#GI Mark Protection

[globalinvestigationservices]

How GI Mark Protection Laws Ensure Authenticity

In a time when fake articles are frequently passing as real, it is, in fact, of paramount importance to declare the genuineness of something. Yes, these laws are for GI Mark Protection that helped in the authentication of products' origin, the respect of different cultures, and the establishment of consumer trust. Regulations have been implemented not only to defend products that are different but also to secure the traditions and enable growth in those areas.

What exactly is GI Mark Protection? 

A Geographical Indication (GI) Mark is a special sign that appears on products tied to a specific location, highlighting their unique qualities or reputation that stem from that area. In India, this protection is provided under The Geographical Indications of Goods (Registration and Protection) Act, 1999. This law ensures that only those who are authorized can use the registered GI tag, safeguarding the authenticity of local products.

Now, let’s talk about the laws that back GI Mark Protection in India. The framework is quite solid, governed by: (https://www.gimarks.com/about.html)

- The Geographical Indications of Goods (Registration and Protection) Act, 1999

- The Geographical Indications of Goods (Registration and Protection) Rules, 2002

These laws are designed to offer:

- Exclusive rights for registered producers or associations to use the GI.

- Legal protection against unauthorized use or infringement.

- Preservation of cultural identity and indigenous knowledge.

By law, a GI registration lasts for ten years but can be renewed indefinitely. If someone misuses or falsifies GI marks, it’s considered a serious offense, punishable by fines or even imprisonment.

How These Laws Ensure Product Authenticity

Geographical Indication (GI) laws act like a protective shield, preserving the identity and trust associated with products. Here’s how they ensure authenticity:

1. Exclusive Usage Rights

Only those who are registered or authorized can use the GI tag. If someone tries to sell without permission, they could face legal consequences. This discouragement of misuse helps build consumer trust and boosts brand reputation.

2. Product Verification and Inspection

To make sure products meet the standards set during registration, inspection bodies are put in place. This adds an extra layer of quality assurance and enhances credibility in the marketplace.

3. Consumer Awareness and Legal Enforcement

The law encourages producers to inform consumers about the significance of GI Marks. Enforcement officers and intellectual property attorneys collaborate with local and national organizations to ensure compliance and minimize the risk of counterfeits.

4. Economic Boost for Authentic Producers

By cutting down on fake products, genuine producers get a fair chance to showcase their skills and expertise. For example, Darjeeling Tea and Kanchipuram Silk have seen significant benefits from GI protection, both at home and abroad.

Real-World Impact and Global Recognition

Indian Examples

Mysore Silk and Basmati Rice have seen a surge in demand, thanks to the guaranteed authenticity that comes with GI protection.

Aranmula Kannadi, the unique metal mirror, is safeguarded because only a handful of skilled artisans in Kerala know how to craft it.

Global Equivalents

Countries like France (for Champagne), Italy (for Parma Ham), and China (for Longjing Tea) have similar GI systems in place. The TRIPS Agreement under the WTO mandates that all member nations protect GI through their national laws. This international collaboration is helping Indian GI products gain global recognition, further solidifying their authenticity and credibility.

Legal Experts and IP Professionals

Protecting GI Marks requires legal know-how for filing, monitoring, and litigation. Law firms with extensive experience in intellectual property rights (IPR) play a vital role in guiding producer groups and cooperatives.

Investigation and Monitoring Agencies

Professional GI Mark investigation services are relied upon by stakeholders to keep an eye on counterfeit activities, conduct market surveys, and gather legal evidence. Their expertise and authority ensure that GI laws remain effective.

Government and Enforcement Bodies

Organizations like the Geographical Indications Registry, police departments, and customs officials work together to ensure that infringement cases are taken seriously and resolved promptly.

Conclusion

GI Mark Protection laws have become a powerful legal tool for maintaining authenticity, fostering regional pride, and boosting local economies. When combined with experience, expertise, and reliable enforcement, this legal framework creates a strong foundation for the long-term sustainability of genuine products. Consumers also benefit, as they can trust the quality and origin of what they purchase. In an era where imitation threatens originality, these laws serve as a dependable safeguard for both producers and consumers.

[greengoblinswifey]

Game of Fate—Hwang In-ho/Front Man x Fem!Reader

summary— After discovering that you, a girl he had a one night stand with entered the deadly games, the Front man disguised as a player 001, infiltrates the games under the guise of monitoring Gi-hun but his focus becomes protecting you at all costs. based on this request.

warnings— none! fluff undertones, slight angst, season 2 spoilers, usual squid game chaos, in-ho being protective and possessive(he has a heart) <3

In-ho sat in his private quarters, the screens in front of him displaying the death and desperation of the games. His attention drifted from one player to the next until his eyes fell on you. A bolt of recognition shot through him. It was you, his one night stand from years ago, someone who had left a mark on him in ways he hadn’t expected.

He remembered every detail about you, your wit, your boldness, and the way you made him feel alive, even if just for one night. It infuriated him to see other players whispering in your ear or lingering too long in your space. His possessiveness surprised even him. You had been the best fuck he ever had, and seeing you here now stirred something he couldn’t ignore.

That’s when he made a decision.

By the time you met “Young-il,” the newest player in the games, you couldn’t place why he seemed familiar. His face was shadowed by the chaos of your surroundings, and you had no time to dwell on it.

“You,” he said, approaching you during a moment of uneasy rest.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“You could say that,” have a sly smile, “Call me Young-il.”

You tilted your head, trying to recall where you might have met him. There was something about him, his confidence, his presence, that struck something. Still, you shrugged it off. “Okay, Young-il. Hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You didn’t realize he was watching your every move.

During one of the more grueling games, you faltered. The sound of gunfire rang out as players dropped like flies, and your heart pounded. You’d made a critical mistake, one that should have cost you your life.

You braced yourself for the inevitable, but nothing happened. The guards moved past you, their guns silent. You stood frozen, confused, but grateful.

In-ho, hidden behind the mask of a player, allowed himself the briefest sigh of relief. His influence was subtle but effective, you were still alive, and he’d made sure of it.

Later, as the remaining players rested, he approached you again.

“You were lucky out there,” he said, sitting down next to you.

“Mhmm. Don’t know how I pulled that off,” you said as you glanced at him, still shaken from the day’s events.

“You’ve got more lives than a cat.”

“Or someone’s watching over me,” you joked.

He smiled faintly, hiding how true your words were.

As the games continued, his protectiveness grew. When another player made a sly comment about your appearance, he was quick to cut in.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The player backed off, muttering under his breath, while you arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t need to fight my battles,” you said sassily.

“I wasn’t fighting,” he said as he leaned closer.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

In-ho found himself conflicted. He hadn’t planned to step into the games, let alone risk his identity. But seeing you here, vulnerable yet determined, pulled at something deep within him. And when you finally cornered him one night, your wary gaze demanding answers, he knew he couldn’t stay in the shadows forever.

“You’re not just another player, are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your eyes searching his.

He hesitated, then smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got secrets. But shit, me too. Let’s survive this first.”

“Deal,” he said.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, protecting you, and falling deeper into the very thing he tried to avoid. The very thing he said he wasn’t there for. Wasn’t he there to target Gi-hun?

Young-il seamlessly integrated himself into the group with Gi-hun and the rest, his calm demeanor and quick thinking making him reliable. Despite his apparent calmness, his sharp gaze constantly flicked to you. He positioned himself strategically, always close enough to step in if anything went wrong.

Gi-hun often exchanged glances with Jung-bae, silently questioning why Young-il seemed more concerned about you than the games themselves. But they never voiced their suspicions, after all, his protectiveness benefited the group.

Young-il wasn’t subtle about his priorities. When Thanos, one of the annoying and aggressive players, approached you with a smirk and a comment about how “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be here,” Young-il’s jaw tightened.

“Walk away,” he said, his voice cold.

“Relax, man. Just talking—” Thanos chuckled nervously.

“I said, walk away.”

Before Thanos could respond, Young-il took a step forward, fists clenched, his eyes dark. Thanos scrambled back, muttering curses under his breath.

You crossed your arms and shot him a look. “I didn’t need you to step in. I could’ve handled that.”

“I wasn’t going to let him near you.”

When the lights went out, the dormitory turned into chaos. You barely managed to sleep, anxiety gnawing at you. But Young-il stayed awake, his body perched against the wall near your makeshift bed. His eyes, though heavy with exhaustion, remained trained on the room, scanning for any sign of danger.

At one point, you stirred, catching his silhouette in the dim light. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Not tired,” he lied, his voice soft.

“You should rest. I’m fine.”

“I’ll rest when this is over. Someone has to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he shook his head.

His words lingered in the air, and you turned away, confused by his constant concern.

When food rations arrived, Young-il always ensured you had enough, sometimes splitting his share without you noticing. If you hesitated to eat, he nudged the portion toward you.

“Eat,” he insisted once, placing his biscuit in your hand.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” you said. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” he replied. “I’m keeping you alive.”

In the third game, players had to quickly form groups based on the number the organizers called, and with each failed attempt, the penalty was being shot to death. Fear ran high, and each moment felt like it could be your last.

You were with Young-il, trying to keep calm as the guards shouted the numbers. The merry go round platform spun as everyone scrambled to form groups and find a room, but it quickly turned chaotic. Someone tried to push past you, their eyes wild with desperation, and before you could react, Young-il was already stepping in.

His face was hard, his eyes cold as he grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him to the back of the room. The man’s protests were cut short as Young-il raised his hands and broke his neck, ending his life. The room fell silent for a moment before the countdown ended.

You froze, shock creeping into your body as you realized what had just happened. You hadn’t expected him to kill so easily, even after all the brutality you’d witnessed in the games. His gaze softened when he turned to you, seeing the fear in your eyes. He stepped closer, his hand resting on your shoulder.

“I know this is hard,” he whispered, his voice gentle compared to the violence he had just shown. “But you need to understand, this place doesn’t have mercy.” He looked down at you, his hand reaching up to cup your face, brushing away the few tears that had fallen. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words as he pulled you into his chest. The harsh reality of the games had taken root in you, but with him, you knew, even if just for a minute, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. His feelings for you were clear, he wanted you to survive, to make it out of this, and he was determined to ensure that you would.

During the dark night when the O Team launched their attack, chaos erupted. Players were dragged from their beds, screams echoing through the dormitory. When someone lunged toward you with a fork, Young-il stopped them in an instant, knocking them to the ground with a brutality that left you stunned.

He positioned himself between you and the attackers, his stance firm. “Stay behind me,” he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I can fight!” you shouted back, trying to step forward.

“Not tonight,” he said, shoving you back gently but firmly. “You’re staying behind me. That’s final.”

Despite your protests, he shielded you with everything he had, fighting off anyone who dared come near.

When the group decided to attack the guards and confront the ‘Front Man’, Young-il hesitated. His gaze flickered between you and Gi-hun, his usual resolve wavering.

“You’ll be okay,” he said finally, pressing a gun into your hand.

“I don’t even know how to use this,” you said, eyes widened.

“You don’t need to. Just point and shoot if you have to,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly, his words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he turned to follow Gi-hun. Over his shoulder, he added, “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a determination to survive��not just for yourself, but for the man who had somehow made you his priority in this death game.

[poolseason]

headcanon time! Lloyd's powers:

When using Oni abilities, his powers turn purple, of course but I've been obsessed with the idea of him gaining those white face markings that Garm and the other onis have. The marks sort of swirl in from the sides of his face. if i was a better animator i'd have shown you. also would be cool if an inexplicable shadow fell over him and him only (even if he was in the sun), making the marks glow more.

Obviously there are two modes Lloyd's got when tapping into the Oni abilties: powered up and full transformation. i'm obsessssssedddd with exposed bones. Garmadon and Mistaké exposed ribcage is such a cool design element. I think in the power-up mode, the torso markings detail are something that glows over him, while in the transformation his ribcage and spine are just Out. But don't worry, I'm sure they're extra durable.

The green one is funky. You know how Lloyd's powers sort of glitched over him during his fight against Garmadon in s8? It was explained that his element was protecting him in a way. Well in my head, in the non-plastic character world the way it's visualized like the green power is sort of illuminating under his skin? its wrapping itself around his bones and organs and stuff as some sort of protective sheild under his flesh, which in part makes him look a little ghostly or radioactive. Probably a bit painful though.

Oni form. TBH i don't like the gold color but i can sort of accept that look if they give us a good reason. Otherwise I figure that since he was wearing proper armor in Crystallized, his transformation was more contained more. I bet if he was wearing a normal gi he'd tear out of it when he turns into a big hulking monster guy. They really should've tapped into the classic werewolf tropes with this oni transformation haha

I hc onis being really BIG beasts. Lloyd's transformation probably takes him up to like 3 meters tall. That could honestly be a really funny contrast though. I think in human mode he'd be really short, so effectively he doubles in size.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

OR NAH || FRONTMAN

Part ll

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

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

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

It all happened too fast.

Gunfire.

Shouts.

The wet slap of bodies hitting the ground.

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

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

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

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t even blink.

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

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

You fell.

...

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

It was warmth.

Disorienting and wrong.

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

You weren’t in a prison.

You were in a sanctuary designed by a monster.

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

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

Then—footsteps.

Measured.

Calm.

Closer.

You held your breath.

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

The Frontman.

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

Then, his voice—deep, smooth, chilling.

“ Welcome back, Player 321.”

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

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

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

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

“ I must admit.” He continued.

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

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

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

You flinched at the closeness.

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

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

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

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

You froze.

“ What—”

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

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

Your body trembled, not in fear—but fury.

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

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

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

He leaned in closer, his voice like poison honey.

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

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

“ And now…” He said.

“ You’re right where I want you.”

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

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

“ I wonder how long until you break.”

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

You would survive.

You would get out.

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

...

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

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

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

It was the memory.

Jun-bae.

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

And then the world ripped him away.

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

You didn’t want to cry.

You didn’t want to scream.

But both urges warred in your chest like poison.

Then—the door opened again.

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

You didn’t look up.

You couldn’t.

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

Silent.

Watching.

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

“ Still pretending you’re not to blame?”

You flinched.

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

Your jaw tensed.

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

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

You swallowed back the scream rising in your throat.

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

“ I love this part.” He murmured.

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

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

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

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

His hand caressed your cheek, mockingly soft.

“ It’s not the death.” He whispered.

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

“ You’re exquisite when you crack.”

He leaned closer, voice like velvet soaked in poison.

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

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

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

He was still for a moment.

Then he laughed.

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

“ That’s adorable.” He said.

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

His hand slid from your cheek to your throat.

“ You’ll still belong to me.”

You barely had time to gasp before his grip tightened.

Choking.

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

He didn’t flinch.

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

“ What rebellion will save you now?”

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

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

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

Then suddenly, he released your throat.

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

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

“ You can break my body…”

“ But you’ll never own me."

He stared at you in silence.

Then slowly, he tilted his head.

“ We’ll see.”

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

...

The silence in the chamber had become your only ally.

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

But your mind was calculating.

Observing.

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

Every second was a rehearsal for escape.

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

It was a strategy.

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

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

Too soon.

Too quietly.

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

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

Your heart plummeted.

He’d known.

All along.

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

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

“ But you forgot something…”

He leaned down, mask inches from your face.

“…I know exactly how you think.”

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

A pause.

The tension thickened.

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

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

“ Isn’t it obvious?” He said softly.

“ I want you. I own you.”

You blinked.

“ No—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off.

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

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

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

And then he laughed.

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

“ God…” He murmured.

“ I love seeing you like this.”

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

He inhaled.

Slow.

Deep.

Possessive.

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

“ I could break you now.” He whispered.

“ But where’s the fun in that?”

Then—he tossed something onto your lap.

A dress.

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

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

“ That’s your purpose now.” He said.

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

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

“ I wonder…” He purred.

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

You shook your head, trembling.

“ I’d rather die.”

Another soft laugh.

He leaned in again—too close.

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

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

Then, stepping back, he gestured toward the door.

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

You stayed still.

Silent.

Defiant.

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

For a moment, there was a pause.

Then—a dark chuckle.

Not amused.

Dangerous.

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

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

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

“ Say that again…” He hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

The dress in your lap felt like fire.

And still, you didn’t move.

You refused to let him see you fall.

Not yet.

Not ever.

...

The dress clung to your skin like shame.

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

You kept your head high.

Mask on.

Expression unreadable.

But inside—you were burning.

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

His hand had not left your waist since you entered.

Firm.

Possessive.

Territorial.

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

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

He was parading you.

And the message was clear.

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

They caught on quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clenched.

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

Not here.

Not yet.

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

You recognized one.

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

They looked…hollowed out.

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

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

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

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

So you sat.

Stiffly.

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

Then—

His hand slid down.

Slow.

From your waist, across your thigh.

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

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

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

He leaned closer again, breath brushing your ear.

“ You’re doing so well, darling.”

“ Play the role…survive.”

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

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

He chuckled, not phased in the slightest.

“ Spoken like a true fighter.” He murmured.

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

His hand crept higher.

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

Not yet.

He stilled.

Just for a second.

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

The game began.

Screams erupted on the screen.

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

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

But your eyes weren’t really on them.

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

It was right beside you.

The Frontman’s hand had not retreated.

It lingered.

Brushed.

Climbed.

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

Your stomach twisted violently.

Not in fear.

Not anymore.

In rage.

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

No words came out.

You couldn’t scream.

You couldn’t flinch.

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

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

“ You look pale.” He said.

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

“ You’re trembling.”

You froze.

Shit.

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

You forced a smile.

Small.

Polite.

Poisoned.

“ I’m fine.”

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

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

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

“ She’ll adjust. They always do.”

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

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

On fire.

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

But instead—

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

A mask on top of a mask.

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

Not yet.

Not here.

But soon.

You were already planning.

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

Until the curtains fall.

...

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

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

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

Until now.

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

“ Make a sound…” He murmured coldly.

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

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

Precise.

Unbothered.

Intentional.

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

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

Then one of them turned to you.

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

“ Which one are you rooting for, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

The group broke into mocking applause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like you wished you were.

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

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

You dared not move.

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

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

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

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

“ Just…focused.” You said.

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

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

“ Worried about your golden boy?”

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

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

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

“ Careful, she might cry if he dies.”

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

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

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

He dipped his fingers past the edge of your underwear.

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

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

And still—Gi-hun survived.

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

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

It was you.

Your voice.

Your control.

Your dignity.

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

The Frontman wasn’t betting on the players.

He was betting on you.

And he was winning.

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

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

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

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

“ You’re awfully quiet.” He smirked.

“ Getting bored?”

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

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

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

“ She’s deeply invested in the game.”

The VIPs laughed.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

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

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

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

Dead.

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

And then—

“ Player 206. Eliminated.”

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

“ You're dripping.” He whispered.

Your entire body seized.

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

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

“ Then keep quiet.” He said.

“ Or I will.”

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

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

“ Tsk…” Be murmured.

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

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

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

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

You, however, couldn’t move.

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

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

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

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

“ Still betting on 456?”

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

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

The Frontman didn’t slow down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falling.

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

His fingers never sped up.

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

And when it hit—

It was silent.

No cry.

No moan.

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

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

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

You were wrecked—and he knew it.

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

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

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

“ You alright, dear?”

You nodded stiffly.

“ Just…nervous.” You muttered.

“ Don't be.” The fox VIP chuckled.

“ It’s just a game.”

But it wasn’t.

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

But you?

You weren’t sure anymore.

...

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

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

You were his to remove.

His to handle.

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

And then—

It all happened fast.

His mask was gone.

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

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

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

“ So quiet. So obedient.”

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

A silk blindfold.

Tied tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Here, you're my obedient girl.”

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

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

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

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

A warning.

“ Answer me.”

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

“ Yes…Sir.”

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

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

“ My perfectly trained, perfectly obedient little toy.”

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

The games outside continued.

Blood spilled. Bets placed.

But in this room…

The only game was you.

And the Frontman never played fair.

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

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

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

Every touch sparked like a match.

Every whisper burned.

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

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

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

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

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

“ I know.”

“ Say it.”

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

“ I belong to you.” You whispered.

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

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

“ You were quiet for them.” He said.

“ Now you’ll be loud for me.”

Your breath caught again.

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

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

He didn’t rush.

He never rushed.

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

The whimpers.

The moans.

The shaking, the pleading, the surrender.

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

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

You opened your mouth to reply—

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

He made sure you screamed for it.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Shh…” He warned.

“ Obedient girls wait.”

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

“ Still so sweet.” He muttered.

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

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

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

“ You didn’t scream.”

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

He smiled at you.

“ There’s my girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

And just when you were about to come—

He stopped.

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

“ Please…” You breathed, broken.

“ Please…”

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

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

“ But obedient girls ask before they come.”

You whimpered again, barely holding on.

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

“ When I say.”

His fingers curled just slightly.

“ Beg for it.”

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

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

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

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

“ Then don’t.”

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t done.

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

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

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

The leather was cold.

His body was not.

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

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

“ Look at you…” He whispered.

“ A mess…and still mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You would.

And he knew it.

Because he’d made you his.

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

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

He wanted more.

He needed to ruin you completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Say it.” He snarled against your shoulder.

“ Say who you belong to.”

“ Y-You—” You gasped.

“ You, I—I belong to y-you—!”

“ Louder.”

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

“ I belong to you!”

The second orgasm slammed into you without mercy.

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

You were just his.

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

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

“ One more.” He breathed.

“ You can give me one more.”

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

“ No.” You whispered weakly.

“ I— I can’t—”

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

“ Yes…you will.”

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

And worse?

So did your body. You were already climbing again.

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

But he didn’t let you fall.

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

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

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

“ I’m not done watching you obey.”

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

“ Now.”

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

He smiled.

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

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

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

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

“ Now earn what you begged for.”

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

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

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

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

“ Faster."

You obeyed.

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

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

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

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

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

“ Then fucking break.”

And you did.

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

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

“ We’re still not finished.”

“ Get ready to beg again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Say it.” He demanded.

“ Beg for it again.”

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

“ Say it.”

“ P-Please…” You finally choked out.

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

“ That’s not begging.”

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

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

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

“ I’ll do anything.” You gasped.

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

He smirked. “ There she is.”

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

You screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

“ Cum for me.” He hissed.

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

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

But he didn’t stop.

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

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

“ That’s my good girl.”

You couldn’t respond. Not with words.

Only with breath.

Only with surrender.

And he savored every second of it.

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

The Frontman didn't move right away.

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

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

You melted into it.

Into him.

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

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

“ So damn good for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“ Shh…” He whispered.

“ I’ve got you. I know you’re sore.”

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

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

“ Look at the mess you made…”

“ Still dripping with me.”

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

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

“ Breathe, darling.” He said softly.

“ You’re safe.”

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

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

Not the mask.

Not the command.

But him.

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

“ You break so beautifully.” He murmured.

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

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

“ Rest now.” He whispered.

“ You earned every second of it.”

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

For once, not because he demanded it…

But because he gave it.

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

Confusion.

Betrayal.

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

The tilt of his head.

The faint scar across his brow.

The calm but sharp glint in his eyes.

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

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

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

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

“ I was wondering when it would click.”

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

And now?

The Frontman.

The orchestrator of cruelty.

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

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

He looked at you—unapologetic.

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

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

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

“ You used me.”

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

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

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

“ And still…” He smiled.

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

Your jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then his voice hardened again.

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

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

You didn’t resist.

Couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

“ Remember…” He said softly.

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

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

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

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

[extinctlesspains]

Hi could you write for kwon where the reader and him slept together the night prior to the 2 day of competition.everyone notices the hickeys and how they are staring at each other.can you make the reader johnnys daughter.

A/n: I could imagine the look on Johnny's face 😭😭

𝑈𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛:𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝐽𝑎𝑒-𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑔

𝐵𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠

»»——⍟——««

»»——⍟——««

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝐽𝑎𝑒-𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑥 𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑦 (𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎)

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐾𝑤𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑓𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑌/𝑛, ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦𝑠, 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

The morning sun blazed across the Sekai Taikai arena, but it wasn’t the heat that had You feeling flushed. Your mind was stuck on the night before—Kwon’s hands tracing fire across your skin, his lips leaving a trail of possessive marks along your neck and collarbone. The way he whispered your name, the raw intensity in his eyes—it replayed in your head like a secret song only you could hear.

You adjusted the collar of your gi, trying to hide the evidence, but there was no hiding the glow on your face or the magnetic pull between you and Kwon.

"Yo, Y/n, you good?" Miguel’s voice broke your reverie. He was watching you with narrowed eyes, his brow furrowed. "You’ve been zoning out all morning."

"Just… focused," you replied, forcing a smile. You tugged your gi higher around your neck, but Miguel’s eyes flicked to the slight purple bruise peeking out.

"What's that?" he asked, squinting.

"Nothing!" You blurted, too quickly. "Must’ve been from sparring."

Miguel’s eyes lingered a moment longer, but he shrugged. "Alright, just don’t get distracted. We need you sharp today."

Across the dojo floor, Kwon was warming up, his movements fluid and dangerous. He caught your gaze, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a feral intensity that made your heart stutter. A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, and the heat that passed between them was almost tangible.

"You’re staring," Sam whispered, sidling up beside you. Her voice was teasing, but her eyes were sharp. "And you’re blushing. Spill."

"There’s nothing to spill," You muttered, avoiding your friend’s knowing gaze.

"Right." Sam’s eyes flicked to the faint bruise on your neck. "Totally nothing."

Your cheeks burned. "Focus on the competition, Sam."

Sam grinned. "Oh, I’m focused. Just not on the same thing you are."

"Hey, Y/n!" Johnny’s voice cut through the chatter. Your father approached, his eyes scanning the team. "You ready? This is the big one. No distractions, got it?"

"Got it, Dad." You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady.

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing. "You look… different. What’s going on?"

"Nothing!" You said quickly. Too quickly.

Johnny’s eyes darted to Kwon, who was watching them from across the room. There was something in the way the boy looked at his daughter that made Johnny’s protective instincts flare. "You sure there’s nothing I need to know about?"

"Dad, seriously. I’m fine."

Johnny didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. "Alright. Just keep your head in the game."

As he walked away, You exhaled, your shoulders sagging with relief. You glanced back at Kwon, who was still watching you, his smirk deepening. He walked over, every step deliberate, his presence sending a shiver down your spine.

"Morning," he said, his voice low, just for you.

"Morning," you whispered, trying not to smile. "You’re going to get us caught."

"Is that a problem?" He tilted his head, eyes dark. "Maybe I want them to know."

You swallowed hard. "You wouldn’t."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Try me."

Before you could respond, the sensei called the team to the mats. Kwon straightened, his expression shifting back to the focused competitor. But as he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your knees weak.

The matches began, and you watched him, mesmerized. Every strike, every kick, was more aggressive than usual, each move calculated. When he took down his opponent with a powerful roundhouse, his eyes found yours, and you knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Your turn, Y/n!" Johnny called, snapping you back to reality.

You stepped onto the mat, heart pounding. Across the floor, Kwon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. You couldn’t focus. Not with the memory of his hands on you, his lips against your skin, still fresh in your mind.

Your opponent lunged, and you barely dodged in time. Johnny’s voice cut through the fog. "Focus, Y/n! What’s wrong with you?"

You shook your head, forcing yourself to concentrate. You blocked the next strike and countered with a swift kick, knocking your opponent off balance. You won the match, but barely. As you walked off the mat, Johnny grabbed your arm.

"What was that?" he demanded. "You’re better than this."

"I know, Dad. I’m sorry."

Johnny’s eyes softened. "You need to stay sharp, kid. Don’t let anything… or anyone… distract you."

You nodded, avoiding his gaze. But as you walked past Kwon, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a shadowed corner.

"You’re playing with fire," you whispered.

He smirked. "Then let it burn." He said before cupping your face and capturing your lips in a kiss.

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A/n: sometimes I love what I write... And read it myself😮‍💨 LMAOOO😭

[456x001]

okay huge essay incoming:

and this is based off a post i saw earlier by my awesome mutual @midnight--sadness (her blog is awesome btw) where she talked about gi hun’s ability to forgive in ho. so i’ll start off by prefacing some of the great points she made about gi hun’s trusting nature and his selfless ability to forgive others:

we’ve seen time and time again how trusting gi hun is even if it’s to a fault. it’s simply in his nature to trust and love and to care about other people in the selfless way he does. given that, i think he could forgive in ho. if he sees in ho actually working to make a change and make things right for the betterment of others that have been wronged by the games (and whether or not in ho will or actually even wants to is what we’ll be getting into later), i believe he can forgive him. despite all the horrible things he’s done, despite the unforgivable, irredeemable mistakes he’s made. he’s more than justified in not forgiving him but i’m just saying he might because if anyone could it’s gi hun. he’s made the point time and time again that he isn’t like the masked men and would never become hateful in the ways they are.

now let’s talk a bit about gi hun’s relationship with young-il. gi hun's worry for young-il during the games is so raw and heartfelt. he’s not just strategizing or playing to survive-he genuinely cares about young-il's well-being, even in a scenario where survival often demands selfishness. his willingness to risk everything to make sure young-il was okay shows how deeply gi hun values connection and loyalty. in ho, as the frontman, watches all of this unfold. seeing how much gi-hun cared for his alter ego “young-il" must have left a mark, even if in ho wouldn't openly admit it.

when the truth comes out that young-il and the frontman are the same person it's going to hit gi hun like a ton of bricks. gi hun will have to reconcile the caring, vulnerable young-il with the cold, calculating frontman. it will once again challenge everything he believes about people and their capacity for change. in ho, for all his control and detachment, won't be immune to this confrontation either. gi hun's unwavering belief in him as young-il could be the thing that cracks his carefully built armor.

this dynamic is so layered with unspoken emotions, unacknowledged bonds, and so much potential for heartbreak and redemption. it’s no wonder they gave us at the edge of our seats. now here’s the crux of the discussion. do we think gi hun’s belief in young-il's goodness, his inherent belief in the goodness of people could be enough to pull in ho back toward redemption?

we don’t know the answer to that yet, but i will say this. we’ve seen the final defying act of the villain sacrificing his life at the end for the greater good many times before. however, redemption doesn't always have to end in self-sacrifice. it could mean in ho finding a way to dismantle the system from the inside or choosing to protect gi hun and others while carving out a new path for himself. gi hun's belief in young-il could serve as a bridge for in ho to reconnect with the part of himself that still values humanity, without needing to face total destruction.

in a show like squid game tragedy feels inevitable but in ho's complexity gives him the potential to break free from that cycle of the self-sacrificial villain. if the writers explore his humanity further, there's room for a story where redemption and survival coexist— where he doesn't have to lose his life to find the good within himself.

it’s okay to hope. even in a world as bleak as squid game. personally, to me that feels a lot more compelling than the trope of self sacrifice that we’ve seen in the past. it gives in ho a chance to truly live with his choices, grow from them, and navigate the complexities of redemption, rather than taking the "easy" way out of a grand gesture. it’s a more challenging story to tell for sure but it would also feel satisfying.

i know it may seem like i’m trying to paint a fairy tale but here’s why i think it could work.

squid game thrives on subverting expectations. taking in ho down a path where he survives, changes, and potentially becomes an ally or disruptor within the system could be far more groundbreaking than another shock-value death. it could challenge the audience to grapple with forgiveness and morality in ways that are more impactful than a tragic ending. gi hun's unwavering hope in humanity could become the key to helping in ho see his own worth and capacity for change. in ho is such a layered character, and his survival would be more shocking in a show as grim as squid game. it would challenge the bleakness and give the story a deep emotional payoff. the shock value of how he survives and redeems himself could carry as much weight as a tragic death.

i really value the complexity and emotional depth in this show gives us in within the narrative and i can’t wait to see how hwang dong-hyuk continues to challenge the bounds of storytelling and reach beyond the obvious in season 3 as he’s done with these past two seasons.

[creatie123]

CHOI SU-BONG/THANOS X PREGNANT!READER PART 3

Part 1 Part 2 part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6.1 Part 6.1

Tw: rape, manipulation, drug use, strong language, emotional whiplash, dead dove do not eat, some angst, some comfort, Thanos being a bipolar mess

~~~

“Thanos , dude are you in here? They said it's meal time. Are you with that chick?” His friend calls out.

Su-bong leans forward and whispers in my ear to not leave his side the rest of the games, before taking my hand and pulling me off the toilet. “Nam su I’ll meet you outside my brotha..” he says helping me get my jacket back on. 

There was a bit of grumbling about his name before the door closed again. Su-bong pulls me in and places a gentle kiss on my lips. Then another and another, each one more harsh than the last. My mind was spinning while I made out with my ex boyfriend in the bathroom of the death games, “su-bong,” I pant.

“Say my name again señorita” I stifle a laugh at the old nickname.

“Su-bong we should go.” I say between his attack of kisses.

He groans before leaving one final bruising kiss on my lips before taking my hand and leading me out of the bathroom and back into the room where we just made it to get our meals.

I look up to say something to su-bong but he is or their. I look around for his purple hair and find him talking to Myung-gi. Shit. I know damn well what they are talking about and I watch as su-bong shoves his food into his face, and Myung-gi tackles him to the ground.

“Piece of shit! Get off him, dickhead. You fսcking asshоlе.” myung-gi

“Fսck off.” su-bong exclaims

“You little bitch!” nam-gyu yells.

Everyone starts murmuring around the room.

“mοthеrfսckеr! You know how much money I lost because of you, fuckface? fսck you! Let me get a hit in too. You fսcking…” 

Myung-gi groans

They continue to fight and wrestle around on the ground until 001 breaks them up and beats su-bong and nam-gyu down. The whole room erupted with applause as the two idiots make their way back over to me

I look at him disappointed. “Don't look at me like that senorita he had it coming. mother fucker mad us loose everything.”

He notices my boxed dinner discarded to the side and his mood immediately shifts. “Senorita, you need to eat to stay strong.” he says looking at my belly.

“It smells awful.” Even before my pregnancy I never liked kimchi.

He picks up my box lunch and takes the egg with his chopsticks bringing it up to my lips. I look at the egg then him before opening my mouth to take a bite of the egg.

“I’ll eat the kimchi ok babe? But you gotta eat the rest ok?” I nod, taking another bite of the egg that he still holds up to my lips. Besides being understated, the meal was good.

Feeling full I lean back against the wall. Su-bong's friend, nam-gyu joined us complaining about not being able to find us. The same voice as the first game rings out over the intercom saying lights out will begin in ten minutes. I settle into my bed turning to face the wall so my belly is protected against everyone in the room. A body settles down beside me and I can tell it is su-bong by the tattooed hand that wraps around my waist to rest gently on my stomach.

The voice on the intercom rings out over the room, “Lights out will begin in 3… 2… 1…” the lights go out and the room is bathed in black. The only source of light is from the large piggy bank in the center ceiling of the room, and a small window where a triangle guard watches over us. I settle in su-bongs arms letting my tired eyes close as I drift off to sleep.

I'm woken in the middle of the night to soft kisses on my neck. “Su-bong?” I whisper to not wake anyone else. He props himself over me and looks down at me.

“Did I wake you senorita? So sorry.” he says, planting an open mouthed kiss just below my jaw line. I know for a fact that it left a mark.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“I’ve missed you so much, seeing you knocked up with my kid is so fucking hot. Tell me you miss me too. I know you missed this girl.”

“Su-bong, are you serious? There are hundreds of people here.”

“So what, I'll take you wherever and whenever I want, they would be lucky to have a show of you moaning for me.” he says, rocking his hips against mine.

“Su-bong please we can't do this here. Plus the b-” im cut off with his hand covering my mouth.

“Did I not speak clear enough for your stupid little pregnant mind could understand I’ll take you wherever. And. whenever. I fucking want and you will thank me for it too, you dirty bitch.” he says.

His other hand trails down my body and he shoves himself down my pants  to begin rubbing my sensitive clit. 

“You're already wet, you dirty girl. You always loved this didn’t you, me forcing you to cum on my hand. On my cock. You fucking love it. Say you love it.” he grunts in my ear.

I shake my head no, tears welling in my eyes as my legs shake. I grip his wrist and try pushing his hand away, he lets go of my mouth to slap me across the face before immediately covering my mouth again to stifle the cry of pain. “The fuck do you think youre doing pushing my hand away you stupid slut. You're lucky i'm giving you my attention back, if you just shut up maybe I’ll even let you cum.” he says

His hand moves my soaked underwear aside and my back arches as painful pleasure shoots to my stomach. My cries are stifled by his hand over my mouth, and it does not take me long to reach my orgasm. “Fuckign slut. You didn't even last ten minutes. You were that desperate for me huh? don’t worry you will have all my attention from now on. I'll even be generous and let you rest for tonight, we need you to be strong for the games after all, huh senorita. Don't expect me to go gentle everytime I still need to teach you a lesson for trying to leave me.”

Panic shoots through my chest. And I start to struggle against his hold again. He shushes me kissing my forehead then my temple then finally he moves his hand and kisses my lips. “Now go to sleep, you need your rest senorita.” he says, settling behind me again.

It takes me a while to fall back asleep but when I do it feels like it is over in minutes. The morning music plays out as the lights turn on, I turn onto my back and immediately notice su-bong is not there. I feel a pained sense of relief waking up alone.

We are all told to line up and make our way to the next game. I look around and see 222 talking to myung-gi. I walk up to them to hear the last part of their conversation about him wanting to talk to her when they get out of here.

I tap her on the shoulder and she whips around to face me, a look of relief flashing across her face. 

“Want to walk together?” I ask

She nods and I follow close behind her as we walk towards the next game.

When we are all gathered in the room the voice over the intercom, “Players, welcome to the second game. We will begin shortly. This game will be played in teams. Please take the next ten minutes to divide into groups of five. I will now repeat the instructions. This game will be played in teams. You will be given ten minutes to divide into teams of five.”

Player 222 and I look at each other and start walking around. I can hear su-bong calling out my name but I ignore him. Soon we come across players 001, 546, 388 and 390. We walked up to them asking if they needed any more players. They look at us 388 and start to fiddle with his shirt.

“I’m sorry we only need one more.” 001 says.

I step behind 222 and push her forward gently, “please keep her safe she is pregnant.”

“But so are you,” she says, turning to me.

The men look between us dumbfounded. I smile down at her, “it's ok I’ll find another group. Stay safe ok?” I say before giving the men a pointed stare and walking away.

Anxiety fills my stomach as the clock counts down with five seconds to spare, I look around, as the clock hits one a hand grabs my arm and pulls me into their chest.

~~~

I'm honestly getting so tired of writing Thanos as mean, I might have Celina steal his drugs so he isn't mean for a bit but who knows, maybe I'll do a chapter of just angst, the possibilities are just endless, anyhoooo hope you guys enjoyed, please leave any feed back you may have or any suggestions you would like to see going forward. my requests are also open so let me know if there is anything itching your beautiful brains!

til next time

-creatie

[midnight--sadness]

do u have hcs for pregnant gi-hun? or just in general the 457 dynamic while gi-hun is knocked up

yes, i do bc i think abt pregnant gihun more than i think abt my own grandma

i feel like my very first hc is that i think they're having twins!

gihun is the type of pregnant person who glows. his skin is smoother, his hair is shinier, his cheeks are flushed, he gains weight in all of the right places (cough ass tits thighs cough), he has virtually no stretch marks. its like he was made to be pregnant.

while his physical appearance improves, i think gihun would be an emotional wreck. he is already prone to outbursts and i think pregnancy would worsen it. he once stopped talking to inho for two days bc inho had to stay at work until late at night and didnt eat at home.

he talks to the babies all the time, non stop, even when he is only a few weeks along and not showing.

his weird pregnancy craving is a piece of white bread stuffed with apple jam and a shrimp dumpling. inho gags when he first makes it and tries to get gihun to eat something else but gihun loves it so much that inho ends up making it for him when gihun wakes it with a craving.

gihun is super relaxed bc he has been through this once with gayeong but inho is a stressed, protective mess. he barely lets gihun out of his sight, insists on going to every doctor's appointment and asks them to run every test and exam possible because he couldnt bear it if gihun got sick like his wife and he and the babies died again.

inho would decorate the nursery with soft pastels (pink, green, yellow, purple) and buy all kinds of toys to improve the babies' development.

on that note, he would read a million parentings books. gihun on the other hand is more of an "instinctual" person, convinced that he'll know what to do when he gets there.

the first person inho tells is junho because there are some concerns he doesnt feel good talking about to gihun. he confides in his brother his fears and junho assures him that everything will be fine and nothing will happen to gihun or the babies.

the first person gihun tells is inho of course. he cant keep a secret to save his life and he knows inho will be excited. when inho's reaction is to immediately be worried, he is a bit disappointed but he understands.

the good thing of having two babies is that gihun and inho dont have to fight over names and each pick one they like.

gihun LOVES using the pregnancy as an excuse for anything - he wants to sit on the couch watching trash tv all day? he wants to eat half the things on the dinner table? he wants to watch a sad movie despite knowing that he'll cry for an hour straight after it is over? he wants inho to skip work so they can cuddle in bed? well the babies want all of those things 🥰

what hcs do you guys have???

[itsnesss]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ᡣ𐭩 | lee myung-gi (player 333)

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬:

He was always close to you, even if he didn’t say it.

He protected you without needing words.

His affection was silent but clear.

He wasn’t the emotional type, but he was attentive.

He showed his tender side at unexpected moments.

He preferred gestures over words.

He made you feel safe, even when not always by your side.

His dry jokes always made you smile genuinely.

𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬:

He became more distant, but still cared for you.

Every move was calculated, always thinking of you.

Paranoia made him more tense, but he was always alert.

He avoided showing fear, but never stopped protecting you.

He’d hold your hand in moments of calm, saying nothing.

He was more focused, but his eyes were always looking for you.

He couldn’t stop worrying about you.

The fear of losing you kept him on edge, always calculating.

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐞:

He couldn’t forgive himself for not saving you.

He would become colder, withdrawn into himself.

Guilt would consume him, though he’d never admit it.

The pain would be deep, even if he didn’t show it.

Self-loathing would make him more distant.

He’d pull away from the world, unable to connect.

Your memory would haunt him at every turn.

The emptiness you left would mark him forever.

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 (𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬):

His life would have no meaning without you.

Solitude would mark him more than ever.

He would live trapped in the pain of your loss.

He wouldn’t fight for himself, but for what was left of you.

Sometimes he would stand still, thinking about what could have been.

The memories of you would be his only refuge.

Even in his pain, he would try to honor what you shared.

The emptiness in his heart would make him feel disconnected from everything.

𝐈𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬:

There would be an unspoken bond between you, stronger than anything you’d experienced before.

Myung-Gi would open up to you more, but only when he felt safe enough to do so.

He’d show his love in subtle ways, like protecting you without hesitation and caring for your well-being.

The weight of everything they’d been through would bring you closer, but also leave its scars.

You both would struggle to adjust to the outside world, but you’d lean on each other for support.

His protective instincts would never fade, and you’d find comfort in his presence.

The trauma would still linger, but together you’d try to build a life, one day at a time, never forgetting what you went through.

[boywithantlersao3]

Alpha Gi-hun / Omega Sang-woo headcanons :

Gi-hun likes to make sure he scent marks his omega before going to work. He does it because he knows how stressed out sang-woo gets at his job, and he wants to be able to comfort him when he's not there.

Sang-woo is the more territorial one in the relationship. He wants Gi-hun to himself and will fight anyone who seems like a threat. Only their mothers and their pups are excluded from this.

Ga-yeong, Sae-byeok, and Cheol are their pups (it's a popular sibling dynamic in fanfics that I enjoyed, and I stand by it in this universe).

Gi-hun's mating mark is on his neck for everyone to see, and it's high enough so it can't be covered easily. Sang-woo's is on his collar bone.

Childhood sweethearts that dated throughout their teens and bonded on Sang-woo's graduation night from SNU.

Sang-woo builds his nest from Gi-hun's clothing and blankets.

Gi-hun is protective of his family and will fight tooth and nail for them.

[globalinvestigationservices]

GI Mark Infringement Investigation

Protecting regional products starts with a strong GI Mark Infringement Investigation. When fake use of a GI Mark occurs, it impacts both the makers and customers negatively. Conducting a detailed GI Mark Infringement Investigation uncovers counterfeit items and helps keep genuine goods safe in the market. This ensures fairness, supports local producers, and builds confidence for consumers seeking authentic regional products.

[kitsunefaux]

All Ships Week - Day 4

Fandoms: Yu-Gi-Oh, Avatar: The Last Airbender

Ship: Gemshipping (Bakura Ryou/Thief King Bakura)

Prompts: Crossovers & Fusion AUs, "Do I know you?"

Enjoy!

----------

Moonlight glowed, a reflection on still water, a perfect circle, peaceful and serene, more beautiful than anything bound to the earth. Sometimes, Ryou wished he could be like the moon, nestled among the stars, protected by the night. For now, he would make do with the power flowing through his veins and honour her teachings. Push and pull. What was more simple than that?

It wasn’t simple, and water slipped through his grasp.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Ryou squeaked, and liquid splashed, disturbing the moon’s visage. There shouldn’t be anyone else here, just him and his secret pond, his little forest hideaway. 

A figure sat on a fallen log less than a metre away, an arm braced under his chin. His Earth Kingdom style clothing helped to put Ryou at ease, allowing for a more in-depth inspection. White curls tumbled from his head, his dark brown skin marked with scars, one of special prominence criss-crossing his right cheek.

His eyes were the purest of Fire Nation gold.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the stranger said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Ryou swallowed, clasping his hands in front of him to hide their trembling. “Do… Do I know you?”

The stranger hopped to his feet, shifting his weight evenly between them. “I should hope so. You’ve been coming to my pond for months now.”

Indignation stirred in Ryou’s gut, his fear forgotten. “Your pond.”

“Yup.” He leaned forward, invading Ryou’s space. “I have squatter’s rights.” He stepped out onto the water and didn’t sink. Spirit flames, white as the purest lunar light, sprang up around him, dotting the surface of the pond. He turned to face Ryou, his hair catching the moon’s glow. “My bones are here.”

Ryou’s heart fluttered in his chest, excitement in place of terror. He reached out without thinking, and water moved, the smallest ripple. A name rose to meet his tongue, like a half-remembered dream. “Bakura.”

Bakura smiled, and the flames brightened, flickering like little heartbeats. Then, all at once, they went out, light turning to darkness as a swath of clouds covered the moon.

The pond was empty, and Ryou was alone.

[To be continued]

[player279achlys]

The golden rabbit's legacy (Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x fem! reader!)

Il-nam's granddaughter will prove herself worthy of being the next hostess, while someone becomes her loyal shadow.

CHAPTER VI: nightmares and confessions

Previous chapter: Chapter V

Next chapter: Chapter VII

Pairing: Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x Original!female!Character

Word count: 1,5k words.

Summary: In the shadow of her grandfather’s dark empire, Melinoe, a brilliant young woman in her early twenties, steps into a world of blood, betrayal, and power she was never meant to inherit. As the granddaughter of the infamous Oh Il-Nam, creator of the deadly Squid Games, she is thrust into a brutal legacy that demands she not only survive but thrive as its new hostess. Determined to honor her family’s name and prove herself worthy of the golden rabbit mask, she designs games more cunning and lethal than any before.

But power comes at a cost. Beneath her calculated exterior lies a woman haunted by guilt, trauma, and the faces of those she has condemned to die. And at her side stands Hwang In-Ho, the enigmatic Front Man—older than her, cold, and feared by all, except for her. Since the day he learned of her existence, In-Ho has been deeply, obsessively in love with Melinoe. His devotion is as intense as it is toxic, a tangled mix of desire and protectiveness that pushes him to control every aspect of her life.

As Melinoe rises to prominence, she finds herself navigating not only the deadly games but also the dangerous allure of In-Ho. Their relationship is a powder keg of suppressed emotions, forbidden passion, and fraught power dynamics. He would destroy anyone who comes close to her—including a charming, younger VIP who flirts with her one too many times. Yet, while In-Ho dreams of keeping her safe in his arms, Melinoe dreams of reshaping the games into something darker and more just—her own twisted vision of justice against the world’s worst offenders.

When the 33rd Squid Games begin, everything changes. With her grandfather entering the arena as Player 001 and Gi-Hun as Player 456, the games take on unprecedented stakes. As alliances crumble and bodies fall, Melinoe must contend with the weight of her grandfather’s legacy, the manipulations of the VIPs, and the unrelenting obsession of the man who would burn the world for her.

Will Melinoe rise as the queen of the games, or will the bonds of obsession and love be the end of her?

Warnings: MDNI!!!, Afab!, angst. Sexual language. Fear of losing someone. Smut (light kinda), grumpy x sunshine, dark romance, age gap, possessive, obsessed, paranoid and dominant In-Ho, daddy issues, yandere behaviour, jealousy, violence, murder, typical squid game stuff.

English isn’t my first language, if there are any mistakes, please forgive me. :)

Melinoe’s recovery was not without its struggles. The games had left their mark on her, not just physically but mentally. Nightmares plagued her, vivid and unrelenting. She dreamed of Wol-Jin’s face, his eyes wide with fear as he fell. She dreamed of blood, of gunshots, of the screams of the fallen.

One night, In-Ho was woken by the sound of a muffled cry. He was out of bed and in her room within moments, his heart pounding as he found her tangled in her sheets, her body trembling. She had fallen to the floor in her sleep, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Melinoe,” he said, kneeling beside her. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

Her eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, before they landed on him. “In-Ho,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

She clung to him, her tears soaking into his shirt as he held her tightly. For a long time, neither of them spoke, the silence broken only by her quiet sobs.

“I see them,” she said finally, her voice barely audible. “Their faces. I can’t make them go away.”

“You’re stronger than this,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ve survived so much. You’ll get through this, too.”

She looked up at him, her hazel-amber eyes glistening with tears. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you,” he said simply. “And because I’ll be here. Always.”

Melinoe stood before the vast map of the island in the planning room, her hazel-amber eyes scanning the intricate layout of the upcoming games. Every detail had to be flawless—every trap, every mechanism, every contingency. Her grandfather’s wish was to participate in these games, and she would honor it with unwavering dedication.

Across the room, In-Ho leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched her. She was a vision of determination, her sharp mind working tirelessly to bring her vision to life. But behind her steely resolve, he saw the cracks—the toll the games had taken on her. The nightmares, the weight of her decisions, the scars both visible and hidden.

“You’re overthinking,” he said, his voice breaking the silence.

She turned to him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t have the luxury of underthinking.”

He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. “You’ve accounted for everything, Melinoe. There’s nothing left to perfect.”

“There’s always something,” she replied, though her tone softened. “This isn’t just about the games. It’s about my grandfather.”

“And you’re doing this for him,” In-Ho said, his voice low and firm. “But you can’t carry this alone.”

“I’m not,” she said, her gaze meeting his. “You’re here.”

The words sent a jolt through his whole body, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe she meant more than just his role in the games. He wanted to tell her everything—to remind her of the night they had shared, to confess the depth of his feelings. But he couldn’t. Not yet. She didn’t remember, and he couldn’t risk losing her by forcing her to confront it now.

Over the next two months, the preparations for the 33rd games consumed their every waking moment. The transition to targeting society’s worst offenders was a logistical challenge, and Melinoe was going to approach it with meticulous precision, for the next games. She reviewed every profile, every dossier, ensuring that everything was perfect for the last games with debtors only selected; to honour her grandfather.

In-Ho admired her ruthlessness. She had a vision for the games, one that aligned with his own growing disdain for the morally corrupt. Watching her work only deepened his obsession. She was brilliant, fearless, and utterly captivating.

“I’ve finalized the roster,” she said one evening, sliding a tablet across the table toward him. “Four hundred and fifty six players. The last game with debtors. For my grandpa.”

He scanned the list, his lips curling into a rare smile. “This is… perfect.”

Her gaze lingered on him, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her composed exterior. “Do you think he’ll be proud?”

In-Ho set the tablet down, stepping closer to her. “Melinoe, he’s already proud. You’ve done more than anyone could have expected.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his. “And you? What do you think?”

His heart clenched at the question. She had no idea how much she meant to him, how deeply she had burrowed into his soul. “I think you’re extraordinary,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I think… I’d follow you anywhere.”

Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment, she looked away. “That’s dangerous talk, In-Ho.”

“Not for me,” he said, his voice dropping. “Not when it’s you.”

Despite the progress they made, Melinoe’s nights were plagued by nightmares. The faces of those she had killed haunted her, their screams echoing in her mind. She often woke in a cold sweat, her heart pounding as the images refused to fade.

One night, she fell from her bed, her body tangled in the sheets as she thrashed against the invisible enemies in her dreams. The sound startled In-Ho from his own restless sleep, and within moments, he was at her door.

He didn’t knock. He pushed the door open, his heart racing as he found her on the floor, gasping for breath, her hands clutching her head.

“Melinoe,” he said urgently, kneeling beside her. “Don’t worry. I got you. You’re safe.”

Her eyes flew open, wide with terror, before recognition dawned. “In-Ho,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shirt as though afraid he might disappear. “They won’t leave me,” she said, her voice breaking. “I see them every time I close my eyes.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering against her skin. “You’re stronger than this,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You’ve survived more than anyone ever could. You’re still here, Melinoe. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her sobs subsided gradually, her breathing evening out as his presence soothed her. For a long time, they sat there on the floor, the silence between them heavy but comforting.

“Stay,” she said finally, her voice barely audible.

“I’m not leaving,” he replied, his arms tightening around her. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

The day of the 33rd games arrived with an air of solemnity. Oh Il-Nam, frailer than ever, stood at the forefront as Player 001. His presence was both a testament to his legacy and a farewell to the world he had built. Gi-hun, Player 456, entered the arena with that happiness characteristic of his, though he was unaware of the orchestrated changes.

Melinoe and In-Ho watched from the surveillance room, their roles now firmly established as the architects of the games. She wore a tailored yellow and black suit. Black to portray seriousness and professionalism and the yellow as the korean tradition dictated: for those wealthy, holy and with authority. 

She was now the hostess of the games, she was the authority and the yellow made her stand out and served as a warning, just like in nature. Yellow animals were a warning and venomous. 

She was the personification of nobility, dignity, wealth and authority in those games. 

Melinoe wore an unreadable expression as well, behind her half mask. In-Ho stood beside her, his geometric mask concealing the turmoil that raged within him.

“This is it,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the arena below.

“You’ve done everything you set out to do,” he replied. “This is your moment.”

She turned to him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Our moment.”

His chest tightened at her words, and he nodded. “Our moment.”

As the first game began, the sound of the announcer’s voice echoing through the arena, In-Ho’s gaze remained fixed on Melinoe. She was his sun, his moon, his entire universe. And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe—even if it meant sacrificing everything.

The first game of the 33rd Squid Games began with grim efficiency. The air in the observation deck was heavy with tension as Melinoe and In-Ho watched the players navigate the deadly trial below. Each movement, each decision, was scrutinized, their fates decided by split-second choices.

Melinoe leaned forward slightly, her hazel-amber eyes sharp as she tracked her grandfather, Oh Il-Nam, who moved with calculated precision despite his frailty. Beside him, Gi-hun stood out, his determination and fire evident even from a distance.

“You’re worried about him,” In-Ho said, his voice low as he glanced at her.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t,” she admitted, her fingers curling around the edge of the console. “But he insisted on this. It’s his way of saying goodbye.”

In-Ho nodded, though his focus was more on her than the game unfolding below. The way she carried the weight of her grandfather’s legacy, the way she bore every decision with quiet strength—it only deepened his obsession. He couldn’t look at her without remembering the way she had clung to him, whispered his name, surrendered herself to him.

He thought she had forgotten. He had resigned himself to her amnesia, choosing to bury the memory deep within himself. But Melinoe���s mind wasn’t as blank as he thought.

So, another short chapter, hence why I am posting many chapters today.

These 2 are shorter than usual mostly because it's a change in the story. The games, the recovery and Melinoe doing her duties.

As always.

Loves you, Achlys.

Taglist: @futuristicdefendorfart

[the-painted-siren]

I finally finished up my height and body headcanons for the cast!

Details beneath the cut!

Jay

- Narrow face. Has a sort of movie star look to him. The most conventionally attractive out of all the ninja. Short and a little boxy-looking. Slightly muscled shoulders (he’s an inventor) but otherwise stronger than he looks.

- Lots of freckles and fulguration scars. His body regularly conducts lightning through it and it shows. The smaller ones fade with time and return when he uses his powers.

Nya

- Square face and strong features, very grumpy resting expression. Moles on her cheek and the corner of her mouth and a couple on her neck. Dragon tattoo on her arm.

- Strong biceps and and thighs (she’s been an inventor, mechanic, samurai, and now a ninja). She can easily bench press a few of her teammates and her punches hit like a semi truck. She has swirling marks as well as fangs from her time merged as the ocean and a scar on her left side from fighting Dogshank (her body remembers the events of Skybound, even if nobody else—except for Jay—does.)

Lloyd

- Classic hero look: soft features, seems very approachable, most of his opponents don’t think he’s capable of great anger because of this. (They’re wrong). Puts effort into his appearance because he has strong feelings about what he thinks a hero should look like. He relaxes a little after the Merge and lets some of his less human traits become visible, such as his fangs and pointed ears. Unrecognizable outside of gi—literally looks like an average guy.

- He has a somewhat stocky, jock-like build. Has several visible scars and stretch marks but the most prominent are the claw marks on his shoulders from fighting his dad. Top surgery scars too (he is trans to me).

Kai

- Physically resembles his father quite a bit, has similar sharp features. Very handsome. Has a lot of very thick, coarse hair, so he uses a lot of hair jel for it. Has a scar over his right eye that he got while fighting a Serpentine.

- Jacked, very strong arms, biceps, and shoulders. Calloused hands from working the blacksmith forge. Same dragon tattoo as Nya on his left arm that he originally got to commemorate her sacrifice in Seabound. Top surgery scars (he is also trans to me)

Cole

- Has a soft, gentle-looking face. Probably the most relaxed out of everyone on the team. A couple moles on his nose.

- Tied with Zane for tallest height. Used to look very slender in s1/2 but has since put on a lot of weight. Large build with lots of functional muscle. Big arms, legs, hands, and feet. Big chest. You get the picture. Lots of body hair all over. Nearly invisible scar on his face from his time as a ghost.

Zane

- Tied with Cole for the tallest. Was originally shorter but was rebuilt taller after s3. Slender build with a strong, flexible core. Dr. Julien designed him to be light and fast to contrast the Juggernaut, which is slow yet tough. Can still tank a freight train. Powerful. Built to protect.

- Very human-looking despite his android body. (Dr. Julien was a damned genius) similar wiring to Pixal on his chest but with snowflakes instead of dots. Heart/core is comprised of chronosteel as given to him by the previous Master of Ice.

Pixal

- The shortest. Petite. Borg built her to look soft and amicable since she worked as an assistant at his company. Visible wiring since she is overflowing with every mechanism thought possible to make her as fully functional as a human being and more.

- Has an alternative Battle Mode body that is bigger than even Zane. She re-made the Samurai X persona to seem big, quiet, and terrifying to fight. She succeeded.

[lyxchen]

My theory on what the next game is gonna be, based on me watching the trailer in 0.25 speed and taking a bunch of screenshots:

They're splitting them up into two teams (red and blue) putting them into a maze (probably everyone starts at a different point or it's not everybody at once) and they're giving them knives. I don't think this will necessarily be a all of team red or all of team blue has to die situation like with tug of war, because then they wouldn't have a timer. I do think they might make it so that whenever somebody from team red meets somebody from team blue they'll have to try to kill the other (don't really know how they're gonna enforce that yet but somehow they need to make sure that people from team red and team blue don't team up once they meet). I'm pretty sure they're getting knives or some other type of weapon because we can see both blue and red boxes being handed to the players and I'm thinking knives specifically because of the big shape on the wall, that looks a lot like a knife. There is also a shot of Gi-hun walking away from what seems to be a dead body of a blue player and there's blood on the wall and on the floor. Hyun-ju using her fists probably just means that she lost her knife somehow but I am confident that my girl can do it and maybe we even get a cool scene of her beating up somebody. Also I think Seon-nyeo might be smart one here marking the places she's already been with blood. Also they might have to find some type of key to get out because the other shape on the wall where they get sorted into teams is that of a lock. And (now that's purely my own theory) but it's possible they somehow have to take somebody else's knife or whatever is in that box as their key to get out of the maze

I put screenshots that I took and that made me think that this is what's gonna happen under the cut

(Edit: I posted this too early so if the post kinda changes in the next few minutes that why)

Knife and lock shape on the walls

Something in the boxes (possibly knives)

Gi-hun with the body of a blue player behind him plus a timer on the wall (also I'm pretty sure the timer on the wall is a 9 and not a 4, so that would mean they have a bit more time for this game) Also now that I'm looking at it Gi-hun doesn't have any new blood on him here so he might not have been the one who killed that blue player

Seon-nyeo possibly marking the places she's already been (or maybe it's also some type of writing for protection idk)

Also just some more screenshots I thought were interesting (really wondering who Hyun-ju is gonna fight and she looks really cool here)

[hwang-inhos-fish]

ik you're writing an alpha!inho fic now and i appreciate that and think it's awesome but i also wanted to say thank you for writing omega!inho in aserendipity :) i really love it when inho is more submissive and in a position where he has to relinquish control like that, and i loved how you wrote his heat and his struggle between maintaining control vs giving in. and i especially loved protective alpha!gihun, soooo good

i'm really excited for what you'll cook up next too though and what your take on a reversed version of that dynamic will be!

I'm so glad you're enjoying!

I'm currently going back and forth between my two different dynamics stories (Aserendipity, the Omega!In-ho and Alpha!Gi-hun story, and Rubicon, the Alpha!In-ho and Omega!Gi-hun story), which sometimes makes for some confusion on my end, lmao.

I have more written for Aserendipity (Omega!In-ho) that I'm excited to post, I just need to stitch together the scenes I have rough-drafted and give it a polish. We'll be seeing more of In-ho caught between maintaining control and risking something better but less emotionally "safe" (aka: connection and vulnerability), and more of protective GI-hun!

Have a rough-draft sneak-peek. Just 'cause.

-_-_-

In-ho is half convinced that he pushed for the mate-bond in the first place so that he’d get a glimpse into Gi-hun’s mind.

It was reckless. It wasn't smart.

But it was strategic.

Gi-hun is his muse, his fascination, something bright and alive in the dismal fog of gray that his life has become, and it’s almost like an addiction - maybe it is an addiction.

In-ho always finds himself wanting more.

Gi-hun's player file was insufficient, so In-ho turned to screens. Pouring over every second of footage. Processing. Analyzing. When that wasn’t enough, no, not even nearly 144 hours of footage from Seong Gi-hun’s first games, In-ho upped the dose to live footage. Obtained however he could. Hacked security cameras. Spies. People hired to snap the discreet photo or record footage of Seong Gi-hun coming and going from that dingy old motel. And still... In the way of addictions... it was never enough. It filled the void at first, gave him the high he was chasing, but the high faded quickly. All too soon, he faced a very familiar wall, grinding his teeth at the sheer lack of information. What kind of shampoo does Seong Gi-hun use? What’s his favorite breakfast, when he does remember to eat? Who does he talk to? Does he talk to anyone? Does he have friends? Do they know more about him than In-ho? What is he thinking about when he drives in circles all day? What music does he listen to? Does he listen to music in the car, or is it silent, muffled, peaceful? An escape from all noise, the way he can’t escape the noise of his mind? Did he find his deceased mother already cold and stiff in their apartment, the way In-ho found his wife? Did he hold her, too? Even though it was too late? Did he tearfully press comforting scent over her cold temples, like it wasn’t overpowered by rotting meat, like he wasn’t scent-marking a corpse? Does he see her bloated face behind his eyelids when he blinks? What’s his favorite show? Does he watch anything for fun? Does he think about art the way In-ho does? Does he think about In-ho? Does the Front Man haunt Player 456, the way Seong Gi-hun haunts Hwang In-ho?

So, he had no choice, really. Addicts can’t give consent. Addicts aren’t in their right minds. Addicts can’t be blamed for their actions - not when it comes to their addiction.

In-ho upped the dose.

He followed Seong Gi-hun back into the games.

And even then. Even then. Even the physical proximity, the immediacy, Gi-hun looking at In-ho, talking to him, having full conversations - close enough to smell, to reach out and touch, which In-ho did several times, always feeling like a child sneaking cookies from the tin, like he was touching something sacred, some effigy not meant to be sullied by human skin oils, now stained by In-ho’s. Bumping knees. Elbows. Shoulders. Brushing up against him in small, subtle, unnoticeable ways, stealing tiny crumbs of physical touch like a pickpocket.

And then that wasn’t enough, either.

And now here they are. In-ho has wormed his way as close to Player 456 as is physically possible, and now they’re in each other. Now, he’s burrowed into Seong Gi-hun’s brain like a tick. Contented as a pup at their parent’s chest. As a vampire at a throat.

He wonders what’s next. How long that contentment will last, before he wants more again. What dosage will finally be enough. Or if it’ll ever be enough. Maybe this is the natural result of In-ho’s years-long spiral into this thing he is now - maybe he was always doomed to consume and consume and consume until the hunger consumed him back. Until he burned up in the fires of something else, someone else, someone better.

Maybe Seong Gi-hun is the drug that will finally kill him, after everything else he’s tried to numb that hollow, sucking void in the back of his mind.

He reaches for that void, that pinprick of a black hole, the bathtub drain of his psyche. Lightless, lidless, and ceaselessly swallowing. Usually, the tug is like a current, strong enough to pull at his coat and hood, tangible. This time... it’s strange. Muted. Like a plugged-up vacuum cleaner hose. Barely a whisper of an inhale.

He wonders why, then automatically thinks in answer, I can’t die, the pup needs - and then nearly slaps himself to stop that train of thought.

He really is flashing back to another time. Another life. An old thought pattern just rose from the muck of his storm-stirred mind - one from his very brief time carrying his child.