little kid, hugging their plushie when they got scared. except this plushie was someone who you knew deep down you shouldn’t be with or even feel safe with. but you loved the way he protected you, looked out for you. there was something so intimate about every single thing in-ho did for you. even almost beating thanos into a bloody pulp because he took you away from him.

you were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard in-ho’s voice call out to you. “hm? what?” you asked, still not moving from where you were.

you felt him let out a deep chuckle. “i said, are we even now?”

you felt his finger threading through your hair, playing with the different strands, making you hum. “definitely.”

holy shit i’m so excited for s3 (& and all the new LBH fics i’m gonna write)

stay tuned!

[felixvsp]

part 2 of losing your phone?? please? <3

After retrieving your phone from Stray Kids... (You lose your phone and stray kids find it... the sequel)

Link to Part One

I'm glad everyone seemed to like the last one :)

Also to all those saying if they were in this situation they'd run away... honestly sames, but this is y/ns world and we're just living in it

Tags: stray kids try to get to know you through multiple tactics, banter, y/n is honestly kinda scared but in a good way, y/n living that confident dream (y/n be honestly stronger than i'd ever be, I'd just be screaming), blooming relationships (be that friendship or a romance that's up to yn), IN has clear romantic intentions

.

Bang Chan:

Lee Know:

Changbin:

Hyunjin:

Han:

Felix:

Seungmin:

IN:

[felixvsp]

◠ boyfriend texts ゛ノ

【༝༚༝༚】 𖨂 random texts with bf 𝑘. 𝑠𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑚𝑖𝑛 .ᐟ 𝒾.𝒸 ꕀ8/8゛𝓍 fem! reader ⢄𝓅𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 ᛝ established relationship w. k. sm. ! cw | sinister smoothie seungmin. ᝰ library

ꕀ iza’s note ❥ | for my seungmin babies !! couldn’t sleep so here’s this . . now i’m going to bed !! lmk if there’s anyone you guys want next :) tried to make this cutie

ᛝ tag ᢉ𐭩 | @cosmicalily @zenlinkcrossing @hyunjiluvs @nxtt2-u @pixie-felix @pigeonseatmayo @0omillo0 @yaniluvs | @hyunjiiza 1-11 𐔌 ༝༚ ‎𐦯

[felixvsp]

Skz fake texts: Bang Chan uninvites you from tour

Theme: angsty

Taglist. I really only just started one of these, let me know if you want to be added for future posts like this one! I've also had people ask for tags if I do a part 2 or 3 of certain fics, wasn't sure that meant I should tag y'all on everything!

@velvetmoonlght @mbioooo0000

[felixvsp]

Feelings Not Sent

Pairing: Lee Know x Fem!Reader

Summary: While on tour, you both promised to keep in touch through sharing pictures everyday, but he grows tired of that promise.

Tags: Slight Angst to Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Migraines, Lighter than others in the series, Fluffier

Series: Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, I.N

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

[felixvsp]

゛ ノ telling them their card declined ◠

【sugar sugar talk】 𖨂 when you prank prank them and tell them their card declined while you’re shopping .ᐟ 𝒾.𝒸 ꕀ11/11 ゛𝓍 fem! reader ⢄𝓅𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 ᛝ ot8 ! cw | slightly suggestive, pet names idk, im so tired im editing at 5:46 ᝰ library

[felixvsp]

Bend for him

Pairing: Lee know × fem!reader

Genre : smut ( drabble)

The low thump of music from your shared playlist faded into the background, barely audible over the sound of your breathing. Minho’s hands were on your waist as you knelt on the bed, pillows under your chest, spine arching naturally the way he liked it. You heard the rustle of his jeans being pushed down, the quiet sigh he let out when his fingers grazed your bare skin.

“You always get like this when I touch you here,” he murmured, palm sliding over your ass—squeezing, then spreading your cheek like he was inspecting what belonged to him. “So warm. So soft.”

A shiver rippled through you at his voice—deep, low, and dripping with restraint.

You swallowed. “Minho-”

“Hm?” He kneaded the flesh again, his thumb brushing close to where you needed him, but never quite giving in. “Say it.”

You whined softly. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” His hand smoothed over your ass, then landed a light, deliberate slap—not painful, but enough to make you jolt and clench. He laughed softly, biting his lip at the way your body reacted. “God, baby, look at you. Already shaking.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades as his other hand traced down to cup your heat. “So wet already. Did I do this to you?”

You nodded into the pillow, gasping when his fingers finally slid through your folds, teasing just the outer edges.

“Of course I did,” he breathed against your neck. “This pussy’s mine.”

The claim sent a pulse straight through your core, even as the possessiveness in his voice felt more like adoration than arrogance. His fingers were gentle but purposeful, spreading your slick and circling your entrance...drawing moans from your lips without even trying.

“Please,” you whispered.

Minho gave your ass another light squeeze. “You want me inside?”

You nodded again, shameless now. “Yes-please.”

He sat back on his heels and lined himself up, guiding his cock to your entrance. One hand gripped your hip, the other moved to your lower back, thumb brushing in slow circles to calm you, ground you.

“I’ll go slow, baby,” he promised. “I want you to feel everything.”

The stretch was full and burning, the way he always made you feel—too much and just right, all at once. He groaned when he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass, his fingers tightening slightly like he couldn’t help himself.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “you take me so well every time.”

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust. Then his hand returned to your ass...this time more deliberate, caressing, squeezing, like he was staking his claim with every touch. He spread your cheeks, watching himself slowly slide out, then thrust back in with a deep, controlled pace.

“You feel that?” he said lowly, fingers gripping harder. “Every inch. That’s mine.”

Your moan was broken, shaky. “Y-Yeah.”

Minho picked up the rhythm, hips smacking into yours, the sound obscene and rhythmic. But even as the pace grew rougher, his hands never stopped moving,touching, guiding, loving. He leaned forward, chest brushing your back as he whispered in your ear.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he said, voice strained. “Bent over, taking me so well. This ass-” he groaned, cupping it again, fingers digging into the plush. “Mine. All mine.”

Your walls clenched around him at the words, and he hissed, hips stuttering for a second.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he chuckled, dark and breathless. “You like when I talk about you like you’re mine?”

You could only moan in response, barely able to think straight with the way he was fucking into you now—his pace relentless, but never cruel. He reached between your legs and found your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles that sent sparks through your whole body.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice raw. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

You buried your face into the pillow, your body tensing as the pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly. When it snapped, it hit hard....your thighs trembling, breath catching, walls fluttering around him as you came with a strangled cry.

Minho groaned, thrusts faltering. “Shit-so tight when you come...fuck, baby-”

He gripped your hips harder, burying himself deep one last time before he spilled into you, warmth spreading as his breath fell hot against your spine. He stayed there, breathing heavy, hands still stroking your ass like he couldn’t bear to let go.

After a beat, he pulled out slowly, thumb grazing your skin one last time. Then he collapsed next to you, pulling you into his arms, your back flush against his chest.

“You okay?” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

You nodded sleepily. “Yeah.”

He smiled into your skin. “Good. Because I’m never letting this ass go.”

You snorted, swatting his hand but he only laughed, hugging you tighter, his fingers still lazily caressing your hip.

You didn’t need him to say it again. You could feel it in his touch,this body, this moment, this love. It was all his. And you were never letting go either.

[felixvsp]

RANDOM TEXTS W/ STRAY KIDS (hyung line ver.)

genre: crack, humor

a/n: rlly meant it w the “random” part 💔 these are literal conversations with my nightstand at 1 am no judgement allowed

CHAN:

MINHO:

CHANGBIN:

HYUNJIN:

[felixvsp]

~𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜~ 𐙚 - bf! Skz / skz fake text

Warning: teasing, pet names, playful banter, cursing

౨ৎ⋆ ｡⋆𐙚⋆.˚₊⊹♡ ౨ৎ⋆ ｡⋆𐙚⋆.˚₊⊹♡౨ৎ⋆ ｡⋆𐙚⋆.˚₊⊹♡

If u like it please, reblog, like and follow <3

[felixvsp]

poly!skz fake texts:

car #1 or car #2?

📱poly!stray kids x gn!reader

📱warnings: swearing, seungmin being a menace, death treats (air frying), a bunch of silly memes, mpreg and satosugu mentioned (in one sentence)

📱a/n: i woke up, and my first thought was this concept. i wrote it while i was still in bed, it was funny.

📱mlist

so, car #1 or car #2? which one is better? 🤔💭

[felixvsp]

OR NAH || FRONTMAN

" Do you like the way I flick my tongue, or nah?"

Summary: The rebellion in the middle of the game causes your entire team to fail. Gi-hun's team is crumbling, and his best friend Jun-bae has died at the hands of the cruel Frontman. You brought in the Frontman's longue to claim you because when you signed the waiver, he already owned you.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, heavy smut, explicit content, coercion, choking, power imbalance, manipulation, threats, violence, major character death, betrayal, stockholm syndrome, matured language, mentioned of VIPs, obsession, possessive, ownership, older man x younger woman (legal), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (F receiving), hard and rough sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, riding, markings, blindfold, and bondage. Words: 9.4k

It all happened too fast.

Gunfire.

Shouts.

The wet slap of bodies hitting the ground.

Jun-bae fell before your eyes—his chest blooming red, his eyes wide with betrayal and shock. The shot rang through your bones, but it wasn’t the sound that haunted you—it was the silence that followed.

Gi-hun screamed. Tried to lunge. But your hand caught his arm—not to protect yourself, but to keep him alive.

Across from you, the Frontman lowered his pistol slowly, unbothered. Pink-suited guards surrounded you, rifles raised and locked. One twitch of resistance and you’d both follow Jun-bae into the dirt.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t even blink.

You held Gi-hun back with one arm—shaking, blood-soaked—while he broke apart beside you, sobbing quietly, the weight of his best friend's death crashing down.

Then—a sudden impact. Something hard slammed into your skull. The world split into white light and crushing blackness.

You fell.

...

When you woke, it wasn’t too painful—not yet.

It was warmth.

Disorienting and wrong.

A blindfold clung tightly over your eyes, and your body screamed in restraint. Rope bit into your wrists, your ankles bound to the legs of a chair carved from fine wood.

You weren’t in a prison.

You were in a sanctuary designed by a monster.

The scent of polished mahogany and expensive cologne filled your lungs. Somewhere nearby, a music box played a soft, eerie lullaby—distorted slightly, like a broken childhood memory.

You jerked your arms—but the rope only cut deeper. Your skin stung. You tasted blood.

Then—footsteps.

Measured.

Calm.

Closer.

You held your breath.

A gloved hand gently gripped your chin, lifting your face. The blindfold slipped away. Your eyes adjusted to light—golden and low—and in front of you stood him.

The Frontman.

His black mask gleamed under the chandelier’s light. He tilted his head ever so slightly, observing you like a man inspecting a painting.

Then, his voice—deep, smooth, chilling.

“ Welcome back, Player 321.”

Your name no longer mattered to him. Just your number. The one you wore when you first stepped into this hell. You stared back, eyes blazing. He saw your hatred—and it pleased him.

“ You were quite the surprise.” He said, his voice silk over steel.

“ So brave. So confident. I watched you stand beside Gi-hun. Watched you whisper, plot, rally the others.”

He circled the chair slowly, each step echoing in the marble-floored chamber.

“ I must admit.” He continued.

“ You fascinated me. From the moment you joined the game, I knew you were different. You weren’t just playing for money. You were playing to win something else.”

You didn’t respond. Your throat burned. Your wrists ached. Your rage churned. He stopped behind you, voice dropping to a whisper beside your ear.

“ You thought you could take me down, didn’t you?”

You flinched at the closeness.

“ Joining Gi-hun's rebellion…risking everything…” He chuckled, low and amused.

“ You really thought it would end any other way?”

He walked back in front of you, bending to meet your eyes again.

“ But here's what you didn't realize, darling—the moment you stepped into my world, you sold yourself to me.”

You froze.

“ What—”

“ You think this game was about consent?” He said, gently stroking your jaw with the back of his gloved fingers.

“ No. This was a transaction. And I’ve claimed you now.”

Your body trembled, not in fear—but fury.

“ You don’t own me.” You growled through your teeth.

He smiled beneath the mask. You could feel it in his stillness.

“ You’ve been mine since the first round, Player 321.”

He leaned in closer, his voice like poison honey.

“ Every decision you made…every alliance, every risk…I watched. I memorized. I admired.”

He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, the motion mockingly gentle.

“ And now…” He said.

“ You’re right where I want you.”

You glared up at him, barely holding back the scream in your chest. Your fingers curled into fists behind your back, cutting deeper into the rope.

And yet—he just tilted your face again, looking into your eyes like he was trying to find the cracks forming.

“ I wonder how long until you break.”

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But you swore one thing in that moment, staring into the cold void of his mask:

You would survive.

You would get out.

And you’d make him regret ever calling you “darling.”

...

You lost count of how long you’d been left alone.

No light changed outside the windows. No time moved in this gilded cage. It was timeless—a purgatory built from blood money and silence.

Your body ached, tied too long to the chair. Your wrists throbbed, the ropes biting deeper every time you shifted. But it wasn’t the pain that was hardest.

It was the memory.

Jun-bae.

The echo of the gunshot still ricocheted in your skull. His last breath. The way he looked at you and Gi-hun like he still believed the plan would work.

And then the world ripped him away.

You bowed your head, eyes fixed on the polished floor.

You didn’t want to cry.

You didn’t want to scream.

But both urges warred in your chest like poison.

Then—the door opened again.

Footsteps. The same slow cadence. The soft thud of leather gloves, the deliberate scrape of boots on marble.

You didn’t look up.

You couldn’t.

Not when the rage and grief were cracking you from the inside. He stopped in front of you again.

Silent.

Watching.

Then his voice, low and casual—like a predator drawing out the kill.

“ Still pretending you’re not to blame?”

You flinched.

“ Still convincing yourself Player 390 didn’t die because you convinced him to rebel?”

Your jaw tensed.

He moved around you like a vulture circling roadkill. His words sharpened now—deliberate, surgical.

“ You said you wanted to change things. That you’d fight the system. But all you did was get people killed.”

You swallowed back the scream rising in your throat.

He crouched again, gloved hand reaching forward, lifting your chin so you were forced to look at him. The mask stared back—cold, glossy black—but somehow, behind it, you felt the sick delight.

“ I love this part.” He murmured.

“ When the fire starts to die in your eyes. When you realize no one’s coming to save you.”

You glared at him, defiant even through the burn of your unshed tears.

“ Is that what this is?” You said through gritted teeth.

“ You watching people die just to get rid of their suffering?”

His hand caressed your cheek, mockingly soft.

“ It’s not the death.” He whispered.

“ It’s the breaking that I enjoy. And you, darling…” He chuckled darkly.

“ You’re exquisite when you crack.”

He leaned closer, voice like velvet soaked in poison.

“ I could’ve killed you. But I didn’t. I kept you. You should thank me.”

You pulled your face away, breathing ragged. Every word he said was a dagger—and yet still you held your ground.

“ I swear.” You hissed. “ When I get out of this, I’ll put a bullet in your skull. I won’t hesitate.”

He was still for a moment.

Then he laughed.

Not a loud, manic laugh—but low. Controlled. Like he’d been waiting for you to say that.

“ That’s adorable.” He said.

“ You think your hatred makes you strong. But no matter how many threats you make, no matter how you resist…”

His hand slid from your cheek to your throat.

“ You’ll still belong to me.”

You barely had time to gasp before his grip tightened.

Choking.

His fingers constricted, unrelenting. You gasped for air, your body thrashing in the chair, legs shaking, arms tugging hard at the rope until you felt skin tear.

He didn’t flinch.

“ What will you do now, 321?” He murmured.

“ What rebellion will save you now?”

You tried to speak—anything, something—but only choked breaths escaped. He leaned in close again, so close you could feel the heat of his breath through the mask.

“ You can promise revenge all you want. But your rage? Your fire?” He chuckled.

“ It’s mine now. I’ll drain it. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but obedience.”

Then suddenly, he released your throat.

You collapsed forward, coughing, gasping, your head swimming in the return of oxygen. He stepped back again, admiring the wreck he thought he was creating. But through the burn in your lungs, you lifted your head.

And even though your voice was raw and torn, you rasped:

“ You can break my body…”

“ But you’ll never own me."

He stared at you in silence.

Then slowly, he tilted his head.

“ We’ll see.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door closing with a final, echoing click.

...

The silence in the chamber had become your only ally.

For hours—or maybe days—you kept your eyes low, your body still, appearing broken.

But your mind was calculating.

Observing.

Every time the guards brought food, every time the Frontman left and returned, you studied the patterns. You memorized how long the hallway outside echoed after a door shut. You mapped the shadows on the walls when the lights dimmed.

Every second was a rehearsal for escape.

So when you faked a fall, tugging hard enough to partially loosen the knot at your ankle, it wasn’t desperation.

It was a strategy.

You moved slowly, inch by inch, careful not to trigger the guards. Careful not to alert the hidden cameras you’d noticed nestled into the corners of the ceiling.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

Too soon.

Too quietly.

He stepped inside, dark and composed as always. And without hesitation, his voice cut through your silence:

“ I admire the effort, 321. But you’ll need to do better than that.”

Your heart plummeted.

He’d known.

All along.

He walked over, slow and smug, arms behind his back like a professor grading a failed student.

“ You almost fooled the guards.” He said, stopping before you.

“ But you forgot something…”

He leaned down, mask inches from your face.

“…I know exactly how you think.”

You clenched your fists, wrists raw and bruised from the rope. “ Then you already know what I’m going to ask next.”

A pause.

The tension thickened.

“ What the hell do you really want from me?”

He tilted his head, like it amused him you were still searching for meaning.

“ Isn’t it obvious?” He said softly.

“ I want you. I own you.”

You blinked.

“ No—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off.

“ You entered my game, 321. The moment you signed your name, the moment you chose desperation over dignity, you sold yourself. To me.”

Your voice cracked as you shouted, “ NO ONE OWNS ME!”

The room echoed with the force of your words. Raw, trembling, broken—but defiant.

And then he laughed.

A deep, low chuckle that filled the room like smoke, curling around your throat.

“ God…” He murmured.

“ I love seeing you like this.”

He stepped forward again, quicker this time. His gloved hand grabbed your hair, yanking your head back. You let out a gasp as he leaned in, burying his masked face near your neck and—

He inhaled.

Slow.

Deep.

Possessive.

Your stomach twisted with rage and disgust. His other hand found your waist—gripping, not bruising, but firm enough to claim.

“ I could break you now.” He whispered.

“ But where’s the fun in that?”

Then—he tossed something onto your lap.

A dress.

Silk. Expensive. Dark red. Slit up the thigh. Tailored for performance, not comfort.

Your eyes stayed locked on it, disbelief and fury clashing in your chest.

“ That’s your purpose now.” He said.

“ To stand among them. The ones you loathe. The ones you and Gi-hun swore you’d destroy.”

He stepped behind you, leaning down so his voice grazed your ear.

“ I wonder…” He purred.

“ What would Gi-hun think, if he saw you in that dress? On my arm? One of the very people he risked his life to fight?”

You shook your head, trembling.

“ I’d rather die.”

Another soft laugh.

He leaned in again—too close.

“ I’m excited to see you in it.” He whispered.

“ To show you off. My plus one. While we watch more poor souls beg for freedom that doesn’t exist.”

Then, stepping back, he gestured toward the door.

“ I’ll let you change in the bathroom. I’m not a monster…unless you force me to be.”

You stayed still.

Silent.

Defiant.

“ I’m not putting that on.” You muttered. “ I’m not following anything you say.”

For a moment, there was a pause.

Then—a dark chuckle.

Not amused.

Dangerous.

He turned his head slowly, cracking his knuckles inside the gloves.

“ Is that so?” He said, voice shifting into something colder.

He walked over, leaned down again—and this time, there was no playfulness left in him.

“ Say that again…” He hissed.

“ And I’ll rip that fucking tracksuit off myself and force you into that dress. Is that what you want?”

His hand twitched at his side, every muscle in his body on edge.

“ You think your resistance is impressive?” He growled.

“ It’s delicious. But don’t mistake my patience for mercy.”

You clenched your teeth, tears stinging your eyes — not from fear, but from the humiliating control he dangled over you.

The dress in your lap felt like fire.

And still, you didn’t move.

You refused to let him see you fall.

Not yet.

Not ever.

...

The dress clung to your skin like shame.

It shimmered under the cold, expensive lights of the VIP lounge, the slit revealing just enough to tempt the leers of the bastards in gold and ivory masks who reclined on plush sofas like gods watching mortals suffer. Their laughter echoed like knives scraping your spine.

You kept your head high.

Mask on.

Expression unreadable.

But inside—you were burning.

The Frontman stood beside you, like a king admiring his newest prize.

His hand had not left your waist since you entered.

Firm.

Possessive.

Territorial.

Each finger pressed into you like a wordless threat: Mine.

The onyx mask on your face was suffocating, but the weight of his grip was worse. He didn’t speak much, not to you. He didn’t need to. Every gesture, every glance, every calculated breath near your skin said enough.

He was parading you.

And the message was clear.

To the ogling, betting, laughing monsters in silk and gold—this one belongs to me.

They caught on quickly.

One of them, a man with a silver wolf mask and a grotesque chuckle, leaned forward with a drink in hand.

“ Quite the beauty you’ve brought to the table this year, Frontman.” He drawled.

“ I didn’t expect you to keep one for yourself.”

The Frontman chuckled beneath his black mask, his voice calm and cruel.

“ She’s earned the privilege. Submission is a rare virtue here.”

Your jaw clenched.

His hand tightened around your waist—subtle, but enough to remind you: don’t speak.

Not here.

Not yet.

The lights dimmed and the giant screen lit up, casting a bloody glow over the chamber. The next phase of the game was starting—the last two rounds. The remaining players were desperate, shaking, bruised to hell and back.

You recognized one.

Other players who had fought alongside you and Gi-hun during the rebellion.

They looked…hollowed out.

You flinched—but barely. Just enough for the Frontman to notice. He leaned in, lips near your ear.

“ Careful…” He whispered, voice slick like oil.

“ They’ll sense weakness. And I’m not finished showing you off.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Not without giving him the reaction he was hunting for.

So you sat.

Stiffly.

The Frontman took his seat beside you, crossing one leg over the other like the games were nothing but sport—and you, the lucky companion to a powerful man.

Then—

His hand slid down.

Slow.

From your waist, across your thigh.

You flinched, teeth biting the inside of your cheek, and shot him a glare through your mask. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. The smirk you could feel under his mask said everything.

His fingers began to toy with the silk of your dress—just idle enough to be seen as nothing, just teasing enough to churn your stomach.

The VIPs kept betting. Laughing. Toasting to who might die next. You sat there, a doll in velvet chains, the Frontman’s hand on your thigh and your rage bubbling just under your skin.

He leaned closer again, breath brushing your ear.

“ You’re doing so well, darling.”

“ Play the role…survive.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to whisper through clenched teeth:

“ One day, I’ll rip that mask off your face…and I’ll watch you bleed for every second of this.”

He chuckled, not phased in the slightest.

“ Spoken like a true fighter.” He murmured.

“ Just remember—every fighter who steps into my ring…eventually bows.”

His hand crept higher.

You reached under the table, your nails subtly digging into his gloved hand—not enough to cause a scene, but enough to tell him: I am not broken.

Not yet.

He stilled.

Just for a second.

Then his fingers flexed, tightening briefly on your thigh like a threat, before letting go completely.

The game began.

Screams erupted on the screen.

The room cheered. And you sat still in the center of hell—burning silently. But never, ever breaking. You didn’t blink. Not once.

The screen before you was painted in screams—two players dangling from a glass bridge, the final round tearing them down one cracked step at a time. One wrong move, and they’d fall into the abyss.

But your eyes weren’t really on them.

They were staring through the glass. Through cruelty. Because the real hell wasn’t on the screen.

It was right beside you.

The Frontman’s hand had not retreated.

It lingered.

Brushed.

Climbed.

Each movement of his glove against the silk of your thigh was like a whisper made of barbed wire. Slow. Precise. Intentional. His thumb curled just beneath the hem of your dress, close—too close.

Your stomach twisted violently.

Not in fear.

Not anymore.

In rage.

But you were frozen—your fingers gripping the edge of the marble table so tightly your knuckles turned bone-white. The fire was climbing, burning from the pit of your gut to your throat, but still…

No words came out.

You couldn’t scream.

You couldn’t flinch.

Because they were watching. The leering masks. The velvet-suited predators sipping gold champagne and throwing numbers at people’s lives like it was sport.

One of them noticed. A heavyset man in a lion mask with jeweled horns tilted his head and leaned forward slightly.

“ You look pale.” He said.

“ Everything alright, Miss…?” His voice purred like a cat circling prey.

“ You’re trembling.”

You froze.

Shit.

The Frontman’s hand paused, resting against your thigh in false comfort—as if to say play your part.

You forced a smile.

Small.

Polite.

Poisoned.

“ I’m fine.”

The words were barely a whisper. The Frontman glanced at you briefly, amused at how tightly you were holding yourself together.

“ You don’t look fine.” Another voice chimed in. “ The girl’s sweating.”

“ It’s her first time in the VIP section.” The Frontman replied smoothly.

“ She’ll adjust. They always do.”

The attention drifted away—thankfully, briefly—back to the screen where one of the players fell, his body crashing into the glass below with a wet, horrible thud.

Cheers erupted around you. But you didn’t cheer. You didn’t even move. You sat there, a ghost in a silk dress.

On fire.

Your heart thundered in your chest, but your lips remained sealed. You wanted to scream, to shove his hand away, to throw that wine glass across the room and carve truth into the walls with its shards.

But instead—

You kept smiling. That same tight-lipped, hollow smile.

A mask on top of a mask.

And beside you, the Frontman’s fingers resumed their slow climb, confident that your silence meant victory. But in your mind, you were screaming.

Not yet.

Not here.

But soon.

You were already planning.

Because if this was the role he forced you into, then you would play it flawlessly—

Until the curtains fall.

...

The room smelled of expensive smoke, stale power, and bloodlust.

The screen stretched across the wall like a stage, playing the brutal game in high definition—each gunshot, each scream, each splatter of red reflected in the gold-rimmed glasses of the VIPs sitting around you.

You were nothing but a novelty to them. Something to glance at between bets. The Frontman sat beside you—silent, imposing, and always watching.

Until now.

He leaned in, his mask brushing your temple, his voice just a breath against your skin.

“ Make a sound…” He murmured coldly.

“ And I’ll make sure they see everything—your face, your weakness, the way you’re breaking just from my hand alone.”

You stiffened, your heart slamming in your chest. His gloved hand moved beneath the table, sliding up your inner thigh with the same detachment he used to orchestrate deaths.

Precise.

Unbothered.

Intentional.

You gripped the edge of the chair, nails digging into the wood, every muscle in your body tensing to resist the urge to squirm. The warmth pooling in your core was infuriating. Shameful. And yet—inescapable.

The guests roared with laughter at a fresh kill on the screen. Their voices blurred, warped by the rush of blood in your ears.

Then one of them turned to you.

“ You there…” A fat man chuckled, drink in hand.

“ Which one are you rooting for, sweetheart?”

The Frontman’s fingers paused, just enough to make you exhale without thinking—but then moved again, slower this time. Deep and cruel.

You bit your lip hard, tasting iron, as your eyes focused desperately on the monitor. The number burned into your brain—your only lifeline, your only answer.

“ Four...five...six.” You managed, your voice thin, strained, but steady.

The group broke into mocking applause.

“ Of course! The righteous one! How cute!”

“ Bet she’s got a thing for martyrs.” Another jeered.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too focused on holding back a sound that would destroy you.

The Frontman didn’t stop. He leaned in again, his voice like ice against the heat building between your legs.

“ Then let’s hope your little hero doesn’t die...because if he does, you’ll be next.”

And still, on the screen, Gi-hun kept running—oblivious.

Just like you wished you were.

Their laughter still rang in your ears, echoing louder than the game’s gunfire, louder than the thud of another body hitting the ground.

You couldn’t tell anymore if the heat rising in your chest was from rage, shame, or that unholy friction of his hand between your thighs—so deliberate, so invasive.

You dared not move.

Your breath caught every time his finger slid closer to the fabric that barely separated you. And still, you had to pretend—pretend you were just another pretty decoration at their table, not a trembling mess barely holding in every humiliating sound begging to claw its way out of your throat.

“ What’s the matter?” One of the VIPs asked, lazily eyeing you.

“ You look tense. Not a fan of blood?”

You smiled. Or tried to. It came out like a grimace.

“ Just…focused.” You said.

The Frontman’s hand paused again, his gloved fingertips pressing deliberately where your body ached the most. Your thigh twitched. You clenched your jaw.

“ Ahh…” The man laughed, mistaking your restraint for nerves.

“ Worried about your golden boy?”

On screen, Gi-hun ducked behind a barrier, narrowly avoiding a shot to the head. You flinched—not just from the bullet—but because the Frontman chose that exact moment to press harder.

You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second. One second too long.

“ Oh ho—what’s this? Blushing?” Another voice teased.

“ Careful, she might cry if he dies.”

“ Let her cry. Would be a good show.” Someone else chuckled darkly.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The Frontman leaned closer again, his voice a razor blade laced with perverse satisfaction.

“ You're doing well. But it only gets worse from here.”

He dipped his fingers past the edge of your underwear.

You sucked in a sharp breath—silent, sharp, your entire body trembling with effort. The world shrank to the heat under the table, the monster beside you, and the endless monitor showing death like sport.

The sound of another bet being placed. The cheer for another death.

And still—Gi-hun survived.

“ Hmph…” One VIP scoffed. “ He’s lucky. For now.”

You almost laughed. Bitter, ugly laughter. Because the real gamble wasn’t on the screen.

It was you.

Your voice.

Your control.

Your dignity.

And the longer the game dragged on, the more you realized—

The Frontman wasn’t betting on the players.

He was betting on you.

And he was winning.

You stared blankly at the monitor, but your vision was beginning to blur. Not from tears. Not yet. But from the overwhelming effort of staying silent while your body betrayed you over and over again.

The Frontman’s fingers moved in slow, merciless patterns, slick with your own arousal now. You hated it—hated the way your hips twitched ever so slightly against him, hated the pressure building unbearably deep in your gut.

Every part of you was screaming to be still, to not draw attention. But your body had long stopped listening. Your nails dug crescents into the underside of the table.

One of the VIPs reached over, casually brushing his fingers under your chin, lifting it slightly to inspect you like you were some exotic pet.

“ You’re awfully quiet.” He smirked.

“ Getting bored?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your lips were parted slightly, drawing shaky breaths that you prayed didn’t sound as uneven as they felt. You were holding on by a thread—suspended between torment and humiliation.

The Frontman chuckled lowly behind his mask, a sound only you could hear. His hand didn't pause. If anything, he pushed deeper, fingers curling just enough to make your eyes flutter.

“ No.” He said smoothly to the guest on your behalf.

“ She’s deeply invested in the game.”

The VIPs laughed.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

On the screen, Gi-hun was crawling—bleeding, desperate, but alive. You watched him like your life depended on it. Like if you just focused hard enough, you could drown out the aching pulse inside you.

If he made it—if he survived this round—maybe the Frontman would stop. Maybe he’d show mercy. Maybe you’d get to breathe again.

But then came the explosion on the screen. Smoke. A trap. One of the players—another poor soul you didn’t even recognize—screamed as they were blasted backward.

Dead.

A flurry of cheers erupted across the table. More drinks were poured. More money was tossed onto the glass tabletop like confetti.

And then—

“ Player 206. Eliminated.”

Someone clapped in satisfaction. Another chuckled darkly. You barely registered it, because at that same moment, the Frontman leaned even closer. You felt the cold edge of his mask brush the shell of your ear.

“ You're dripping.” He whispered.

Your entire body seized.

“ Shall I tell them? That you’re soaking my fingers while watching people die?”

You shook your head almost imperceptibly. The shame burned hotter than anything else now.

“ Then keep quiet.” He said.

“ Or I will.”

Your mouth opened—but no sound came. Because just then, his fingers curled in again, cruelly hitting that spot inside you that made your thighs tremble, made your toes curl, made your vision white out for a single second.

The moan—that moan—it nearly broke free. But somehow…somehow, you bit it back. Only a shallow breath escaped you. The Frontman paused, hand still buried beneath the tablecloth. You felt his gaze, even through the mask.

“ Tsk…” Be murmured.

“ Such a good girl…but for how much longer?”

On the screen, Gi-hun stood again—wounded, dirt-streaked, panting. But still moving. Just like you. Barely surviving. And still, somehow, not broken. Not yet.

The lights in the room dimmed further as the next round began—an intentional shift in atmosphere to heighten the tension on screen.

The remaining players staggered into a new arena, lit with harsh spotlights and blood-soaked history. You could hear the other guests adjusting in their seats, already preparing new wagers.

You, however, couldn’t move.

You were frozen in a nightmare stitched together with silk gloves and wicked control.

The Frontman hadn’t removed his hand. If anything, his fingers had grown more patient, slower, calculated. He wasn’t chasing your finish—he was orchestrating your unraveling, second by second, with terrifying precision.

Every breath you took was shallow. Every muscle in your body ached from restraint. One of the VIPs leaned closer, cigar smoke curling toward your face.

“ Tell me, woman…” He asked with a lazy, twisted grin.

“ Still betting on 456?”

Your lips parted. You blinked slowly, feeling the tears at the corners of your eyes—not from emotion, but the sheer mental strain of remaining silent while your core clenched around him under the table.

“ Y-Yes.” You answered, barely a whisper, breathless.

The Frontman didn’t slow down.

“ Hmph…” The man laughed, turning back to the screen.

“ How loyal. Let’s see how long he lasts, then.”

You flinched as a loud bang echoed from the monitor—a body dropped in the background. You couldn’t even register the number.

Your head dropped ever so slightly, your jaw trembling. Not from grief. But because you could feel it—your edge creeping in, dark and hot and humiliatingly close.

You tried to press your thighs together, desperate for friction or relief, but his hand was already there—spreading you, owning you.

He leaned into you again, and his voice this time was like poison syrup.

“ I can feel it, you know.” He murmured.

“ You’re going to fall apart here, in front of them. And you’ll do it…without a single sound.”

Your stomach tightened, body convulsing in an invisible tremor. You swallowed hard—so hard it hurt.

Another cheer erupted from the table. A new bet, a new death. But none of it registered. Because you were slipping.

Falling.

Your toes curled inside your shoes, back arching just slightly under the table, every nerve in your body igniting like a match.

His fingers never sped up.

He never gave you that mercy. He let you drown slowly in it, pulling the climax from your body like a confession wrung from your soul.

And when it hit—

It was silent.

No cry.

No moan.

Just your lips parted, trembling. Just the subtle, embarrassing shake of your limbs under the table, and the flood of heat that betrayed your release. You sagged forward slightly, chest heaving, eyes wide and wet.

The Frontman finally pulled his hand back, wiping his fingers with maddening precision onto a folded napkin, then placing it beside your untouched drink like a trophy.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to.

You were wrecked—and he knew it.

“ Told you…” He said casually, loud enough for only you to hear.

“ You wouldn’t make a sound. But now look at you…”

You clenched your fists in your lap, trying to compose yourself as another guest glanced at you with mild curiosity.

“ You alright, dear?”

You nodded stiffly.

“ Just…nervous.” You muttered.

“ Don't be.” The fox VIP chuckled.

“ It’s just a game.”

But it wasn’t.

Not for you. Because on the screen, Gi-hun was still alive.

But you?

You weren’t sure anymore.

...

The sound of the VIP lounge faded behind you as the heavy doors swung closed. The Frontman’s hand pressed against the small of your back, guiding you away from their drunken jeers and mindless bloodlust.

None of them even blinked when he excused you—claiming “errands,” claiming “necessity,” but really…claiming you.

You were his to remove.

His to handle.

The click of the private door locking sent a cold shiver through your spine.

And then—

It all happened fast.

His mask was gone.

His mouth crashed onto yours, ravenous and punishing. His gloved hand cupped your face, forcing your lips open as he devoured you, tasting your silence, your shame, and your obedience all at once. His body pushed you back until your spine hit the wall, until your breath was stolen completely.

You didn’t have time to speak—didn’t dare.

“ You did so well.” He whispered, voice rough now without the filter of that haunting mask.

“ So quiet. So obedient.”

His hand moved up, fingers covering your eyes briefly—blocking your vision, drowning you in darkness for just a moment before he replaced it with something else.

A silk blindfold.

Tied tight.

“ That mouth of yours didn’t make a sound back there.” He murmured against your throat, his tongue flicking against the skin just beneath your jaw.

“ Not even when you came all over my fingers in front of a room full of monsters.”

Your knees threatened to buckle. He chuckled darkly, catching you with a firm grip at your waist.

“ What a good girl you are.” He purred, lips brushing against your ear.

“ Sitting there like a doll, soaking wet, taking everything I gave you—and they had no idea.”

His gloved hand slid up your body again, slow and possessive, pausing just over your chest.

“ You’re mine in here.” He said, voice firmer now.

“ And out there…you're a pretty little ornament. A tool. A prize. But here…”

He leaned in, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp.

“ Here, you're my obedient girl.”

You nodded blindly, body quivering under his words, under the weight of the blindfold and his dominance.

“ You like when I control you like that?” He asked lowly, the edge of menace under his breath.

“ When I test your limits and you still don’t break?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. His hand shot to your throat—not squeezing, but holding.

A warning.

“ Answer me.”

“ Yes…” You breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

“ Yes…Sir.”

A satisfied growl left him. His grip loosened just enough to let your breath flow free again.

“ Good girl.” He said, and there was pride laced through that darkness now.

“ My perfectly trained, perfectly obedient little toy.”

Then his hands were on you again—unbuttoning, undoing, unmaking you piece by piece.

The games outside continued.

Blood spilled. Bets placed.

But in this room…

The only game was you.

And the Frontman never played fair.

The silk blindfold dulled the world into nothing—no light, no images, just the sharp rhythm of your own breath and the press of the Frontman’s body against yours.

The rich fabric of your clothes was being stripped from you, piece by piece, each movement of his hands slow and purposeful, as if he wanted you to feel every second of being undone.

The wall was cold behind your back, in contrast to the heat of his mouth now roaming lower—dragging over the curve of your jaw, the edge of your collarbone. Your skin was hypersensitive in the dark.

Every touch sparked like a match.

Every whisper burned.

“ Do you know how proud I was of you out there?” He murmured as his fingers traced along your bare sides.

“ Not a flinch. Not a sound. Not even when you were falling apart for me under that table.”

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. You tried to nod, but his hand was already there, gripping your chin, tilting your head up.

“ You don't have to see to know who you belong to, do you?”

“ No.” You breathed, the word fragile, trembling.

“ I know.”

“ Say it.”

His voice dropped lower, that dangerous softness curling around your ribs like a noose.

“ I belong to you.” You whispered.

The silence that followed was sharp. Then his gloved thumb stroked across your lip with almost…reverence. And then the touch was gone—replaced by the sound of a chair being pulled, and your body being guided downward.

You felt velvet under your knees. Then leather against your wrists as he bound them behind your back.

“ You were quiet for them.” He said.

“ Now you’ll be loud for me.”

Your breath caught again.

“ No blindfold. No rules. Just you…showing me what obedience sounds like.”

You heard him sink to his knees in front of you.

He didn’t rush.

He never rushed.

The Frontman knew how to break you with patience, to unravel your composure strand by strand. And now, without the danger of the VIPs watching, without the fear of being exposed—he wanted it all.

The whimpers.

The moans.

The shaking, the pleading, the surrender.

“ Show me what my good girl sounds like.” He said darkly, hands sliding up your thighs.

“ And I’ll decide if you deserve to wear my silence again.”

You opened your mouth to reply—

But all that came out was a gasp. Because when the Frontman took his reward,

He made sure you screamed for it.

...

The blindfold stayed firm around your eyes, but the rest of you was coming undone—completely, helplessly, at his mercy. Your knees pressed into the velvet as his hands claimed every inch of your skin, roaming up your thighs, parting them with a firm command and no room for protest.

The binds at your wrists forced your chest forward slightly, leaving you vulnerable, offered. You couldn’t see him. But you felt everything. His breath against your inner thigh.

The slow exhale that ghosted over where you ached. The heat of his tongue tracing maddening circles without touching where you wanted him most.

“ That little performance earlier.” He said, his voice calm and cruel.

“ Deserves a reward…but not too easy, hm?”

You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward, your need already slick and pulsing.

“ Shh…” He warned.

“ Obedient girls wait.”

You bit down a desperate sound as he spread your legs wider, holding them open with a firm grip. And then—finally—his tongue dragged over you, slow and deliberate, tasting the proof of everything you tried to hide in that lounge. He groaned softly at the flavor, dark satisfaction pouring into the sound.

“ Still so sweet.” He muttered.

“ Even after being used in front of strangers. Still my perfect little toy.”

You choked on your next breath as he dipped his tongue again—deeper this time, teasing, circling. Every flick, every press of his mouth made you tremble harder. You couldn't see, couldn't touch, could only feel—and it made everything sharper.

“ You didn’t cry.” He said between kisses, lips slick.

“ You didn’t scream.”

His mouth wrapped around your clit suddenly—sucking, tongue flattening—and you did scream then. A sharp, unfiltered cry that echoed around the private chamber.

He smiled at you.

“ There’s my girl.”

You gasped again when he slipped two fingers inside, effortlessly finding the spot that made your legs jerk and your walls clench.

“ Louder.” He ordered, his voice gravel against your skin.

“ I want to hear the sounds you couldn’t make out there.”

And you gave them to him. Whimpers. Moans. Pleas. His name—not said, but sobbed, over and over again, as your body writhed in his grip.

You were crying now—not from sadness, not even from shame, but from the overwhelming sensation of it all. The release you’d been denied. The praise he fed you. The way he claimed you without apology.

And just when you were about to come—

He stopped.

You shook violently, held in place by his hands as your climax was pulled just out of reach.

“ Please…” You breathed, broken.

“ Please…”

He rose slowly, pressing his body against yours, fingers still inside you but unmoving, his free hand cupping your face with mocking tenderness.

“ You did well.” He whispered, brushing his lips against yours.

“ But obedient girls ask before they come.”

You whimpered again, barely holding on.

“ You’ll get to finish…” He murmured darkly.

“ When I say.”

His fingers curled just slightly.

“ Beg for it.”

Your breath hitched—shallow, ragged—as his fingers curled just right, hitting that aching spot inside you with cruel precision.

Your body jerked, thighs trembling violently against the velvet cushion, and the blindfold only amplified the desperation. You didn’t even realize you were begging until the words came out broken and raw:

“ Please…please, let me…I— I can’t hold it—”

The Frontman’s lips brushed against your cheek, his voice a low growl against your ear.

“ Then don’t.”

His thumb circled your clit, pressure firm and relentless, his fingers working in tandem—pulling the orgasm from you like a command you had no choice but to obey.

And you shattered. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream at first, then came the sharp cry that filled the room, raw and shameless. Your body convulsed, the release so intense it bordered on pain, your legs giving out as waves of pleasure tore through your core.

The binds on your wrists strained as your back arched. Tears slipped from beneath the blindfold, your lips trembling as you gasped for breath.

You sagged forward, body weak and pliant—barely present, barely whole.

But he wasn’t done.

“ Don’t relax yet.” The Frontman warned, voice steady, composed, untouched by the chaos he’d just dragged you through.

“ Good girls don’t stop when they’re satisfied. Good girls let their owner decide when it’s over.”

You whimpered as his hands gripped your hips, lifting you with surprising ease and placing you where he wanted—your body bent over the armrest of a nearby leather chair. The position forced your back to arch, legs trembling to hold yourself up.

The leather was cold.

His body was not.

You felt him behind you—his chest against your spine, still clothed, fully in control. He reached around and untied the blindfold, but your vision stayed hazy, your lashes wet with tears and sweat.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“ Look at you…” He whispered.

“ A mess…and still mine.”

You barely had time to gasp before you felt him press into you—no warning, no pause. He slid inside with one hard thrust, filling you completely, stretching your still-sensitive walls with dizzying force.

The sound that left your lips was something between a cry and a sob, your fingers curling against the leather.

“ You feel that?” He hissed into your ear, driving into you again, harder.

“ This is what obedience earns. I own every part of you—even this.”

You could only moan in response, the overstimulation nearly too much. Every nerve was already lit, and now he was using you, dragging you back into another high before you’d even recovered from the last.

Each thrust drove deeper, rougher, his hand gripping your throat from behind as he kept you exactly where he wanted. You felt the weight of his body, the growl in his chest, the dark, relentless rhythm that left no room for protest.

“ One wasn’t enough.” He said, his voice tight with hunger.

“ I want to feel you break for me again.”

And as your second orgasm began to build—sharper, quicker, more desperate—you realized…

You would.

And he knew it.

Because he’d made you his.

The leather beneath you creaked in rhythm with his thrusts, sharp and merciless. Your body, already stretched thin from the first release, was trembling violently with every push inside you.

The overstimulation was maddening—each stroke hit deeper, rougher, pulling cries from your throat that you could no longer control. But the Frontman wasn’t satisfied with just your voice.

He wanted more.

He needed to ruin you completely.

His grip on your hips shifted—one hand snaking between your legs again, his gloved fingers finding your sensitive clit with punishing precision.

You screamed. Your hands, still bound behind your back, clawed uselessly at the air as your knees buckled beneath the weight of sensation.

“ That’s it.” He growled, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin echoing between your cries.

“ You thought you were done? No. I decide when you’re done.”

His fingers rubbed in relentless circles, matching the tempo of his hips. Your body shook violently, your core clenching again—already tightening toward the edge.

It was too much. You were still raw, still twitching from the first time, but he didn’t care. He wanted to drag you into madness.

“ Say it.” He snarled against your shoulder.

“ Say who you belong to.”

“ Y-You—” You gasped.

“ You, I—I belong to y-you—!”

“ Louder.”

He pinched your clit—just enough to make your whole body jolt—and you sobbed the words this time.

“ I belong to you!”

The second orgasm slammed into you without mercy.

Your body convulsed uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as he buried himself deeper, chasing his own release now with the same violence he gave your pleasure. You cried out again—no longer holding back, no longer trying to be good or quiet.

You were just his.

You felt him grunt behind you—deep, feral—as he finally let go. He spilled inside you with a punishing thrust, his grip tightening on your hip as he pressed deep and stayed there. His breath came out in heavy, uneven bursts, his body still grinding against yours like he didn’t want to leave.

But even spent, even full of him and aching—he still wasn’t done. You felt his fingers slip between your legs again, already circling your clit, gentler this time—but no less dangerous.

“ One more.” He breathed.

“ You can give me one more.”

You whimpered, body twitching at the sensitivity, already soaked, dripping with both your pleasure and his.

“ No.” You whispered weakly.

“ I— I can’t—”

He bent down, his lips brushing your ear like a threat and a promise all in one.

“ Yes…you will.”

And when he rubbed again—slow, steady, cruel—you knew he meant it.

And worse?

So did your body. You were already climbing again.

Your body was trembling—legs weak, vision hazy, throat raw from the sounds he tore from you. Every nerve in your skin buzzed with overstimulation, and your slickness dripped down your thighs, mixed with the heat he had filled you with.

But he didn’t let you fall.

The Frontman gripped your waist, pulled out slowly, deliberately—dragging another helpless whimper from your lips—then he sat back against the wide velvet chair, still fully clothed save for the part of him that had just ruined you.

His dark eyes locked on your shaking form, a dangerous glint in them. He spread his legs slightly, one hand stroking lazily along his still-hard length, glistening with both of you.

“ Come here.” He commanded, voice low and cold.

“ I’m not done watching you obey.”

You tried to move, tried to get your legs to listen, but they barely held you upright.

“ Now.”

You stumbled forward, knees weak, chest rising and falling rapidly as you stood between his legs. He grabbed your chin with a gloved hand, tilting your face toward his, and then—

He smiled.

That twisted, satisfied grin that made your stomach twist with fear and want.

“ Ride me.” He said, slow and deliberate.

“ I want to watch you take me on your own this time. No hands. No blindfold. Just you—putting on a show for me like the perfect little thing you are.”

Your bound wrists trembled behind you, but he reached back and undid the restraints with a sharp flick of his fingers. You barely had time to breathe before he grabbed your hips and pulled you forward.

“ Now earn what you begged for.”

With shaking legs, you straddled him—knees planted on the plush velvet, his strong thighs supporting you. His cock stood slick and waiting beneath you, and when you lowered yourself down slowly, every inch of him stretching you again, your head fell back with a cry you couldn’t stop.

“ That’s it.” He growled, his hands on your hips but not guiding—watching, controlling without touching.

“ Show me how much you need it. How good you look when you ride like a ruined little thing.”

You started to move—slow at first, shallow, trying to find rhythm while your body was still so wrecked. But he didn’t let you ease into it. His grip tightened.

“ Faster."

You obeyed.

You rode him harder, the slap of skin echoing through the private room, your body arching, breasts bouncing with every thrust. He leaned back, watching you with a predator’s gaze, licking his bottom lip as your moans turned ragged again.

“ Look at you…” He murmured darkly, a hand rising to slap your ass hard, making you jolt.

“ You’ve already come twice and you're still fucking yourself like it’s not enough.”

You gasped as his hips snapped upward to meet your bounce—once, twice—and suddenly he was fucking up into you with brutal precision.

“ You want to break?” He growled, hands gripping your ass, dragging you down harder.

“ Then fucking break.”

And you did.

Your third orgasm tore through you like fire—loud, violent, unstoppable. You sobbed his name as your body collapsed into him, twitching, pulsing, completely surrendered.

He caught you in his arms. But even then, his voice against your ear was calm…cruel.

“ We’re still not finished.”

“ Get ready to beg again.”

Your body was limp against him—sweat-soaked, trembling, completely spent. But the Frontman didn’t ease his grip. His hands slid up your back, holding you in place on his lap, keeping you impaled on his still-hard cock.

“ You thought that was the end?” He murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

“ I told you—I decide when it’s over.”

You whimpered against his shoulder, face buried in the warmth of his neck, too overwhelmed to speak. Your body was twitching, still echoing from the intensity of the last orgasm, and he was still buried deep inside you, pulsing, hard.

“ You’ve already come for me three times…” He whispered, trailing his fingers up the back of your neck, into your hair.

“ Now I want to see you beg for the fourth.”

He gripped a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look into his eyes. There was no mask now. No barrier. Only raw, possessive heat that pinned you in place harder than any rope.

“ Say it.” He demanded.

“ Beg for it again.”

Your lips parted, but no words came—just breathless gasps. He thrust up into you, slow and deep, making you cry out again.

“ Say it.”

“ P-Please…” You finally choked out.

“ Please…I want it. I-I want to come again…”

“ That’s not begging.”

He thrust harder, dragging a fresh moan from your already hoarse throat.

“ Tell me how much you need it. How much you’ll do for it.”

Your body was burning. Every inch of you was hypersensitive. You were leaking around him, filled and stretched, barely able to hold yourself upright—but his demand lit a fire under your skin.

“ I’ll do anything.” You gasped.

“ I’ll be good—just please…please let me come for you again.”

He smirked. “ There she is.”

He shifted beneath you, one hand gripping your ass while the other slid between your bodies again—his thumb finding your overstimulated clit and pressing hard.

You screamed.

Your body thrashed in his grip as he began thrusting up into you again—relentless, punishing, pushing past your limits. The rhythm was brutal, deep, slick, the wet sounds between your bodies echoing through the walls like a private symphony of sin.

“ I want you sobbing when you come this time.” He growled.

“ I want you ruined. So broken you can’t even say my name.”

Your head fell back as your vision blurred, white-hot pressure building again too fast. You weren’t ready—but your body didn’t care.

You were spiraling again—grinding down on him, crying, gasping, shaking.

“ Cum for me.” He hissed.

“ Come again while you’re still full of me.”

You screamed as the orgasm ripped through you—a final, punishing climax that stole the last of your strength. Your body convulsed violently, your hands clawing into his shoulders as you collapsed against his chest, sobbing from the intensity.

But he didn’t stop.

He held you still, rocking into you slowly now, savoring the aftershocks of your release.

“ There you go...” He whispered, stroking your spine as your body went limp.

“ That’s my good girl.”

You couldn’t respond. Not with words.

Only with breath.

Only with surrender.

And he savored every second of it.

The silence that followed was thick—heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and satisfaction. Your body, completely undone, lay draped over him like silk, trembling with each shallow breath. Your limbs refused to respond. Your mind was fogged, somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion.

The Frontman didn't move right away.

He simply held you. His arms wrapped tightly around you, one gloved hand cradling the back of your head, the other drawing soft, absentminded circles along your bare spine.

The contrast between his earlier cruelty and this quiet, grounding touch was jarring—but familiar.

You melted into it.

Into him.

No orders. No pressure. Just the warmth of his chest against your cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing keeping you anchored.

“ You did so well.” He finally murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“ So damn good for me.”

His voice had shifted—no longer laced with dominance or edge, but filled with something softer…reverent, even.

“ Took everything I gave you…didn’t hold back once. That’s exactly what I wanted from you. My perfect, obedient girl.”

A weak sound escaped your throat—half sob, half sigh—as your body continued to tremble in the aftermath.

He noticed. Without letting go of you, he leaned to the side, reaching for the plush blanket folded over the edge of the couch.

He wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking you in against him like he was shielding something precious. You flinched slightly when the soft fabric brushed your raw thighs.

“ Shh…” He whispered.

“ I’ve got you. I know you’re sore.”

He reached between your legs again—not to tease, not to claim—but to gently clean you with a warm cloth he’d fetched from the nearby table.

You whimpered at the sensitivity, but he was careful, almost surgical in his touch. He murmured small praises under his breath as he worked.

“ Look at the mess you made…”

“ Still dripping with me.”

“ You took me like you were made for it.”

Once he finished, he discarded the cloth and kissed your temple—tender, unmasked.

“ Breathe, darling.” He said softly.

“ You’re safe.”

He reached for a bottle of water nearby, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to your lips. You sipped slowly, and he tilted it for you, watching every gulp like you were the only thing that existed.

When you finally managed to lift your eyes to meet his, your vision still hazy, you saw it.

Not the mask.

Not the command.

But him.

And the way he was looking at you—so proud, so possessive, so...gentle—made your chest ache more than anything else.

“ You break so beautifully.” He murmured.

“ But you heal even better. And I’ll be right here every time…picking up the pieces.”

You nodded faintly, too tired to speak, and he pulled you closer, letting you curl into the warmth of his bare chest.

“ Rest now.” He whispered.

“ You earned every second of it.”

And in the cocoon of his arms, the blanket wrapped tight, and your body finally beginning to still—you did.

For once, not because he demanded it…

But because he gave it.

Your body was still sore, still humming faintly from the aftershocks, but none of it compared to the heat flooding your chest. Not from desire—but disbelief.

Confusion.

Betrayal.

Because now, sitting half-dressed in the warmth of the private chamber, looking into the face of the man who had just unraveled your body with cruel precision, you saw it clearly.

The tilt of his head.

The faint scar across his brow.

The calm but sharp glint in his eyes.

“ Young-il?” You whispered, barely breathing the name.

His movements stilled. He was just finishing buttoning up his black shirt, the front of it still slightly wrinkled from how roughly he'd pulled you against it.

He looked at you—maskless, expression unreadable—before offering a slow, amused smile.

“ So you do remember.” He said, voice low, laced with something crueler than nostalgia.

“ I was wondering when it would click.”

You stared at him in stunned silence. The same man who used to speak quietly during meal times in the dorms. Who once bandaged your scraped palm without a word after the second game. Who would always say “Don’t trust the rules—trust how they break.”

And now?

The Frontman.

The orchestrator of cruelty.

And the man who had just touched you like you were his, tasted you like he owned every inch—only to pull away and remind you what he’d done.

“ You killed Jun-bae…” Your voice cracked. “ He trusted you. We did.”

He looked at you—unapologetic.

“ He was a tool.” He said coolly, fixing the cuff of his sleeve.

“ A necessary loss. One more piece off the board to open Gi-hun’s eyes. And yours.”

“ You used us.” You whispered, pain bleeding into your tone.

“ You used me.”

“ I did more than that.” He murmured, stepping close again.

“ I broke you open. I watched you unravel for me—mind, body…everything.”

His fingers reached up, tracing your bottom lip. You flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“ And still…” He smiled.

“ You moaned for me. Came for me. Obeyed.”

Your jaw clenched.

“ Is Young-il even your real name?” You spat.

He paused, then gave a low chuckle, dark and taunting.

“ No.” He said simply, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

“ That name belonged to someone I wore like a mask…just like this one.”

He reached for the jet-black geometric mask resting on the dresser.

“ If you want to know the real one…” He leaned in, whispering near your ear, his voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“ You’ll have to earn it. Moan it. Beg for it.”

You looked away, chest rising and falling, your mind spiraling from the collision of memory and reality.

But then his voice hardened again.

“ Now pull yourself together. We’ve been gone too long.”

You felt his fingers guiding the silken inner layer of your robe back over your body. Every touch now felt too knowing, too intimate. He moved with clinical precision—dressing you as if assembling a doll.

You didn’t resist.

Couldn’t.

He reached for the onyx mask—intricately carved, cold to the touch. When he placed it against your face, it clicked into place like a ritual.

“ Hide that expression.” He said, stepping back.

“ The VIPs don’t care about grief…or guilt. Only spectacle.”

And just like that, the man once called Young-il vanished again behind his own dark mask.

He opened the door, then paused—glancing back one last time.

“ Remember…” He said softly.

“ In the game…there are no teammates. Only survivors.”

And with that, he led you back into the lion’s den—where laughter, death, and wagers waited…and where the pain of truth now stung sharper than any blade.

Author's Note: What the fuck did I just write? Yes, another dark one-shot story that I write. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. Please feel free to leave or disregard this if you are uncomfortable with it.

All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. Please read with responsibility.

[felixvsp]

Can I please request poly! Minsung x f!reader , where Jisung and reader are kitty hybrids? I can’t decide if I want fake texts or Drabble so I’ll leave that up to you if you decide to do this!’

fake texts | bothersome kitties

pairing: poly!minsung x fem!reader

genre: suggestive

warnings: kitty-hybrid!Jisung, kitty-hybrid!reader, lots of sexual innuendos

SS count: 8

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

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