Pairing: Frontman (Young-il) x Fem!Reader (y/n)
Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)
Summary: He says his name is Young-il. Says that he's just another player. But something is off. You don't believe him. He has answers. Too many answers. And when you start being suspicious of him, he kisses you just to make you forget about it. But you don't.
Warnings: Psychological tension. Calculated, non-romantic kiss. Power imbalance. Manipulation. Tell me if I'm missing any.
Author's Note: Another anon request. Thank you so much for the love you guys show on my fics. And I love the way you guys send different and unique fic requests.
Tag list: Want to get tagged in LBH fics? Lemme know in the comments.
@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles @nosebeers @carolinevoight @princesscherryblossom15 @frozen-waffle @eviesmoon @startled-cats @retiredpieceofshits @ft-winnow
The night after the second game was the worst.
Eyes darted across the dorm, everyone half-asleep, half-ready to fight.
It was your turn on watch — paired up with the quiet, unreadable guy named Young-il.
He stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, one boot pressed against the concrete, looking like he didn’t belong here at all.
Too... untouched by the games.
You watched him from your bunk last night — not a scratch. Not a drop of sweat. Not even a flicker of fear in his expression.
You glanced across the small section of the dorm your group had claimed — Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Dae-ho. Most were asleep or pretending to be.
It was just you and Young-il now, watching this small corner like you were on duty.
He didn’t look at you, but you saw his jaw twitch.
“I’ve got this side,” you added, quietly.
“I’m making sure everything’s fine,” he said. His voice was smooth, clipped. Nothing personal.
“You were quiet during the Six-Legged Pentathlon.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t look like someone who just had a man’s elbow jammed into his ribs for minutes.”
You paused. Let the silence breathe a little.
“What about Red Light, Green Light?”
“I didn’t see you,” you added.
“There were 456 players,” he said, cool and measured. “You don’t have time to memorize faces when bullets are flying.”
“True. But I’ve got a good memory,” you murmured. “And I don’t forget calm faces in rooms full of screams.”
He shifted slightly, finally meeting your gaze — dark eyes unreadable.
“I was near the back. Stayed still. Didn’t draw attention.”
“Huh,” you said. “I was at the back too.”
You smiled faintly. “Didn’t see you.”
“I was hiding behind other players the whole time.”
“You didn’t look like someone who hide behind others.”
His fingers flexed once before curling into his sleeve.
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
“I’m not saying anything,” you said coolly. “I’m just wondering how a guy like you moves through this place like he’s already survived it.”
The air between you tensed — not violent, but tight. Like a rope pulled taut between your eyes.
“You think I’m cheating?” he asked finally.
Then, softly — too softly — he said,
“You’re smart. That could be a problem.”
The words weren’t a threat. Not really.
But they weren’t casual either.
You smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe it means I’m the only one here who’ll see it coming when someone like you makes a move.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was something else there now — interest? Amusement?
Before he could respond, a crash echoed from the other side of the dorm. A fight had broken out.
People screamed. Two men were already throwing punches. Others scrambled up.
You bolted across the room.
By the time guards stormed in and the violence was broken up, Young-il was standing beside you — cool as ever, like nothing had happened. One of the guards glanced at him and nodded.
Later, once the dorm had settled again and the distant shuffle of guards faded into silence, you sat back near your small corner of bunks — arms wrapped around your knees, still watching him from across the dim light.
Young-il hadn’t sat down once. Still leaning casually against the wall, still too calm. Like he belonged in a room full of sleeping bodies and broken trust.
His gaze drifted toward you again, and this time — after a brief scan of the others — he started walking your way.
He knelt beside your bunk without a word. Close. Too close.
You whispered, “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working.”
“No,” he murmured. “You’re too sharp for that.”
Then — so fast you didn’t flinch in time — his hand slid to your jaw, and he kissed you.
Not full of heat or passion.
Just enough pressure to catch your breath.
Just enough to make your thoughts blur for half a second.
When he pulled back, you stared at him — heart racing, lips parted, eyes narrowing again.
“Now,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb along your chin “I’ve given you something better to think about.”
Then he stood and walked away — as silent as ever — leaving you stunned, lips tingling, and still very, very suspicious.
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
romaincrisis
