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iinh0e · 9 days ago

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In-Hot Water - part 2

Part 1

Frontman Hwang Inho x reader/you

TWs: MDNI | 18+, shameless author-insert smut, porn with (some) plot, squid pro quo, emotional manipulation, power play, toxic relationship, control & possession, brat & brat tamer, especially evil, cold Inho, *HEAVY DUB-CON, CNC - I’m exploring and experimenting with some concepts I’ve never written before, dead dove do not eat 💗 I’m trying to work through some things so it might get pretty dark. This was supposed to be a quick n' dirty drabble and it has now taken on a life of its own. I'm rewatching season 2 now for fuel for several other ideas I'm working with ~~

Comment to be added to the taglist, lmk if you want in on all Inho action or just this 'un, happy to consider requests if ya got any! 💟

Currently in the works:

Feloniously filthy Young-Il HCs/one specific drabble I am obsessed with (going live soon) Feloniously filthy Inho Romantic Inho (might hurt my own feelings writing this since he's so real to me and so yet impossibly fictional) Young-Il soulmate HCs (already hurt my own feelings on this one) Sang-woo enemies to lovers shortie I am also sooo down to write for Salesman, I'm just not coming up with anything, Inho brain rot

shouts out to @iinh0e ~ this part's for you, bestie 💗

“I very much enjoy watching you play the games…” he strokes your cheek teasingly, he can feel the goosebumps on your skin and the peaks of your nipples without even looking at them.

“Look at you, grinding against my knee, greedy for friction. I think you enjoy the attention I’m giving you and I think you want more of it.”

God you haaaaaate that he’s right. This entire dynamic unfolding live is so confusing and uncomfortable… and exhilarating. You want to push him off of you but you don’t want to. You want to smack his smug, calculating face but you’d rather come all over it. Is he intending this, with longevity? Do you dare let yourself enjoy it or will you get addicted? Will he dangle pleasure and relief before your eyes and snatch it away when you finally reach for it? When you give it away that you want it so badly, will he take it away and never give it to you? Is he dangling you from a precipice with the threat of falling to your death just to make you admit that he’s your god, relishing in your fighting spirit only to plunge you to those depths the very second you acquiesce?

Are you betraying yourself for wanting this? Is your body betraying you for wanting this? Is there even an answer besides whatever carnality takes over?

You don’t respond, but arch your back to gauge his next move. He chuckles darkly and grabs your throat, exactly as you’d hoped… you were always such a slut for a genuine dom that didn’t need to fake it, but truly and profoundly got off on taming you, breaking you, completely possessing you. Destroying you so that your spirit could reemerge touting yet another vine tangling itself, protecting the ember of you, boasting yet another shade of the sultry patina of trauma and abnormality. A divinely sordid being, perplexed at the odds that find you still present. You don’t believe in much, if anything, except physiology and fate. What you deserve, not what you’re entitled to. If you have any loyalty in you, it’s only to feeling. The present and all of its sensations, only what is guaranteed, no empty promises like dreams or desires, no swimming with ghosts in the lazypool of lament about the past, regretting markedly poor decisions. Just what’s tangible in the moment so you know it’s real. That’s all that’s real. Nothing more and nothing less.

And for him? The very same. He’s too calloused to succumb to the trope of being bitter about his lot and losses in life. He sacrificed everything, lost everything, gained more than he ever asked for and his hands have been full for too long, but everything has a spot in which it lives, he believes in mise en place, and everything he does is measured, down to his reactions to anything at all. He only believes in order. Order in the form of rules, organization, tidiness, control. Problematically, this very same perspective bleeds into the idiosyncratic - of course it does, his entire world exists only within the walls of this compound, his gilded cage, his little play. When players or guards object, he can snatch the last breath from their body with the snap of a finger. He can even do it himself should he feel so inclined. He can procure the honeyed heaven of a woman’s body whenever he so pleases. The VIPs trust him implicitly, he would not have gotten where he is to date if he respected the autonomy of others. He’d be dead, which he would have accepted, but since this is not the sequence of events that occurred, he accepts this instead. He believes if a person violates life’s natural order of things, they surrender their agency. He was not always like this, but the iteration of him that came before was cauterized by the version that stands today with everything to gain, for all time. There’s no one of consequence to hold him accountable or tell him he’s wrong, he cannot be reprimanded, so he chooses his moments wisely and it all grants him a power and euphoria about which he otherwise never would have dared to fantasize.

He’s glaring into your eyes with his hand firmly commanding your throat, his thumb on your windpipe. You feel more excitement than you have in a long time and you know you can’t hide it. So if there’s any game left to play on your part, it’s to avoid stroking his ego any further. Little do you know that no matter what you do, he’s purring anyway. He’s having his fun with you no matter which direction this goes. There’s a grand prize awaiting him behind every door. He already won by getting you to play to begin with. You are the loser once again. Fitting. Meaningless. Whatever. Giddy up.

You break the silence and goad him. “Yeah, you know… I haven’t been laid in a minute. So any type of stimulation to a sensitive area no less an erogenous zone on my body is going to elicit an agreeable reaction from me. You may pat yourself on the back now, nicely done.”

He couldn’t contain the smirk peeling across his face. You are far more amusing than he’d originally anticipated and a newfound commitment to keeping you on a leash, forever in his grasp solidified itself as he considered which of your buttons to push next.

“Well, I assume of course that your lack of recent physical intimacy is by design, which I respect,” he takes a gloved finger and runs it down your cheek, pivoting his thumb to press along your bottom lip as he ghosts his lips along your neck, humming as your shoulders slouch into his touch. “But, I will remind you that you signed away, to me, all of your physical rights prior to the beginning of the games themselves and now that you’re here, under my touch, I can and will do whatever I like to you.” He licks a stripe up the side of your neck, stopping to press his lips insistently into your skin before latching and biting, calling up available vessels to the surface of your perspiring skin, glistening with bodily evidence of his and yours.

A deep and guttural moan broke from your lips just as you bit your lip, attempting to bite back any sign of encouragement. His lack of concern for your consent was driving you up a wall - typically you’d have a man’s balls in a vicelike grip the second the thought of violating you so much as peeked into his mind, but this masked psycho boss man is so undeniably fine and his obvious hunger for you is so hot, you might not bother trying to act like you’re not about to lose it completely and soak straight through your panties into your sweatpants, a color that would perfectly pronounce that very moist spot. Maybe you’ll just stay silent and let him pry it out of you instead… and maybe playing along will result in a net benefit of some kind, whatever that would be. At this point in your life, an orgasm would probably be a more than sufficient reward overall. You’ve got nothing else going on but your impending demise anyway.

You wrap your hand around the back of his head, urging him to continue his ministrations, arching your hips to rut against his thigh.

He turns your face to meet his, planting a peck on your lips and pulling away. “My, you’re flushed… I wonder if it’s because you’re still angry at me, or aching for more of my touch?”

“Both…”

“Is that so? I thought you stated earlier that my touch was inconsequential, anyone could ‘elicit an agreeable reaction’ from you at present?” He leans in and pecks your lips again but this time holds for a few seconds and pulls away just as you attempt to deepen the kiss.

“Come on, I was just caught off guard and trying to be tough. Obviously I’m loving what you’re doing to me…”

“Ah, well… I have no time for brats. But I do have time to teach them lessons.” He rises and takes two steps backward, smirking. He grabs his radio from his pocket, summoning his underlings.

You lift your head and sit up, dazed and annoyed. “What? What are you doing? This is ridiculous, nothing I do satisfies you! I'm in an impossible situation here! Are you LISTENING to me??”

He cocked his head to the side and laughed, shooting a pointed glare at the treacherous spot between your knees, divulging every last secret you held in, like you were about to be arrested for a crime you committed years ago and were never apprehended for. You immediately crossed your right leg over the left, locking your thighs together not only to conceal the betrayal on display between them but to bring more friction to the area because now that he got you going, there was no stopping. After all, your chosen celibacy stage was just another tool you used to try to get your life in order. Sex and love were always your most gravest undoing, drugs were a cakewalk by comparison… the way a good cock had you at its mercy would be embarrassing if you weren’t of the nature of simply accepting what you cannot change. At least lately, you had that one part of you under control… and then he arrives on the scene to completely fucking dismantle what’s left of you.

He strides over to you again, grabbing your leg and tossing it to the side, settling between them. He yanks his glove off and aggressively trails his index and middle fingers along your inner thigh directly to center stage, pressing and rubbing over your pants. You choke on a tiny mewl, staring at him feverishly, intentionally, begging without begging. Okay fine, he wins. You’ll admit defeat now, he just needs to make with the carrot - the stick is no longer required.

“You are shamefully drenched… how ridiculous of you to feign otherwise…” He tiptoes his fingers up to your waistband and slides them beneath it, pausing as he tugs on it, holding it in his hand. He grips your chin and slams his tongue down your throat, at which you groan loudly and pull him by his shoulders, closer, pressed against you, still needing him closer, good GOD please, nothing else matters, just this, need more of this. Your desperate reciprocation of his kiss has him smirking against your lips, so you cup his smooth and perfect face in your hands, surprised at how soft his cheeks are despite how rigid and taut they otherwise appear. He loves how pitifully frenzied you are, loves how easy it was to bring you under his thumb only to wrap you around his finger later.

He loves your tongue and the taste of your mouth so he decides not to break the kiss just yet, just to sustain it while he chokes you with one hand and then slides his other between your panties and skin teeming with heat and desire so warm and demanding it makes his composure slip for a second and a low groan escapes him. He has to berate you now. “This just might be the quickest and wettest work I’ve ever made… maybe you are pathetic…” he swipes his thumb up and down, one swirl to command your attention before he rests it on your clit, two fingers following into you, curling and going still. You grab his hand and attempt to move it, up and down, side to side, back and forth, whatever you could manage. He chuckles mirthlessly and shoves you back against the chair with the hand tightly gripping your throat.

Just as you begin to buck your hips into his hand, a whine sits on the verge of breaking out of you accompanied by nearly a begging word. But you were interrupted by the ding of the elevator and the sound of multiple footsteps disembarking.

Inho didn’t move an inch, he remained in the very same position, one so compromising and vulnerable for you to be seen in. “Sir, please… what are you doing? I don’t want anyone to see this, can I please cover u–” He squeezes your face again and violently presses a kiss to your lips before releasing and shoving your head back.

He stands and retrieves his mask, placing the face over his and the back over his head, sealing with the hood. He stares at your bare and limp form as the approaching footsteps grow louder.

“Sure, you can cover up if that would make you more comfortable.”

A cold sweat broke across your face and down your spine because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Two guards entered and stood opposite the two of you, awaiting instruction. He turns to them and languidly gestures toward you with his open palm. “Gentlemen, it appears we have a defiant little minx here in our midst. Care to show her how we address little terrors?”

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iinh0e · 13 days ago

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In-Hot Water

Pairing: In-Ho x reader/you •|• in this game, he wants to give you the knife … among other things

This is a WIP but I wanted to post the start of it so I hold myself accountable and don’t fall off and let it evaporate in my notes 💗

TW: MDNI** 18+ smut with plot but will prob devolve into filth in frames, possible CNC/dub-con, manipulation/abuse of power, squid pro quo, plenty more bad puns, finally writing again after a year+ of pre-law, super busy, super grateful to everyone writing In-Ho, I haven’t felt feelings in a while and it feels good to be chaotically horny for fictional men again because ya girl is too damn tired and busy to be bothered with the inevitable letdown of actually like, dating irl lmao

Halfway through the games and with more than half of the other players dead, your capacity to feel was bankrupt of anything but rage and violent apathy.

So when the square came and grabbed you by the elbow, telling you to come with him, rolling your eyes was all you had left in you as you followed without protest.

An elevator ride that took forever. Entry was only granted upon his mask scan. You didn’t put much thought into where you were headed and why you were going wherever didn’t occur to you.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a dazzling hallway tightly encased by two walls of smooth, matte black geometric shapes and an inviting little marble top bar with a warm lamp alight. What the fuck is this, a job interview? A house call? A corporate gala?

The square pushed you forward to face a masked man seated in a chair opposite an empty one to your right. Seeing as his mask matched the walls, you assumed he may be the one overseeing this convention of horrors and if you’ve ever wanted to speak to a manager, here’s the end boss of them all.

“Please have a seat.” He asked and gestured toward a rocks glass in front of you, offering to pour you a tug of whatever silky dark spirit he was sipping on.

You sank into the chair and nodded at the glass. Well?

“I requested to speak with you for a number of reasons. One of them is that I would like to offer you a competitive edge. You’re different from the trash you’re competing alongside and I want to see you win.”

He poured you a generous three inches of liquid before sitting back, appraising your expression.

Deep in thought, you kept your gaze on the floor ahead, a spot just before the door behind him. You raised your glass, gave him an appreciative nod and threw it back in one swoop before gently setting the glass back down in the very spot it originated from.

He allowed an audible chuckle to escape from behind his literal and figurative mask before crossing his leg and leaning his head to the side, appraising you.

“So, why me? How am I any better than the ‘trash’ that surrounds me? I’m a loser and a fuck-up, too. I came here of my own volition, too. And when I saw people dying beside me left and right, I felt worse for them than any fear for myself. I don’t care what happens to me, that’s why I’m here. You’ll never hear me beg for my life. I don’t beg for things I don’t want.”

He paused, nodding slowly. “This is precisely why I selected you. You’re unique. There is nothing pathetic about you.”

He leaned forward, offering a refill. You nodded.

“So you’re saying all of the other players are pathetic and I’m not? Why?”

“Just as you said. You don’t beg for your life because you don’t want to live it. You’ve made peace with your dissatisfaction with your existence. You don’t labor under the foolish delusion that a guard would spare you if you pleaded at the business end of a rifle upon failing to pass a game. It’s hypocritical for people to go willingly to their certain or uncertain death simply at the promise of money to reverse their luck. And then when it isn’t panning out, they beg for a do-over. That is pathetic.”

You take your glass and cradle it thoughtfully. Perhaps the booze is warming you around the edges or his philosophy tracks in its own fucked up, nihilistic way. Perhaps both.

“Well the way I see it is that I never asked to be born. I never asked for the burden of being forced to exist, to maintain an existence. I would have rather never been. Maybe I’ll get lucky in my next life. I can’t help but feel like it’s too late and I’ve fucked up too much to right my wrongs in this one.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Your perspective is delightful, but your diagnosis is wrong. You’re too conclusory: it’s not too late… for you.”

You deeply appreciate the encouragement, especially coming from quite literally the most unexpected person and situation anyone could ever fathom. Sure, such words are comforting when uttered by someone close to you, or a warm acquaintance or a kind stranger but from someone with an inordinate amount of power over you and dozens of others with the highest stakes logically possible, the weight his words carry is palpable. It’s bemusing how reassuring the weight of his words are, and you don’t even know who he is. You’re assigning appreciation to him on context alone, context that should have you inconsolably enraged. Many lives have been lost right in front of your eyes, you can only imagine the innumerable amount you haven’t witnessed. Why you feel a glimmer of confidence and strength at what could almost be a taunt given the circumstances is truly bewildering… are you…

…

attracted to him? Because he’s enigmatic? Powerful? Are you deadass softening at the words of a megalomaniac just because he’s seemed to have picked you? What in the chaotic horny fuck is this?

You’ve gotta shake this off somehow. Deflect.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, whoever you are. I’ll be sure to remember it.”

As if he could read your every thought, sensing your reception and subsequent bristling, he nods and then lowers his hood and removes his mask, revealing a stunningly handsome face yet eyes devoid of any pure emotion. Just two orbs smoldering with passion, rage, lust… punctuated with a tight smirk that grew as your eyebrows raised and an obvious blush tinted your cheeks, wholly apparent even in the warm and dim lighting.

“Are you surprised by my appearance?”

“Yeah, I suppose I am… you’re the one running the games?”

“I am.” He raises his glass. “Cheers to my favorite player, may she triumph. Take my advice and you will.”

You tut. You just had to. “Why am I your favorite? Besides depressive waxing poetic shit, do you know anything about me, why I found my way in here? If you knew, you wouldn’t be sharing your aged scotch and kind words with me, I assure you.”

He takes a long sip and sighs. “Yes, I actually know everything about you. It’s my business to understand the plight of every player of every game. It’s tantamount to the game’s principles and fairness. We select our players carefully.”

“So you picked me because why? I’m an ex-con, ex-junkie, higher education graduate riddled with debt? Can’t find a proper job because competition is fierce, no hope of being able to live freely without the crushing pressure of economic instability? Enslaved to the bottom rung of a class just out of reach of poverty so that I can never be secure, and I can never get any government assistance but boy I sure do pay for everyone else to get it when I need it just as much?

Or did you also pick me because I have a number of cognitive disabilities? Did you pick me because I’m a suicidal depressive? You targeted me because I’m pathetic. Then you realized I’m intelligent and that threw you off, didn’t it?”

“Some of what you’re saying is true. Some of it is not. You were selected for the game because of your lack of economic stability, yes. None of the other factors were of much consequence. But yes as the game progressed, I watched you closely. You could say that I developed a fondness for you, a wish to see you outplay every other player. I feel a desire to protect you.”

“Why? Do I remind you of someone you’ve lost?”

“More akin to someone I want.”

Your skin tingles at the implication, leaving you to wonder if you were reading the context properly… and yet, why in the fuck should you care?! This man is a whole sociopath and a monster, playing with peoples’ lives and preying on their misfortunes for the sake of what, entertainment? You ought to spit in his face right now - not labor under the fear that your stiffening nipples are apparent through your white t-shirt or struggle to keep your thighs from rubbing together…

“I’m not sure I understand…”

“Actually, I believe you do.” He stands and walks toward you, keeping eye contact locked tightly. He’s good. Who in the fuck is he?

Your eyes follow him as he stops before you, looking down at you as you maintain eye level. He reaches for your chin and tilts your face even higher. “You look beautiful with your head up, where it belongs. This is exactly what I see in you.”

He cautiously bores into your eyes even further, studying your expression, pleased that you haven’t recoiled at his touch.

You fought harder to hide your intrigue and mounting desire than any effort you put in prior. It was futile, he read you like a book.

“It seems as though your disdain is slipping… am I distracting you from your anger?”

You scoffed, irritated by both his smugness and your attraction to it. “No, I’m sure my anger will persist…” yet you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from him.

He sneaks his thumb to your chin to further still you, his gaze still locked on your expression as he tilts your head to the side to rest in his palm. “It’s not just your undeniable beauty I admire. It’s your fire as well, you’re genuine.”

You felt your eyes widen as your face softened. That was truly a hell of a compliment - so much so that the burning sensitivity of it flicked a tear in each eye. His smirk softened as it nearly met his eyes.

“I’ve struck a cord, have I?” He stroked your chin with his thumb and you lost the fight to remain rigid, allowing yourself to melt into his touch. With his other hand he cupped your face, cradling it as he leaned in closer. “It is criminal that words so simple and true could move you so deeply. Either you do not often receive proper compliments or you do not wish to believe them, perhaps both?”

The tear that threatened you most finally liberated itself, rolling steadily down your cheek as you maintained his eye contact from a thousand miles away.

Before you even registered his movement, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, meeting the tear in its tracks, lingering. A warm swell shot through your entire body as you jolted back against your chair.

He then placed each hand on each arm rest, locking into you further. “Your body betrayed you the moment I removed my mask. You don’t need to squander energy keeping the act up. I know exactly what you need.”

“Oh ho, do you now? Just because you parsed a file of facts about me doesn’t mean you know every little thing about me, sir.”

He abruptly slid his knee between your legs, applying just the right amount of pressure as he came in closer.

Your head fell back as your eyes followed suit.

With one hand on the back of your chair and the other gripping your face, he squeezed your cheeks with authority, a hint of disciplinary threat to his tone.

“With the pleasantries done and out of the way, I’d now like to discuss the other reasons I called for you.”

“Hmm? Alright, enlighten me?”

He pressed his forehead to yours, swiping the tip of your nose with his as he sucked in a breath. His face was so close, as if he was about to command your lips with no concern of consent. But he didn’t. He held himself still with unmitigated restraint, relishing in your suspense, already submitted to his control in more ways than one.

He slowly surveyed your expression, staring hard and hotly, not to discern your thoughts or comfort but to take his time looking at you while you lay helpless in the palm of his hand. He wanted nothing more than to undress you at a painfully slow pace, to feel every part of you the way he wanted to, with a wanton disregard for everything but his instinct and desire. But even more, he loved the way he had you dangling by a thread, under his complete and total subjugation. And you weren’t objecting, trying to fight him off or escape. You were not bound, there were no weapons threatening you to remain. You were free to remove yourself and leave at any time. It was clear from your reaction and lack of action that you were enjoying this game, and your part in it.

“I very much enjoy watching you play the games…” he strokes your cheek teasingly, he can feel the goosebumps on your skin and the peaks of your nipples without even looking at them.

“Look at you, grinding against my knee, greedy for friction. I think you enjoy the attention I’m giving you and I think you want more of it.”

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