#001 squid game

[filthygalli]

His home, His sanctuary, and His everything

Oneshot: Fem! Reader x Husband! Hwang In-Ho

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: P n V, Fingering, Nipple play, Shower sex, MDNI.

Word Count: 723

Author’s Notes: I haven’t been posting in a while, I’m enjoying my school break as well, I have drafts to do and i forgot how will the stories end lmao!

Taglist: (Want to join the LBH taglist? Let me know!)

@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @nightblxezz @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @nightdragonx @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha

The warm water cascaded over your skin, a soothing rhythm that drowned out the world. You tilted your head back, letting it massage your shoulders as steam filled the small bathroom. The scent of lavender body wash lingered in the air, mixing with the heat. Your hands roamed lazily over your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts. It was rare to have a moment like this, alone and undisturbed.

Until you felt it.

A soft, warm press of lips against your shoulder, tender and unexpected. You gasped, your body tensing for a moment before you recognized the familiar touch. In-Ho. You turned, water droplets catching in your lashes as you met his gaze. His dark brown eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but they softened as they locked onto yours. He didn’t speak, just gave you that small, tired smile you’d come to know so well.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer as he leaned down to kiss your neck. His lips were gentle at first, brushing against your skin like a whisper. Then they grew hungrier, nibbling and sucking, sending shivers rippling through you. The warmth of the water mingled with the heat of his body, making you feel weightless and alive.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot on your damp skin. His hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. He leaned down, his mouth closing around one, licking and sucking with an intensity that made your knees weak.

You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his wet hair as a soft moan escaped your lips. His tongue flicked over your nipple, teasing it mercilessly before moving to the other. “So perfect,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. His hands roamed lower, tracing the curve of your hips before sliding between your legs.

Your breath quickened as his fingers found your pussy, already slick with arousal. He stroked you slowly, his touch deliberate and unhurried, as if he wanted to savor every second. “You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice thick with desire. His fingers slipped inside you, curling just enough to make you gasp.

You could feel his cock pressing against your thigh, hot and hard even through the water. You reached down, wrapping your hand around it, marveling at its size and weight. Long and thick, with a perfectly shaped head that felt heavy in your palm. He groaned as you stroked him, his hips bucking slightly into your hand.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, his voice rough. He kissed you then, deep and urgent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrapped around his waist. You gasped as he lined himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.

He pushed inside you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. You moaned, the sensation overwhelming as he filled you completely. He paused for a moment, kissing you softly as if to steady you. Then he began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that left you breathless.

The water rained down around you, amplifying every sensation as he thrust into you deeper with every stroke. Your nails dug into his shoulders, urging him on as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Fuck, you feel amazing,” he growled, his voice strained with effort.

You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, your body trembling as he drove you closer and closer to release. His cock hit that sweet spot inside you again and again, leaving you gasping and writhing in his arms. And then it hit you, a wave of pleasure so intense it made your vision blur. You cried out, your body convulsing around him as you came hard, soaking both of you in a flood of wetness.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed right after, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep within. For a moment, you clung to each other, both of you panting and trembling as the water washed away the evidence of your passion.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breathing still ragged.

“You’re my everything,”

[crimson-moonie]

inhun for yall because squid game 3 was a disaster

[mssorceressupreme]

You’re Mine

———

Pairing: In ho x reader, Kang Dae Ho x reader

Summary: you’ve just announced that ur dating Dae Ho but Young-il wants you to himself, and he shows that by finger fucking you in front of your bf

Warnings/tags: minors DNI 18+, jealous, yandere!inho, posessive, noncon touch, kind of cheating(?), fingering, use of ropes, chained to bed, dom!inho, sub!reader, orgasm denial, finger sucking, i love daeho plz don't come for me he's my fav

a/n: i just realised how similar this lowkey is to my other young-il imagine, but it's slightly different so oh well lol <3

——— Prologue/Backstory:

The lights of the bunk bed hall cast long shadows over the rows of metal frames and thin mattresses. The air was heavy, filled with the quiet hum of voices as the players tried to grasp whatever fleeting moments of peace they could in this terrifying game.

You and Daeho stood in the middle of it all, the announcement of your newfound relationship still lingering in the air, drawing the attention of everyone around you.

Daeho held your hand tightly, his warmth grounding you in this cold, merciless place. His confession during the last game had taken you by surprise—his voice trembling yet resolute as he admitted his feelings, thinking it might be his last chance.

And as the chaos of the game unfolded, you realised your own feelings, the ones you had buried deep beneath the weight of survival. Now, standing together in the middle of the room, there was no need to hide anymore.

"You two are so cute together," Junhee complimented, a small, genuine smile appearing on her face.

"Finally! Took you long enough to figure it out," Jungbae chimed in, drawing chuckles from the surrounding players.

Daeho scratched the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up to his cheeks. "Well, I didn’t think confessing while we were about to get killed was the best timing, but… it worked out, I suppose."

You laughed softly, nudging him with your shoulder. "Honestly, it was terrible timing, but I’ll let it slide."

The players around you erupted into lighthearted laughter, their cheers and congratulations cutting through the usual tension of the hall.

For a brief moment, it almost felt normal—like you were back in the real world, surrounded by friends and not the grim reality of this deadly game.

But not everyone shared the room’s jubilant mood.

From his spot on one of the upper bunks, Young-il watched the scene unfold, his jaw tightening. His dark eyes flicked between you and Daeho, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the bed. He didn’t smile, didn’t join in the congratulations. Instead, his gaze bore into Daeho like a predator watching its prey.

You. You weren’t supposed to be with Daeho. You were supposed to be his.

Young-il replayed every moment the two of you had shared in his mind, twisting them into something more significant than they were.

You had smiled at him once, after he had helped you during a particularly grueling game. You had thanked him, your voice soft and sincere, and he had clung to that moment like a lifeline.

When he had been stressed, you were the one who had comforted him, your touch gentle, your concern evident.

He was certain you felt something for him.

So how could you be standing there, holding Daeho’s hand, laughing with him like that?

"Young-il!" Jungbae called, snapping him out of his thoughts.

His head jerked toward the voice, and he quickly plastered on a smile. It was forced, but convincing enough. "Yeah?"

"Don’t they look cute together?" Jungbae asked, motioning toward you and Daeho.

Young-il’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah… yeah, they do. Really happy for them."

But his gaze slid back to you, watching the way you looked at Daeho, the soft, unguarded expression on your face. It made his blood boil. He should’ve been the one to confess to you, to stand beside you, to hold your hand.

And then, as if sensing his eyes on you, you turned and met his gaze.

For a moment, everything else faded. Your smile faltered, replaced by a look of quiet concern.

You always did that—noticed him in a way no one else did. It was part of why he had fallen for you in the first place.

"Are you okay?" you mouthed, your brow furrowing slightly.

Young-il’s heart stuttered, gosh, you always looked beautiful. He forced himself to nod, his lips curling into a smile that he hoped seemed genuine. "Yeah," he mouthed back.

But inside, he was seething.

If Daeho thought he could just swoop in and take you away, he was dead wrong.

Daeho didn’t deserve you.

And if Young-il had to play dirty to make you his, so be it. ___

The faint flicker of the single overhead light was what woke you first. The room was eerily quiet though luxurious, the usual bustling activity in the game hall replaced with oppressive stillness.

You blinked groggily, shifting only to realise your wrists were bound tightly to the frame of a bed.

Beside the bed, Daeho sat tied to a chair a few metres away, his head lolling to one side before his eyes snapped open, immediately searching for you.

“Y/N!” His voice was hoarse with panic as he struggled against his restraints. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

He paused, noticing you only had your undergarments on. A black bra, and cotton undies.

Immediately, he averted his eyes, darting towards the ground, "Who did this?!"

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, keeping your voice calm despite the fear clawing at your chest, especially since you were clothe-less, “What is this? Why are we—?”

The sound of footsteps interrupted you. Slow, deliberate. Both you and Daeho turned toward the door as it creaked open, revealing Young-il wearing a black button up shirt, with his sleeves folded and black trousers, his sharp gaze fixed on the two of you.

He stepped into the room with unnerving composure, and in his hands, he held the unmistakable black mask of the Front Man.

“No…” Dae Ho’s voice faltered, disbelief evident in his tone. “You? You’re—”

“The Front Man?” Young-il finished with a smirk, his eyes darting to you. “Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I’ve been watching all of you from the start.”

Your stomach twisted as he sauntered closer, his demeanour unsettlingly calm. “What do you want, Young-il?” you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“What do I want?” He chuckled softly, his eyes now piercing as it landed on you. “That should be obvious, shouldn’t it? I want you, Y/N."

The air in the room grew unsteady, thick with tension as his words hung in the silence.

Daeho immediately tensed, his muscles straining against the ropes. “Don’t you dare—”

Youngil raised a hand, silencing him effortlessly. “You should be grateful I’m even letting you live long enough to hear this. You think you’re good enough for her?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’ll only drag her down. You’ll get her killed.”

“That’s not your decision to make!” Daeho shot back, anger rising in his tone. “She’s with me because she chose to be.”

Youngil’s gaze darkened, though he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Chose? You think her kindness to me meant nothing? The way she looked at me, helped me, cared—” His voice cracked slightly before he caught himself. “She belongs with someone who can protect her, someone who understands what it takes to survive.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat, your mind racing to process his words. “Young-il, I was just being kind to you,” you said softly. ��You misinterpreted—”

“Don’t lie to me!” he snapped, slamming his hands on the foot of the bed, making you flinch. His mask of composure cracked for a moment before he forced himself to breathe deeply, stepping back. “You don’t know what’s best for you, Y/N. But I do.”

Daeho growled, his jaw clenched in fury. “You’re delusional if you think she’d ever choose you over me.”

Young-il’s eyes narrowed, but his smirk returned, more venomous now. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?” He turned to you, leaning slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I could give you everything, Y/N. Safety, power… a future. Can he promise that?”

You met his eyes, your fear slowly being replaced by boldness. “What I want isn’t up to you to decide.”

For a moment, Young-il seemed taken aback, but he quickly masked it with a bitter laugh. “Stubborn as always,” he muttered. “But I’m not giving up. Not on you.” His eyes flicked to Daeho, a dark glint of satisfaction in them. “And not because of him.”

"I'm with Daeho. I love him, alright? Whatever you're getting at, forget it because he's who I want to be with." You spat.

Young-il smiled, a rather patronising one as he crawled onto the bed, now hovering above you. "But I can make you feel so much better." He cooed into your ear, you'd be lying if you said this didn't send a wave of chills through your body.

"What're you doing?! Don't you dare touch her!" Daeho yelled, trying to break free from the ropes, but it wouldn't budge.

"Be with me and you'll both live. Stay with him and, well, he dies." Young-il said, straightening himself so that he was now between your legs, looking down at you.

"You're so fucking pretty, so enticing." Young-il's hands found their way to the velvety part of your thighs, spreading your legs apart and wrapping them around his hips as he kneeled in front of you.

"Let go of me!" You attempted to kick him away, but his grip on your legs was far stronger.

"Feisty are we? Come on love, don't be like that." He fake pouted before forcing them apart again. "You'll feel so much better when you corporate."

Young-il licked his palm before sliding them between your panties, cupping your warm throbbing cunt. "Shit, deny me all you want, but your body's says otherwise."

He pressed harder, rubbing your cunt slightly, "So wet for me and I barely touched you."

"Daeho..." You cried out, turning to face him.

"Y/N!!" Daeho was furious, how fucking dare Young-il touch you like that. He would kill him then and there if he could.

"I'll fucking kill you if you hurt her!" With all his might, Daeho tried breaking free, but the ropes were too thick, making it seem near impossible.

"Since Daeho is sitting there being all bratty, why don't we give him a show. I can show him how much better I can make you feel." Young-il smirked, every ounce of kindness erased from his face, the player you once knew, gone.

Forcefully, Young-il pulled your panties down with two fingers while he unclasped your bra with his other hand, leaving you now fully naked beneath him.

"Fuck...you're beautiful, all this deserves to be loved by the right person." Young-il grazed the sides of your body, slowly tracing your skin, making you twitch under his touch.

Daeho shut his eyes out of respect, not wanting to look at you, fully bare in front of him. "Leave her alone Young-il! She clearly doesn't like you!"

"How sure are you?" Without warning, Young-il traced your slit, coating his fingers with your wetness before shoving two fingers inside you, your body involuntarily reacted with a moan.

"Stop..." You plead, but all the more he began pumping quicker, curling his fingers inside you which targeted your g-spot. Fuck, as much as you hated him right now, it felt so good.

You didn't dare admit it, but this was a form of stress relief you needed among the chaos, you needed to release.

Your body arched, arms tied to the bed-frame unable to defend yourself. "Mhm..." You moaned again, but quickly shut your mouth suppressing it.

"That's my girl...no need to hide those beautiful noises from me." Satisfaction grew across Young-il's face, knowing how good he made you feel, how you were now putty under his touch.

"Look at her Daeho...look how good I'm making her feel."

Daeho shut his eyes, turning away while shaking his head, refusing to look but the more you moaned...the harder he grew. It made it no less harder to picture the sounds you'd make if he was the one fucking you, the one making you feel this way right now.

His bulge was evident, Daeho twitched in his seat, unable to deal with his situation. He couldn't help but peak a bit, seeing you made his arousal grow even harder.

Your back was arched, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes rolled back as Young-il continued pumping in and out of you.

It didn't help that you were so fucking stunning, looking like a Goddess. He knew it was wrong to think of you this way, but Daeho couldn't help but want you to himself too, imagining the things he could to do you, to hear those noises from you.

"Daeho..." You moaned, imagining it was him instead, hoping to ease the situation.

This sent a rush to his core, fuelling his desire for you even further. "Fuck..." Daeho grunted, his pants tightening all the more, a wet patch of precum became more evident.

"Baby I'm right here...just look at me." Daeho comforted, knowing he was at least near you, gave you some type of comfort and hearing his voice felt like music in this moment of torture.

You turned to look at him while you got finger fucked by Young-il, "Daeho..." You moaned softly, whimpering as Young-il quickened his pace, his arousal growing, the more you moaned.

Daeho glanced at you, with apologetic eyes, knowing how useless he was in this current situation, "Don't give in to him." He pleaded.

"Daeho...fuck..." You whimpered, your moans growing louder as you felt your climax approaching.

"I'm getting close..." You groaned, panting heavily. "Shit...I'm gonna cum..."

Your climax was near, so near, until Young-il pulled out, sucking his fingers while making eye-contact with you. "You taste so fucking good, but you don't get to cum so easily sweetheart."

"P-please...make me cum." You pleaded desperately, and both men looked at you, unsure of who you were addressing.

"I want you to beg for it." He spat, "For me."

You glanced up at his, eyes widening but involuntarily giving him pleading doe eyes, begging him for something, though you couldn't tell if you were begging him to stop or to continue.

You shook your head looking away from him, "Never."

He grabbed your chin, turning it to face him, tilting your head up, "You look so pretty beneath me..."

You rolled your eyes, but he continued, "I'll take care of you, you'll be safe with me, just be with me."

He then leaned down and kissed you, passionately, you hesitated, but found yourself kissing back. His tongue slid into your mouth, sucking your tongue, as you moaned into him. He grabbed your hair, pulling it slightly with one hand, while the other found your boobs, massaging them gently.

Daeho's eyes grew wide, and began grunting, trying to escape yet again but, again, no luck. Instead, he looked down, trying to get the vision out of his head.

"You liked that didn't you?" Young-il whispered lowly into your ear.

"Need to cum..." You whined, feeling your climax so close yet so far.

"Beg for it."

You turned to Daeho, looking at him with sad eyes, knowing you've lost, you had no choice but to shamefully beg, "P-please..."

"Louder."

"Please..." You whispered.

Young-il smirked, inching his fingers down to your cunt again, rubbing it slowly and sensually, increasing your arousal. "Beg, baby."

"Please Young-il, make me cum." You begged, loud enough for Daeho to hear now. His head hung low, before looking up with tired, defeated eyes, he knew he was helpless, this was the only way out of this situation.

"Whatever you want love," Young-il brought his two fingers up to your mouth, "Suck."

He shut his eyes as you sucked them, "Mhm..." He hummed, he was now fully hard on, the bulge pressing against your thigh, as he bent down closer to you.

You sucked his fingers, coating them with enough wetness before he moved them down to your cunt again, sliding them in, in which you let out a moan as a response.

He started off slow, then started quickening his pace as your breathing grew heavier, "So fucking pretty, getting finger fucked by me in front of your boyfriend."

His words had sent another rush to your core, increasing your wetness and desire, making you all the more closer to a climax.

"You like that?" He hummed, and you whimpered, nodding in response.

Your eyes fluttered shut, rolling back as you bucked your hips up, giving in to him, you needed more, fuck you needed him.

"Young-il..." You moaned.

Both of them darted their eyes at you, one was a satisfactory glance while the other despondent.

A devious and satisfactory smirk crept upon Young-il's lips, "That's right baby, say my name for me."

"Young-il...." Yet again, you didn't know where this was coming from but he made you feel so damn good, and credit was due. Though, you hated yourself for this, knowing Daeho was right there, knowing he lost.

Your toes curled, overwhelmed with pleasure, "Shit, I'm getting close..."

"Come for me love..." Young-il pushed you closer towards your climax, "Come around my fingers." He cooed.

Those words pushed you over the edge, sending a wave of pleasure through your body as you jerked harshly, finally coming undone. Your core pulsed with undeniable pleasure, and this release was exactly what you needed.

You panted heavily, opening your eyes to be met with Young-il's dark ones.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead, stroking your cheek gently.

You avoided eye contact with Daeho, feeling guilty about the whole situation.

"So, will it be me or him, angel?"

You bit your lip, looking down, refusing to respond.

"Still need time to decide? That's alright, I'll be back for round two then." He smiled, though not a genuine one.

With that, he turned sharply and strode toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to think about it,” he said over his shoulder. “But remember, Y/N, there’s no room for love in this game. You’ll see that soon enough.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you and Daeho alone in the suffocating silence. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of Young-il’s words settling heavily in the air.

Then Daeho let out a shaky breath, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

"I think we both know the answer to that." You responded softly, guilt consuming you.

"You had no choice, I'm not mad you know..." Daeho reassured you before continuing slowly, "I think you should be with him."

"What?" You shook your head, turning to face him, though still naked, you didn't care.

"I just want you to be safe, who knows what that psycho will do if you don't abide by his rules, never mind me, but what will he do to you." Daeho's voice was shaky, consumed by fear for your safety.

"I want to be with you Daeho, it's you I love not him."

He shook his head slowly, "I love you too, but I'd love for you to be safe. I want you safe." A tear slid down his cheek. It broke your heart to see Daeho in this state, you needed to fix this, seeing that you had the upper hand here.

"I'll go with him then," you agreed, and Daeho frowned slightly, unable to mask his emotions, "But once I kill that psycho, you're the first person I'm running too baby."

He looked up slowly, a grin playing across his face, "What's your plan?"

You smirked, sending him a defiant look. You were about to turn into a menace for Young-il but oh boy, you didn't care, as long as it meant you'd get to be with Daeho.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

♡Metamorphosis ♡

Hwang Inho x fem!reader oneshot

summary: yn is a sweet broke student and catches the attention of her enigmatic neighbor.

content warning: age gap, being broke, slapping, lowk shit

He had no hope for this world. No faith in humanity. Nothing.

He fully embraced his role as the cold, unyielding Frontman of the brutal games, hidden away from the watchful eyes of the outside world. And yet, in his mind, those games were better than everything beyond the island’s distant shores. At least there, no one suffered from inequality, from the prejudice ingrained in systems crafted by the privileged. Everyone had an equal chance—an opportunity to win and claim the handsome financial prize. And the losers? Well, at least they were put out of their misery. In a way, wasn’t that almost merciful?

Year after year, he orchestrated the games, spoked to the recruiters, and even, on occasion, observed the fresh batch of soon-to-be participants. Then, for six days, he moved to the island, overseeing and controlling the carnage. Like clockwork.

Despite possessing all the wealth a man in a capitalist society could ever desire—more than enough to own a penthouse in Gangnam and indulge in the stereotypical hedonism of the rich—the money was meaningless. He barely touched it. What mattered were his convictions about humanity and the world, beliefs that had remained unshaken.

Until he met you.

You were a broke college student, living in a tiny, rented room. It wasn’t bad, just small—barely enough space for yourself, but it had everything you needed. The only thing you had to share was the kitchen. Some of your classmates were surprised to learn that you lived in such a place instead of a dorm like the rest of them, but the university’s housing was too expensive. At least here, you had fewer distractions—no wild parties, no blaring music. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself to cope.

Most of your neighbors were blue-collar workers, men who spent their days laboring until exhaustion, too tired to cause noise or disruptions. Your next-door neighbor, however, was different. He didn’t seem like a manual laborer. He was much older than you—quiet, polite. But sometimes, as you passed by, you could feel his gaze lingering just a second too long. You never thought much of it.

Every morning before class and every evening after, you had a small ritual: stopping by the nearby 7-Eleven to buy a can of tuna and feeding the stray cats that had made a home next to your apartment complex. At first, they were wary, but soon, they grew fond of you. Now, all it took was a single "pspsps," and dozens would come running. They had, ironically, become your best friends.

Before university, you had imagined a different life—one filled with laughter, weekend parties, and friendships that felt like they belonged in a coming-of-age movie. But reality hit hard and fast. Your classmates already had their friend groups, most of them having known each other since high school. That left you as the odd one out.

Not that you could blame them. You came from a small fishing village, a world away from the convenience and luxury they had always known. While they spoke of designer brands and dined on foreign dishes whose names you couldn’t even pronounce, you found yourself retreating, keeping your distance without even realizing it.

And as you stood there each evening, calling for the cats, you had no idea that someone was watching.

Through the dimly lit window of his apartment, a certain someone observed your every move, routinely.

◇

"Pspsps."

You called out to the cats, kneeling down with a can of tuna in hand. A small smile tugged at your lips as the fuzzy creatures gathered around you, some even jumping onto your lap. To make yourself more comfortable, you set your bag down on the sidewalk, continuing to pet and feed them.

Engrossed in humoring the little furballs, you paid no attention to anything else. It was already late evening, and though a few people still passed by, you remained in your own little world.

That is, until a sudden thud snapped you back to reality.

An elderly woman tripped over your bag, her groceries scattering across the pavement.

You gasped softly, immediately scrambling to help her up. "Oh my god—I'm so sorry, ma’am! So sorry!" You exhaled in a rush, steadying her before quickly gathering her fallen shopping.

The woman barely gave you a chance to collect yourself before launching into a tirade. "You young people! Always causing trouble! My hip is bad—what if it dislocated, huh? Would you take responsibility?!"

"I'm really, really sorry, miss," you repeated, hastily stuffing her groceries back into the bag.

But she wasn’t done. "Do you see what you did?! My rice bag ripped! I can't eat it now! And my fish—ugh, it fell on the ground! It’s unsanitary!"

"B-but they're packaged… it's still okay, right?" You looked up at her with wide eyes, hoping for some mercy.

"No, it’s not!" she snapped. "You have to pay me back!"

You sighed, reaching for your bag where your wallet rested. Great. Now I won’t have enough money for food.

But before you could take out your cash, a figure suddenly stepped forward from behind you.

"That’s enough."

His voice was calm, yet firm—almost reprimanding. You turned your head slightly, eyes widening as your neighbor, the polite yet mysterious man, came into view. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed the woman several crisp bills.

"S-sir, no need! I-I can—" Your guilt surged to new heights. Not only had an old woman fallen because of you, but now your neighbor—who, judging by where he lived, probably didn’t have much money—was covering your mistake.

But he ignored your protests entirely, slipping the cash into the woman’s wrinkled hand. She shot you one last glare before begrudgingly walking away.

You stared at the ground, embarrassment weighing down on you. "Sir… thank you… you really didn’t have to," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

He regarded you with a composed expression. "You had good intentions. You shouldn’t be financially punished for them." His tone was reassuring, almost gentle.

You offered him a polite smile, bowing slightly.

"Do you often feed those strays?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

"Yeah, twice a day. They’re my friends by now," you admitted with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your head.

At that, he gave you a small smile—one that lingered just a little longer than expected.

"Very few people do something good without expecting anything in return" he mumbled.

"Feeding stray cats isn't a noble thing" you laugh. "It's just being human" you smile and laugh as if it's the most obvious thing ever, a no brainer, he scans your face for any disingenuous but he can't find anything, he just hums in response.

"Human" he mumbles.

◇

A few days had passed since that encounter.

Every time he saw you from his window—kneeling to feed the stray cats, slipping a coin into a beggar’s hand—he felt... uncomfortable.

You made him uncomfortable.

He could see it clearly—you didn’t have much. He had spotted you in the shared kitchen more than once, fixing yourself instant noodles. Your clothes, worn and slightly oversized, were clearly hand-me-downs, hanging loosely from your frame. Yet, despite your own struggles, you were always so quick to help others.

Why?

Why did you prioritize them before yourself?

Everything about you unsettled him because, for the first time, his beliefs were being challenged. For so long, he had been certain that humans were inherently greedy, selfish creatures—too absorbed in their own survival to spare a glance beyond the tip of their own nose.

But you? You were different.

Was it naivety? Blind optimism? Or perhaps something religious? Maybe you believed that, through your sacrifices, you would be rewarded in the afterlife. That would be the logical explanation, wouldn’t it? Because otherwise, why would anyone be so selfless?

He tried to rationalize it—tried to fit your behavior into the framework of a world he thought he understood.

But he needed to know.

What was it?

What drove you?

◇

You sat on a bench in a nearby park, basking in the warmth of the sun as birds chirped in high-pitched melodies around you. The world around you faded as you became engrossed in your book, flipping through the pages with an almost frantic eagerness—you had always been a fast reader.

"Metamorphosis."

A calm voice suddenly broke your trance.

You flinched slightly, caught off guard, before looking up. Standing beside you was your next-door neighbor.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you," he said, offering an apologetic smile.

You waved it off with a small laugh. "No biggie."

His gaze flickered to the book in your hands. "You're reading Kafka. Impressive, I’d say."

Scooting over, you gestured for him to sit. He nodded slightly before taking a seat beside you, maintaining a respectful distance.

"I always liked his works," you said, tapping the book’s cover. "This one, Metamorphosis, especially. I suppose I’ve always been drawn to anything that involves insects."

You let out a lighthearted laugh, but he only raised an eyebrow.

"Insects? That’s unusual. Most people are afraid of them." His tone held genuine curiosity.

"Well, not me," you shrugged. "I’ve always thought they were misunderstood. Same with reptiles. But anyway, that’s kind of missing the point of the book."

He chuckled at that, nodding in quiet amusement. Then, after a brief pause, he turned to you, his expression unreadable.

"You know, Miss…?"

"Y/N. My name is Y/N," you said with a smile.

"Well, Miss Y/N," he continued, his tone steady, "the other day, you mentioned feeding the cats because that’s human." He studied you for a moment, as if trying to decipher a puzzle. "Truth be told, it intrigued me—perhaps even annoyed me—because I simply can’t understand your motivations."

You blinked at him before letting out another soft laugh.

"I don’t have any motivations," you admitted. "I just don’t want them to be hungry."

◇

It became a routine.

Mornings started the same—heading out to feed the stray cats before trudging off to class, enduring long-winded lectures that felt more like endurance tests than actual learning. Then, every evening, you’d return to feed the cats again, but this time, with Inho.

Funny thing was, despite talking for three months now, you had only recently learned his name. Until then, you had been calling him Sir—a habit that stuck until one particular evening when the two of you found yourselves at a street food stall, sharing a plate of spicy tteokbokki and discussing everything and nothing.

"So, Y/N, how was class today?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, you know, sir. Just the usual—boredom and political indoctrination," you joked, laughing at your own words.

He simply shook his head, amusement flashing in his eyes.

"You know, Y/N, there’s no need to ‘Sir’ me. Just call me Inho."

There was no doubt that he found you interesting—maybe even enjoyed your company more than he’d admit. But the feeling was mutual. Inho was intriguing. Your long conversations were intellectually stimulating in a way that left you wanting more, and over time, you realized you’d grown… attached.

You weren’t one to openly discuss your financial struggles. When the topic arose, it was usually in the form of a lighthearted joke about surviving on instant ramen, brushing off the reality of it. But something about Inho—his steady gaze, his quiet presence—made you feel vulnerable in a way that didn’t scare you. For once, opening up felt okay.

After feeding the cats—each one now playfully named by you—both of you sat on the same bench where your first real conversation had taken place.

Inho, of course, had insisted on numbering the cats instead of naming them, rattling off designations like Cat One, Cat Two, Cat Three. You had fought against the absurdity of it, firmly believing each of them had unique personalities that deserved equally unique names.

Now, as the quiet evening stretched around you, you finally gave in to the curiosity that had been gnawing at you for weeks.

"Inho?" you mumbled.

He hummed in response, glancing at you, already expecting a question.

"What do you do for work?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

A small, almost knowing smile crossed his lips. He took a slow breath before answering, "I’m a retired police officer."

Your eyes widened in amusement. "Seriously?! That’s so cool!"

Without thinking, you jumped up, forming finger guns with your hands and pretending to aim at him. "Did you do a lot of pew pew?"

Inho let out a rare, amused laugh at your childlike wonder.

"Not really," he admitted, shaking his head. "In dire situations, I just used a taser."

You hummed, plopping back down beside him with an impressed nod. "Still… so cool."

◇

It was just an ordinary day—feeding the cats, attending your classes, and now, heading home on the metro. You sat on a bench at the station, idly bouncing your leg, anticipation bubbling in your chest at the thought of seeing Inho again later.

Then, out of nowhere, a man in a crisp suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase, sat down beside you.

"Miss?"

His voice was smooth, polite. You turned toward him, frowning slightly in surprise.

"Would you be up for a game with me?" he asked.

You sighed, already weary of strangers approaching with strange propositions. Shaking your head, you offered a polite smile.

"Sorry, sir, but I’m not searching for Jesus."

The man chuckled, unfazed by your response. "Ma'am, it’s just a simple game of Ddakji. If you win, I’ll give you 1,000 won. If you lose, you give me 1,000 won."

Your brow furrowed. It reeked of a scam—who just randomly approaches someone at a metro station asking to gamble? But… money was tight. The offer, as absurd as it seemed, lingered in your mind.

As if sensing your hesitation, the man smoothly opened his briefcase, revealing neat stacks of cash alongside a set of folded Ddakji tiles. Your breath hitched at the sight—there was a lot of money in there.

You swallowed. "Fine."

He smiled approvingly and handed you a tile, allowing you to choose between red and blue. You picked blue. With an encouraging nod, he placed the red tile on the ground.

"Go ahead," he gestured.

You took a deep breath, gripped your Ddakji tightly, and slammed it onto the floor with all your might.

Nothing.

The tile didn’t even budge.

You sighed, already feeling regret creeping in. You really didn’t have the money for this.

"You don’t have the money, do you?" The man pouted almost teasingly.

You hesitated before nodding, embarrassed.

"Very well then," he said, his tone still disturbingly calm. "Then you can pay with your body. How does that sound, hmm?"

Your stomach twisted into knots.

"S-Sir, what? No!"

Then—a slap.

A sharp, stinging force against your cheek.

Your head whipped to the side, eyes wide in shock. The pain bloomed almost instantly, a burning heat spreading across your skin. Your heart pounded, breath hitching in your throat as you processed what just happened.

"Every time you lose," the man continued coolly, adjusting his tie as if nothing unusual had occurred, "you’ll receive a slap. And every time you win, you’ll receive the money."

With each throw, another slap landed. Then another. And another.

You weren’t good at this game. That much was clear. Each failed attempt was met with a stinging strike, your cheek growing redder and more swollen with each round. Your fingers trembled as you kept picking up the tile, desperate to win just once.

And then—finally—you flipped it.

A triumphant laugh bubbled from your throat as you jumped to your feet, hand instinctively raising to slap the man back. But before you could, his hand shot out, catching your wrist in a firm grip.

His expression remained unreadable as he pulled out a bill and placed it into your free hand.

Breathless, you blinked down at it, your fingers curling instinctively around the money. Your cheek still throbbed, your body still tense, but… you had won.

"If you’re interested in playing simple games like these," the man said, reaching into his pocket, "for a handsome financial prize, give us a call."

He handed you a sleek card, adorned with eerie geometric shapes. Then, just as smoothly as he arrived, he stood and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

You stared after him before hesitantly scanning the card, fingers brushing over its surface.

Then, without thinking, you slipped it into your pocket.

◇

8:00 PM.

You arrived at your usual meeting spot, spotting Inho waiting for you near the bench where you always met after feeding the cats. You smiled and waved, picking up your pace.

"Hey!" you greeted, breathless but cheerful.

He didn't return your smile. Instead, his eyes immediately locked onto your face, scanning it with an intensity that made you pause. His usual composed expression twisted into a deep frown.

"Y/N… what happened to your face?"

There was something sharp in his tone—concern, frustration, maybe even something else. His fists clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself back.

"Who did this to you? Are your classmates bullying you?"

You let out a short laugh, waving off his worries as if it were nothing more than a funny mishap.

"Nothing like that. Just some freak at the metro station offered to play Ddakji with me and slapped me every time I lost. But also gave me money when I won," you explained, chuckling. The absurdity of the situation still lingered in your mind. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the card the man had given you. "Oh, and look—he gave me this."

As soon as the card left your pocket, Inho's entire demeanor shifted. His body went rigid, his breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it, and for the first time since you met him, his carefully maintained mask cracked. His eyes widened—not just in shock, but in something deeper.

Fear.

Before you could even react, his hand shot out and snatched the card from your fingers.

"Hey! What the hell?!" you yelped.

With swift, almost practiced precision, he ripped it to shreds. Tiny fragments of paper slipped through his fingers like confetti before he threw them into the distance as if simply touching them was dangerous.

You stood there, stunned.

"Why did you do that?!" you demanded, glaring at him.

Inho’s jaw tightened, his expression carefully blank now, but his hands were still tense, as if he was fighting an impulse.

"I’ve seen it before," he said, his voice even, almost too controlled. "When I was a police officer. It’s a pyramid scheme, and they recruit young, naive people this way. They promise easy money, but it’s just a scam. Don’t think too much about it."

The explanation sounded logical. Rational. But something about the way he said it… the way he had reacted before he said it, made you hesitate. He wasn’t just warning you—he was protecting you from something. Something you didn’t understand.

Still, you sighed, the fight leaving your posture. Maybe he was right. Maybe it really was just some elaborate scam. The whole thing had felt too good to be true anyway.

"Hm. I guess I’m too naive," you muttered, eyes lowering to the ground, voice softer now.

At your words, Inho’s gaze softened, the tension in his body unraveling ever so slightly.

And then, unexpectedly, his fingers brushed against your bruised cheek.

You froze.

His touch was gentle—barely there at first, almost as if he was testing whether you'd flinch. But then, with slow, deliberate care, his thumb traced over the reddened skin, skimming lightly over the sore area without applying any pressure. The warmth of his fingertips sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling through you.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could even process the moment, your body reacted on its own. You leaned into his touch—just a little.

It was instinctive. Natural. And yet, it caught you completely off guard.

"I really wish I could just play kids’ games and win enough money to pay off my student debt," you mumbled, pouting slightly.

The words were spoken half-jokingly, but even as they left your lips, something about them felt strangely… ominous. The mere thought of it was ridiculous, absurd even. But still, the idea lingered.

For a moment, Inho's fingers stilled against your cheek. Just for a fraction of a second. Then, almost as if forcing himself to act normal, he resumed his gentle stroking.

You weren’t used to this.

This kind of tenderness.

He exhaled quietly, withdrawing his hand. "Come on," he said, voice softer now. "Let’s get you something to eat. You must be starving."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and started walking, his posture more rigid than usual.

And after a brief pause, you followed.

◇

A couple of weeks had passed since that evening at the train station when you played Ddakji. The whole ordeal had already begun to fade from your mind. These days, you were spending more time with In-ho than ever. He had made it his mission to ensure you reached class safely and without disturbance, escorting you to and from college every day with unwavering reliability.

He became the steady presence you never realized you needed—the comfort you hadn’t had before. With each passing day, new feelings blossomed toward him. Every morning, he made sure you ate breakfast, knowing your habit of skipping it. He paid close attention to your likes and dislikes, catering perfectly to your taste by buying your meals without fail. He even studied with you.

In-ho had a way of breaking down complex subjects so effortlessly that you never felt ignorant for not knowing something. His vast knowledge fascinated you more and more each day—it was as if he knew everything about everything. His presence became second nature to you, a quiet reassurance you found yourself relying on more than you ever expected.

◇

"Y/N."

A gentle shake.

Your body stirred sluggishly as consciousness dragged you back from the depths of sleep. You flinched awake, moving too fast—smack.

"Ow—!"

Your forehead collided with the desk lamp, sending it wobbling dangerously. Inho's hand was on you instantly, steadying the lamp before it could topple over, his other hand moving to rub the sore spot on your head with a smirk of amusement.

"You really should get some rest," he murmured, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your scalp. "We can finish writing tomorrow."

Only then did you fully register where you were—at your desk, papers sprawled out, a half-written essay glowing on your laptop screen. You had been working on it together, but at some point, exhaustion won, and you had dozed off. He must have left for the store to grab snacks, only to return and find you slumped over the desk.

You barely managed a nod before pushing yourself up and stumbling toward your bed. The mattress welcomed you immediately, its softness pulling you deeper into the haze of sleep.

Inho exhaled with a quiet chuckle and turned toward the door, ready to return to his room.

"Inho."

Your voice, barely above a mumble, stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't go."

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he didn’t speak, waiting.

"Stay with me."

You shifted in bed, scooting over to make space for him. There wasn’t much—your bed was small, barely enough for one, but you still made room.

Inho hesitated, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Are you sure? This bed is tiny."

Despite his words, he moved closer, cautiously sitting on the edge. There was something hesitant in his posture, like he didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

You didn’t let him linger there for long.

Without thinking, your hands reached for him, wrapping around his torso, guiding him down beside you. His body tensed for only a fraction of a second before melting into your hold.

And just like that, his arms were around you.

Warm. Protective. Solid.

His grip was firm but gentle as he pulled you closer, your head now resting against his chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart thrummed beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn't expected.

"You should really find someone your age," he murmured, though there was no real weight to the words.

You groaned sleepily in protest, burrowing deeper into his warmth.

He chuckled, the sound a soft rumble against your ear.

And then, in the drowsy lull of exhaustion, your lips parted, barely whispering—

"But I want you."

The words were so quiet, almost incoherent, but he heard them.

You felt his body still for just a moment before his hand resumed its slow, absentminded stroking along your back.

After a pause, you forced your heavy eyelids open, just enough to glimpse him. The dim glow of the moonlight poured through the window, casting soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He looked… beautiful.

Your chest tightened slightly at the thought.

His eyes met yours then, unreadable, but still, his hand never stopped moving—comforting, steady.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s class."

Then, just before you drifted away, you felt it—a press of warm lips against your temple.

A fleeting moment. A quiet reassurance.

Your breathing evened out, your body relaxing entirely against him as sleep reclaimed you.

◇

As morning light filtered through your window, you opened your well-rested eyes—only to feel an immediate sense of wrongness. He wasn’t there. No trace of him anywhere.

Frowning, you scanned the room, your chest tightening with unease. Then, your gaze landed on a small note resting on your desk. You picked it up, your fingers tracing over the elegant handwriting.

"Had some urgent matters. Will be back in six days. —In-ho"

Panic gripped your chest. Had you done something wrong? What happened? Was he okay? A thousand questions swirled in your mind, but none had answers.

You called him—straight to voicemail. Again. And again. Nothing.

Heart pounding, you rushed out of your room, knocking almost desperately on his door. Silence. You returned to your room, checking your phone. Maybe he had texted? He hadn’t.

That day, you didn’t even bother going to class. You just felt… heartbroken. Like the world had collapsed around you, even though he had promised to return in less than a week. You found yourself sitting at your usual bench at the usual hour, waiting. Hoping. Maybe he’d come.

He didn’t.

The days dragged on, each one emptier than the last. The absence of his presence left a hollow ache inside you. But what you didn’t know was that, behind the featureless black mask you weren’t even aware of, he felt the same way.

Now, on the sixth night, you sat on that same bench, waiting. Hours had passed, and there was still no sign of him. Letting out a defeated sigh, the warm night air brushing against your tear-streaked face, you finally stood up, ready to return to your room.

And then—

"Y/N."

The voice made you freeze. Your head snapped around, eyes widening as you met his gaze.

"In-ho."

His name slipped from your lips in a whisper, the tension in your body melting away. He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"Where were you?" you sniffled, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly, afraid he’d disappear again.

"Shh… I’m sorry. Something urgent came up." His voice was low, soothing, yet distant—hiding something. He wanted so badly to preserve your innocence, to keep you blissfully unaware of the double life he led.

"But why? Where did you go?"

"I’ll explain everything later," he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, comforting circles on your back.

Then, in a whisper, "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, and he leaned in.

"May I?"

You nodded, and his lips found yours in a slow, gentle kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, as if he could merge into you—hold you forever.

"I’ll give you everything you ever wanted," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm against your skin.

"Everything."

Your breath hitched.

"I love you," you whispered.

He kissed you again, the words I love you slipping between each kiss.

Did he ever explain where he had been? Of course not. He always danced around the truth with effortless ease, never letting you glimpse the dark reality of his world. What mattered to him was that you remained untouched by the knowledge of the Games—that you stayed blissfully unaware.

But did he keep his promise to give you everything?

Absolutely.

He gave you more than everything. More than money could buy—and everything that money could buy. Even though he knew you weren’t superficial, there was something about seeing you surrounded by luxury that satisfied him. You often wondered where the money came from, but before you could press too hard, he always had a perfectly logical explanation.

And you?

You were head over heels for this man—or perhaps for the version of himself he so carefully curated for you.

[angeldiarybook]

IM DONE PRETENDING LIKE I DONT THINK HE’S FINE AF

@vzp1kl

[crimsonnsstuff]

dark mean inho teasing reader pretty pleasee 🥺🥺

|| In-ho teasing reader ||

You don’t know how it happened, but here you were, on your back, on In-hos bed. He was your neighbor for about 2 years. He was close with your parents. You sometimes went over just so you could play cards with him, and your parents let you, since they were also friends with him.

Your guys go-to game was Uno. He thought you looked so cute, deciding which card to place down while your soft, puffy lips were in between your teeth. “Uno!” You would shout. “Oh, no. I really thought I would win this time!” He says, knowing he let you win just so he could see you jump in excitement, making your tits bounce.

You snap back to reality at the feeling of In-ho sucking on your collar bone. He groans against you, playing with the hem of your skirt. He’s always liked the little outfits you wear, how your thighs and tits look in them. One time, he bought you a pair of thigh-high stockings.

He kisses down your stomach and you squirm, whining. “C’mon! Touch me, Mr In-ho!” You whine out. He pulls back, smiling at you, showing you his perfect white teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He kisses lower, to your belly button. He kisses it softly and you moan gently.

He lifts your skirt up, revealing your panties to him. They were light purple. He recognized them. The same panties you were the day you were outside, playing tennis in your front yard with your friend, on a windy day. The wind just so happened to blow up your skirt a bit. He also just happened to be sitting on his porch, ‘reading’ a book.

He smirks and pulls your skirt down your legs. He cups you through your panties, causing a soft gasp to spill past your lips. He eagerly undoes his belt, pulling his jeans down. You place your hand over his crotch, looking so innocent as you felt his cock twitch under your hand. You bite your lip as you hook your fingers around his boxers and pull them down.

He groans and throws his head back as his fully erect cock slaps against his stomach and bounces. He brings it to your entrance, running it up and down your folds. You grip his shoulders, whining. “Please put it in..” you whimper. “Not yet..” he says, putting just the tip in, making you gasp, only to pull it out. You let out a frustrated groan.

He brings his tip down to your tight, puckered hole, tracing it with his cock. You panic, thinking he’s gonna put it in but he laughs, a laugh that sends a shiver down your spine. He puts the tip back in your pussy, fucking you with just your tip. Your back arches off the bed. You knew this was gonna be a long night of teasing.

[456-is-the-way]

haiii so i was wondering if i could request a fic abt reader x frontman cs ive had this idea for s while now i just cant write it😓😓

so the idea is reader is a daughter of one of the vips and one day reader's father decideds to fund the game by marrying her to frontman if that make sense?? or reader's father made some sort of deal with ilnam (up to you) , and reader is just totally against it at first bcs she thinks the games are cruel but once she spends more time around inho she warms up more and grows to really him and he also warms up to her😣😣🙏🙏 (so its like an arranged marriage, enemies to lovers type shi🤞🤞)

A/n: I LOVE ALL BLOWING UP MY ASK BOX!!! FIRST OFF I LOVE THIS IDEA. So imma write it lmao as stated before I am taking requests in my ask box first! So here is another one. Please let me know if you want to ask for a character from season 1 or 2! NGL needs more Gi-hun requests yall lol!

Trigger warning: N/A

Squid Game Masterlist

In-ho x Reader

The Arrangement

It was no secret to (Y/n) (L/n) of her father's wicked deeds. Since birth, she knew they were in one of the most elite families who not only watched what they called the ‘Squid Game’ but actively held their version of the games. It was a horrid curse (Y/n) from which she could not escape. For many years her father hosted, sponsored, and even made active bets in several games held worldwide. But none of those topped the Korean games is what her father stated for several years. She even had the chance to meet the original creator of the games, an older man named Il-nam. After all the gambling, (Y/n)’s father made one of the most unbelievable bets with the old man. He decided to place the ultimate wager on player 456: his daughter could marry anyone of Il-mans choice.

(Y/n) sat in the room with the other VIPs and her father as the final battle commenced between players 456 and 218. She closed her eyes not able to watch this. (Y/n) understood the tense feelings between the players as she was forced to watch the entire game season unfold. She could not imagine what they both felt, best friends turned against each other. She took a deep breath as her father made her watch. Despite her fate, she honestly hoped 456 won. It almost disgusted (Y/n) how her inner thoughts had rooted for the players. She had favorites just like the VIPS. At the end of the battle the underdog, Gi-hun prevailed.

It was the same day Il-man and her father introduced her to the special man she would be wedded to. “Meet the most important man here. Someone I entrust everything to. You may remove your mask.” Il-man said. (Y/n) had met The Front Man several times before. He had been very attentive to the VIPs but it was obvious (Y/n) had his personal attention. She never thought anything of it because most people gave her special treatment. Once the mask is removed her eyes widen, who knew the man was at least somewhat attractive man.

“I am In-ho. It a pleasure to be marrying you, Ms (Y/n).” He bows.

_1 year later_

The wedding took place only a year after the deal. It was held privately and only the most important officials and elite families were invited. Everything was from the top chefs Korean had to offer, she was respectful of In-ho’s culture and insisted on having a traditional Korean wedding. After the ceremony, they were sent to the luxury oceanfront hotel. She leaned against, In-ho as they were sitting on the balcony. “In-ho, why do you run these horrible games?” Her question was answered with silence unsure of how to answer (Y/n)’s question In-ho turned away. He still was not very open to (Y/n) but he did find her gorgeous and knew it wasnt her choice to partake in the wagers her father deals.

“It was complicated but I know you are stuck with an old man like me so I guess I will tell you. I had been a player in the games before. Back when my wife had been in the hospital. I had been the last one standing. It didn’t matter I was too late. She and my unborn child died… So I took the old man's offer to take this over. He needed someone to inherit the games. Including for me to have… children. He planned I would pass this down. I plan to do that. He was like a father to me and I only wish to make him happy.”

(Y/n) put a hand on In-ho’s chest. She gently cupped his face. “I am sorry In-ho. I promise to be a good wife to you… I couldn’t imagine what you are going through. Come on let's go inside.” (Y/n) kissed him deeply. In-ho eagerly accepted the kiss picking her up. It was no lie he liked the woman and Il-man knew In-ho would need someone like (Y/n) to make him stable.

She honestly felt bad for the man who was forced to particapte in these games only to still lose everything he had. “I know you I think you are very attractive for an ‘old man’. None of this is your fault … I won’t leave you,” She promised combing back his dark brown hair. Perhaps this would be so bad after all.

[ojing-eo-don]

/ur_matt_girl/ found on pinterest

[lieutenantbatshit]

CHAPTER 01 - once you go in, there's no turning back. (hwang in ho x reader)

masterlist | next chapter

----

The sound of baggages rolled to the floor as the familiar smell of Seoul brings you in. You were at the airport, waiting for your suitcase in the baggage claiming platform.

This time, you plan to stay in Seoul for good. You've been away to the country for work, having to work multiple roles in marketing. You felt like you were dominating the world at your hands. Money was never a problem for you, in fact, you could even buy a house in Seoul in just a snap.

For the past years, you kept your studio apartment in Chunghyeon-dong so you could have a place to stay whenever you go back there. In front of your apartment lives the Hwang brothers, In-ho and Jun-ho. You and Jun-ho grew up together, treating him like your little brother. Back then, Jun-ho had a weaker state of health, so playing with him involved a lot of adjustments to his strength. You would look after Jun-ho whenever their parents were away. In those moments, you remember how you and In-ho would share little memories together whenever Jun-ho was taking his afternoon naps. Both of you would watch cartoons on TV, making sure to lower the volume to not wake Jun-ho up.

"Got your nose!" In-ho touched your nose and hid his thumb under his index finger. Being the kid you were, your naivety strikes in. You furrowed your eyebrows and let out a grunt.

"Give it back, oppa!" You said as you try to get his hand, only for him to reach his hand higher, making it harder for you to reach. You grunted as you jumped, trying to reach it. In-ho sticks out his tongue to you as you pull a tantrum.

"Quiet down, Y/N," In-ho said as he dropped his hand to cover your mouth, calming you down. You remember Jun-ho sleeping on the other room. Still, you gave In-ho a glare as he removed his hand. He motions his hand to your nose, giving it a small snap. "Here's your nose back, silly."

You touched your face, playing with the tip of your nose. You stick out your tongue to In-ho to which he only chuckled, putting his hand all over your hair as he messed it up. He grabbed a bag of chips on the table, offering you some. You accepted and turned your attention to the TV. The guy character proposes to his girlfriend, offering her a ring as he gets down on one knee. You gave it a confusing look, not fully understanding the concept of it yet. "Why do they have to kneel when asking to marry someone, oppa?"

In-ho puts his hand on his chin as if to think. He looks up as if there was a thought bubble on the side of his head. "I don't know. Maybe to make it more interesting?"

"Anyone can do that?" You asked, gluing your eyes to the TV as you watched how the girl says yes, wearing the ring on her finger. "You kneel and ask someone to marry you, then that's it?"

In-ho chuckled. "No, silly. Appa says they have weddings."

"Oh," you said, chuckling to yourself. "She looks so happy. Will that make me happy in the future, do you think, oppa?"

In-ho looked at you for a minute, then his face brightened up. In-ho grabbed a piece of paper in one of the notes beside the telephone and a pen. He began to write something on it. Then, he folded the paper into a strip. He looks at you and says, "Give me your hand." You give him yours as he touches your left ring finger, folding the paper around it and twists the end until it fits perfectly. "Does it make you happy then?"

You bring your hand closer to your eye, observing it. Its texture glided through the sides of your finger and you look at In-ho confusingly. "A paper ring?"

"Well, I don't have the real one!" In-ho laughed, earning a laugh from you as well. "Those rings may cost a fortune, it's a privilege you get to have one from me."

You scoffed playfully then looked at the TV, seeing the guy holding flowers as he gave it to the girl. You turned to In-ho again, "Oppa, you don't have flowers."

He thinned his lips and glanced around the living room, looking for something as near as a flower. His eyes stopped at a flower vase placed on top of the kitchen counter. He hurriedly walks over there, picks one up, and returns to you with the flower at hand. He reaches it to you, but you shook your head, much to his confusion. "What, I thought you wanted a flower?"

"That's not how he gave it," you pointed out to the TV to which he looked, seeing the guy hiding the flower from the back first then handing it to the girl, much to the girl's surprise.

In-ho rolled his eyes and sighed. Still, he stood straight and held the flower behind him. Then with a smile, he hands the flower to you. "Happy?"

You ignored his question, too happy to get the flower from his hand. It was a small daisy, holding it on your finger as you giggled. You looked up to In-ho, seeing him smile as he watched you. You stood up and gave him a hug, the flower still on your hand as you kept the paper ring on your finger. "Thank you, In-ho oppa."

You wondered what happened to the brothers as you were apart from them for a long time. You left Seoul when you were nine years old. You remember crying during your last night at the apartment as you never wanted to leave. You just wanted to stay there and be with Jun-ho and In-ho, but you had to move to the US with your family as your appa accepted a job offer there. They wanted you to also be immersed with other cultures as well to give you a lot of advantage to the real world. It wasn't an easy journey as you faced racism in the country, but eventually blended in as years pass by. To your sadness, Jun-ho and In-ho weren't able to go with you to the airport to bid their goodbyes, but you chose to understand. Their family was going through a tough time, especially that Jun-ho has been very ill lately. Instead, you left them both a letter and slipped it at the bottom of their gate, hopefully either of them will be able to read it.

You grabbed your suitcase from the platform and walked through the airport down to the exit, the familiar scent of Seoul coming right at you as you stepped outside. You let out a deep breath and embraced the environment, letting the familiarity run through your body and let out a small smile. You were back home, and you couldn't wait to go back to your apartment.

You held out your hand as you hailed a taxi cab. First thing to do when in Seoul - eat instant noodles in a convenience store. You still remember the store near your apartment, feeling your insides growl as you thought about the taste of kimchi ramen. It's been a long time since you've had one, as the US were more keen on anything fried chicken, fries, and pizza. You missed the taste of kimchi, the one fresh from Korea that you preferred than those in the US.

As you arrived at the convenience store, you thanked the driver and handed out your fare, bowing before exiting the cab. You grabbed your suitcase with you, looking back at the driver to give him another bow. He drove off as you entered the store, the cold breeze of the store hugging you in. Immediately, you grabbed a small basket and filled it with the kimchi ramen instant noodles, kimchi, and a soda.

You settled on your meal as you happily blow out the noodles with your chopsticks, savoring it to your mouth. You let out a small moan, missing the taste of ramen. You looked out the window as you stared into space, thinking of the life you had in here before moving to the US. Though it has been a long time since then, the memories still clung to you realizing the fact that you're back home.

You wondered how In-ho and Jun-ho has been doing. You haven't talked to them in a long time. You don't even know how they look like now as the friendship kind of drifted away because of the distance. Though you could remember how you guys looked like when you were young, but that was it. You kept the paper ring that In-ho made for you on your wallet. You didn't want to forget the friendship or let it die. At least in this way, you still had proof of the amazing friendship you had with the brothers, especially with In-ho.

You remember how In-ho always managed to do something for you. You didn't have to ask, he would simply do it just because. Though you were too young to experience what real love was, but looking back, you realize how both of you were able to experience a genuine, innocent puppy love. You chuckled to yourself as you remember how In-ho always lost when playing paengi chigi. You taught him how to do so, always making sure that he played with his left hand. He wanted to impress you with the ability of doing it with both hands, but you only teased him whenever he tries to do it with his right hand.

Gong-gi was expected to be played by girls a lot, and you always wondered why that's the case. You always sucked at gong-gi, but boy, In-ho was one hell of an expert when playing it. You were more familiar with paengi chigi. In return, In-ho would teach you how to play it. It was odd how both of you always practiced playing these games as if you were competing in an olympic game, but you enjoyed spending time with In-ho. He seemed like he did to.

"Do you think they have an olympics for paengi chigi and gong-gi?" In-ho wondered, rolling the rope all over the top.

"I'm not sure," you shrugged. "But that would be interesting!"

"Let's team up when we get the chance then," In-ho grabbed the top and threw it on the ground, holding it back to make it spin. The top spun around perfectly, earning a smirk from In-ho. You jumped happily, looking as the top perfectly spun on the ground. You see In-ho adjusting his black glasses as he smiled. "You promise to team up with me?" He held out his pinky finger to you, gesturing a promise.

You grinned as you wrapped yours with his, a promise officially made. "I promise!"

A man with a backpack knocks on the window in front of you, snapping you away from your thoughts. You look at him and he waves, earning a confused look from you. You wave reluctantly and sees him rushing to the door, entering the store.

"Noona!" The man called out as he placed his backpack on the table beside you and excitedly sat on the chair next to you. "It's been so long!"

Noona? You remember only one person ever called you that throughout your stay in Seoul.

Your eyes widened upon the realization and felt tears forming in your eyes. You held your arms wide as a motion for a hug. "Jun-ho!" You motioned his body to hug you, wrapping your arms around him tightly. "Oh my, look how you've grown!"

"I missed you so much, noona. Since when did you come back? A lot has changed here since you left," you hear Jun-ho sniff, pulling back from you as he wipe his tears. You gave him a comforting smile. You gestured to offer your ramen, but he politely declined.

"I just arrived an hour ago," you told him. "I'm staying for good. Besides, I missed you and In-ho so much!"

You saw Jun-ho's smile slowly fade, much to your confusion. Then as if he realized it, he regained his smile and nodded. You knew he was so happy to see you, having taken care of him when you were young when he was ill. You and Jun-ho catch up on lost times, updating each other on what happened after you left Seoul.

You put your hand in shock when you found out about In-ho. You couldn't imagine how In-ho handled his situation - his wife passing, drowned in debt, borrowing money only to be taken as a bribe, fired from his job. You always looked up to In-ho who became such a protective and loving brother to Jun-ho, only to be treated by life so harshly. You also found out In-ho missing for the past few years. Jun-ho averted your gaze as he mentioned it, earning a gut feeling from you that he was trying to hide something.

You didn't want to pry, but you couldn't help but feel concerned for In-ho. Maybe he left somewhere to clear his thoughts - it was understandable knowing about the things he had to endure. If anything, you know how Jun-ho cared for his older brother deeply. He mentioned joining the police force and being a detective because of In-ho, looking up to his old brother as an inspiration. In-ho, being the selfless person he is, donated his kidney to Jun-ho. You remembered how limited the time was for Jun-ho when playing outside - he was in constant care then. And now, seeing him all grown up and being the amazing person he is now, you can't help but shed a tear. You looked at him with a smile, telling him how proud you were of him.

"We got your letter," Jun-ho said as he grabbed his wallet from his backpack, picking up the letter that was hidden on the inside pocket. "I can't believe you didn't tell us that you had to leave, Y/N. How dare you leave without a prior notice." He pouted and you chuckled, pinching a bit of his cheek.

"I guess I've always sucked at goodbyes, huh?" You said as you take a sip of your soda. "I wish I was able to give you both a proper goodbye instead of writing a letter. For what it's worth, I kept the paper ring that In-ho gave me so I couldn't forget our friendship."

Jun-ho furrowed his eyebrows as if to think, then let out a sigh of relief. "So, that's what hyung has been saying..." You raised an eyebrow in confusion and he continued, "Hyung mentioned something about a paper ring. When we got your letter, he immediately ran out to your apartment in an attempt to at least find you. Too bad you already left. He was crying, noona."

You thinned your lips, imagining how In-ho must've felt when you left. You didn't think that you made such a big impact to In-ho as much as he did on you. The feeling has been mutual, and you couldn't quite believe that the feelings you had over the years were real. All this time, you thought it has all been one-sided.

"For some reason, he always requested to have daises in our house," Jun-ho continued. "I couldn't figure it out then. I asked eomma about it, and she said that hyung was experiencing his first heartbreak." He shook his head, chuckling as he did so. You listened intently as you feel butterflies fly around your stomach. "Eomma told him that if the time is right, he would see you again."

"I guess I have to work harder on finding him, hmm?" You said as you looked out the window. "I wonder how he met his wife. I'm sure she seemed lovely."

"No need to be jealous, noona," Jun-ho chuckled, earning an eye roll from you. "But it's true, she was lovely. In fact, she was a lot like you. You would've loved her."

You smiled, thinking how In-ho probably felt happy when he found someone for him. Though it's bittersweet how his wife passed, along with their unborn child. You hoped that in any way, In-ho was still doing fine. You wished for him to find the happiness he deserves, may it be not here in Seoul.

"Do you have any leads where In-ho is?" You asked Jun-ho, who seemed to flinch at your question. You shot him a confused look as he stared into space, but then he shook his head as if shaking away his thoughts.

"No," his lips twitched. If there was anything that you didn't forget over the years is how much of a bad liar the brothers were. You looked away, silence rushing between you and Jun-ho. There was something going on, but as you observed Jun-ho's eyes, guilt was evident right there and then. When you opened your mouth to say something, Jun-ho turned his eyes to your suitcase. "Noona, I can help you settle at home. Would you like that?" He excitedly grabs it and positions it next to him instead.

You grinned as you finished your ramen, quickly damping your mouth with a tissue as you finished. "Of course, Jun-ho. Let's go."

----

A/N: And finally, here it is! This is my first time writing a series on Tumblr. I'm planning on publishing this to AO3 as well as I see a lot (like really, A LOT) of In-ho fanfics, I couldn't miss out on it! I've written fanfics on Wattpad before on different fandoms so this isn't all new to me. Still, I hope you guys enjoy my writing! Feel free to leave out your thoughts and I'll gladly interact with each and everyone of you. 🫶

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

masterlist | next chapter

[lexveryreal]

free will is great

ljj is body TEA he's so body goals

[manchicasanchez]

"I love you dangerously..." 💀🩸

Straight 457 🫰❣️🔪

He's a jealous psycho.

[filthygalli]

I’m licking my screen rn👅👅👅

Link

[crimson-moonie]

its actually so funny to me, that canonically in-ho, officer and salesman went casually fishing together

[kswwxr]

[brainmaggotzzzz]

teachers pet

professor!hwang inho x female reader

cw: daddy issues, descriptions of trauma, bullying, age gap, body shaming, reader is said to be 19

(no games au, most likely inho is kinda out of character, slow burn)

requests?:yes!

word count: 14.7k

It wasn’t like you were beaten senseless, starved, or subjected to unspeakable horrors. No, nothing so extreme. Just the occasional slap—one you always deserved, of course. You should have washed the dishes. You should have studied harder. A bad grade, a forgotten chore—each mistake met with a swift hand, a lesson in discipline, nothing more. That wasn’t abuse. That was love.

Daddy dearest only wanted the best for you, wanted you to be diligent, intelligent, pure. That’s why boys were off-limits. And when you defied him? When you dared to seek affection elsewhere? The punishment was swift—a slap across the face, the sting lingering long after the moment passed. The door to your room vanished soon after, stripped away as if privacy itself was a privilege you had yet to earn.

"I do this because I love you, my sweet Y/N," he murmured, brushing away the tears that spilled from your burning-red cheek. His touch, almost tender. His gaze, almost affectionate. A man of contradictions—cruelty and kindness woven together so seamlessly that even you couldn’t untangle them. Perhaps he did love you, in his own twisted way. Perhaps he believed his methods were justified.

And you? You were obsessed. Obsessed with earning his approval, his validation—his rare and conditional love. It became your full-time job. During "work hours," you performed flawlessly: straight A’s, disciplined behavior, a carefully curated indifference toward romance. But when the shift ended? When the weight of his expectations momentarily lifted? You slipped out through your window, into the night, into a world that didn’t demand perfection. You went on dates, you kissed boys who whispered the sweet words you ached to hear. And every time, you let yourself believe in them. And every time, you were left with nothing but heartbreak.

◇

You applied to countless colleges, but in the end, Daddy dearest made the choice for you—only the finest institutions, of course. After all, you had excelled in your final exams, just as he had demanded. For the past year, he had ruled over you with an iron fist, his words sharp and unforgiving. Every evening, he loomed over your desk as you studied, reminding you—no, drilling into you—that without a prestigious degree, you would become nothing. A failure. A stupid, useless whore, just like your mother.

And he had been right about Mom, hadn’t he? She had abandoned you for some pathetic man she met online, never once looking back. Sure, she had written letters—fragile attempts at connection—but they never reached you. The moment he spotted them in the mailbox, his lips curled into something resembling a smile as he casually crumpled the paper, discarding it like trash.

"She's a drug addict, probably living in some crackhouse now, my little Y/N," he had said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She probably just wants to beg you for money. Let's not waste time on her idiotic mail." His large hand patted your head, the gesture almost affectionate.

"But—" you had started, your voice small, uncertain.

He silenced you with a single glance. "See? That’s what happens when you leave me. When you stop listening. Look at what she became. You don’t want to end up like her, do you?"

You forced a small, obedient smile, nodding. Trying to believe him. Wanting to believe him. Because the alternative—the thought that your mother had truly wanted to reach you, that she had never stopped thinking about you—was too painful to bear.

His gaze flickered down, scanning your figure with the same calculating eyes he used when assessing your report cards.

"You’ve gained weight," he remarked, almost offhandedly, but his voice carried a quiet edge, a thinly veiled disgust. "You wouldn’t want to be a fat pig at college, would you? But I suppose with your mother’s genetics, it’s inevitable."

His expression twisted into something unreadable. Almost concern—but not quite. No, that wasn’t concern. It was something colder. A quiet, meticulous chipping away at whatever confidence you had managed to salvage. Because even after acing your exams, after sacrificing sleep, after giving every ounce of yourself to meet his impossible expectations, you still weren’t enough. You never would be.

The approval he had granted you, fleeting and conditional, had already evaporated, replaced by yet another flaw for him to carve into. Another piece of you to dismantle.

But still, you craved it. His validation. His love—if you could even call it that. It was a hunger that never dulled.

"I'll lose weight, Daddy," you whispered, offering him a faint, fragile smile. Hoping, just this once, it would be enough.

◇

You got in. The best university in the entire country—a crown jewel of academia. The campus was breathtaking, almost unreal, like it belonged in a movie. Ivy-covered buildings, sun-drenched courtyards, students who were not only brilliant but effortlessly beautiful. Professors whose names echoed in academic journals, whose brilliance seemed to radiate from their very presence. And the parties—wild, glittering affairs that spilled into the early hours, promising release, rebellion, and belonging.

But you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. An impostor wearing someone else’s skin. As if your acceptance had been a clerical error, a slip in the system. Like you didn’t belong here, hadn’t truly earned your place, even though you had bled for those grades, sacrificed every piece of yourself to get in. The thought haunted you: This place is too good for me.

You just wanted to be liked. Wanted people to smile when you entered the room, to feel wanted, to matter. Even if it meant whittling yourself down to a version of you that didn’t feel like you at all. Your preferences, your personality, your voice—they blurred and shifted, rearranged themselves depending on who was watching. You became fluid, formless. A mirror reflecting whatever the people around you wanted to see.

So you danced to music that grated your nerves. Laughed at jokes that didn’t make sense to you. Drank things that tasted like poison. None of it mattered—what mattered was the approval, the acceptance, the feeling of finally being enough.

Your existence was almost entirely performative. You wore masks like second skin—smiling when you wanted to scream, nodding when you wanted to vanish. It was muscle memory by now, born from years of rehearsing the role of the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect nothing.

But there was one place, one hour in your carefully curated schedule, where something real slipped through the cracks. Literature class.

It wasn’t just a class—it was a sanctuary. A place where your voice, long silenced by your father’s rigid expectations, finally had room to breathe. Where your thoughts weren’t graded against how obedient or pure or presentable they were, but by how honest, how insightful, how yours they felt. You wrote review essays that dug into the marrow of the texts, not because you were supposed to—but because, for once, you wanted to say something. You wrote short stories with a voice you didn’t even know you had, and in those pages, you found slivers of the self you’d buried under years of silence and compliance.

And then there was Professor Hwang.

Stern. Disciplined. Controlled. He ran the classroom like a ship’s deck—there was no room for mediocrity, no tolerance for laziness, no softened edges. His feedback was brutal in its honesty, but fair. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t fawn. And that only made you want his praise more.

At first, it was purely academic. But the need for his approval began to feel familiar—uncomfortably so. Not like the way you sought to be liked at parties, or the way you’d contort yourself to be desired. No, this was deeper. Older.

You wanted him to see you. Not as a girl. Not even as a student. But as someone worthy. Someone with a mind that mattered. Someone who could impress him.

Every time he underlined a sentence and scribbled a restrained “good insight,” your heart ached in a way you knew too well. The way it did when your father used to glance at your report card, nod stiffly, and mutter, “Finally doing something right.” You told yourself this was different—but it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because you weren’t just craving academic validation. You were chasing the ghost of a father who taught you love had to be earned. That you were never enough until he said so. And now, you were chasing that same impossible feeling—through red ink and curt nods, through the quiet dignity of a man who would never give affection freely, but might just give you respect if you proved yourself enough times.

“I just want him to like my writing,” you told yourself. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about the writing. It was about being seen. It was about being good enough for someone.

And that hunger—it never really left.

◇

“Good job, as per usual.”

Professor Hwang handed you your graded essay without so much as a glance. His voice was even, expression unreadable, his hand steady as he moved down the row. But the moment the paper touched your desk—his handwriting scrawled across the top in red ink, those simple words—Good job—your chest swelled with something dangerously close to euphoria.

You felt weightless. Dizzy. High. As if you'd inhaled something sweet and rare. That brief moment—barely two seconds of acknowledgment—meant more than it should have. He hadn’t even looked at you, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t done anything, really. But it didn’t matter. You were seen. Not for your face, not for your social status, not for how well you performed obedience—but for your mind.

And that meant everything.

You watched him move down the row, his long strides measured and composed, his sharp profile calm with quiet confidence. He carried himself with purpose, intellect radiating from every movement, and you found yourself unable to look away. You studied the furrow between his brows, the set of his jaw, the way he paused just briefly between students—efficient, no wasted energy. A man who didn’t indulge in softness, who didn’t offer approval freely.

Which made it all the more intoxicating when he gave it to you.

You were so deep in it—so completely absorbed in watching him—that you barely registered your friend’s voice beside you.

“Y/N?” she snapped her fingers in front of your face. “Hello? Gosh, I’m talking to you.”

You blinked, shaken out of your haze, and turned to her. She was pouting, her essay crumpled in her manicured hand. “I didn’t pass again. This is some fucking bullshit.”

You gave her a soft, practiced smile, slipping easily back into your usual role. The supportive friend. The fixer.

“It’ll be alright,” you said gently. “We’ve got another essay due Tuesday, and I’m sure you’ll do great on that one.”

She tilted her head, eyes suddenly wide and sweet with that familiar, calculated look. “Can you help me?”

There it was again—that smile. The one that had you doing most of her coursework in exchange for proximity to her world. She was popular, magnetic. Everyone wanted to be around her, to orbit her light. And because you were her right hand, you were seen, known, accepted. Not fully. Not truly. But enough.

It was a trade—you offered your intellect, your time, your energy, and in return, you got a borrowed kind of status. People greeted you in hallways. You were invited to parties. You were liked.

And that mattered. Maybe too much.

“Of course,” you said, smiling again. Always smiling.

You handed her your paper. You’d help her. You always did. Because performing was second nature now—whether for a professor’s approval or a friend’s affection. And as long as someone, anyone, kept saying “good job,” you could keep pretending it was enough.

◇

“Hey, Y/N.”

Seojin barely glanced up as she spoke, her attention fixed on the small compact mirror she held in one hand, the other delicately gliding lip gloss across her already perfectly painted lips.

You walked over to the library table she had claimed as her personal throne, offering a soft, practiced smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag. “Hi, Seojin.”

Sliding into the seat across from her, you cleared your throat, voice light but tentative. “So... you said you needed help writing the essay? Which book did you pick?”

She didn’t look up. She was too busy smacking her lips, checking the shine. “I didn’t really pick one yet,” she muttered. Then, a beat later, “Oh! Maybe we could do it on... ugh, I don’t know... Harry Potter?”

You blinked. “The prompt is about character transformations, sure, but... it had to be a book published in the 1950s,” you said, offering a small, polite laugh. You hated correcting her.

Seojin groaned dramatically, finally tossing the mirror into her designer tote. “Gosh, does he always have to give us such specific criteria? Like, who does he think he is?” she grumbled, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking as if she were personally offended by academia itself.

You gave her a small smile, trying to keep the edge of exasperation from showing. “Maybe Lolita could work? It was published in ’55, and the psychological complexity is—”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, that love story!”

You flinched, your stomach knotting. “It’s... not a love story,” you corrected gently, voice quieter now. “Even Nabokov said it’s a psychological horror, not a romance.”

“Whatever,” she interrupted flatly, already bored of the conversation. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write it?”

You hesitated. “I was thinking... maybe we could write it together? Mr. Hwang’s super analytical, not like other professors. He’ll know if it’s not your voice.” Your words were careful, deliberate. You were trying to plant the seed of effort, of ownership, without sounding accusatory.

Finally, Seojin looked at you. Her wide, doll-like eyes softened into something that mimicked vulnerability. “Y/N,” she said, dragging out your name like a plea, “please? Just this once. You’re such a good friend, okay?” Her voice was syrupy, sweet, her expression dipped in practiced desperation.

You looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, you felt the sting of being used. Of being convenient. But the weight of her words settled like a chain around your neck. Good friend. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Helpful. Reliable. Quiet.

Just like you were with your father.

You felt yourself folding again, like paper.

“Fine,” you said softly, your smile mechanical.

Because being needed—even for the wrong reasons—still felt better than not being seen at all.

◇

Mr. Hwang moved down the aisle with his usual calm precision, a stack of graded essays in hand. He didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he placed the crisp paper onto your desk—your name written neatly in the corner, an A circled in bold red ink near the top.

Your heart fluttered with quiet pride, your fingers brushing over the grade like it might vanish. But the warmth of that triumph evaporated the second you glanced at Seojin.

Her eyes sparkled, lips already curled into a grin as she flipped her essay over, no doubt expecting praise. The smile vanished.

F.

Her whole face changed—her brow twitched ever so slightly, lips pressing into a hard, thin line. She stared at the grade as if it were a personal betrayal, her jaw locked tight.

Your stomach dropped.

“You two,” Mr. Hwang’s voice rang out flatly, cool and commanding, “stay after class.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just moved on, handing back the rest of the essays like nothing happened.

Seojin didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But the air around her turned to ice. She didn’t look at you until the moment Mr. Hwang passed her by. And when she did, it was with fury beneath a thin mask of calm. Her anger simmered just beneath her flawlessly applied makeup, rage flickering behind her big, empty lashes.

“You fucking bitch,” she hissed, low and venomous. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted me to fail, wrote some pretentious bullshit so I’d get embarrassed. I should’ve known you were fucking useless.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No—Seojin—I didn’t—I swear I tried my best,” you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. Your voice cracked, small and shaky. Panic bloomed in your chest like fire. You felt like a little girl again, fumbling for a defense while someone older and louder ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

She scoffed. Loud enough to draw a glance from the next table over. “Shut your traitor ass up. You’re done for here.”

You swallowed hard, your body stiff with shame. The rest of the class blurred, every tick of the clock louder than Mr. Hwang’s lecture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. Your fingers clenched and unclenched in your lap. Every shift of Seojin beside you felt like a warning. You barely blinked, afraid that if you did, the walls would close in.

◇

After class, the door shut quietly behind the last student.

“So, what’s wrong with my essay?” Seojin demanded, arms crossed, her voice like a whip crack.

Mr. Hwang stood near his desk, his posture calm, precise. He clasped his hands behind his back, his tailored suit perfectly in place, his gaze cold.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to the paper in his hand and read aloud, voice smooth and precise:

‘Her transformation is not a blossoming, but a decay—Lolita, twisted into a caricature of innocence, becomes both victim and symbol, and yet never loses the ghost of the child she was forced to leave behind.’

“A terrific essay,” he added, tone still even. “Truly, one of the best I’ve read in years.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweater. The compliment sent a flicker of warmth through you—but it was poisoned by the context.

“So what’s the problem, huh?” Seojin snapped, her jaw tense, arms tightening across her chest.

“The problem, Miss Kang,” he said coolly, “is that this isn’t your work.”

“Yes it is!” she spat, stepping forward, her posture tense like a coil. “Y/N, say it. Admit that it’s mine!”

Her eyes twitched with desperation, her voice cracking.

You looked at her, then at Mr. Hwang, then down at the floor. Something inside you broke a little.

“...It’s hers,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Mr. Hwang said nothing at first. He only nodded slightly. “Very well,” he murmured, stepping closer to the desk. “Then, Miss Kang, since it’s yours—you’ll have no trouble defining the word ‘ephemerality,’ which you used with such elegance in your second paragraph.”

The room went silent.

Her smile faltered. Her eye twitched again. She said nothing.

“This tells me everything I need to know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Please leave. I will raise the issue with the academic board.”

Seojin turned on you, her fury now untethered. “This is your fault!” she seethed, jabbing her finger into your shoulder. You flinched, tension locking up every part of your body. Her perfectly sculpted expression was twisted with pure loathing.

She stormed out, designer bag swinging angrily at her side.

You took a step to follow, your legs numb.

“Not you, Miss L/N,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice cutting clean through your daze. “I’d like a word.”

Your blood ran cold. For a moment you just stood in silence, before silently walking closer to the professor.

"I'm very disappointed, Miss L/N."

His voice was steady, measured—devoid of anger, but somehow that made it worse. His expression remained unreadable, composed like always. But to you, it felt like a thousand silent reprimands.

"From a bright mind which I presumed yours to be," he continued, calmly folding his arms behind his back, "I expected wiser actions."

You felt something sink deep inside you. That one word—disappointed—struck harder than any insult, any grade, any punishment ever could. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, gripping the hem of your sleeve.

You had disappointed him.

The man whose rare nods and quiet praise had meant more to you than any applause. The only adult who made you feel seen, not as a doll molded by expectation, but as someone capable.

“I-I apologize,” you stammered, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. You didn’t deserve to.

“I just wanted to help her,” you added, almost defensively, though your voice cracked by the end of it.

One of his eyebrows lifted subtly. “You should think more of helping yourself,” he said, voice unflinching. “Your little antic nearly landed you on the path to academic expulsion.”

You flinched at the word expulsion. Your heart thudded dully in your chest.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry. I—I did wrong.” Then, with a nervous bow of your head, “Thank you for… appreciating my essays.” You turned, already walking toward the door. His presence made you feel too exposed. Too small. And he was always so stern—so no-nonsense—that it seemed futile to even ask for mercy.

But his voice stopped you cold.

“Not so quick.”

You turned around, startled, clutching your bag tighter. He was watching you now, one brow slightly raised. “Aren’t you going to at least try to fight for your deserved spot here?”

You blinked, stunned.

Why would you?

You’d failed him. Let your “friend” down—if Seojin could even be called that. And socially? You were already dead. Word would spread. You could see the whispers starting, the side-eyes, the snickering in class. And then—your father. If he found out… no, when he found out… you’d be as good as buried.

So you laughed. Just a soft, cracked sound. Self-deprecating. Hollow. “I’m done for anyway, Professor.”

He didn’t return your smile.

“Not necessarily,” he said, still measured, still calm—but something in his voice carried weight. Possibility. A thread of hope, tightly wound in control. “I haven’t brought the matter to the academic board. Not yet.”

You blinked. “…You haven’t?”

“No,” he said simply. “Because there’s one way you can redeem yourself.”

Your eyes widened slightly. A flicker of something returned to your posture—hope, fear, disbelief.

“H-how?”

“There will be a literature and writing competition hosted by the university and its partners,” he explained, his tone firm but not unkind. “A prestigious event. You’ll be given a prompt and expected to craft a sophisticated essay or analysis on the spot, drawing from a selection of fifteen pre-assigned texts. The book will be chosen for you at random. It’s intense. Demanding. Only a handful of students qualify.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.

“I believe,” he said, pausing deliberately, “you’re the best student I can sign up for it. And the only one I’m willing to personally mentor through the preparation process.”

Your heart pounded.

He believed in you. After all this. After you’d fumbled, compromised yourself—he still saw something worth salvaging.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away.

You’d chased your father’s validation for years like a lost child wandering an empty hallway. But this—this was different. Mr. Hwang’s validation didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t twisted with cruelty or control. It was offered in the form of challenge, belief, and discipline.

And suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to prove him right.

“…I’ll do it,” you said softly, a new resolve weaving into your voice. “I won’t let you down.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable. Then he nodded, once.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll send you the reading list tonight. We begin Monday.”

◇

You walked through campus with a small, flickering smile tugging at your lips. The trees swayed gently under the weight of golden afternoon light, and for once, the breeze didn’t feel cold. Your thoughts danced around books and prompts, essay structures and literary symbolism. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you had a direction—like you had something to prove that wasn't rooted in desperation but in purpose.

You were going to make Mr. Hwang proud. You were going to redeem yourself.

And thankfully, when you returned to your dorm, you wouldn’t have to see Seojin’s smug face or anyone else from that so-called friend group—a group that only ever loved you in exchange for something. Help. Compliance. Silence.

But just as your foot hovered over the threshold of your dorm building, a sharp tug yanked you backward by the wrist.

Your breath caught in your throat as your body twisted to face her.

Seojin.

Lip gloss perfect. Nails razor-sharp. Eyes dark with rage.

“You little backstabbing bitch,” she hissed, her grip tightening.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Let go of me,” you said, voice trembling, but not weak.

She didn’t.

“You made me look like an idiot,” she snapped. “You set me up. I should’ve known better than to trust some pathetic nobody with daddy issues and a victim complex.”

The words landed like darts. And yet, they didn’t surprise you. Not really.

Your throat tightened. That smile you’d worn just minutes ago had long since vanished.

“I tried to help you,” you shot back, voice sharp with something unfamiliar—defensiveness, maybe. Dignity, even. “I stayed up all night writing that essay. You didn’t even read it.”

“I don’t need to read your boring-ass essays,” she snapped. “I needed you to make me look good. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

A wave of shame flooded you—but beneath it, something stirred. Something angrier.

“I’ve done everything for you,” you said, barely above a whisper, but the words came out jagged. “You needed notes, I gave them. You needed answers during tests, I whispered them. You needed someone to do your work, I was stupid enough to say yes.”

She blinked, caught off guard for half a second. But her face twisted again.

“You always acted like you were just so grateful to be around me,” she sneered. “Don't act high and mighty now. You were nothing without me. You still are.”

You inhaled sharply.

That old voice in your head—the one that sounded like your father’s—wanted to agree with her. She’s right. You are nothing. A shadow. An imposter. A weak, needy little thing.

But now… now there was something else inside you. Something that had been watered in the cracks of Mr. Hwang’s classroom. In the underline of a “well done.” In the idea that maybe, just maybe, your thoughts had value beyond how well they pleased others.

“I’d rather be nothing on my own than a empty, shallow specimen of a human being like yourself” you said, voice shaking, but clear.

Her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened. Before you knew it, a sharp slap met your cheek.

◇

A whole week had passed since you made the decision—no, the devotion—to study for the contest. And every single evening  since, you had spent hunched over books and essays in Mr. Hwang’s office or the dim university library, those were your outside class preparation sessions.

The campus halls had grown colder, not literally, but in the way eyes glanced past you now. The whispers that once clung to your footsteps like perfume had turned sour. The same people who once called you “sweet” or “genius” now muttered traitor, desperate, attention whore.

You didn’t care anymore.

Because you’d rerouted your hunger—for love, for attention, for worth. You no longer scattered it across campus, or threw it like pennies into a social fountain. You’d honed it. Sharpened it. Aimed it entirely at one person.

Mr. Hwang.

Because he saw you.

And that was all you needed.

His attention wasn't like the fleeting friendships, or that affection you would get from boys back "home", not even your father's conditional approval. It felt grounding. Like worship. Like every sentence you wrote existed for him to read, underline, and silently nod at.

And tonight, he sat across from you in the quiet office, reading your preparation essay with that same piercing stillness he always had. The harsh fluorescent light above cast shadows under his eyes, made the stern lines of his face sharper. There was no softness in him—but God, didn’t that make your craving for his approval even worse?

He turned the page with elegant precision, his eyes scanning your words. Then he paused.

“‘It is not the monster in the forest they fear most, but the part of themselves that would welcome the beast as a savior.’” he read aloud, his voice low, deliberate.

He looked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “That line… it’s particularly well written. And your insight is uncommon. But I can’t help but wonder—what exactly do you mean by that?”

You blinked, then allowed the smallest, sly smile to tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you began, voice casual but calculated, “sometimes survival looks an awful lot like surrender. And monsters? They usually wear the face of someone offering a solution.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then something shifted in his face—barely perceptible, but there. A soft twitch in the corner of his lips.

A smirk.

Fleeting. Rare.

But it was there.

“Interesting,” he said simply, returning to the page, though you swore you saw his gaze linger just a second too long.

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, not quite with thrill, but something in between. That small reaction from him had lit you up more than any compliment you’d ever received. And you weren’t sure what disturbed you more: how good it felt… or how badly you wanted to earn more.

◇

"My sweet Y/N,"

"I miss you every day. I wish I could’ve been better to you. I wish I could go back in time and take you away with me from that manipulative monster."

"I know you probably don’t want to speak to me, since you never responded to any of my previous letters..."

"I found out you got into a great college. I’m so proud of you."

"But I wish you could know—really know—that no matter what he told you, I always loved you. And I always will. My door is open for you, anytime. I’d love for you to meet my family. Me and my partner are having our second baby soon. How exciting!"

"Love, Mom."

You clutched the letter in your sweaty palms, the edges bending under the pressure of your grip. Your eyes were burning. You weren’t sure if it was grief or rage. Maybe both.

So she wasn’t a junkie.

She wasn’t living in a crackhouse like your father used to say, smugly, as he tossed her letters into the trash with a patronizing pat on your head.

And still, instead of relief, it stung.

She had a family. She had another child. Another child she gets to raise, to tuck in at night, to protect. You were the forgotten draft, a false start. You weren’t invited back into her life. You were invited to witness it.

She built a life without you.

And now, she reached out like it was easy. Like the years didn’t leave a scar.

Bitterness curdled in your stomach. You didn’t cry. You just... grabbed your pen.

You needed to bleed onto paper. To scream in ink. To claw your way out of that bitter void you’d been dropped into again.

The next assignment was open topic. Anything that explored mother-daughter relationships.

How fitting.

You chose a lesser-known novel, White Oleander, not the easiest read. Dark, poetic, layered with themes of toxic maternal bonds, abandonment, and emotional survival. It resonated deeply.

This time, you didn’t plan every word like a chess game. You didn’t even edit. You wrote. Pen scratching hard enough to almost pierce the page, the rhythm desperate, like your hands were working faster than your brain could even catch up. And when you were done... it was raw. Ugly. Beautiful.

◇

The next day, Mr. Hwang sat across from you, your essay in hand. His eyes scanned it in silence, his expression unreadable, as always. You waited—nervous, but a bit proud. This was different than your usual writing. This was you, naked on the page.

Finally, he looked up.

"Interesting," he said, tapping the corner of the paper. “Your word choices carry emotional intensity. The novel you selected—ambitious. White Oleander, not commonly chosen, but it demands emotional courage. I’m impressed."

He paused, then flipped to a highlighted paragraph, reading it out loud.

“‘It is easier to hate a mother who hits you than one who kisses you goodbye and never comes back.’”

His eyes didn’t leave the page. “Your insight into the mother’s abandonment… It’s as though you experienced it yourself. Many would argue that the mother is the sole villain, but you managed to... soften that verdict. You explored the daughter’s pain without sacrificing complexity.”

You didn’t mean to speak aloud. You didn’t even know the words were forming in your throat.

“Takes one to know one,” you murmured bitterly.

He raised his head slowly, brow lifting. “I’m sorry?” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it held weight.

You blinked rapidly. “Nothing. I'm sorry, Professor. I got distracted.”

A blush crept up your neck. You hated how exposed you felt. You wanted to crawl back into your mind and slam the door shut.

But then, as if pulled into his own thoughts, he stood from his chair and paced slowly toward the window, his arms crossed loosely. His gaze fixed somewhere outside.

“Miss L/N,” he said thoughtfully, “writing is an art form. And you know what they often say to painters?”

You looked up. “Paint what—”

He didn’t even have to finish.

“—Paint what you know,” you said, completing it softly.

He turned his head and gave you something so rare you almost didn’t recognize it: a ghost of a smile. Not quite pride. Not quite amusement. Just… quiet acknowledgment.

“Van Gogh painted from the raw chaos of his life. Frida Kahlo laid her suffering bare in brushstrokes. The list goes on. Your canvas is paper—and I, personally, would be very curious to see what you write... not about others. But about yourself. The kind of writing that doesn’t just analyze—but reveals. Unapologetically.”

You blinked at him, unsure if your heart was pounding out of anxiety or... something else. Your fingers twitched over your notebook.

He took a few slow steps towards you.

“I believe you have potential,” he said finally, voice steady, low. “The kind of potential that others one day analyze. Not the other way around.”

It was the highest praise you'd ever received. But it wasn’t just that. It was him saying it. And it felt like something dangerous blossomed quietly in your chest.

You swallowed, hard.

“Then I’ll try to write it,” you said softly, eyes meeting his.

“No,” he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. “You will.”

◇

Something had shifted.

You didn’t just crave his academic praise anymore. You didn’t just want to be the perfect little student, the bright mind he guided and mentored. No—now you wanted him to see you. Really see you. As something more than a grade on paper. Something more than a pair of eyes across the desk.

So, today, you chose a short skirt—the one that accentuated the shape of your legs—and a fitted top that traced your waist like it was designed to worship it. It was subtle enough not to scream for attention, but deliberate enough that it whispered: look at me.

Your father’s voice had long ago sunk its venom into your self-worth. The way he used to dissect your appearance with a bitter tongue—too much this, not enough that—had left cracks in your mirror. But today, when you passed your reflection, you didn’t flinch. Because even with those words echoing from the past, the truth stood firm: you were beautiful.

And not just beautiful. Powerful.

You walked into class like you weren’t still haunted. Like your reputation wasn’t shredded by the likes of Seojin and her clique. The very same people who spray-painted snake across your dorm door, who left gum in your books and whispered behind your back.

But now?

Now, they looked.

Even the ones who mocked you days ago went silent when you walked by. Some stared. Some murmured. One even whistled low under his breath.

It was empowering. But still—it wasn’t for them.

You only wanted one person to look, you wanted him to notice- the same way you noticed how he doesn't have a ring on his finger.

You took your usual seat, not too far from the front, where you could observe Mr. Hwang with ease. Your pen danced across your notebook, dutiful and precise—but your eyes… they were on him.

The way he spoke about literature with such calm conviction, the way he would walk slowly across the classroom as if his thoughts guided his steps—the way his hands moved while he explained a passage from Crime and Punishment, the way his fingers tapped on the edge of the podium as he paused, choosing his words—

And then, his gaze flicked up. Just for a moment.

He looked at you.

Not at the class. Not past you. At you.

And then, just as quickly, he broke eye contact, returning to his notes.

But your heart didn’t care. It noticed. And it raced, cheeks warm, knees weak beneath the desk.

You couldn’t wait for your next prep session with him. Alone. Close. Seen.

You were still staring, maybe a little too dreamily, when a soft voice cut through the air near your ear.

"You really think that tight little outfit’s gonna make him want you?” Seojin whispered venomously from behind, her lips barely moving.

You flinched—not from fear, but rage. She said it with a fake smile plastered on her face, eyes still on the board. The casual cruelty of it made your skin crawl.

You didn’t look back at her. But your hand gripped your pen tighter.

No. You didn’t dress for him to want you. You dressed to remind yourself that you were not small. Not weak. Not invisible.

You were reclaiming the attention that had been taken from you—by your father’s contempt, by your mother’s absence, by the lies, the abandonment, the betrayal.

And if Mr. Hwang’s eyes lingered just a little longer next time—

Maybe you'd finally believe you were worth being looked at.

◇

For the contest preparation that day, you handed Professor Hwang an essay on 1984 by George Orwell.

It was sharp. Bold. Personal in the way only veiled honesty can be.

You wrote about Big Brother—not just as a symbol of authoritarian control—but as a metaphor for a kind of father. The kind that watches, dictates, rewrites your reality until you question your own perception. You drew subtle but aching parallels between the constant surveillance in 1984 and the way it feels to grow up in the home of a controlling, emotionally abusive parent.

And then, without explicitly stating it, you explored something darker:

The phenomenon of learning to love the one who hurts you. Of finding comfort in structure, in being watched, in craving approval from the very source of your fear.

Because if Big Brother saw you… then maybe you mattered.

Mr. Hwang sat across from you in his chair, reading slowly. His brow furrowed once. Then twice. He hummed lowly, nodding as he took it in, his fingers moving slightly along the bottom edge of the paper.

Then he tapped one part gently.

“The child who is raised to fear being unloved learns to chase approval like oxygen. She’ll fold herself into the shapes her father finds acceptable, blur the line between obedience and devotion, until even in adulthood, she’ll mistake power for protection—and authority for affection. That is how Big Brother becomes love.”

"This part is especially good," he said, eyes still on the paper, voice almost quiet. "It reads less like literary analysis and more like emotional archaeology."

You smiled softly, warmth spreading up your spine. “Thank you, Professor.” You felt like something inside you had just been acknowledged—not just your mind, but your pain, your effort, your truth.

He looked up. “Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”

Your smile widened slightly. Giddy, even. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and shifted in your seat, heart doing quiet flips.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his position. “I’d like to try something new with you today.”

Your brows raised. “New?”

He nodded, placing your essay gently aside. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’ll provide you a prompt. And I want you to free write. No books. No citations. Just you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t scratch anything out. Let the words come as they want to.”

You looked at him, slightly caught off guard. Your fingers instinctively went to the corner of your notebook.

“Are you up for it?” he asked, and the smallest smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

“Yes,” you whispered, a little breathlessly.

He didn’t break eye contact. “Your prompt is…” he paused, his gaze steady, piercing. “The result in young women of being subjected to emotional abuse from an early age.”

Your throat tightened. Your fingers clutched your pen.

Of course.

Of course he figured it out. He didn’t just read between the lines of your essays—he read you. It almost felt cruel. Or maybe it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. Given you the space to tell your story and then asked for more.

You stared at the blank page. The words didn’t hesitate. They bled.

You wrote about how it starts with walking on eggshells. About how silence becomes a kind of language. How you learn to smile before you cry. How your identity becomes so rooted in being what someone else needs that you forget what you need.

You wrote about people-pleasing. About the terror of disappointing someone. About how compliments make you squirm because you don’t trust them, but criticism feels like home.

You wrote about flinching at raised voices and melting at crumbs of attention. About becoming a chameleon, about being terrified of being too much and not enough at the same time.

You hadn’t meant to mention your father. You really hadn’t. But the words had minds of their own. And there it was:

“My father didn’t just control the house, he controlled my reflection. I learned to only see myself through his eyes.”

Your pen hovered. You panicked. You were about to cross it out.

And just then, Professor Hwang’s voice came, smooth and soft like velvet rope:

“Tsk, tsk. No crossing out.”

You froze, eyes darting up. He’d been watching you. You didn’t even realize. Not just watching—but observing. Studying you with the same intensity you gave to books.

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable but not unkind. “Every time you hesitate to express yourself… you censor something that someone else might’ve needed to read.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

You didn’t even hear the clock ticking. You didn’t feel the pen in your hand anymore. Just the hollow ache in your chest that finally had words.

You stopped writing only when Mr. Hwang reached for the paper, his fingers grazing the edge. Your pulse jumped slightly at the contact. You looked up—he wasn’t smiling. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes scanning rapidly.

He read in silence. You stared at the floor.

Then, finally, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the page. “This is… honest,” he said, slowly. “More than I expected.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to.

He shifted his gaze to you, something in his eyes different. “The part where you described yourself as ‘someone who only recognizes her own reflection in how others see her’—that was…” He hesitated. “Unsettling. And beautiful.”

Your stomach flipped. “I wasn’t trying to make it poetic,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “It just… came out.”

“That’s when writing’s best,” he said softly, “when you’re not trying.”

He let out a breath and sat up straighter, placing the paper carefully in front of him. “You’re carrying a lot, Miss L/N.”

You shrugged, feeling exposed, embarrassed. “So are a lot of people.”

“True. But most don’t bleed it onto paper this clearly.”

You looked at him finally, your eyes meeting his, and it hit you that he wasn’t just impressed—he was moved. The kind of moved that unsettles even the person feeling it.

He studied your face like it was another page he had to analyze.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said after a pause, “if it was too much.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, it wasn’t too much.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, the space between you suddenly feeling… smaller. “If anything, it made me wonder—”

He stopped.

You tilted your head. “Wonder what?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he glanced at the clock—as if suddenly aware of how much time had passed. “What kind of woman you’ll become if you keep writing like this.”

You swallowed. His voice was low. Intimate in its stillness.

“I think… I already know what kind of woman I am,” you said, something defiant under your breath.

He looked at you, more serious now. “No,” he said gently. “You know what kind of girl the world made you into. But you haven’t yet figured out the kind of woman you want to be.”

That struck something in you.

You weren’t sure what it was that shifted in that moment. Maybe it was the softness in his tone. The way he wasn’t just your professor right then. He wasn’t standing above you. He wasn’t lecturing. He was seeing you.

And you?

You were staring at his mouth when he said it. You were imagining how close you were. You were aware of the heat between you both and the way it felt safe and dangerous all at once.

You quickly looked back down at your notebook.

But something had sparked.

You both felt it. And neither of you said a word.

Not yet.

◇

It was a Friday night. The campus was nearly a ghost town—deserted dorm hallways, muffled bass of some party echoing from the far end of the grounds, and laughter trailing off into the cold air. Most students were out getting drunk, hooking up, or lounging with friends they’d had since orientation. Not you.

But that didn’t bother you anymore.

You had spent too long trying to fit into boxes that were never meant for you, into conversations that drained your soul, and into friendships that weren’t really friendships at all—just a desperate attempt to be liked. To be wanted. You once let them mold you into what they needed. But now?

Now, you were alone. And it didn’t feel like loneliness.

You were sitting on a bench in the quiet campus garden, beneath the yellow glow of a large street lamp that flickered ever so slightly. Its warm light fell over your lap, illuminating the worn pages of the book you were almost finished with—the last book on the contest list. Anna Karenina. It was a classic, one you kept putting off. Maybe because it mirrored too much. The subtle madness of love. The longing. The danger of giving in.

You turned a page when—

“Miss L/N.”

You looked up.

Mr. Hwang stood in front of you, briefcase in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his dark wool coat. The campus light caught the edge of his jawline, the slight dishevel of his usually neat hair.

Your face softened. “Professor,” you said with a smile. “You’re still here this late?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you.”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling that familiar calmness his presence brought. “Let me guess. Still grading? Or finally catching up on that massive reading list you assigned me?”

He smirked. “A bit of both. Though I thought you would be out tonight, living like a normal college student. Partying. Making questionable choices.”

“Meh,” you waved him off, cracking a crooked grin. “My partying days are long behind me.”

“You’re nineteen,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly. I’m practically ancient,” you said dramatically, and it earned a rare laugh from him—low, real, unguarded.

He looked at you a moment longer before speaking again. “Still, I find it difficult to believe that someone like you doesn’t have a crowd of people fighting to spend time with her.”

You blinked. “Someone like me?”

He shrugged, casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a landmine. “A beautiful and intelligent woman,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him. For a second, you thought you imagined it. That your brain had replaced some neutral compliment with something bolder, more… intimate.

Your heart stammered.

“Now, Professor,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, recovering quickly with a smirk, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to flatter me.”

The words had already slipped before your inner filter could catch them.

He paused, then tilted his head. “Bold,” he murmured, amused. His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

Your stomach twisted. But not out of fear.

You looked down at the book in your lap—suddenly very aware of the romantic tragedy in your hands—and then back up at him. His eyes were already on yours.

The space between you stayed heavy with the things neither of you could say.

But you both felt it.

◇

A week.

That’s all that was left until the contest. Seven days.

You had studied until the margins of your notebooks blurred into one another—plotlines, character studies, metaphor layers stacked like fragile towers in your mind. You had free-written until your fingers ached, pouring your soul into page after page. And yet, the nerves remained, fluttering just beneath your ribcage like something half-alive and far too aware.

Still, every time you voiced your doubts, Mr. Hwang would look you in the eye and say, “You’ll do great.”

And when he said it, somehow, you believed it. Or at least you wanted to.

Because no one ever made you feel as capable, as seen, as safe as he did.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that he needed you, too.

At first, it was easy for him to explain it away. You were his student. You were in a vulnerable position. It was his duty to guide you, to offer support, especially when no one else around you seemed to. When he’d see you in his office, fingers nervously twisting a pen or your sweater hem, but still trying so hard to be perfect for him—he’d remind himself: This is just empathy. Protection.

But the more he got to know you—the more he saw the wild, unfiltered brilliance of your thoughts, your passion for literature, the subtle sarcasm in your wit—the harder it became to lie to himself.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to protect you. It was that when you were near, the world seemed less out of control.

He didn’t like the guilt he felt.

You were so much younger. You were his student. You were, by all standards, off limits.

But the short skirts, the way your eyes lit up when you were proud of something, how you blushed when he complimented your work, how you told him things you’d never told anyone—what if?

What if you had met under different circumstances? What if there was a world where you could be each other’s secret?

And he hated himself for even letting those thoughts grow roots in his mind.

◇

“Y/N,” a voice called out, snapping you out of your thoughts as you were halfway through your bland cafeteria pasta.

You turned slowly.

It was Seojin’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, apparently.

Your brows furrowed, expression unreadable. He had that sheepish look some people wear when they only come to apologize because they can no longer avoid their guilt.

“Can we talk?” he asked awkwardly.

You didn’t speak, just gave a stiff nod and followed him to a quiet table near the back, away from the handful of students still lingering around.

“Seojin and I broke up,” he said bluntly, like it was supposed to mean something to you.

You blinked once, expression still cold. “So?”

He hesitated, taken aback by your indifference.

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally said. “It was wrong of me to… talk shit about you. Especially knowing that she was completely in the wrong.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. His words didn’t soothe anything. If anything, they irritated the rawness that was still healing in you.

“So why did you do it?” Your voice was even, but heavy.

He gave a pathetic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want her to be disappointed. I guess… I didn’t want to lose her.”

You stared at him. And you almost—almost—felt a flicker of something like empathy.

Maybe he was like you. Maybe he, too, twisted himself around others to feel like he was enough.

But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.

“People pleasing is one thing,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Deliberately choosing to hurt someone is another.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood up and walked away.

And for once, you didn’t look back.

◇

"I'm nervous," you said, your voice soft as it echoed lightly in the dim, warm-lit office. You were lounging in the familiar leather chair across from Professor Hwang, legs folded underneath you, half a bag of your favorite snacks already gone. It was your last study session before the contest, and yet it had slowly turned into one of your usual… not-quite-student, not-quite-anything-else hangouts.

Over the months, you’d grown so comfortable with him. So familiar. You talked about everything—books, your childhood, politics, your weird food preferences, and his even weirder sleep schedule. There was a ritual now. You’d come in, he'd already have your favorite snack waiting, he’d correct papers, and you’d ramble or write or sometimes just sit in silence. It didn’t feel academic anymore. It felt like home.

“About?” he asked without looking up, his pen gliding across a student's essay with practiced indifference.

“The contest. Global warming,” you said flatly, with a little shrug, popping another chip into your mouth.

That earned a soft laugh from him.

“Well, perhaps you could make yourself useful and help me grade these,” he said, gesturing to a stack of papers, “Get your mind off the planet’s slow death.”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed a few pages from the top. “With pleasure, Professor.”

You read silently for a few minutes—until something made your eyebrows shoot up. You bit your lip to hold it in, but failed miserably, bursting into laughter.

He looked up, mildly amused. “What’s so funny?”

You held up the paper and read out loud, barely containing your snickers:

“In times of war, humans lose their human-nality. This is very present in The Great Gatsby, where Gatsby dies because of his love for money.”

You wheezed. “Human-nality, Professor. The Great Gatsby... about war. I'm sorry, I thought this was a prestigious university. How did this person get in?!”

He smirked, setting down his pen. “Money,” he said without hesitation, his voice dry. “You see, while you have to offer your beautiful brain, others have to offer nepotism.”

You laughed, still shaking your head in disbelief. “Beautiful brain, huh? You sound like you wanna dissect it, Professor.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I feel as if I already have.”

That shut you up. Not completely, but just enough. His tone wasn’t teasing—at least not entirely. There was something under it, laced like velvet and smoke. Something knowing.

You blinked, caught off guard, lips slightly parted.

His eyes were on you now. Not flitting, not avoiding—just on you.

There was a beat of silence.

“I—” you started, but didn’t know how to finish.

He smiled. Soft. Barely there. “What?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a nervous laugh escaping. “You just… you always say the most unexpected shit, Professor.”

He leaned back in his chair, the lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. “That’s because you always expect the worst.”

You stared at him again.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re right,” you admitted quietly.

A long pause.

And then he said, voice low:

“I think you’ve gotten too used to people hurting you… that you don’t recognize when someone is trying to do the opposite.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was too much. Too gentle. Too kind.

You looked away, blinking fast. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, Professor.”

“I know,” he said. “But I meant it.”

And in that moment, something quiet but powerful passed between you. A shift. Not new. Not sudden. But undeniable.

The air felt heavier now. Like the kind of silence that carries a thousand unsaid things.

And neither of you moved.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly more formal, more distant. “Are you aware that after the contest, there will be a hosted gala while participants wait for the jury’s decision? And the family members listed on university records have been invited?”

Your heart stopped. Cold washed over you like a crashing wave, all warmth ripped from your skin.

That meant…

Your father.

Your father was invited.

The very man who for years made you believe you were nothing. Who manipulated your thoughts until you couldn't distinguish your own reflection from the image he painted of you. Who never flinched to raise his voice—or worse.

“W-what do you mean?” your voice trembled, uneven and tight, like your throat was trying to protect you from letting anything out at all.

He noticed immediately.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

It was the first time he called you by your name, and in a different context it might’ve made your stomach flutter. But now it only twisted.

“What do you mean he’s going to be here?” you repeated yourself, your eyes wide, a frantic edge in your tone. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” he said again, this time standing up slowly, his expression firm but full of concern. “Calm down.”

But how could you?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of being in the same room as your father, smiling politely as though you hadn’t only just begun to piece yourself back together… it was too much.

He stepped closer, his presence steady, anchoring. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I’ll talk to the organizer,” he said. “I’ll make sure his name is removed from the guest list. You won’t have to see him.”

Your knees wobbled from the tension that left your body all at once. You looked up at him with tearful eyes, your vision blurred, and something inside you cracked completely. Without thinking, needing something—someone—you stood and took a step toward him, pressing yourself against his chest, burying your face there. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, almost desperately.

He tensed beneath your touch, as if his body was trying to remember where the line was drawn. But then, slowly… he exhaled and returned the embrace, holding you close with a sigh.

“You really shouldn’t do this,” he murmured against the top of your head, his voice low, strained.

“But I want to,” you whimpered. Your voice sounded small. Vulnerable.

You looked up at him, your tear-streaked face tilted to meet his gaze, searching his expression for an answer—any answer. You weren’t thinking about what was right or wrong anymore. You were thinking about how safe this felt. How right.

“You’re not making this easy,” he said, his eyes heavy with guilt and something else—something deeper, something he wouldn’t say out loud.

You furrowed your brows softly. “What exactly?” Your voice was quiet. But there was a boldness to the question. A need to know what he was really thinking.

“My job,” he admitted, his hand still resting on your back, warm and grounding. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Yet you’re holding me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

◇

It was just moments before the contest. Each participant was given a private room to gather their thoughts, to be alone with their mentor before stepping into the hall where everything would unfold. You were seated in one of those rooms now, a small, softly lit space with a mahogany table and velvet curtains drawn tight, giving the illusion of comfort, though your insides felt anything but.

Your leg bounced uncontrollably under the table, heel tapping against the hardwood floor like a metronome for your anxious thoughts. Your fingers were clenched around a pen like it was a lifeline—or maybe a weapon. Your stomach churned.

You didn’t want to let him down. Not him.

"Don't be nervous," Mr. Hwang said from across the table, his voice warm and certain. He leaned forward, his elbows resting loosely as he watched you with those endlessly calm eyes. “You’ll do amazing. I know it.”

"Yeah but—what if I suddenly write something stupid? Or forget what I even read? Or—I don’t know, I might as well stab myself with this damn pen," you muttered, dramatically lifting it toward your throat like a dagger.

He laughed softly, the sound cutting through your spiral. He reached out without hesitation, gently taking the hand that held the pen. The contact sent a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t used to people touching you so carefully, so deliberately.

“You’ll do great,” he repeated, this time more firmly, his fingers curling around yours in quiet reassurance.

You were trying to hold it together, but your other hand betrayed you, rising to your lips as you began anxiously picking at the skin. Before you could even draw blood, he reached out and caught that hand too. Now both your wrists were cradled in his hands, and the proximity between you suddenly felt… different.

"You're one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice low and soft, like he didn’t want the walls to overhear. “Trust yourself. Trust your abilities.”

You swallowed hard, then raised your chin with a crooked smile, trying to smother the intensity of the moment with humor. “One of? Please. It’s physically impossible to find another genius like me.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Takes one to know one,” he murmured, and a soft smile pulled at his lips. His hands hadn’t left your wrists. His grip was gentle, but grounding.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you teased, leaning in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at your mouth. “You wish you could be on my level.”

His smile widened. “Could you remind me who’s mentoring who again?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward too.

“I’m just hanging around to make sure your rusty brain doesn’t fail from lack of use,” you said, eyes gleaming with challenge. Your faces were now so close, the air between you humming with a quiet, electric tension.

Your gaze flicked to his lips without meaning to, and before you could look away, you saw it—he noticed. He saw you looking. But instead of pulling back, he leaned in—just an inch closer.

You didn’t move.

The world felt suspended. Time paused in that heartbeat between wanting and restraint.

Then—

Bzzt.

A soft static crackled through the wall speaker, followed by a woman’s voice:

“All participants are to immediately gather in the contest hall. The time for the contest has come.”

And just like that, the moment snapped. You pulled back, breath shaky, and stood.

He stood as well, smoothing out his shirt like nothing happened, but the look in his eyes lingered. He reached for your shoulder gently and said, “Go show them what you’re made of.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and without another word, stepped out of the room—leaving behind something electric, something unfinished.

◇

The room was cold.

Rows and rows of long tables, overhead lights too bright, the scrape of metal chair legs and the occasional cough echoing like gunshots in a church. Everyone was already seated, hunched over their crisp sheets, pens uncapped, waiting.

Your hands were damp.

You sat down, back stiff, ignoring the knot in your stomach. Mr. Hwang’s words still echoed from the night before—“You are capable of more than you think.”

You didn’t believe him.

The proctor passed the glass bowl down the row. One slip. Fifteen possible books. One chance.

You reached in and pulled.

Your heart stuttered.

Lolita.

The irony hit like a slap. Of course it was Lolita. The book you referenced for Seojin’s essay. The essay that got you into this mess. The essay that made Mr. Hwang notice you. The beginning of it all.

You didn’t even react. You just stared at the word for a long moment, then flipped the slip to reveal the prompt:

“Write about the line between control and vulnerability.”

Fine.

Okay.

Your fingers curled around your pen. The blank page blinked up at you. You looked around—others were already writing. Some scribbling furiously, others with their brows furrowed in deep, intellectual contemplation.

You just… sat there.

Nothing came.

Your mind was empty. Like someone had scooped out your thoughts with a spoon and left only silence behind.

You tried to breathe deeply, but it caught halfway up your throat. Every inhale felt like glass.

Words floated to the surface and immediately sank.

You glanced up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall was louder than your thoughts. Louder than anything. You clenched your pen so tightly your knuckles ached.

Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Still nothing.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

You wanted to go back in time and never say yes to Seojin.

Never write that essay.

Never get caught.

Never be seen.

But you stayed. Frozen.

Until—

With ten minutes left on the clock, something gave.

You weren’t sure what. It wasn’t calm, exactly. But it was quiet. Like everything around you fell away.

Your hand moved.

You didn’t think. You just wrote.

You wrote about how control is rarely loud. How it hides in politeness. In soft voices and carefully chosen words. How vulnerability isn’t always weakness—sometimes, it’s just exhaustion. Just the last bit of you someone hasn’t taken yet.

You didn’t name Humbert. You didn’t have to. You wrote about the way people rewrite stories to make themselves feel better. About how power makes a person rewrite other people, too.

You wrote without stopping. Without breathing.

And when the final call came—“Pencils down”—your hand dropped.

The spell broke.

Your wrist throbbed. Your eyes burned. But in front of you was a page filled to the edges.

You didn’t know if it was good.

But it was yours.

◇

“How did it go?” Mr. Hwang asked as you stepped out of the contest hall.

You rubbed your hands together nervously, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline. “I don’t know. I have no idea. So many of the other contestants seemed more focused and... put together.” You shrugged, your voice small, your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Don’t focus on them,” he said, calm as ever. “Focus on yourself.”

Then, with a glance at his watch, “Now let’s go. The gala will start in a moment.”

You nodded and fell into step beside him.

The walk across campus was breathtaking in that subtle, end-of-day way. The sun hung low, brushing the tops of buildings with gold. The air was warm and smelled faintly of grass and jasmine. Trees rustled gently overhead, and the sky—painted with streaks of pink and orange—seemed to soften the world.

“You seem lost in thought,” he said after a moment. “Global warming again?”

That pulled a laugh from you—soft and unexpected.

◇

The venue was grand—an old brick hall lit with chandeliers just beginning to flicker to life as dusk deepened. Outside, a red rope guided attendees through the gates. A suited guard stood by a podium, checking names off a list with practiced precision.

“Hwang Inho and Y/N L/N,” Mr. Hwang announced to the guard, his voice low and composed.

But just as you stepped forward—

“Y/N.”

You froze.

Your spine locked up before your brain could catch up. You knew that voice. Too well. The way it always scraped like broken glass. The way it used to slam through walls.

“Dad,” you breathed. So quiet only Mr. Hwang could hear.

He turned to you, brows furrowed, confused. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

You thought—hoped—Mr. Hwang had told the organizers to scratch his name off the list. But somehow, he was here.

The guard frowned. “Sir, for the last time, your name isn’t on the guest list. Please leave.”

But your father didn’t do “leave.”

In one sudden, violent motion, he lunged forward and slammed the guard into the brick wall, grabbing him by the collar.

“Am I some fucking joke to you?!” he roared. “I was invited and now what? I’m uninvited to see my own stupid daughter?”

Chaos sparked. Guests backed away. Phones came out. You didn’t move.

The guard recovered quickly, shoving your father to the ground and pinning him there.

“Ma’am,” the guard said, looking up, breathless but steady, “do you know this man?”

You stared ahead, blank.

“I don’t,” you said quietly.

But your father kept thrashing under the guard’s grip, red-faced and livid. “You little bitch!” he spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re just like your mother! Fucking little whore!”

Every syllable echoed.

You felt yourself shrink, humiliated. Everyone could see it—see him. Even if you’d denied it, even if you tried to pretend—you were exposed.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Hwang said, stepping forward. “Call the police.”

Then he turned to you and gently nudged your arm. “Come on.”

You walked inside on shaking legs.

◇

The moment you both reached a private booth at the back of the venue, you collapsed into the seat, head down, hands clenched. The tremors came in waves. And then—tears. Hot, violent tears that broke through everything.

“I hate him,” you choked out.

Mr. Hwang sat beside you, his presence calm but close. You hated how he looked at you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snapped, wiping at your face, smearing mascara down your cheeks.

“Like what?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Like you pity me.” Your voice cracked. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

But his voice was steady. “I don’t pity you. I know you’re strong.”

He reached out gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the black streaks away. The touch was soft. Careful. But it made your breath hitch.

You looked at him.

And without thinking, you leaned in.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly, almost fondly.

You laughed—a broken, breathless sound—and leaned closer.

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Careful. Sinful. The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen. The kind that crossed a thousand unspoken lines. But it felt too good. His hand slid behind your head, the other moving in slow, calming circles on your back.

You clutched his suit sleeves, grounding yourself in him like he might disappear.

He pulled back just slightly, breath warm against your lips.

“We mustn’t,” he murmured, voice low.

“But we want to,” you whispered.

And you kissed him again.

◇

A woman in a sleek navy dress took the stage, microphone in hand. The soft hum of conversation quieted as the room shifted their focus toward her. She smiled with practiced warmth and began:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. It’s been an exceptional year for the Creative Writing Gala, and we’ve been truly moved by the courage, depth, and creativity of all the submissions.”

You swallowed tightly, pressing your fingers together in your lap.

“Let’s begin with our three honorable mentions.”

She glanced down at her card.

“Our first honorable mention goes to Kang Jiwoo, with the prompt: ‘Explore the emotional inheritance between mother and daughter. Reference The Vegetarian by Han Kang.’”

Polite applause stirred the air. A girl in a dusty lavender blouse stood from one of the mid-tier tables. She walked up with quiet confidence, her black flats almost silent on the carpet. She bowed modestly as she accepted her certificate.

“Second honorable mention—Choi Daehyun. His prompt: ‘Write about the intersection of time and grief. Use The Guest by Albert Camus as a lens.’”

A tall boy with sharp cheekbones and a blazer that clearly cost more than your rent stood and smoothed down the sides of his hair before taking the stage. He shook hands like he’d done this before.

“And third—Min Seohee. Prompt: ‘Explore identity in the context of performance. Use Persona by Ingmar Bergman as a thematic reference.’”

Min Seohee stood slowly, her cream silk dress catching the light. She moved like a ballerina, all grace and intention, smiling gently as she took her place beside the others.

You applauded with everyone else, your smile carefully maintained. But inside, something slumped. Your name hadn’t been called. Even among the “almosts,” you were nowhere.

Of course not.

You leaned slightly back in your chair, letting your eyes drift upward to the chandeliers, watching the reflections flicker across the ceiling like ghosts.

“And now,” the announcer said brightly, “our top three winners.”

You didn’t even brace yourself. You already knew.

“Third place—Ryu Haneul. Prompt: ‘Write about betrayal within intimacy. Use Medea by Euripides as metaphor.’”

A small gasp left him, genuine. His glasses were slightly askew as he stumbled up to the stage, a little dazed but grinning.

“Second place—Kim Ara. Prompt: ‘Write about the dissonance between appearance and reality in love. Draw from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.’”

Kim Ara floated toward the podium, her black off-shoulder dress hugging her like a second skin. She bowed, calm and polished, already used to stages.

You didn’t feel disappointment anymore. Just the dull echo of having expected nothing and getting exactly that.

“And finally…” The woman paused, smiling like she’d been saving this name. “First place—Y/N L/N, with the prompt: ‘Write about the line between control and vulnerability. Reference Lolita by Nabokov.’”

Your name fell from her lips like it didn’t belong there. You blinked.

Your brows pulled together instinctively. No. No, that can’t be right. But then, beside you, Mr. Hwang turned his head and looked at you—not with shock, but with pride—and gently nudged your arm.

“Go on.”

The room tilted slightly as you stood. Or maybe it was just your body catching up with your brain. People were clapping. Looking at you.

You made your way up to the stage, feeling like you were walking through water. The lights hit you hard, and your palms were sweating, but someone was there—smiling, guiding you—handing you the plaque.

“Congratulations,” they said.

You nodded faintly and took your place. Another hand passed you a microphone.

You didn’t want to speak. But you had to.

You took it with both hands, gripping like it might anchor you. Your voice, at first, came out barely above a whisper:

“I…”

You scanned the crowd quickly, eyes catching on Mr. Hwang’s silhouette below, calm and steady as always.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing here,” you admitted, letting out a breath of disbelief. “I guess I just want to say thank you to Professor Hwang—for encouraging me to submit even when I felt like I shouldn’t. For not treating me like a joke when I wrote something this personal.”

You exhaled a laugh, still a little shaken. “It’s kind of ironic, actually. The book that sparked everything…ended up being my prompt.”

A soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience.

“I didn’t think I had something to say. But… apparently I did. So… thank you.”

You stepped back from the mic as applause swelled around you—warm, real, loud.

◇

"I told you, Y/N," Professor Hwang said simply, his tone light but with an edge of pride, as he walked beside you on the way back to your dorm. "I really didn't expect it," you murmured, your voice still tinged with disbelief as the weight of the evening settled over you.

Before you could add anything else, he paused. "Before you go, I have something for you," he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to have anything else in mind.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box wrapped in a subtle ribbon. Your heart fluttered a little as he handed it to you, the simple gesture feeling strangely intimate.

"What is it?" you asked, your fingers gently brushing the ribbon. It felt like an invitation—an opening.

"Open it," he said with a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the suspense. You smiled in compliance, carefully peeling back the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in the soft velvet, was a fancy pen—sleek, black with gold trim, elegant and somehow fitting for someone like him.

You couldn’t help but smile widely, the warmth spreading through you. "Thank you, wow," you said, your voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It's beautiful"

Grinning, you leaned in, almost instinctively, to plant a quick kiss on his lips in gratitude. But as soon as you moved closer, he stepped back, gently holding up a hand.

"It's unprofessional," he said, his voice firm yet soft, "I'm your professor."

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face, followed by a quick surge of frustration. A tinge of sadness coursed through you—why did it feel like he was pushing you away, when before he initiated kissing you himself? You fought down the flicker of anger that bubbled up. Why does it have to be this way?

But instead of arguing, you stayed silent. There was no point in pushing it, no point in looking pathetic, or fighting. With a stiff nod, you turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, and started walking toward your dorm. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t dare look back.

For Professor Hwang, the words he’d spoken didn’t sit right.He couldn’t deny it. The attraction he felt toward you was real, undeniable. Something that shouldn’t have happened. He wanted to pull back, to ignore it, to make it go away before it was too late. But the truth was, the more he tried to suppress it, the stronger it became. And that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

◇

As you stepped foot into your dorm building, the hum of the evening faded behind you, but the ache of that earlier rejection still burning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the stillness. “I heard you won.”

You turned, your eyes falling on Seojin’s ex-boyfriend standing nearby. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes a little puffy, but there was something earnest about him.

“I did,” you said, your voice a little flat, still numb from the emotional rollercoaster of the night.

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Look… I know that I did wrong,” he started, his tone careful, apologetic. “And I really thought about it. I’m not proud of what I did to Seojin, to you. I know no matter what I say, it doesn’t make it any less bad. But… I just want you to know that I regret it. I see that now.”

Your gaze softened as his words sank in. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a step. “Thank you for saying that,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation pulling you into a different space.

He smiled faintly, his eyes lighting up a little. "Hey… maybe we should celebrate your victory? I mean, I’m kind of rotting in solitude today, and I get the feeling you might want some company too?"

You sighed, the sting of Mr. Hwang’s rejection still fresh. There was a strange comfort in his offer, even if it came from someone who had been part of a past that felt so distant now.

“You know what, fuck it. Let’s go,” you said with a shrug, trying to brush off the tension, wanting—needing—something else to occupy your mind. Anything to stop thinking about what you couldn't have.

His grin widened, and for the first time tonight, you felt a flicker of something like relief. You could pretend for just a moment.

◇

“No way you did that,” you burst out laughing, your face flushed and dazed from the Soju you had been gulping down with him. The two of you were just sitting on the ground in the campus garden, the soft grass beneath you, night air cool but pleasant. The stars above blinked gently, and the quiet hum of the campus at night made it feel like the world had paused just for the two of you. “Yeah, guess what happened next,” he said, his words slurring slightly, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“What? What?” you asked eagerly, your eyes wide and sparkling, voice full of excitement like a kid listening to the climax of a wild story.

But then, suddenly, his expression changed. Hardened. “She died,” he said quietly, the laughter gone, pain suddenly darkening his eyes.

You froze, your heart thudding in your chest. “I—I’m so sorry…” you murmured, your voice small, unsure.

He stared at you for a beat longer before breaking into a cackle. “Kidding! I got you real good!” He threw his head back and burst into laughter, practically rolling onto the grass from how hard he was laughing.

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before groaning and slapping his back playfully. “You idiot!” you laughed, your voice high with relief and mock outrage, before you both fell into another round of giggles.

Truth be told, it had surprised you—how nice it was, spending time with him. How light and easy he made things feel. He was actually funny. And, when he wasn’t being an idiot, he was even smart. He noticed little things, asked good questions, made you feel like you could breathe for a second without the weight of everything else.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, as he pushed himself up to sit properly.

“What?” you asked, looking over at him, your eyes slightly glazed from the drink, cheeks warm, hair falling a little out of place in the wind.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re, like, really pretty?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you looked away, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Shut up,” you said, but your voice held no bite—only the faintest trace of flattery you didn’t want to admit.

He grinned wider. “No, I mean it,” he added, a bit more sincerely this time.

And you just laughed, shaking your head, letting the moment be whatever it was. A little blurry, a little strange—but kind of nice.

◇

You found yourself spending more and more time with him. Maybe it was to get back at Mr. Hwang, to spark jealousy—but even if that was the case, you couldn’t deny how light, how effortlessly carefree you felt around him… even though he was Seojin’s ex-boyfriend.

Now, the two of you sat together in class. Your gaze drifted toward Mr. Hwang as he spoke, his voice calm, authoritative. And you saw it—he was watching you, too. It was tense, awkward, after everything you’d shared… after his rejection.

You were drowning in thought, your heart still aching, when suddenly, fingers began playing with your hair—his fingers. Seojin’s ex. You laughed softly under your breath.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-hissed, finally tearing your eyes away from Mr. Hwang.

“It’s soft,” he murmured, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Then, as Mr. Hwang continued his lecture on The Picture of Dorian Gray, he leaned in again.

“Is it just me, or does it sound like Dorian wanted to fuck his own portrait?” he whispered.

You tried to contain your laughter—but failed miserably.

“It’s just you,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. Mr. Hwang noticed. And he hated it.

Yes, he had rejected you—but seeing you laugh like that, engage so easily with someone else… it made his blood boil. He was livid. That idiot didn’t even know you. Not like he did.

Class ended. Your friend waited by your desk as you gathered your things.

“Come on, let’s go eat something!” he grinned, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re paying,” you said, smirking.

“All right, my lord,” he teased, bowing with mock grace.

Mr. Hwang had seen enough. His composure cracked.

“Miss L/N,” he said sharply, “please stay for a moment.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, confused, but didn’t argue. You both approached the desk.

“I wish to speak with her privately,” Mr. Hwang added coldly, directing the words like a blade.

Your friend hesitated, but nodded and stepped out of the room.

You sighed, folding your arms. “What is it now?”

His eyes locked onto yours. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, voice low but intense.

“On purpose?” you let out a dry laugh. “Can’t a girl have friends anymore?” you said, your tone light but laced with defiance.

“Friends?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Is that what friends do—twirl each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings in the middle of my class?”

That struck a nerve. You were done playing nice.

You walked over to his desk and sat on top of it, deliberately slow. You pulled a candy from your bag and popped it into your mouth, letting your lips linger around it. “I don’t know,” you said with a smirk, “but friends with benefits definitely do.”

His jaw tensed. His face darkened.

“Did the two of you—?” he started, struggling to keep his composure.

“Oh, we did,” you said, feigning innocence. “And it was amazing.”

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice rough, desperate.

You leaned in, licking the edge of the candy. “If you only knew the things he made me feel… things that, if I wrote about them, I’d win every writing contest out there.”

You tilted your head. “He’s kind of like a mentor, you know,” you added with a hum.

That was the last straw.

Suddenly, he grabbed you and kissed you—nothing like before. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t hesitant. This was hungry, possessive. He was trying to claim you. And you let him.

“You’re torturing me on purpose,” he growled between kisses, his teeth gently sinking into your lower lip. You dug your nails into his back in response.

“Seeing you like this, God—” he breathed, his hands gripping your waist.

“Say it,” you demanded, your voice a whisper against his mouth.

He paused, lips hovering just inches from yours, brows furrowed. “Say what?”

“Say you want me. Say you won’t reject me again.”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

“I want you,” he murmured, “and I’ll never leave you.”

His breath was warm against your neck as he pinned you between his body and the wall, your thighs locked around his waist. His hands roamed with purpose now—no more hesitation, no more pretending.

“Can you keep a secret?” he repeated, voice thick with desire.

You smiled, your lips brushing his ear. “Only if you make it worth hiding.”

That did something to him. His grip on your hips tightened, and he rolled his body against yours, slow but deliberate. The desk? Forgotten. The classroom? Irrelevant. Right now, there was only the heat between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing a slow, maddening path up to your jaw. “You drive me insane,” he growled. “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

You arched into him, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before pushing me away.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark with something primal. “I’m not pushing you away now.”

“No,” you whispered, “you’re doing the exact opposite.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing your skin like a secret. “I’ve imagined this,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Then stop imagining,” you breathed, tugging him back into a kiss—hotter, deeper, filled with all the tension that had built between you. It was messy, unrestrained, addictive.

He kissed you like a man unraveling.

Then suddenly—he paused. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is dangerous,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, eyes hooded. “Good. I like dangerous.”

A crooked smile formed on his lips. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Still holding you, he moved back toward the desk and set you down gently, as if grounding himself.

But the way his eyes lingered on your lips, the way his fingers brushed your thigh… he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Meet me tonight,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “After everyone’s gone. No more hiding. I want you. All of you.”

Your heart raced. You leaned in, your lips ghosting over his. “You better make it worth the risk, Professor.”

And with that, you turned and walked out—leaving him breathless, his fists clenched at his sides, already counting down the hours until nightfall.

[angeldiarybook]

𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐨!♡︎

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊

⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝐱 𝐒𝐎! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

•you guys usually go out to eat at fancy restaurants

•but he doesn’t quite mind when you pick your guys dates

•he knows he doesn’t have to try hard with you to impress you

•a simple casual date is fine with you,you reassured him many times it doesn’t have to be fancy

He’s in debt anyways

•a simple picnic packed with champagne or wine with berries at a near by park as the sun was setting seemed to always be your favorite

•movie nights films genre would mostly include Thriller,sci-fi,or crime films but he didn’t mind or care you picking a rom-com

•those nights would include you snuggled up to him while laying on your apartment couch as he’s fixated on the TV

•Aquarium dates must be his favorite

•he loves seeing you in awe as you admire and adore the fish around you

•he might even take a few pictures of you in the surrounding loving the way the water would reflect a blue lighting color onto you

Then he would take you to go eat fish at his moms shop💀

•cooking dinner together would include you rambling about your day or week in the kitchen as sang woo stays quiet carefully listening to you while doing most of the cooking

•he also likes taking you to a beach not so far away at night and taking walks there with your finger interlock with his

•one time you guys even went to an arcade with gi-hun and his daughter

•his wise self was able to win quite any prize you wanted

•as for taking you to fancy restaurant he gets you flowers each time he takes you picking them out carefully to your liking

•you both dress up nicely sometimes even matching

Guys I’m literally in love with park hae soo 😢 he’s so adorable as if he’s not 40💀 and well looking