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lumnix3 · 3 months ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Gregory House x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | bullet wound, blood, angst.

𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘳��. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥.

▸ Masterlist

𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱! 𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿!

Dr. Gregory House was not a man who rushed anywhere. He limped, he sauntered, he strolled—often deliberately slower than necessary, just to irritate the people waiting for him. He reveled in the art of delay, in the way impatience twisted people’s faces when he refused to match their urgency. Emergencies weren’t his problem; they were everyone else’s problem until they directly inconvenienced him.

So when the door to his office crashed open with a force that rattled the glass, he barely twitched.

A nurse stood there, breathless, her scrubs slightly disheveled as though she’d run the entire length of the hospital. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her wide eyes brimmed with an urgency that would have made most doctors jump to their feet.

House, however, did not.

Instead, he remained slouched in his chair, his long legs stretched out under the desk, one foot lazily tapping against the other. He held a Gameboy in his hands, thumbs idly pressing buttons, the faint, tinny sound of electronic beeps filling the space between them.

“Dr. House,” she said, her voice high with urgency. “You’re needed in the ER. Immediately.”

“No,” he replied flatly, not even pretending to be interested. His thumb pressed the button on his Gameboy with mechanical precision, his eyes never leaving the tiny screen.

The nurse hesitated. “You’re not answering your phone. Dr. Cameron tried to—”

“Tell Cameron that I’m not interested in whatever boring, dying patient she thinks is my problem.” He waved a dismissive hand. “If she really wants my attention, she should try bribery. Or cleavage.”

“Dr. House.”

Something in her tone made him pause. It wasn’t just urgency anymore—it was something heavier, something that sent a ripple through his carefully cultivated apathy.

“It’s about your wife.”

The words landed like a gut punch. He looked up. His piercing blue eyes, which moments ago had been heavy with disinterest, now burned with something raw. His jaw tightened. His chest clenched.

Then, before he had even made a conscious decision to move, he was already on his feet.

The chair scraped harshly against the floor as it was shoved back. His body surged forward on instinct alone, every cell in his being rejecting stillness, demanding motion.

Pain flared through his bad leg, sharp and unforgiving, like a hot iron branding his thigh. Normally, that pain was his constant, his ever-present tormentor—but right now, it was nothing. An afterthought. White noise in the storm of panic crashing through his system.

His fingers closed around his cane in a death grip, knuckles whitening, his mind too consumed by the need to go to notice how close he had come to knocking his Game Boy to the floor. He barely registered the stunned nurse staggering back as he barreled past her, his limp more pronounced than usual, yet somehow quicker, as though pure adrenaline had overridden years of chronic agony.

The next few seconds were a blur.

The rapid, uneven thunk-thud of his cane and foot against tile. The confused stares from passing doctors and nurses, the startled gasps as he shoved through the crowded hallway, uncaring of the bodies in his way. His breath was tight, shallow. His heart slammed against his ribs, each beat an urgent, frantic demand for answers, answers, answers.

By the time he reached the elevators, his pulse was a hammer in his throat.

He slammed his palm against the button, hard enough to sting, but the doors were taking too damn long. His foot shifted, his weight rocked forward, and for the briefest, most reckless of moments, he actually considered taking the stairs—three flights down, what’s the worst that could happen?

The elevator dinged before he could make the mistake. The doors slid open, and he practically fell inside, gripping the handrail as though it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The descent was eternal.

Every second stretched unbearably, an eternity compressed into the span of a heartbeat. His grip on the cane tightened, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios faster than he could shove them away.

Then the doors opened, and the world was chaos.

The ER was a hurricane of noise and motion. People shouting, monitors beeping, gurneys being wheeled in and out, frantic calls for more hands, more blood, more time. It smelled like antiseptic and sweat and fear. None of it mattered.

He scanned the room wildly, his chest heaving, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

Then he saw you.

Everything else ceased to exist.

You lay on a gurney, unnervingly still, the stark white of the sheets beneath you stained with crimson. Blood—your blood—had soaked through your uniform, streaking in thick, horrifying rivulets along your side. The stain spread outward like ink seeping into fabric, too much, too dark, too wrong.

Your skin was ghostly pale. Your lips, usually so full of life, were parted slightly, your breaths shallow and uneven. The beeping of the monitor beside you was steady, but it wasn’t enough—it wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t proof.

A nurse pressed thick layers of gauze against your abdomen, but the fabric was already turning red, struggling to hold back the relentless tide.

Too much blood.

House barely registered the people in his way.

He moved, driven by something primal, something that eclipsed logic or reason or even pain.

He shoved past the nearest nurse, nearly knocking them over. Someone—Foreman, maybe—called his name, a warning, a protest. Cameron was saying something too, voice high with urgency, telling him to stay back, to let them work.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Because all he could see was you.

When he reached you, your lips curled into a faint smile. It was weak, tired, barely there, but unmistakably you.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured, voice a fragile thread of sound, teasing even through the pain.

House wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

His breath was still coming too fast, heart hammering against his ribs, but his eyes—his sharp, calculating, obsessive eyes—raked over you with the precision of a man dissecting a puzzle he refused to lose.

Pale skin. Pupils reactive. Breathing shallow but steady. The bloody gauze pressed to your side. The way your fingers twitched against the sheets, as if even now, you were trying to reassure him.

He didn’t want reassurance. He wanted answers. He wanted to fix this.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was harsh, cracking under the weight of something unspoken as he snapped his gaze toward Cameron.

“She was shot in the line of duty,” Cameron explained gently, her voice steady but careful, as if trying to keep him from unraveling. “Bullet went through the abdomen—clean exit wound. She’s lost a lot of blood, but there’s no major organ damage. We’ve stabilized her for now, but she needs surgery to stop the internal bleeding.”

House barely heard her.

His fingers twitched at his side, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His mind was already sprinting ahead, calculating worst-case scenarios at lightning speed—sepsis, hemorrhagic shock, perforated intestines, nerve damage, secondary infections. The sheer amount of blood soaking the sheets beneath you was unacceptable. Unacceptable.

“You’re sure?” His voice came out sharp, biting, accusatory. “You’re sure no vitals were hit? How much blood did she lose? Are you monitoring for hypovolemic shock? Fluid levels? O2 sat? Is she—”

“House,” Cameron interjected, her tone firm but measured, “we have everything under control.”

“Like hell you do!” he barked, his voice rising, raw with the kind of emotion he usually buried so deep even he forgot it was there. “She’s lying there bleeding out, and you’re telling me to calm down? Give me her vitals! Give me—”

A hand, weak but warm, closed around his own.

House froze.

For a second, everything stopped. The voices around him dulled. The beeping monitors faded to white noise. His breath stalled in his throat as he looked down at where your fingers, trembling but deliberate, curled around his own.

Your touch was barely there, the pressure featherlight, but it was enough. Enough to pull him back from the edge. Enough to remind him that you were still here.

“House,” you murmured again, softer this time, “I’m okay.”

He scoffed, but it lacked his usual venom. “You got shot, you idiot.”

You huffed a weak laugh. “Still here, though.”

His grip on his cane tightened, his other hand hovering just above yours, as if torn between squeezing back or pulling away entirely. He wasn’t good at this. At feeling things. At letting people see how much he cared.

But his silence spoke louder than any sarcasm ever could.

Cameron exchanged a glance with Foreman, something unspoken passing between them. A realization. A truth House would never admit out loud.

“We need to prep her for surgery,” Cameron said, gentler now. “She’s stable, but we can’t wait too long.”

House swallowed hard, his throat tight, his gaze still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough, almost unwilling. “Do it.”

Cameron nodded and turned, calling for the surgical team. The sound of her voice, the shuffle of feet, the beeping of monitors—none of it registered. Not really. Not when your fingers tightened around his hand, the touch weak but deliberate.

House looked down at you, his breath shallow.

Your grip, though faint, carried the unspoken weight of a plea—not for yourself, not for survival, but for him. A silent reassurance that you were still here, still fighting, still you.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, slower this time. The raw urgency in his voice had dimmed, but the demand for answers remained, simmering just beneath the surface.

“I got shot,” you said, your voice strained but steady. “It’s part of the job.”

House exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite disbelief, but something in between.

“Part of the job is paperwork,” he snapped. “Dodging bullets? Not so much.”

You forced a smirk despite the pain tugging at your ribs. “Tell that to the guy who pulled the trigger.”

His fingers flexed against yours. His usual sarcastic retort didn’t come, only the tension in his jaw, the way his blue eyes darkened as his mind undoubtedly raced through every scenario, every what if.

You knew him too well. He was thinking about how much blood you’d lost, how close you’d come to dying, how many things could still go wrong. He was thinking of every worst-case scenario and already planning ways to fight them, as if sheer medical arrogance could force the universe to obey him.

So you did the only thing you could—you teased him.

“Please, try not to kill someone on your team while I’m in surgery,” you murmured, a weak but playful glint in your eyes. “They took care of me.”

House scoffed, but it lacked its usual sharpness. “I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me…” you exhaled softly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you, but you refused to close your eyes. Not yet. You squeezed his hand as much as your strength allowed. “Promise me you’ll be there when I wake up.”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t mock.

He just nodded. A single, firm nod.

Your fingers went slack in relief. You let your eyes close for a second, just a second, because you trusted him.

Then the surgical team arrived.

Everything moved too fast. The gurney jolted into motion. A flurry of hands, voices, orders. House stayed rooted in place, gripping your hand as long as he could, as if willing himself to anchor you here, to keep you from slipping away.

But the inevitable came.

The team pulled you from his grasp, maneuvering you toward the OR. House stood there, his hand still outstretched for a moment too long, his fingers curled into a fist as if he could still feel the ghost of your touch.

Then, without a word, he turned and limped after them.

House sat slouched in one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs of the waiting era, his cane balanced between his fingers, idly spinning it against the floor. His gaze was fixed downward, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. The tiles blurred together, the scuff marks and specks of dirt vanishing beneath the weight of his thoughts.

He should’ve gone up to the observation deck, should’ve been watching, should’ve been in the room where he could seewhat was happening. But he couldn’t.

What if you died on that table?

What if the monitors flatlined? What if there was a complication? What if Cameron had been wrong? What if the damage was worse than they thought?

He clenched his jaw and tapped his cane against the floor a little harder, pushing the thought away before it could take root.

So instead, he waited.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The hands of the clock on the wall dragged forward in slow, painful increments. He tried to distract himself—thought about his latest case, considered playing on his Game Boy, even reached into his pocket for his Vicodin—but none of it stuck. His mind kept circling back to you. The image of you on that gurney, too pale, too still, blood staining your uniform—

A shadow moved beside him.

Wilson.

House didn’t look up, but he heard the familiar rustle of fabric, the soft exhale as his friend settled into the chair next to him. For a while, Wilson didn’t say anything, just sat there in quiet solidarity. It was almost worse—Wilson was a talker. If he wasn’t filling the silence with his usual House, you need to deal with your emotions like an adult lectures, it meant even he knew how bad this was.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wilson spoke.

“How is she?”

House didn’t look up.

“She’s in surgery,” he said flatly. “Bullet missed everything important.”

Wilson studied him, searching his face for cracks in the armor. “And you’re not in there demanding to supervise?”

House scoffed, gripping his cane a little tighter, his fingers tapping restlessly against the smooth handle. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, not really seeing it, his mind still trapped inside the operating room where he refused to be.

“I don’t need to watch them slice her open to know what’s happening,” he muttered. “They either fix her, or they don’t.”

Wilson frowned, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied House carefully. “That’s not like you.”

House shot him a look, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Oh? And what is ‘like me’ exactly? Barging in there, pissing off the surgeons, making sarcastic comments while they have their hands elbow-deep in her gut?”

Wilson shrugged. “Something like that.”

House exhaled sharply, a mix between a laugh and a sigh, but there was no real humor in it. He twirled the cane between his fingers before resting it against his knee, his grip tightening again.

“Yeah, well…” His voice was quieter now, rougher. “Not this time.”

Wilson’s frown deepened. “House…”

House didn’t look at him. Instead, he stared down at the worn tile floor, his jaw clenched, his mind an endless loop of worst-case scenarios. He could hear the steady, distant murmur of voices from nurses at the desk, the occasional footsteps of someone pacing nearby, the low hum of the vending machine down the hall.

And yet, none of it registered.

Because all he could think about was the image of you on that gurney—too pale, too still, blood soaking into the fabric of your uniform. The way your fingers had curled around his, weak but insistent, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had.

“House,” Wilson said again, softer this time, his voice edged with concern. “Why aren’t you in there?”

House swallowed, his throat dry. His grip on the cane tightened.

“Because if something goes wrong…” His voice came out flat, emotionless, as if stating a simple fact. But Wilson knew better. “I don’t want to watch her die.”

Wilson’s breath hitched, just for a second, before he recovered. He studied House’s profile—the tense set of his jaw, the way his shoulders were drawn tighter than usual, the uncharacteristic stillness in his posture.

It was rare to see House this affected, this vulnerable. And Wilson knew better than to push too hard.

So instead, he simply nodded. “She’s going to be fine.”

House didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor, tapping his cane lightly against the tile in an erratic rhythm, waiting.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

He lost track of time, lost in the ache of uncertainty, lost in the gnawing fear he refused to acknowledge.

And then, finally—finally—the doors to the surgical wing opened.

House was on his feet before he realized he’d moved.

Dr. Richardson, a seasoned trauma surgeon with an air of detached professionalism, pulled off his surgical cap and exhaled. He didn’t look panicked. That was a good sign.

House didn’t wait for the usual pleasantries. “Well?”

Richardson’s eyes flickered to Wilson before settling on House. “Surgery went well. The bullet passed cleanly through, no major organs were damaged. There was significant blood loss, but we managed to stabilize her. No signs of sepsis or complications so far.”

House exhaled, slow and controlled, his grip on his cane loosening slightly. Wilson, beside him, gave a small nod of relief.

“She’s going to be out for a while,” Richardson continued. “We’ve got her on pain management, fluids—standard post-op care. We’ll monitor for any signs of infection, but as of now, things look good.”

House didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, staring past the doctor as if trying to see through walls, to see you.

“She’s being moved to recovery now,” Richardson added. “She’ll be in her room soon.”

House gave a short, clipped nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Richardson studied him for a second longer, then glanced at Wilson before excusing himself.

Wilson turned toward House, expectant. “Well?”

“Well, what?” House muttered, already turning on his heel, making his way toward your room.

Wilson smirked. “I was going to ask if you were heading to her room, but I think I have my answer.”

House didn’t acknowledge him. He just walked—quickly, determinedly.

The first thing you felt was warmth—not the sterile, artificial kind from the hospital room, but something deeper, something grounding. A presence.

Your body ached, a dull, pulsing throb spreading from your abdomen outward, but it was manageable. The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the quiet room, an ever-present rhythm reminding you that you were still here.

You swallowed, your throat dry, and slowly, painfully, you forced your eyelids to flutter open. The dim lighting stung at first, and the world felt hazy, but then—then you saw him.

Greg.

Sitting beside you.

His Game Boy was in his hands, the small screen casting a faint glow against his face. But unlike his usual detached, hyper-focused state, he wasn’t really playing. His fingers hovered idly over the buttons, his eyes flickering to you every few seconds, as if waiting, as if watching.

Your lips parted, voice hoarse but teasing. “Tell me you won.”

The Game Boy was forgotten instantly.

House snapped his head toward you, and before you could even process it, he was leaning in. His cane clattered softly against the floor as he set it aside, hands suddenly free, suddenly reaching—for you.

You barely had time to adjust before his fingers slid into yours, his palm warm against your skin, grounding you in a way no heart monitor ever could. His other hand, the one that usually held a Vicodin bottle or twirled his cane absentmindedly, lifted to your face.

He brushed his fingers gently along your hairline, pushing stray strands away, his touch so light, so careful, like he was afraid you’d break.

That tenderness—his tenderness—was something no one else ever saw. It was a privilege reserved only for you, in the privacy of your home, in the quiet moments between the chaos.

You could see it in his eyes now—the raw emotion, the fear that still lingered, the what-ifs that had clearly haunted him in the hours he had spent waiting.

Then, of course, he had to ruin the moment.

“You really milked this whole ‘getting shot’ thing, huh?” he muttered, but his voice was off—rougher, like something had gotten lodged in his throat. His thumb brushed absently over the back of your hand. “Free hospital stay, unlimited drugs, people waiting on you hand and foot. I get the appeal, but next time, maybe don’t take a bullet to get it?”

A weak chuckle escaped you, though it made your ribs ache. “Jealous?”

“Please,” he scoffed, but his hand still hadn’t left yours, his fingers still tracing soothing patterns over your knuckles. “I wouldn’t get shot just for an IV drip. Maybe for a really good Wi-Fi connection.”

Your smile was tired but real. You squeezed his fingers lightly, feeling the warmth, the reassurance. “You stayed.”

House’s expression shifted—barely, subtly. His lips parted, as if about to say something, but instead of words, he exhaled quietly through his nose.

His fingers tightened around yours, just for a second. Then he leaned in closer, resting his forehead briefly against your temple in a gesture so fleeting, so intimate, it sent warmth spreading through your exhausted body.

“You think I’d let these idiots be the first thing you see when you wake up?” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. “Not a chance.”

You let out a soft breath, relief washing over you in waves. He was here. He was really here.

House shifted back slightly, eyes scanning your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek before he finally leaned back into his chair. His hands lingered, though—one still in your hair, the other never letting go of yours.

“So… did you at least bring me flowers?”

House snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back, his free hand reaching lazily for his cane. “Yeah. They’re invisible. Very exclusive. Only the really special patients get them.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, feeling the tug of stitches in your side but not caring. “Guess I should feel honored.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he deadpanned. Then, softer, with a ghost of a smirk, “Don’t expect chocolates, though. I ate those.”

You sighed dramatically, settling further into the pillows, your body finally giving in to the weight of exhaustion. “Figures.”

House watched you, his gaze lingering, something unreadable in his expression. Then, just as your eyes drifted shut, you felt it—his fingers smoothing over your hair one last time, a featherlight touch, almost as if to reassure himself that you were really here.

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

You might have answered, might have teased him for actually admitting it—but sleep was already pulling you under.

And for the first time since the moment you hit the ER, House let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You were safe.

And that was enough.

▸ Everything

@alexxavicry

▸ House MD

@mayo-i @dustie-faerie @awxcoffeexno @khxna

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lumnix3 · 3 months ago

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hi uhhh house being a more oral/handsy top bc he doesn’t have to strain his leg or get his old man dick hard. so he'll call you into his office just to plop you in his lap and grope you. pinch you. scratch you. bite you. lick and suck gross tacky hickeys into your neck while he fingers you. and you KNOW he’s a yapper. and he’s mean.

“oh, please, i’m barely touching you. and i KNOW you’re not a virgin. so you’re either just moaning for attention or you’ve never had a half-decent orgasm in your life. which is it?”

“ugh, look how wet you are. got your whore juices dripping down my wrist. you’re fucking pathetic, you know that? you came over as soon as i called you. just couldn’t resist opening your legs for a man twice your age, huh? is that your daddy’s fault?”

“you know what’s fun? if i wanted to, i could just page my team and make them watch you. i could call them in, tell them it’s a really urgent update about a patient, and instead just show them this dumb little whore i have cumming all over my lap. ah-HA! i felt you clench at that, you slut. want me to do it? seems like your cunt wants me to.”

(he slaps you on your clit) “get on the desk and spread ‘em, bitch. i’m hungry.”

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lumnix3 · 5 months ago

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divorced!dad!in-ho x student!fem!reader

just some thoughts about the possible life of in-ho if the games didn’t exist and he was the divorced dad of your roommate ; cw: age gap, sexual descriptions

divorced dad ! in-ho whose daughter, a friend of yours, is about to be your new roommate ; the two of you meet at the door of the apartment building where you’re going to be living for the next four years with his daughter. it’s early in the afternoon and you’re still in the outfit you wore to class today when you open the front door to welcome him. he’s nothing like you expected him to be. when your to-be-roommate texted you from work saying that her dad is going to stop by to drop some boxes with stuff for her you thought you’re gonna meet an average fifty year old grumpy man with tired eyes, scoffing and grumbling, but no… unexpectedly, you lay eyes on the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, elegant and alluring, and you end up just standing there all tongue-tied…

divorced dad ! in-ho who lets you know right away that he won’t take too much of your time, but politely agrees when you suggest to make him a cup of coffee. you quickly find out he’s intelligent, funny, well mannered man and divorced for over three years. he effortlessly makes you feel giddy through his charms meanwhile the way he’s not refraining from keeping his eyes on you has you fantasising… of being manhandled on top of the kitchen table, legs held up on his broad shoulders as his charmingly shaped lips work wonders at your clit. though his flourishing career and the fact his life is much fuller of interesting experiences than yours he swiftly brings back the attention on you with genuine appreciation and intrigue. “i want to hear more about you,” he says almost in a whisper as if he’s entranced by you. the way he can lead a discussion about literally anything while avoiding talking about himself for longer than necessary is refreshing as you’re used to obnoxious guys your age who use every chance they get to talk about themselves.

eventually, you decide not to ask questions about his ex wife, but it’s clear in-ho is enjoying attracting this type of attention again, especially from such a young girl. yes, he’s had experiences where much younger women have shamelessly flirted with him, but he was never interested enough in paying them attention; he’s never had a thing for such unabashed behaviour. with you it’s different; he likes the conversation, the spark in your gaze that keeps him engaged, that makes him want to stop time so he can study you more. the lust creeping up in your voice just enough to make his skin run hot. it’s all already enough to make him forget that you’re his daughter’s roommate… one of her friends…

divorced dad ! in-ho who succeeds at holding back from kissing you when you say goodbye at the door, but fails the next time he stops by to bring the last boxes with luggage. you’re too hard to resist and the devil on his shoulder won’t stop reminding him that if he doesn’t get his hands on you right there and then he’s going to regret it.

is it risky because you’re close friends with his daughter? yes. because of the big age gap between you that makes him seem like he could be your father? maybe. but those things turn the experience even more fun and intense. the secrecy as you lock the door, the rushed promises against your lips that his daughter mustn’t find out. and then… the best of all - his experienced touch electrifying your whole being as it combines with your high energy and sex drive; he knows exactly how to caress you, kiss you and how to make you scream for more. as if your body revealed all your secrets and needs to him the second he pulled you in his arms. his demeanour and the way he maintains full control of everything arouses you more than you thought it’s possible, however, you can see in his glossed over eyes that it’s been a while since he’s had sex - either at all, or just with someone who genuinely brings him immense pleasure. you can feel it in his rough wet kisses with little bites in between; in his thrusts, crashing against you greedily as if this is something he’s been dreaming of… last but not least, in the sincere way he pants thank you when you delightfully swallow his cum after he releases in your mouth, gripping the roots of your hair and tilting your head up as he does so; he wants to peer into your dazed hypnotising eyes in case he doesn’t see you again…

divorced dad ! in-ho who gets addicted to your sounds, to your sweet taste, to all the pretty expressions you make for him and how perfectly your tight pussy feels around him. it’s a dangerous, irresistible combination of emotions that keeps him coming back for more. you’re just as down bad - nobody has made you feel so craved before, so beautiful and sexy in your own skin, but also safe to the point where you almost feel like a completely new person in the bedroom. both of you unleash your filthy fantasies every time you meet and watch how effortlessly they blend together, reminding you how perfectly you match, like two pieces of the same puzzle.

divorced dad ! in-ho who buys a luxurious apartment for the two of you so you don’t feel anxious that his daughter can walk in on you out of nowhere, but also because he wants to. he feels good when he’s spoiling you because he wants to know you have everything you may need and that you have a reason to smile so every time you arrive you find different gifts in addition to beautiful bouquets of flowers with little notes he wrote before going to work.

divorced dad ! in-ho who does his best to spend quality time with you by taking you out, but also by doing fun domestic activities at your new place because now it’s your favorite place to be. you have movie marathons, romantic dinners with meals that he cooks for you while jazzy tunes play in the background as you sit on the countertop and tell him about your day at uni; slow make out sessions on the balcony at night which sometimes end up with you riding him while wearing one of his many shirts. the warm summer breeze spreads his expensive cologne in the air as his hands rest on your hips not rushing your movements because he wants to enjoy every second of the moment… you also have sex on the couch, in the shower and in front of the mirror, because you cannot get enough of each other. to in-ho, sex has never been so thrilling, so… diverse and nasty. “my dirty minded babydoll,” he likes to call you every time you surprise him by asking to please him in a new exciting way.

and when it comes to you, sex has never been so fulfilling; none of the few guys you’ve dated focused so much on you, they never seemed to be patient enough to analyse your reactions and study the needs of your body. but in-ho does, and it’s like every time he learns something new that makes him fall in love even harder. it feels good, because you’re willing to go all the way for him too…

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lumnix3 · 5 months ago

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im bored, send requests

#hwang inho x reader #hwang in ho x reader #front man x reader #hwang in-ho x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x sirius black #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #squid game #harry potter #marvel #attack on titan #aot

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lumnix3 · 5 months ago

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The Architect and the Muse

this is my first time writing a fic soo lmk what you think !

The control room hummed with subdued power, its sleek walls and towering monitors casting a cold, unyielding glow. On the screens, the macabre ballet of Red Light, Green Light unfolded—players moving and stopping, their lives dictated by a mechanical doll’s gaze. Death punctuated the air like gunshots, for that was exactly what they were.

At the center of it all, Hwang In-Ho sat in his throne-like chair, his tailored suit immaculate despite the undercurrent of violence in the room. His mask, as much a shield as a crown, obscured his expression, but the weight of his presence was unmistakable. Draped across his lap, you embodied an eerie grace, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the armrest as your gaze lingered on the carnage below.

“You see her hesitate?” In-Ho’s voice was a low, commanding rumble, his gloved hand resting possessively on your hip. “Player 029. Her legs quiver before every step. Weakness will swallow her whole.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving into a faint smirk. “And yet, the bold ones are the real spectacle. They’re the first to break when things get… personal.”

His fingers tightened reflexively on your waist, a quiet affirmation. “And the ones who don’t break?”

“They burn,” you said, your tone as detached as it was assured. “Beautifully, I might add.”

Your eyes remained fixed on the monitors, cataloging every stutter, every falter, every flash of defiance, as your mind began to drift to where it all started..

The rain lashed against the cracked pavement of a forgotten alleyway. Hwang In-Ho, disheveled and gaunt, leaned against the wall, his suit tattered and soaked. He clutched the prize money, his victory in the games a hollow triumph that gnawed at his soul.

“You look like hell,” a voice remarked, cutting through the storm.

He glanced up sharply, and there you stood, umbrella in hand, the rain sliding off its edges as if refusing to touch you. Your sharp eyes seemed to dissect him in an instant.

“And you,” he rasped, voice raw with despair, “look like you don’t belong here.”

“Maybe,” you replied, stepping closer. “But you do. And I’m curious—what keeps someone like you standing when it’d be so much easier to fall?”

He didn’t answer, but something in your gaze held him there, a tether he didn’t know he needed. Over time, your quiet strength became his anchor, your sharp mind his counsel. When you discovered the horrors behind the games, you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stayed. You stayed, and he began to realize you weren’t just his salvation—you were his equal.

Snapping out of it, the tension in the air was a living thing. The eerie melody of "Red light, Green light" echoed across the arena, the giant doll swiveling its head with mechanical precision.

On the monitors, Player 029 hesitated again.

“Watch,” In-Ho murmured, his voice reverent. “She’s done.”

The crack of a rifle confirmed it. The player’s body hit the ground, lifeless.

You leaned back against his chest, your calm mirroring his own. His arm tightened around you, fingers brushing yours in a silent exchange.

“Some surprises,” you murmured, gesturing to another screen. A bold player—Player 067—had darted forward in defiance of the doll’s rhythm, earning gasps from her fellow competitors.

“She’ll be one to watch,” In-Ho admitted, a rare hint of admiration threading his tone.

You hummed in agreement, the faintest trace of a smile playing on your lips. “For now.”

The room dimmed, the monitors fading into standby mode as the first game drew to a bloody close. In-Ho removed his mask, revealing the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, dark and searching, found yours.

“You see things I don’t,” he murmured, his hand cupping your jaw. “I trust your eyes more than my own.”

You chuckled, a soft sound that belied the weight of your shared history. “Careful, In-Ho. You’ll spoil me with that worship.”

His gaze hardened slightly, a reminder of the feral edge that always lingered just beneath his surface. “You’re already spoiled. And I’d destroy anyone who tried to take that from you.”

You traced your finger along the edge of his jaw, your touch as much a challenge as an affirmation. “You’d better." You mutter as you draw closer to him. In-Ho's thumb brushed over your lower lip, the gesture a silent question. You answered by tilting your head forward slightly, inviting him closer. His breath was warm against your mouth, the faint scent of mint and expensive cologne mixing in the air. When he kissed you, it was with the same fierce intensity he brought to every battle, but tempered with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

Your hands slid around his neck, fingers tangling in the short strands of his hair as you deepened the kiss. The world around you faded into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of your heartbeats echoing in your ears. You felt the tension in his muscles, the way they flexed under your touch, and the heat that seemed to radiate from his very core.

In-Ho's grip tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. His other hand rested on the small of your back, the pressure both reassuring and demanding. You could feel his desire, a potent force that seemed to vibrate in the air around you. It matched the thundering of your pulse, the rush of blood in your veins.

But as the final buzzer sounded, the room flooding with light and the sound of cheers and curses from the other players, you reluctantly broke the kiss. In-Ho's eyes searched yours, the question clear even without words. You nodded, and pulled away. The moment had been perfect, a secret shared between the two of you amidst the chaos of the games.

The surviving players were herded out of the arena, their terror lingering in the air like smoke. The control room was silent but for the crackle of monitors.

You rose gracefully from In-Ho’s lap, smoothing over your suit. Your voice, calm but laced with an edge, broke the quiet.

“Let’s make the second game… unforgettable.”

In-Ho smirked, his voice low and amused. “What do you have in mind?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your eyes alight with something dangerous. “Why don’t i join with you? Shake things up a little.”

His laughter was a dark, rumbling sound. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I like the heat.”

As the monitors flickered to life again, the next game revealed itself—a playground, with two giant rainbow circles on either side of the place. The room seemed to hum with anticipation, the stakes rising for both the players and the couple who controlled their fates.

In-Ho reached for your hand, his voice a whisper. “Let’s see if they can survive your game.”

Your smile was razor-sharp. “Let’s see if they can survive us.”

#hwang inho x reader #hwang in ho x reader #hwang in-ho x reader #front man x reader #hwang in ho #hwang in-ho #lee byung hun #player 001 #young-il #squidgame #squid game #squid game season 2

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