smutmind

[smutmind]

Which groups are you generally interested in?

Music wise?

idle, XG, Blackpink, Ive, Itzy, NJ, Weeekly (RIP)

Visuals?

idle, IVE, Twice, Blackpink, NJ,ITZY, Weeekly (RIP),

Top fave? 2nd Gen - SNSD, 3rd Gen - Idle (3.5 gen), 4th - IVE, 5th - too unfamiliar

[smutmind]

The Wife pt. 4

----

FULL CHAPTERS HERE

----

In the weeks that followed, Jihun became more than a name. He became a whisper. A warning. A weapon.

They called him Eun-hwan now. First with curiosity, then with certainty. He moved without hesitation, struck without remorse. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it came with blood. Mina fed him jobs like meat to a growing beast—protection runs, debt drops, crackdowns on rogue freelancers.

He never asked why. Just how.

And always—Chaeyoung was there.

They moved like instinct. She watched the exits while he read the room. In shady corners of bars, she lit her cigarette while he cracked a jaw. In alleyway fights, she wiped his blade clean and kissed his bruised knuckles.

Locals started whispering about them. Some called him her dog. Others said she was the leash. Didn’t matter.

They were feared. Together.

. . .

One thick summer night, Mina poured two glasses of plum wine in her backroom office. The AC was lazy, the walls sweating. She handed one glass to Chaeyoung, who was barefoot, legs curled on the leather sofa, dressed down in a tank and short cotton shorts, her skin still glowing from the outside heat.

"He’s rising too fast," Mina said, swirling the wine.

"He’s good," Chaeyoung murmured.

"No. He’s loyal. He follows you. That’s rarer than good."

Chaeyoung said nothing.

"He trusts you blindly," Mina continued. "And you… you look at him like he was never supposed to happen."

A tired smile. "He wasn’t."

Mina’s eyes sharpened. "Do you know what his father will do when he finds out?"

Chaeyoung stared at her wine. "Yes."

"And still?"

"Still."

Mina clinked their glasses together. "Then you better get your heart in order. Because one of you won’t survive that day."

. . .

That night, the apartment was dim. Summer wind carried the scent of grilled meat and street smoke from somewhere below. Chaeyoung kicked off her sandals and peeled her tank over her head before she even shut the door. No bra. Just sweat-slick skin and tension.

Jihun stood at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth in a loose tank top, towel hanging off his hips. A fresh bruise bloomed violet on his collarbone.

She padded across the floor. Grabbed his wrist. Turned him.

His mouth foamed. "Long night?"

She didn’t answer.

She kissed him—mouth full of toothpaste, wet and minty. He laughed into her lips, but she bit his bottom lip gently, pulled him backwards into the bedroom.

The lights stayed off.

She shoved him down onto the bed, climbed onto his lap, straddling him in her cotton shorts. She didn’t speak. Just kissed him again—harder this time. Desperate. Her hips ground against him as she tugged the towel away, revealing his growing erection.

He groaned into her mouth.

She pulled back just enough to peel off her shorts, revealing damp panties clinging to her heat. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows, breasts brushing his chest.

Then she whispered, “Take them off.”

He obeyed, sliding her panties down her thighs, fingers grazing the slickness between her legs. She was soaked.

"You’re already—"

"I need you. Now."

She guided him to her entrance, then sank down, slow and deliberate. Her walls stretched around him, swallowing him whole.

Jihun gasped. "Fuck, Chaeyoung—"

She began to ride him, slow at first, grinding her hips in tight circles. Her hands roamed his chest, nails leaving trails. Her mouth found his neck, licking, biting softly.

"Promise me," she whispered between thrusts. "Promise you won’t forget me."

"Why would I—?"

"Just say it."

He cupped her face, breath ragged. "I won’t. I’ll always be yours."

Her hips slammed harder, faster, her breath catching. She kissed him like she wanted to brand him, teeth nipping, tongue deep.

"Mine," she moaned. "All fucking mine."

He groaned, gripping her ass, thrusting up into her as she cried out. Her climax hit hard—sharp and trembling, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He followed, jerking inside her, moaning her name.

She collapsed against him, sweaty and shaking, lips brushing his ear.

She whispered again, softer this time.

"Mine."

And this time, he didn’t doubt it.

The file had sat on her desk for three days, humming with quiet rot. A string of small-town incidents—broken noses, hush-money in cheap envelopes, two men found half-dead behind a karaoke bar. Forgettable at a glance, until the name of a Seoul-affiliated crew surfaced in the witness statements.

She traced the edges of the papers with one red-lacquered nail, her touch slow, precise. Her apartment overlooked the electric sprawl of Gangnam, windows thrown open to the thick heat of late summer.

Sooyoung, codename Joy, didn’t mind the sweat.

She was naked, fresh from the shower, damp skin prickling under the lazy hum of the AC. Her bare legs glistened faintly. Water still dripped from the ends of her dark hair, tickling the swell of her breasts.

On the wall: a corkboard, cluttered with pins and string. Syndicate networks, former cops gone dark, bloody corners that never made the papers. A dozen leads tangled in quiet war. But lately, one thread tugged harder than the rest.

The Jeolla-town cell. Supposedly minor. Suddenly expanding.

Her eyes narrowed.

Joy didn’t farm out instincts. She trusted patterns. And this pattern had too much heat for a backwater crew.

She padded barefoot across the room. Picked up the last sheet from the file—a recent surveillance scan. Two faces. One blurred. One crisp.

The crisp one stopped her.

"Eun-hwan," she murmured.

The name was new, but the shape of him wasn’t. Sharp jaw. That scar below the lip. Rough, unreadable mouth.

Her brows furrowed. Her body buzzed.

Not recognition. Not yet.

Just… interest.

She stared a moment longer. Long enough for a slow curl of something dangerous to rise.

Then she shook it off.

She turned to her closet, skin still bare. Slipped into black lace panties first, the elastic snapping against her hip. Then slacks—tight, pressed, hugging every curve. A sheer white blouse followed. No bra. Her nipples were hard, visible. She didn’t care.

The shoulder holster followed, smooth leather against her ribs. Her badge clipped inside the jacket. Not for show—never that.

She stared at the photo again before folding it into her jacket.

This one, she’d handle herself.

. . .

Across the province, in a shuttered meeting room, Mina spread a map across a black leather table.

Jihun stood at one end, sleeves rolled, sweat glistening faintly at his collar. A clean bandage wrapped his left knuckle. Chaeyoung leaned against the wall, red tracksuit unzipped just enough to show the dip of her collarbone, ponytails still damp from the humidity.

Mina stabbed a red mark with her pen. "Busan shipment. High-volume. Uncut."

Chaeyoung’s gaze lifted. "That’s syndicate stock."

"Exactly," Mina replied. "It’s not for corner pushers. It’s a test."

Jihun frowned. "For us?"

"For you," Mina said. "You supervise the drop. No contact. Just count, record, confirm."

"Big job for us," he said carefully.

Chaeyoung spoke next, her voice cool. "We don’t fail jobs."

Mina’s eyes gleamed. "Good. Because the people above me? They don’t offer second chances."

She looked at Jihun a beat longer than necessary. Then back to the map.

The room smelled like leather, sweat, and tension.

The game had shifted.

And none of them were playing small anymore.

The safehouse was still—too still. A single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows on the concrete walls, flickering like a dying heartbeat. Dust floated through the yellow light. In that silence, tension coiled tight as a trigger spring.

Chaeyoung slammed Jihun against the wall, her breath short and sharp. No words. No prelude. Her hands yanked open his shirt, buttons flying. Her mouth met his like a threat—rough, urgent, devouring.

He groaned into her kiss, already hard beneath his waistband. His hands pushed under her shirt, fingers hooking her bra, cupping her breasts with a mix of reverence and hunger. Her nipples pebbled instantly, pressing into his palms.

They didn’t bother with clothes. Her pants slid just low enough. His dropped to his knees. It was messy. Rushed. Hot.

She lifted one leg, wrapped it around his waist, and sank onto him with a sharp gasp. The cold wall bit into her spine. His cock filled her, slow at first, then faster. Her hand fisted in his hair as she rode him, grinding.

"Focus," she gasped in his ear, nails digging into his shoulder. "Stay sharp tomorrow."

"I’m always sharp when I’m inside you," he growled.

She moaned—quiet but guttural, her eyes open, watching him come undone beneath her. She clenched hard around him, orgasm ripping through her like a silent scream.

He came seconds later, one hand gripping her waist, the other slamming against the wall to keep them steady. His release was raw—loud, hot, shaking.

Her forehead dropped to his shoulder. "We don’t fuck before jobs," she muttered, breath still ragged.

He kissed her collarbone, lips wet with sweat. "You started it."

She chuckled softly, rolling her hips one last time before pulling off him slowly. "Yeah, well. You were pacing like a dog and smelling too damn good. What was I supposed to do—wait till morning?"

He grinned, still breathless. "So it's my fault now?"

She flicked his nose gently, eyes sparkling. "Everything's your fault when I come that hard. Now zip up, lover boy. We’ve got shit to do tomorrow."

She winked as she pulled her shirt back down and turned toward the cot, hips swaying just enough to make him twitch all over again.

--

Across the province, moonlight cut through stormclouds as Joy clicked a fresh magazine into her Glock. The cold metal kissed her palms as she snapped the slide forward with a clean, practiced motion.

The safehouse briefing room buzzed low with tension. Fluorescents hummed overhead. Two dozen operatives stood sharp in tactical black—local police units, Interpol embeds, deep-cover veterans. No insignias. No chatter. Just eyes locked and waiting.

Joy stood at the head of the table. Not a word about her real target. Not yet. She wasn’t sure what she’d find—only that she had to see it herself.

A warehouse near the train lines had been on their radar for months. Intel said tonight was the drop. High-volume product. Syndicate-tier. One move could unravel years.

Buy-bust. Midnight.

One shot to bring it all down.

. . .

00:37. The world snapped.

A buyer got greedy. A runner flinched. Steel rang against concrete. Then—gunfire. Rapid. Relentless.

The warehouse exploded in chaos. Crates overturned. Muzzle flashes strobed through the smoke.

Jihun dove behind a stack of boxes, breath ragged. He’d already floored one agent—knee to the gut, elbow to the throat. His shoulder ached, his ears rang. But his eyes stayed locked on her.

Chaeyoung. Across the floor. Cornered.

He made a move—then gunfire tore through the gap between them.

Smoke billowed. Screams ricocheted.

He spun left, weapon raised—and froze.

She stepped from the haze.

Tactical vest. Brown ponytail. Glock steady. Lean. Focused.

They both fired.

Pain lanced through his arm. His shoulder snapped back. He crumpled to one knee.

The woman advanced. Slow. Precise.

She saw him.

Saw him.

Her gun dipped half an inch.

Her mouth opened.

“...Jihun?”

He blinked, blood smeared across his cheek. Confused. Staggered. “Do I... know—?”

Then reality shattered.

Chaeyoung’s scream cracked the air. A van peeled around the corner. Doors flew open. Gunmen sprayed cover fire.

Joy dove left. Jihun was dragged back.

He vanished into the van, blood soaking through his jacket. Chaeyoung jumped in behind him.

“Drive!” she shouted. Tires shrieked. Metal screamed.

. . .

Hours later, Joy sat alone.

Her room buzzed low with night static. She wore a tank top, sweatpants, hair unbound. Her Glock lay dismantled on the desk beside a single untouched glass of water.

She’d washed her hands twice. Filed her report.

But his face wouldn’t leave her.

Older. Sharper. Touched by violence.

But it was him.

Jihun.

And the world she thought she controlled just split wide open.

[smutmind]

Retroactive pt 9 ft. Irene & Wonyoung

Part 8 here

Irene didn’t speak as she slipped off her lab coat. She folded it neatly over the back of her chair, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve triggered a response I can’t ignore,” she said. “Now it’s my turn to analyze you—skin to skin.”

Wonyoung lay curled on the couch nearby, still blindfolded, flushed and panting softly. Irene’s hand grazed her shoulder as she passed, a silent acknowledgment.

Then she turned to you. “Strip.”

You obeyed.

She stepped close, her hand flat on your chest. “You’re radiating it. Every nerve in my body says take him. And that terrifies me.”

You didn’t move.

Irene reached up, removed her glasses, and placed them gently on her desk. Her blouse unbuttoned one snap at a time. No hesitation.

You kissed her.

She moaned into your mouth, her fingers clutching your jaw like she needed the pressure to stay grounded.

“You’re fire,” she breathed. “Burn me.”

She leaned back on her desk, legs parted. You knelt, kissed down her stomach. She was wet before you reached her. She gasped when your tongue touched her.

“Don’t stop. Not yet. I want the full dose.”

You sucked her clit slowly, circled her entrance. Her breath broke into sharp, bitten cries.

“F-fuck—yes—there—right there—”

Her climax hit hard. She dug her nails into the edge of the desk, hips lifting off the wood.

“Again,” she gasped. “Harder.”

You rose. She reached for your cock with trembling fingers, guided you to her soaked heat.

“Now,” she begged.

You pushed in. Her body arched violently.

“God—you’re everything—fuck—”

You fucked her hard, deep, relentless. Irene matched you, moving like she’d been waiting years for this. Every time your bodies slapped, her voice broke louder.

“More—yes—don’t slow down—harder—harder—!”

You pinned her hands to the desk, fucked her through every moan.

She came again. And again. Screaming. Shaking. Wrung out.

But you weren’t done.

The spider's venom coursed through your veins, your stamina untouchable. You stayed hard, swollen, aching to keep going. Irene’s legs trembled, but you didn’t stop. You flipped her, lifted her onto the desk, and entered her again.

She screamed, nails raking your back.

Behind you, Wonyoung stirred. The blindfold had slipped. Her eyes blinked wide as she watched. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Until she did.

A whisper. “Can I...?”

Irene turned her head slightly, breathless. “Watch, or join?”

Wonyoung stood slowly. Her cheeks were burning red. “Join.”

You pulled back from Irene just enough to reach out a hand. Wonyoung took it. Irene guided her to the desk beside her.

“Touch her,” Irene said to Wonyoung, “Feel what he’s doing to me.”

Wonyoung’s fingers slid over Irene’s stomach, then her breasts. Irene moaned at the contact.

Then you took Wonyoung’s wrist, brought her hand down to where you were still buried in Irene.

She gasped. “It’s so... hot... she’s squeezing you...”

“Feel how she pulses when I thrust?” you said. You drove in harder. Irene bucked against you.

Wonyoung whimpered. Her hand didn’t move away.

You reached back, stroked between Wonyoung’s legs. She was soaked again. You slid two fingers into her and she cried out.

“Please, don’t make me wait,” she panted.

Irene turned, voice breathless. “He’s not done with me yet.”

You grabbed Irene’s waist and fucked her hard, finishing deep inside. She screamed through it, clawed at the desk.

You withdrew. Both women were panting. YouStill hard, you turned to Wonyoung.

She was already on her knees, eager. She licked you clean first, slow, wide-eyed.

Then she lay back on the couch, legs parted.

You slid into her. She moaned high, gasping. “Oh god—he’s still so hard—”

You thrust, deep and long. She was loud, her cries echoing through the office.

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—don’t stop—use me—please—”

You did. Again. And again.

Neither of them could keep up with you.

Wonyoung’s fingers dug into the couch cushions, her body jerking every time you filled her again. She was louder than before now—no shame, no filter.

“Please—fuck—please don’t stop—I’ll do anything—”

You grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head, and fucked her until the only thing she could manage were high, broken moans. Her body quaked under yours, twitching with each pulse.

Irene knelt beside the couch, still flushed, watching. Her hand slid between Wonyoung’s thighs, feeling where you stretched her.

“So wet,” she whispered. “You’re wrecking her.”

“I can’t stop,” you growled. “I don’t want to.”

The spider’s power burned bright under your skin. Every nerve alive, every thrust effortless. You weren’t even tired. They were.

Wonyoung came again—full-body, bone-deep, screaming your name. You held still inside her, throbbing, leaking more heat with every twitch.

She trembled under you, barely conscious.

You pulled out. Turned to Irene.

“You sure you’re done?”

Her breath caught. “Fuck... no.”

You pushed her back onto the floor. She laughed, delirious. “What are you, some kind of superhuman?”

You just grinned. “Friendly neighborhood stamina king.”

Her laugh cut off when you entered her again. Slower now. Cruel. Deep.

She groaned, grabbing your back. “You’ll kill me with this dick...”

“You’d die happy.”

“I’ll die soaked.”

You rolled your hips, slow and steady. She whimpered. Wonyoung crawled over, kissing Irene’s shoulder, then your neck.

It turned into one final, sweaty, moaning mess. You came deep in Irene a second time as Wonyoung straddled your thigh, grinding herself to another climax.

And still you didn’t go soft.

Eventually, it ended. Sort of.

They lay tangled together on the floor, bodies trembling, skin marked.

You stood over them, still hard, cock glistening, chest heaving.

Wonyoung blinked up at you, dazed. “You’re... you’re not human.”

Irene wiped sweat from her brow, smirked. “No. He’s weaponized. Spider-bite grade.”

You laughed. “With great power...”

They both groaned.

“Shut up,” Irene muttered, smiling. “Just let us die here in peace.”

You looked down at the chaos you’d made.

Definitely not the origin story you’d imagined. But it was yours.

---- Final chapter tomorrow

[smutmind]

when it doesnt fit /fluffy x kazuha ^^

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Kazuha

tags: interracial, kpop idol, bbc, cosplay sex, doggystyle, blowjob, deepthroat, riding, creampie

We're back to doing requests but only for idols i like and concepts i find interesting.

The sun beat down on Fairfax Avenue, where asphalt shimmered like a stove and fame had sharp teeth.

Kazuha ducked into the thrift store with her chest heaving, sweat dripping between her shoulder blades, and the crowd still echoing down the block like a tidal wave of clicking cameras. The store’s cool dimness hit her like a secret. Wood floors. Faint incense. Records playing something old and velvet-smooth.

She pressed the door shut behind her and locked it on impulse. Then turned.

Behind the counter stood a tall guy in a faded Tribe Called Quest tee and gold-rimmed glasses. Late twenties maybe, lean but sturdy—like someone who lifted crates more than weights. His afro was cropped close, his gaze skeptical but not unkind.

“Yo... what the hell?” he said.

“I—please. Can you close the blinds? Lock the back too. Please.” Her accent feathered every word, breathless.

He looked her over—tight black joggers, cropped tank clinging to her like a second skin, hair loose from the run, trembling fingers on the door lock.

“You running from someone?”

She gave a shaky nod. “Fans. Online. They found me.”

That made him pause. “Fans?”

She blinked at him, sweat slipping down her temple. “You don’t know who I am?”

Tyler tilted his head. “Should I?”

Her laugh came out crooked and weak. “Good. That’s good.”

He stared for another beat, then jerked his chin. “Come on. Back room. There’s a mini-fridge and no windows.”

She followed him through a bead curtain, heart still thudding. Inside was a cramped little cave of mismatched furniture, a record player, and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate.

“Sit.” He handed her a bottled water and half the sandwich. Turkey, mustard, no mayo.

“I’m Kazuha,” she said softly.

“I’m Tyler.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Outside, a car horn honked.

Then came distant shouting.

“Is she in there?”

“Check that vintage store!”

She stiffened.

Tyler rose and flipped the “CLOSED” sign before turning the lock. “You good in here?”

Kazuha looked up at him, lips parted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this.”

He shrugged, voice low. “You didn’t ask to be hunted. Just breathe.”

She did. Slowly. The scent of dust and vinyl filled her nose. Tyler’s shirt still carried the warmth of sun and clean sweat.

“I owe you,” she said.

The sandwich was gone. Her breath had slowed. But Kazuha stayed seated, watching Tyler's silhouette lean against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes scanning for movement beyond the shopfront.

"You're calm for someone who just hid a fugitive popstar," she said.

Tyler grinned. “You ain't dangerous. Unless you plan on stealing my Curtis Mayfield records.”

She smiled, mouth still glossy from mustard. Then she noticed it—his left leg dragged slightly when he moved. Subtle, but there. A rhythm out of sync.

"You limping?" she asked, soft.

He glanced down like he'd forgotten. “Old story. Blew my knee out. Was supposed to go pro.”

Her brow lifted. “Basketball?”

He nodded. “Drafted. Lakers. Tore it all during practice, right before the first pre-season game. Five years ago.”

Something quiet passed between them.

“This your rehab?” she asked, meaning the store.

“This is peace,” he said. “It don’t scream. It don’t chase.”

Kazuha stood, stretching. The joggers clung to her hips like tension. “Then sorry for being noise.”

Tyler shook his head. “You’re just... unexpected.”

She followed him out to the store floor. It was a maze of worn denim, cracked leather jackets, old band tees folded like relics. He gestured here and there. A tambourine from the ‘70s. Neon-lit boots. A stack of forgotten mixtapes.

She drifted her fingers across the racks. "Feels like stepping into a memory."

He watched her closely. “That’s the point.”

Then, tucked behind a box of typewriter ribbons, she found it. A long, thin velvet pouch with the drawstring still tied. Dust on the seams.

“What’s this?”

Tyler glanced over. “Could be anything. This place is like a time capsule.”

She untied the string. Slid the item out slowly.

Both of them paused.

“…Is that what I think it is?” Tyler asked.

Kazuha held it between two fingers. A pearlescent pink body. Bulbous head. Slight curve. No mistaking it.

“Vintage vibrator,” she said, stifling a laugh. “Old school.”

“Jesus.” Tyler looked both amused and horrified. “That’s been in there how long?”

“I’m scared to plug it in.”

“You better not. Thing might summon ghosts.”

She giggled and dropped it back in the pouch. “You sure this is a peaceful place?”

Tyler took it from her with a smirk, set it behind the register. “Some things you don’t dust off. That’s one of ‘em.”

She met his eyes. Brown, warm, steady.

“You’re the most interesting stranger I’ve met in a long time,” she said.

Tyler shrugged, but something in his chest shifted. “You’re the first one who asked about my limp.”

Outside, the crowd was still looking. Inside, everything was still.

They moved deeper into the store, past glass cases of old film reels and director’s chairs whose labels had faded to ghosts. The back wall was draped in dusty velvet curtains. Tyler tugged one aside.

Kazuha’s eyes narrowed on a mannequin dressed in a tiny bronze bikini, trimmed in tarnished gold. The top was more suggestion than coverage.

She arched an eyebrow. “This… is this a sex shop?”

Tyler froze mid-step, then broke into a bark of laughter.

“No. God, no. That’s a replica. Princess Leia. Return of the Jedi,” he said, pointing like it explained everything.

Kazuha tilted her head. “I thought she was a Disney princess. That doesn’t look PG.”

“Technically, yeah. Disney owns Star Wars now, but that outfit was from before. '80s sci-fi. Jabba the Hutt, weird chains, the whole thing. It's famous.”

She crossed her arms, still staring at it. “Looks like something you’d wear to seduce someone.”

He raised both hands. “Hey. I just collect this stuff. No seduction involved. I got a Gremlin toy in the next aisle. Equal opportunity geekery.”

Her lips twitched. “Relax. I was joking.”

Tyler exhaled, laughing again, hand running over the back of his neck. “Jesus. You’re messing with me.”

“Only a little,” she said, brushing past him, the faint scent of her sweat and skin warming the air.

They ended up sitting on an old velvet couch beneath a poster of Casablanca. The noise outside had faded.

Kazuha glanced at her phone. “The posts stopped. Must be clear now.”

“You want out the back?” Tyler offered.

She nodded but didn’t stand yet. Just looked at him, eyes soft. “Thanks. For not being weird. And for the sandwich.”

He chuckled. “Anytime, stranger.”

She got up slowly, pulling her ponytail tighter, the motion lifting her top just enough to show the tight dip of her waist.

At the door, she hesitated.

Then leaned in.

Warm lips. One second. A soft peck on his cheek.

“You’re the weirdest kind of normal I’ve met in L.A.,” she whispered.

Before he could answer, she was gone—sunlight spilling through the alley exit, swallowed back into the world.

Tyler touched his cheek and grinned like someone who’d just dusted off a forgotten part of himself.

The TV flickered low in Tyler’s living room, half-muted basketball reruns looping like ghosts of what might’ve been. Then came the knock—hard, familiar, and followed by loud voices.

“Yo, Tyler! You dressed? Or still watching reruns like a widowed auntie?”

Tyler groaned. “Go away, Jay.”

Jay didn’t. Neither did Marcus or Tre. They barged in with bags of takeout and wide grins.

“There’s a charity gig tonight, bro. Downtown. Free entry. We got tickets—VIP section.”

Tyler squinted. “For what?”

“Some K-pop girl group,” Tre said, waving his phone. “They dance, sing, all that. Real polished. Real fine.”

Jay nudged him. “We’re not even asking. You coming.”

Tyler leaned back, unimpressed. “I don’t do pop music.”

“Yeah, and you don’t do anything else since the knee,” Jay said, more gently. “Come laugh. Eat. See thighs in formation. Maybe feel alive for a minute.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. But he let them drag him anyway.

The venue pulsed with color and bodies. Girls screamed. Lights stung. Tyler stood stiff in a sea of glitter.

Then the music dropped.

A five-woman silhouette strutted onto the stage, hips in sync, hair whipping like a promise.

And at the center—her.

Zuha.

His jaw dropped.

The same woman who ate his sandwich, teased him about Leia’s bikini, kissed his cheek like a breeze that never really left.

Now she danced like liquid light, every move sharp and smooth, ponytail slicing the air.

Tyler froze. “No. Fucking. Way.”

Jay followed his gaze. “Wait—you know her?”

She saw him.

In a second barely longer than a heartbeat, her eyes locked with his.

Then she winked.

Jay slapped his chest. “Bro. You pulling K-pop idols now?!”

Tyler didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

After the show, while fans were still buzzing like shaken soda cans, a man in a headset approached Tyler near the exit.

“You’re Tyler?”

“…Yeah?”

The man handed him a sealed envelope. “She said don’t open it ‘til you’re back at your shop.”

Tyler stared at it the whole ride home, fingers brushing the flap like it might burn.

Back inside the shop, lights low, incense still clinging to the air, he tore it open.

Just one line, written in neat, sharp strokes.

Leave the back door open tonight at 11:30 PM — Zuha

His heart hit his ribs like it wanted out.

And he flipped the lock without even thinking.

At exactly 11:30 PM, the old brass clock above the register ticked once—loud in the stillness.

Then came the sound. A soft clink of the backdoor unlocking. The creak of it easing open.

Tyler grabbed the bat from behind the counter, barefoot on old floorboards, heart thudding harder than it ever had on the court.

He crept toward the back, breathing tight, every shadow suspicious.

“Yo, seriously?” came a familiar voice. Warm. Teasing. Female.

He turned the corner with the bat raised—then froze mid-swing.

Zuha stood there, hoodie loose over her frame, hair pulled into a bun, holding up a plastic bag like a peace flag.

“Hey, I told you I’d come. What’s with the Louisville Slugger?”

He sagged back, nearly losing his grip. “Jesus. You can’t sneak up like that. My heart—damn.”

She laughed, stepping inside. “Relax. I brought gifts.”

From the bag, she pulled out two small green bottles and a couple paper cups. The soju clinked faintly as she placed them on the coffee table in the back room.

He eyed her warily. “What’s this about, Zuha?”

She shrugged, stripping off the hoodie to reveal a cropped tee and shorts. “I liked hanging with you. No cameras. No screaming. Just… quiet. Feels rare.”

He stayed standing, shoulders still tight. “That why you brought booze?”

“I’m Korean. It’s how we bond,” she said, pouring the first shot. “Sort of. I’m technically Japanese, but I train there. Live everywhere. This stuff tastes like rubbing alcohol, but it works.”

He sat reluctantly. “You’re a trip.”

She downed her shot, then poured his. “Here’s how you do it. Don’t pour your own. No eye contact when you drink. Turn away—like this.” She demonstrated, dainty, exaggerated. “Respect.”

He copied, then gagged as the soju hit his throat. “That’s not respect. That’s battery acid.”

She laughed, cheeks already flushed pink. “You’ll get used to it.”

By the second bottle, her giggles had a slur and her hair had fallen loose again. She sat closer now, knees almost touching his.

Tyler cleared his throat. “Alright, it's late. You’re drunk. Maybe I should call your people, get you a ride—”

She cut in, smile wicked. “I paid them off for the night. Told ‘em I was sleeping.”

Then she leaned. Slow. Intent. Her mouth pressed against his, soft but electric.

He jolted back. “Yo—wait. What are you doing? We don’t even know each other like that.”

Zuha blinked, hurt flickering fast. “Right. Sorry. I’ll go.”

She stood, brushing past him, heartbeat already leaving in her footsteps.

“Wait.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She stopped. Looked back.

He stepped closer. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

Their second kiss was slower. Mutual. Hands tentative. Breath shared.

Zuha pulled back just enough to whisper, “Go to your room.”

Tyler’s pulse thundered. “What?”

“I’ll take a second.” Her grin crooked. “Go.”

He obeyed, dazed.

Ten minutes later, the bedroom door creaked.

She stepped in, barefoot. Wearing bronze. The replica slave Leia outfit clung to her like heat and sin, shadows pooling in all the right places.

Her hair was down. Lips glossed. Eyes locked on him like gravity.

“Still think I’m joking?” she asked softly.

Tyler swallowed hard. “You’re unreal.”

She smiled. “So make it real.”

She stood in the doorway, bronze and breathless, the replica outfit hugging her in all the places that felt like invitation.

Tyler sat at the edge of the bed, speechless, pulse hammering like a drumline in his throat.

Zuha stepped closer. Slowly. Bare feet silent on the wood.

“Tell me how you’d like me,” she said, voice low but sure. “I’ll give it to you.”

His lips parted, but no words came. His hands were clenched at his knees, eyes drinking in the sway of her hips, the shimmer of bronze catching the moonlight.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “You look like a dream. How the hell am I supposed to pick?”

She smiled—soft, understanding. Then dropped to her knees.

The floor creaked as she settled between his legs, palms sliding up his thighs with reverence.

“I’ll start,” she whispered, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweats. “You just breathe.”

He did. Barely.

She pulled his cock free—already thick, warm, heavy in her small hands. Her breath caught.

Her eyes flicked up. “You’re... big.”

A soft laugh ghosted her lips. “First time with a Black guy.”

Then she leaned in. Tongue tracing the underside of him, slow and deliberate.

Tyler hissed, hand bracing against the bedframe.

Zuha opened her mouth and took him—inch by inch. Not rushed. Not showy. Just a steady rhythm of reverence and wet heat.

She moaned softly as she moved, her own arousal flickering in the way her thighs pressed together, how her hips rolled against nothing.

He looked down, watching her—cheeks hollowed, eyes half-lidded, lips stretched around him like worship.

His hand touched her cheek. She leaned into it.

“Zuha…” he said, voice raw.

She pulled off slowly, tongue teasing the head.

“You can finish in my mouth,” she whispered, voice sweet and wrecked. “I want to taste all of you.”

Tyler’s head fell back as her mouth wrapped around him again, and the world narrowed to bronze, breath, and the quiet sounds of her hunger.

Zuha’s lips were slick, breath ragged as she pulled back with a soft gasp, jaw aching from the stretch. She blinked up at him, face flushed.

“Fuck, you’re… huge,” she whispered, tongue tracing the corner of her mouth. “My jaw’s gonna hate me tomorrow.”

Tyler caressed her cheek with one thumb, his chest rising and falling like a man on the edge.

“I was about to—” he said, breathing hard. “But not like that. Not yet.”

Zuha tilted her head, lips kiss-swollen. “Then how?”

He didn’t answer with words. He leaned down, kissed her shoulder—warm, slow, lips dragging across soft skin and bronze straps.

“Turn around for me,” he murmured.

She did, slowly, her back to him now. He reached for the tiny hooks of the costume, undoing them with careful fingers.

“Careful,” she teased. “That thing’s from the '80s, right?”

Tyler chuckled under his breath. “Technically a replica. The real one’s in a museum.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Lucasfilm archives. Carrie Fisher’s original got auctioned off years ago.”

Zuha blinked back at him. “You are such a nerd.”

He laughed again, kissing the nape of her neck. “And you’re wearing galactic lingerie. We’re even.”

The top slid off, and he cupped her bare breasts gently.

She tensed. “Sorry… they’re small.”

He shook his head, kissing along her shoulder. “They’re perfect. Honestly, always wanted to try Asian.”

Her cheeks burned. “God, you’re such a dude.”

He grinned. “Only when you let me be.”

He turned her back to face him. Her body now fully exposed in the low light—soft belly rising with every breath, hips shifting in anticipation, legs curling toward the bed like invitation.

She lay down, arms above her head, hair splayed across the pillow like silk.

He kissed down her body—neck, chest, the underside of each breast—slow and reverent.

Then he positioned himself above her, pressing his tip against her entrance.

“Ready?” he asked.

Zuha bit her lip and nodded, but her body trembled slightly beneath him.

He moved slow. Careful. Just the head pushing in at first.

She gasped. Then moaned. Then arched.

“Fuck—Tyler—”

He paused, watching her face, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

She breathed through it, every inch stretching her tight, wet heat around him like fire and silk.

“It hurts,” she whispered. “But don’t stop.”

He gritted his teeth, moving deeper. Inch by inch.

She cried out—high and desperate—half pain, half pleasure.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he finally bottomed out.

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

Just breath. Just sweat. Just skin to skin in the dim light of an old thrift shop’s backroom.

They lay joined, still and full, her breath hot against his collarbone, his length buried deep inside her tight, trembling heat.

Tyler rested his forehead against hers, eyes shut. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Zuha shook her head, lips parted, a soft whimper sliding from her throat. “Just… move slow.”

He did.

The first thrust was shallow—barely motion, more of a test. Her body clenched around him like muscle and silk, still adjusting, still learning the weight of him.

She hissed through her teeth, hands gripping his forearms. “God—it’s stretching me so bad…”

He kissed her temple, brow furrowed. “You’re doing perfect, baby. You feel…” he groaned, voice raw, “so fucking tight.”

The second thrust went deeper. Her legs jerked up around his waist. She gasped, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching in instinctive rhythm.

Each thrust after that found a little more room, her body melting into his, tension loosening thread by thread.

The friction was electric—her walls clutching every inch, his hips rolling steady, not pounding, just pressing deep, letting her feel everything.

Her breath caught with every motion, a symphony of gasps and moans that filled the room like music.

Then, between clenched teeth and curling toes, she whispered, “Kiss me.”

He obeyed instantly.

Their mouths met—hot, open, desperate. His tongue swept into her with the same rhythm as his body. She whimpered into him, moaning straight into his mouth as her legs pulled him deeper, harder.

Their rhythm synced, all hips and lips, sweat-slick skin and whispered curses.

“Fuck, Zuha…”

She clung to him. “Don’t stop. I need all of you.”

And he gave it—one thrust at a time, fitting deeper, harder, until their bodies didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

Tyler moved inside her with a rhythm that grew heavier, more confident—each thrust measured, sinking deeper into heat that gripped him like velvet fire.

“God,” he groaned, voice thick. “Your pussy… it’s fucking perfect.”

Zuha moaned beneath him, fingers threading into his curls, nails digging into his shoulders. “Your cock… it’s so good. I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, then broke away, chest heaving.

“Turn over,” he said, voice rough but tender. “I want you different.”

She obeyed without a word, lifting herself to hands and knees, hair cascading down her back.

Tyler stared for a breath—her small, curved frame arched, glistening with sweat, ass high and waiting. He slid behind her, hands caressing her hips like he was memorizing them.

Then he pushed in again.

She gasped. Loud.

It went deeper.

The new angle split her open in the most delicious way—stretching her tight and raw, forcing her thighs to tremble.

She buried her face into the pillow, moaning loud and broken. “Oh my God—Tyler—”

He gritted his teeth, thrusting slow but deep, each movement wringing a cry from her throat.

Her hands clawed at the bedsheet, knuckles white. She bit down on the pillow to muffle herself, but every push made her moan louder.

He leaned forward, gripping her tits from behind, his palms firm and possessive.

“You’re so fucking tight, Zuha. So wet. You were made for this.”

She sobbed his name, legs shaking. “Tyler, fuck—please—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. He drove into her harder now, hips snapping against her ass, balls slapping skin.

The bed rocked. Her cries grew hoarse, helpless.

All she could do was scream his name into the pillow as the pressure inside her wound tighter, closer, right to the edge.

Tyler pounded into her with reckless rhythm now—skin slapping skin, sweat pooling down her spine.

Zuha’s cries turned sharp, breath ragged as the knot inside her pulled tighter—

And then it snapped.

She screamed, body convulsing around him, legs locking up as pleasure slammed through her.

“Tyler!”

He pulled out just as her orgasm erupted—liquid heat squirting out in waves, soaking her thighs, the sheets, his abdomen.

She collapsed forward, laughing between shallow breaths, the pillow damp beneath her cheek.

“Holy shit,” she gasped, dazed. “I’ve never done that.”

He sat back on his heels, wide-eyed and soaked. “You just—squirted like a fire hydrant.”

She giggled harder. Then reached back, wrapping a hand around his cock, still slick and pulsing.

“Give me a second,” she whispered, stroking him lazily. “Timeout.”

Tyler nodded, watching her, heart pounding in his ribs.

When her breathing calmed and the haze softened, she kissed him again—slow and deep, a promise in the way her tongue moved.

“I want to ride you,” she murmured, climbing onto his lap.

She angled his cock under her, then lowered herself inch by inch—eyes locked on his, jaw trembling.

“Fuck—it’s so big…”

She bottomed out with a whimper, hips shaking. He was buried fully inside her again.

The mirror across the room caught their image. Her tiny frame straddling his, sweat-drenched and flushed, his dark skin stark against hers.

She glanced sideways, eyes locking on the reflection.

“God, look at us,” she whispered. “You’re the best fuck I’ve had since trainee days.”

She kissed him again—messy, needful—then began to move.

Grinding. Slow circles. Shallow bounces.

Her hands rested on his chest, nails dragging down with every roll of her hips.

“Just look at me,” she breathed, riding him with purpose now. “Don’t look away.”

He didn’t. His hands cupped her waist, his gaze locked to hers.

Her moans grew softer, more desperate. Her body rocked, breasts bouncing, sweat beading down her neck.

She clenched hard around him, just once. And he came—eyes wide, mouth open, the world narrowing to heat and pulse and her name on his lips.

Zuha gasped, body twitching. Then slumped forward, breath trembling, legs spread wide.

Between them, the mess gleamed in the dim light—slick and raw and real.

She laughed breathlessly. “I’m… ruined.”

Then she slid off him, knelt, and took him back into her mouth.

Gentle now. Devoted. Her lips cleaned him, slow and careful, licking up every trace.

Tyler sat back, stunned, barely breathing.

“You’re crazy,” he whispered, staring at her.

Zuha looked up, licking her lips.

“I know.”

And she smiled like it was the best compliment he could’ve given her.

Sunlight crept through the blinds in soft gold stripes, warming the sweat-damp sheets, the crumpled costume on the floor, the empty side of the bed.

Tyler stirred, eyes half-lidded, reaching instinctively across the mattress.

But the space where she’d been was cold.

He sat up slowly. Muscles sore. Heart strange.

The room smelled like her. Sweat, soju, and faint citrus.

On the nightstand sat a folded piece of paper.

His name written in neat, looping script.

He opened it.

Tyler — Thank you for last night. For making me feel like a person and not a product. I’m flying to Chicago for the rest of the tour. Back to tight schedules and tighter smiles. You gave me something real. I hope you play again. Even if it’s just one more game. — Zuha

He sat there a long time, reading the note twice. Then again.

The ache in his chest was gentle. Not hollow—just full.

He reached for his phone.

Thumb hovered over old threads.

Then he scrolled to a name buried at the bottom: Dr. Howard — Ortho Rehab.

Tyler typed:

“Ready to get back in. When can I start?”

He hit send.

The message glowed blue.

And for the first time in years, his heart beat with something other than regret.

[smutmind]

We in Express Mode ft. Miyeon

tags: noncon, dubcon, idol scandal, kpop submission, forced obedience, sunbae domination, reluctant idol sex, backseat fuck, private idol show, idol blackmail, silent resistance, comeback control, unwanted creampie, manipulative oppa, idol dance for him, sexual coercion, rookie idol broken, industry abuse, sex for silence, predatory senior, performance as punishment, controlled idol body

The rooftop lights buzzed overhead, cold and too white, casting long shadows across the empty lot.

Inside the black sedan, warmth clung to the leather seats, still holding the echo of laughter and fake endings.

Miyeon unhooked her mic and let it drop into her lap. “You’re really bad at guessing songs, oppa.”

Jae didn’t look at her, just smirked as he shut off the in-car camera. “Only when I’m distracted.”

“By what?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

He turned to face her then—slowly, deliberately. “Pretty guests.”

She laughed. A polite, practiced sound. “You say that every episode.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true every time.”

Outside, the crew was almost gone. Someone tapped the hood lightly as they passed, the signal they were clear to go. Jae didn’t move.

Miyeon leaned back, her body unwinding slightly. “It really was fun,” she said, voice softer now. “Haven’t done something like this in a while.”

“You were good,” he said. “Natural.”

She smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“You’ve got that easy thing,” he added. “The kind that makes people watch without knowing why.”

Her smile held. “That’s... a compliment, right?”

He reached over, resting his palm across the headrest behind her. “It is.”

His scent came with him—clean laundry and something sharper underneath. Miyeon turned her face slightly toward the window, the city spread out behind glass.

“Oppa, your fans are going to lose it when this episode goes up.”

“They’re not who I make this for,” he said, eyes still on her.

She blinked. “Then who do you—”

“You ever wonder why I only invite certain idols?” he asked. “Ones like you?”

She laughed nervously. “What do you mean, ‘like me’?”

“Pretty. Young. Watchable.” He smiled like it was harmless. “The camera knows. So do I.”

Miyeon shifted, her posture stiffening slightly. “Sunbae-nim, I should probably head back. They’re waiting—”

He hit the door lock. The click was soft.

She went still.

“I’ll drive you,” he said. “We’re not done.”

Her lips parted, unsure what to say. She didn’t move.

“Relax,” he added, softer. “This is the part no one sees.”

He reached for her again, slower this time. His fingers brushed the line of her jaw, then traced down to her neck.

She didn’t flinch.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

She looked straight ahead now. “Sunbae-nim…”

He leaned in. “You don’t have to say anything.” His breath brushed her cheek. “You just sit there and let me enjoy you.”

The air inside the car thickened. Miyeon didn’t reach for the door again.

She just sat—very still—her legs pressed together, her breathing shallow.

Outside, the last rooftop lights clicked off one by one.

And inside, she whispered quietly, “Oppa…”

The word trembled between them, soft and barely shaped.

Jae didn’t respond with words. He turned in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel, the other sliding across the center console to her side. His fingers brushed the inside of her elbow, light at first.

Miyeon didn’t move.

“You’re even prettier up close,” he said, voice low. “No lights. No edits.”

She let out a breath, eyes fixed on the dash.

His hand slid higher, knuckles grazing her ribcage. When his fingertips reached the edge of her blouse, he paused—then began unfastening the top button. Slowly. One. Two. The fabric slackened against her chest.

Still, she didn’t speak. Her hands remained tight in her lap.

Jae leaned over the console, his knee bumping hers beneath the glove compartment. His face was close now, the car too quiet, the city outside distant and irrelevant.

“You didn’t think I noticed you, did you?” he murmured.

She turned her face slightly, a shadow crossing her features. “Sunbae-nim…”

He smiled at the name, at the edge of it. “You looked at me like I was untouchable.”

His hand dipped into the loose collar of her blouse, sliding over the swell of one breast. He pushed the fabric of her bra down—not rushed, but practiced. The seatbelt sat snug across her waist, a faint barrier he didn’t bother to remove.

Her nipple peaked under his touch. He dragged his thumb across it once, then again, slower.

Miyeon flinched—not away, but inward.

“You’re not stopping me,” he said. “That says more than you think.”

She looked down. “Sunbae-nim, please…”

He didn’t acknowledge the plea. Instead, he dipped his head and sucked the stiffened bud into his mouth, lips warm and wet, tongue flicking in lazy circles. She gasped and shifted in her seat, bumping the door.

“Careful,” he muttered, pulling back. “Don’t want to fog up the windows too soon.”

His hand slid lower, settling on her thigh. He pushed the fabric of her skirt back an inch, then another. The hem rose, exposing pale skin under the console’s shadow.

“Still nervous?” he asked, fingers toying at the edge of her underwear.

Miyeon didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the gear shift.

He kissed the inside of her knee, slow and deliberate. “You’re wet.”

Her breathing hitched.

“I didn’t do that,” he said softly. “You did.”

His finger pressed lightly against the thin cotton, dragging a path down the center. She jerked.

He leaned back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were glassy now, her lips slightly parted. Her chest rose and fell, blouse still open, bra twisted down around her ribs.

“You going to ask me to stop?” he said.

She didn’t.

She whispered something barely audible.

“…Oppa.”

He smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

The name came out soft, fragile. A breath, not a choice.

Jae’s smile twitched. Not wide. Just enough to know he’d won something.

His fingers pressed more firmly through the damp cotton between her legs. The fabric clung to her now, wet and shaped to her heat.

Miyeon shifted in the seat, thigh brushing the console, face turned away. Her chest was still exposed, nipples stiff from the cold air and his mouth. She pulled one side of her blouse closed, but only halfway.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, fingers stroking a slow line down the center. “Bet you’re sweeter than you even know.”

She made a sound—half protest, half breath.

He leaned over the console again, lips grazing her jaw. “Look at me.”

She didn’t.

His thumb moved to the elastic edge of her panties, sliding just beneath it.

“Still quiet,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her temple. “Still letting me.”

Her hands gripped the edge of the seat.

One finger slid inside her.

Miyeon gasped—sharp, shocked, too loud in the tight space. Her body jerked and her knees pressed together instinctively. He didn’t pull away. Just waited, let her clench around him.

“Shh,” he murmured, voice steady. “It’s alright.”

“Sunbae-nim…” she breathed, barely audible.

He smiled again. “You switch so fast.”

His finger curled inside her, slow, deliberate. The heel of his palm pressed softly to her clit through the cotton.

She arched slightly. Couldn’t help it.

“I could make you cum right here,” he said. “One hand. Barely trying.”

She shook her head—not a no, just the instinct to say something.

He kissed below her ear. “Do you want to?”

She didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to want it,” he said. “Your body already does.”

His voice never changed. It stayed calm. Steady. Like he was asking about a song from earlier.

Her head leaned back against the window.

He added a second finger.

The stretch made her gasp again. Her thighs trembled.

And still, she said nothing.

Only when his fingers twisted just right, and her hips rolled against the pressure, did she speak again—barely a whisper, shaky and soft:

“…Oppa.”

The inside of the car felt tighter now—air heavy, glass fogged from breath and heat.

Miyeon’s head pressed to the window, cheek flushed against cool glass, body angled toward the door but legs spread open enough for Jae’s hand to stay where it was—between her thighs, working her slowly apart.

His fingers moved in and out of her, deliberate, unhurried. The wet sounds were soft but obscene in the silence.

She whimpered. “Oppa… wait…”

His palm kept pressure against her clit. “What is it?”

“I—” She shook her head slightly, breath hitching. “I can’t think.”

“Good,” he murmured. “You don’t need to.”

His fingers twisted again, hitting something inside her that made her knees jerk.

She gasped. “Please… it’s too much…”

“You’ll take it.” He leaned closer, voice low and certain. “You’re already taking it.”

Her hands scrambled against the door handle, but not to open it—just to ground herself. She needed something to hold.

His free hand reached across the console again, pushing her blouse fully open. Her bra was still twisted low. He cupped one breast, thumb brushing her nipple until it peaked again.

She moaned—soft, panicked. “Oppa… someone could see…”

“No one’s here.” His voice was a whisper against her skin. “Just me. Just you.”

She turned her face slightly, finally looking at him. Her eyes were wide, wet, unsure.

“This is crazy,” she said, barely audible.

He kissed the corner of her mouth—quick, quiet. “You’re still here.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

Her hips rolled into his hand now, helpless against the rhythm he kept. His fingers were slick, curling just right.

She shuddered. “Oppa, I’m gonna—”

“Let it happen.”

“I can’t—”

“Now.”

Her body tensed, every muscle drawn tight as the orgasm tore through her—silent at first, then a choked cry that filled the cabin and hung in the air between them.

Jae watched her the whole time. Never slowed. Never stopped.

When she finally went still, trembling, panting, she covered her face with both hands.

“…Sunbae-nim…” she whispered, ashamed.

He didn’t laugh. Just wiped his fingers on her thigh and reached for his zipper.

Miyeon sat slumped against the window, blouse hanging open, skin flushed and damp. Her thighs were parted slightly, her underwear clinging to her, soaked and twisted.

She was still trembling.

Across the console, Jae leaned back in his seat, fingers moving to the zipper of his jeans. The metallic rasp sounded too loud in the fogged silence.

Miyeon blinked. Her breath caught.

“Oppa… what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just slid his cock out—thick, flushed, already hard.

She froze, eyes wide.

“Don’t look away,” he said quietly.

Her knees pressed together on instinct. “This wasn’t—I didn’t think we’d—”

“You didn’t think at all,” he cut in, voice even. “You sat here. You let me in. You came all over my hand.”

She looked down, face burning.

He stroked himself once, slow from base to tip. “You’ve seen it. You’ve imagined it.”

“I didn’t—” She shook her head. “Not like this…”

“You still calling me oppa.” His voice dropped. “You still haven’t moved.”

Miyeon swallowed, eyes flicking between his hand and his face. “What do you want me to do?”

His gaze didn’t soften. “Start by touching it.”

She hesitated. Her hand hovered over the console, trembling.

Jae reached over and took her wrist, guiding it down. Her fingers curled around him, barely touching.

“Grip tighter,” he murmured.

She did.

“That’s it.” He exhaled, jaw flexing. “Good girl.”

Her hand moved slowly, unsure.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, watching her. “Your hand. Your mouth. How small you’d look taking me in.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never—”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m hard.”

She looked away.

He reached back over and cupped her breast again, thumb flicking across her nipple.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Stroke me.”

She obeyed.

“Eyes on me.”

She met his gaze. Her lips were parted, her breath shaky.

“This is wrong,” she whispered.

“This is perfect,” he said. “You’re perfect.”

Her hand moved a little faster.

“Say something else.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I want to hear you.”

“I don’t know what to say…” she whispered.

He grinned. “Then say it again.”

She bit her lip. Then, softly—

“…Oppa.”

He groaned, cock twitching in her hand.

“Keep saying that,” he growled. “Don’t stop.”

Miyeon’s fingers wrapped tighter around him now, guided by the rhythm of Jae’s hand over hers. Her strokes were clumsy, too soft, but he didn’t correct her. Not with words.

Just pressure.

Just that look.

He let go of her wrist and leaned back in the driver’s seat, one leg angled wide, the other pressing firm against the console. His cock stood tall in her grip, thick and pulsing with heat.

She licked her lips unconsciously. Then froze when she realized what she’d done.

Jae noticed.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low. “Put that pretty mouth to use.”

She blinked at him. “I’ve never…”

“I know.”

Her hand slowed.

He reached across and brushed her hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t matter. Just start.”

She leaned slightly over the console, angle awkward, knees pressed against the glovebox. Her face hovered near his lap, heart hammering behind her ribs.

Her breath hit his skin. He twitched in her grip.

“Oppa…” she whispered, mouth just inches away. “This is crazy…”

“Do it.”

She hesitated. Then parted her lips and kissed the tip.

His cock jumped.

She pulled back instinctively. “It moved.”

“It’s supposed to.” He sounded amused.

She glanced up at him—flushed, wide-eyed—then leaned down again, this time letting her lips wrap around the head.

Warm. Salty. Heavy.

Her tongue slid cautiously along the underside. He groaned, head falling back against the seat.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “Fuck…”

Her mouth tightened. She took him deeper, inch by inch, until her lips brushed the top of her hand still stroking his base.

She gagged softly.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said. His hand slid behind her neck, thumb stroking gently as she pulled back, then down again.

Wet sounds filled the car, messy and real.

She moaned around him—quiet, unsure.

“Louder,” he said. “Let me hear you.”

She whimpered. The vibrations made him groan again.

“Good girl,” he growled. “Your mouth was made for this.”

She pulled back, spit trailing from her lip to his shaft. “It’s… a lot,” she breathed.

“You can take more.”

She tried again—slower this time, her tongue gliding, her lips tighter. Her hands braced on his thigh, knuckles pale from how hard she clutched.

She was panting now. Gagging slightly. Moaning without meaning to.

“Oppa… I can feel it…” she whispered, breathless. “You’re getting bigger.”

He smirked. “Keep going.”

And she did.

Jae’s hand was firm on the back of her head, guiding her rhythm slow and steady. Miyeon’s jaw ached, throat sore from the effort. His cock glistened with spit, her mouth moving over him with soft gagging sounds between gasps for air.

Then—abruptly—he pulled her off with a wet pop.

She blinked up at him, dazed.

“Get in the back,” he said.

Her stomach dropped. “Oppa…”

“You can’t fuck me from there.” He zipped himself up halfway, hand already on the door handle.

She stayed frozen.

He opened his door and stepped out. The rooftop air poured in—cool, too real. Miyeon glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror: lips red, eyes glassy, her blouse hanging open.

He opened the back door behind her, waiting.

She sat up slowly. “Can’t we… can’t we just stay like this?”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded at the open door.

She looked at the passenger lock. It was still shut.

“Oppa, I…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know if I can…”

His eyes didn’t change. “Then don’t.” He tilted his head. “Or come finish what you started.”

She looked away, heart pounding. Then slowly unbuckled her belt and stepped out, legs shaking slightly in the cold.

The rooftop was quiet. Too quiet.

She moved to the backseat.

He followed her in.

The leather creaked beneath them. Tight, but not impossible. He leaned against the door; she crawled in across the middle. He caught her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

She sat there, hovering. His cock hard again, pressed between them.

“Take your underwear off,” he said.

She didn’t move.

“I—can’t we do something else?” she whispered. “Oppa, please… not all the way…”

“You’ve already let me in once,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “Let me finish.”

She closed her eyes.

“This is all part of it,” he said. “Don’t act surprised.”

“I just…” Her voice was a whisper. “I don’t have anywhere to go…”

“Exactly.” He slid her panties to the side, not off. “You’re right where you need to be.”

He unzipped fully again, then pulled her down.

She gasped as the head pushed against her entrance. Her hand shot out, bracing against the seat.

“Oppa—wait—it won’t fit—”

“You’ll take it,” he breathed. “Let it stretch.”

Her body trembled as he pulled her hips lower. The tip pressed inside. She cried out, legs shaking.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Just breathe. You’re doing so good.”

He slid deeper.

And deeper.

Her breath came in shallow, ragged sobs.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say my name.”

She choked on it.

“…Oppa.”

Jae’s grip tightened on Miyeon’s hips, his knuckles white as he dragged her down, inch by inch, until her body swallowed him whole.

She gasped—a sharp, broken sound. Her thighs quivered on either side of his, knees braced against the leather seats, skirt bunched around her waist. Her panties still clung crooked to one thigh, forgotten.

“Oppa—ah—wait…” she whimpered, back arching as he bottomed out.

“You’re already taking it,” he growled, voice thick against her collarbone. “Fuck, you feel unreal.”

She clutched the back of the seat, hips frozen, every muscle taut and trembling.

“I-it’s too deep—”

He pulled her forward until her chest pressed to his. “No, baby. It’s perfect.”

She whimpered again, head buried in his neck, her breath hot against his skin.

He thrust once—slow, deep. Her body jolted with the impact.

“Ah—Oppa… please…” she whispered, not sure if she was begging him to stop or keep going.

He moved again. And again. Long, dragging strokes that filled her completely, every inch drawing out a moan she didn’t know she could make.

Her voice rose with every thrust.

“You’re clenching so hard,” he murmured, licking the shell of her ear. “You like this. Don’t lie.”

Her hands slid down to his shoulders, fingers digging in. Her blouse slipped farther open, both breasts bouncing against his chest with each movement.

“Say it,” he growled into her mouth. “Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

“You know.”

She gasped as he angled deeper, hips grinding into hers. “You’re fucking me…”

He kissed her hard, tongue claiming her breath.

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?”

She shook her head. Then nodded. Then cried out as his thumb found her clit.

Wet heat coated them both. Her body trembled violently against his, thighs shaking.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Right now.”

And she did.

Her scream cracked in the backseat, hands gripping him like an anchor, hips grinding against him until her body gave out.

He groaned loud, cock twitching inside her.

“Good fucking girl,” he murmured.

Miyeon gasped as he shifted deeper, his grip tightening on her hips, cock thick and twitching inside her. She could feel him getting close—the fullness, the pulsing, the pressure rising.

Her stomach twisted.

“Oppa—wait…” she panted.

His breath hitched against her ear.

She tried to move, but his hands held her down. His body was coiled tight beneath hers, the rhythm sharper now, more desperate.

“Don’t,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Not inside…”

He didn’t answer.

Her hands pressed to his chest. “Please—just pull out, okay? You can still—”

His hips jerked beneath her. Harder. Deeper.

“Oppa, listen—listen to me—”

But her voice cracked, lost in the slap of skin and his ragged moan.

The panic hit like cold air.

She remembered the rumors. The whispers behind makeup mirrors. The way the bright girls disappeared.

The girl from last year’s comeback show—sudden hiatus, “anxiety and rest,” flown to Europe.

Another one before that: LA. “Burnout.” No one heard from her for nine months.

They all had one thing in common: him.

“Please don’t cum in me,” she said, desperate now, trembling. “Please…”

But he already was.

She felt the heat flood inside her—deep, final, thick.

He groaned against her throat, holding her tight. “Too late, baby.”

She went still.

The backseat was quiet now. Only their breath. Only her shaking.

He kissed her collarbone. “Told you. You’d take all of it.”

Miyeon didn’t respond.

She stared past his shoulder, eyes locked on nothing, breath slow and shallow. The city lights outside had blurred into meaningless color.

Jae adjusted his grip on her hips, then slid her off of him. She winced as his cock slipped free, the warmth of him still leaking down her thigh.

He zipped up calmly. No rush.

“You should fix your face,” he said, wiping his fingers across her inner thigh before pulling away. “Don’t want anyone seeing how used you look.”

She didn’t move right away. Just blinked slowly, blouse still open, body aching.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

She cleaned herself in silence. Dressed in silence. Slipped into the front seat in silence.

The ride down from the rooftop was slow. The city had returned to motion—headlights, honks, pedestrians. Normal life.

Jae drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. He didn’t look at her.

“When I call, you answer,” he said calmly, eyes on the road. “Even if it’s 3AM.”

Miyeon stared out the window.

“When I want to see you, you come.” His voice didn’t rise. “When I want to fuck you, you spread.”

She swallowed hard.

“If you ever talk about this,” he continued, “Dispatch won’t be the ones dropping couple photos.”

She turned toward him slightly, her voice barely there. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, soft and easy. “I mean there are worse headlines than ‘dating scandal.’”

The car slowed near her dorm building. He pulled into a side alley, far from cameras or staff.

Miyeon opened the door and stepped out. The night air hit her hard. She smoothed her skirt, fixed her collar.

Then turned back to him.

She bowed, deep and perfect.

“Thank you for the ride, sunbae-nim.”

Jae rolled the window down just enough to see her eyes. “Good girl.”

She didn’t flinch.

She just turned and walked to the back entrance, posture perfect.

The hotel suite felt like a different city—quiet, high, cold. Seoul glittered through the tall windows like it didn’t care. Miyeon stood just inside the door, hoodie zipped up to her jaw, fists clenched tight at her sides.

Jae didn’t look up from the couch. Legs spread, one arm thrown along the cushions, a glass of dark liquor sweating in his hand.

“You’re late.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

That got his attention. He turned his head, eyes dragging over her.

She held his gaze. “The test was negative.”

A slow smile spread across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well,” he said, sipping once. “Guess I’ve got another shot tonight.”

Miyeon stepped deeper into the room, voice tight. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“You came.” He stood, setting the drink aside. “You always come.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t anymore.”

He stopped in front of her. Close enough to feel. “Say that again.”

She hesitated. “I said—”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “No more cute little visits? No more private shows? You think that’s how this works?”

Miyeon’s jaw tensed. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“No?” His grip didn’t loosen. “Want to test that theory?”

She yanked back, stumbling a step. “If I walk out right now—”

“You’ll walk straight into a Dispatch exclusive.”

She froze.

His voice dropped. Calm. Measured. “Photos from that rooftop shoot. The night you came back here with me. I don’t delete anything.”

“Oppa…”

“You think your agency would protect you?” He tilted his head. “You think your fans will care why? The narrative writes itself: desperate idol chasing older man. Happens all the time.”

She swallowed hard.

“You disappear for a few months, maybe a year. Come back different. Colder. If you come back at all.”

Her legs felt numb.

“So,” he said, stepping closer. “Why don’t you do what you came here to do?”

Miyeon didn’t speak. Just unzipped her hoodie, slipped it off, and folded it in half with trembling fingers.

“Good girl.”

The room was too quiet. She stripped layer by layer—tank, bra, shorts, underwear. Her skin prickled under the air conditioning, but she didn’t shiver.

He sat back down, adjusting his sweatpants. “Get on your knees.”

She knelt between his legs. The carpet scraped her knees. He didn’t unzip. Just looked at her.

“You know what to do.”

She reached up, pulled his waistband down, and let his cock spring free. Half-hard, thick, already twitching.

She kissed the tip first, then opened her mouth and took him in.

Sloppy. Deep. Her throat burned but she didn’t stop. She gagged once. Recovered. Her hands gripped his thighs, mouth stretching wider around him.

He groaned. “God, that mouth. You were born to kneel.”

Her eyes watered. Spit ran down her chin. He grabbed her hair and held her in place, fucking her face with slow, deliberate thrusts.

She moaned, choking quietly.

He pulled her off with a gasp. “Couch.”

She turned and climbed onto the seat. Bent over the armrest. He stood behind her, hands already grabbing her hips.

“Still think you can say no?” he muttered, lining himself up.

She opened her mouth to speak—but he shoved inside before she could.

Her cry cracked through the room.

He fucked her hard. No buildup. No pause. Just brutal, steady rhythm. Her breasts bounced against the cushion. Her hands clawed for grip.

He leaned over her back. “Say it.”

She moaned, voice broken. “I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Oppa.”

He spanked her once, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Say you want me to cum in you.”

She shook her head. “Please, no—”

He thrust deeper. “Say it.”

She choked on a moan. “I want it. I want you to cum in me.”

His rhythm got rougher. Her body folded under him, legs trembling.

“You’re not pregnant now,” he growled. “But you will be. I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

“Oppa—please—”

“Say you want it.”

“I want it,” she gasped. “Just don’t stop.”

He grunted once, twice—then came with a harsh breath, cock buried deep.

Hot. Full. Final.

He pulled out, leaving her shaking and leaking.

She collapsed onto the cushions, face buried in her arms.

He zipped up, grabbed his drink, and sat back down.

“Same time next week,” he said.

She didn’t reply.

She dressed in silence, picked up her phone, and left.

The hallway echoed with every step.

[smutmind]

Hiya ! Absolutely love ur work and i’ve binged through all your stuff, any chance you could upload summer guest pt 3 pretty please :) ?

We're almost there! still waiting for 1k notes.

[smutmind]

How would you react to Sana and Miyeon having sex in your bed?

I am not into GxG action so I'd probably feel jealous? haha

[smutmind]

Waiting for Sana summer guest part 3.

The short smut about misamo getting dominated is really hot. Sana started talking Japanese, while momo is the dominating the male is really good.

Thanks! :) I enjoy requests like that one.

[smutmind]

Just read ‘Borrowed Hearts’ PLEASE I BEG ANOTHER PART OR EPILOGUE ANYTHING FOR HEEJIN AND READER TO REALIZE THAT IT ISN’T HEALTHY AND THEY SHOULD DATE OR ANYTHING PLEASEEE!! I’LL GIVE YOU ALL MY KUDOS AND MY SOUL!! I BEG YOU😭😭😭💔💔💔

We'll see :) Thanks for enjoying the fic!

[smutmind]

Hot Sauce

tags: facefucking, blowjob, deepthroat, rough sex, throatfuck, public humiliation, dominant male, submissive female, spicy play, crying, gagging, degradation, forced exhibitionism, cum in mouth, power play, rough blowjob, tears, rough handling, no aftercare, messy

The hallway reeked of weed, leather, and sweat baked into old concrete.

Ahyeon shifted the warm pizza box against her hip, the glass bottle of hot sauce clinking faintly in the paper bag beneath. She double-checked the door number—805—and knocked.

Before her knuckles met wood a second time, the door swung open.

Tall. Shirtless. Chains glinting. Ink from his jaw to the waistband of sagging jeans. His eyes locked on hers with the slow curiosity of a wolf sizing up a smaller animal. Behind him, two more lounged in sunken armchairs, smoke curling between them.

“You got the wrong place,” the tall one said.

She held up the box. “Four cheese. Extra jalapeños. And…” She fished out the hot sauce. “You asked for this, right? Korean fire blend?”

He took the box, then the bottle, turning it over like it might explode.

“508, not 805,” he said flatly. “You new?”

Ahyeon nodded, flushed. “First week. I’m still getting used to the layout.”

He stepped back. “Come in.”

“I should—”

“Come in.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Inside, the room pulsed with bass and the sweet, dizzying scent of weed and sweat. A humid heat pressed against her skin. She stood there, small and stiff, the empty bag still dangling from her hand.

The two seated men watched her openly, their gazes slow, undressing. The tall one set the pizza down on the coffee table, but not the hot sauce. He held it like it meant something.

“You know why this matters?” he asked, eyes never leaving hers.

Ahyeon shook her head.

He twisted off the cap. The air filled with a sharp, tangy heat—chili, garlic, vinegar. He tipped the bottle slightly and let a crimson stream snake across the cheese.

“Because some things are only good when they burn a little.”

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

“Take your coat off,” he said.

She didn’t move.

He started circling her. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of the trap beat dipped, slowed like a heartbeat. His breath hit the back of her neck, warm and spiced.

“You mess up a delivery,” he murmured, “you mess with my night.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

He touched her shoulder with just his fingertips. She flinched.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “Yet.”

“I really need to go,” she whispered, glancing at the door. “I have more runs.”

He came around to face her again. Lifted the bottle between them. The label read Hot Blood Fire in sharp red Hangul.

“You stay ten minutes, you leave with triple the tip. That fair?”

She hesitated. Then nodded.

The two on the chairs said nothing. Didn’t need to. Their silence was a fourth presence in the room. Heavy. Humming.

The man smiled—not soft, not cruel. Just sure. He held out the bottle like an offering.

“Pour it.”

Ahyeon reached for it slowly. Her fingers brushed his. The bottle was warm.

The silence thickened, broken only by bass vibrating up through the carpet and into her ankles.

Ahyeon stood frozen, breath shallow, heart rattling like a bird beating against its cage.

Behind her, the boss moved slow—predator-sure. His palm landed on her shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Patient.

“You’re shaking.”

“I should go,” she said, voice cracking under tension.

His hand slid lower. Not rough. Not rushed. He traced the line of her collarbone through the fabric, then dipped—knuckles brushing the zipper of her company jacket, nudging it down an inch. Then another.

She flinched. “Please, I need to—”

“Hush.”

His breath coasted over her ear, rich with smoke and something hotter—chili and heat and want.

Then he let go.

He dropped onto the couch with a slow exhale, legs spread wide, gold chain resting against his sternum like a crown. Watching. Waiting.

“Kneel.”

She didn’t move.

“I’m not gonna touch you unless you stay,” he said. “But I’ll sit here and let you decide how this night ends.”

Ahyeon swallowed. Her jacket hung open halfway now, the cool air kissing the top swell of her breasts through the thin tank beneath.

“I just deliver food,” she whispered. “That’s all I do.”

“Tonight, you delivered more than pizza.” His gaze roamed slow and hungry. “That breath. That mouth. That skin under company cotton. You walked in with all of it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.”

His voice was quiet, but it owned the room. It curled around her like a rope.

“I’m new,” she said, softer. “I don’t know the rules.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, voice like molasses. “But only if you’re on your knees, looking up.”

Ahyeon’s legs trembled. She looked at the door—then back to him. Still. Still watching. Still patient.

“Clock’s ticking,” he said, head tilting. “Seven minutes left.”

She dropped to her knees.

The carpet scratched her skin through the tights. Her jacket slipped wider open.

He didn’t move.

“Open it.”

She hesitated. Then tugged the zipper down the rest of the way.

His eyes flickered. Not with surprise. With approval.

“Tank too.”

Ahyeon’s fingers trembled as she peeled the tank up and over her head. Her breasts spilled free—soft, flushed, peaked from the chill. Her nipples tightened under the open air and his stare.

He still hadn’t touched her.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice a shade lower. “The way they ache without even being touched?”

She nodded, barely.

“That’s not fear, baby.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s want.”

The music thrummed. Her nipples throbbed with every bass beat, every second of tension.

He brought the hot sauce bottle back into his hand. Uncapped it. Held it up like a toast.

“Spicy, yeah?”

She nodded again.

“Let’s see how much heat you can handle.”

The carpet was rough under her knees, pressing patterns into her skin as she settled between his thighs.

Ahyeon’s jacket lay somewhere behind her. Her tank top was bunched at her waist. The room still throbbed with trap bass and testosterone.

The boss leaned back, pants open, cock thick and rising in his hand. He held the hot sauce bottle in the other.

“You like spicy, right?” he said, breath shallow. “So do I.”

She blinked. “Wait—what are you—”

He unscrewed the cap and poured.

The sauce dripped in slow lines down the shaft, seeping into every crease, glistening red and slick. He hissed, jaw clenching.

“Fuck.” His eyes rolled slightly. “Burns already.”

“Are you serious?” Ahyeon backed slightly. Her mouth felt dry. “That’ll hurt.”

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and guided her forward. Not harsh. But firm.

“Then blow carefully,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make me forget the pain.”

She hesitated. The scent hit her first—chili, vinegar, garlic, sweat. Her eyes watered before her mouth even touched him.

Still, she leaned in.

One lick. Just a test. Her tongue met the heat—literal, searing—and he jolted.

“Shit!” he gasped. “Again.”

She licked again. Slower this time, dragging her tongue under the shaft where sauce pooled. His hips twitched. His grip in her hair tightened.

“You little fuckin’—ngh!”

It hurt him. She could see it. But he wanted it. Needed it.

She wrapped her lips around the head, careful not to inhale too fast. Her tongue swirled over the heat, spreading it.

He screamed—half agony, half ecstasy. His thighs tensed under her hands.

“Holy fuck. That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

She pulled back, coughing. Her lips tingled. Her own mouth was on fire now.

“I can’t—” she started.

But he yanked her back.

“You can.”

Then he began to move. Slow thrusts at first. Her jaw ached instantly, the burn coating every inch of him.

He fucked her face like he’d lost control. The heat, the pain, her wet lips—it pushed him past something.

He roared, a broken, guttural sound as he thrust harder. She gagged, her nose pressed to his skin, the burn catching in her throat.

Spit and sauce mixed. Her eyes streamed. Still, she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.

“Take it,” he panted. “It’s yours now. That mouth is mine.”

The other two watched silently, smoke curling in the air. She was past shame. Past hesitation.

Her world was heat. Wet. Surrender.

When he finally came, it was violent—his whole body clenched. He poured into her mouth, and she swallowed without thought. Her tongue was numb. Her lips tingled like they'd kissed a live wire.

Then he pulled out, breathing like a man who’d just survived drowning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring down at her. “That was… new.”

Ahyeon barely had time to breathe before he pushed her onto her back. Her legs parted on instinct.

But he didn’t fuck her again. Not now.

Instead, he stood, zipped up, and gestured lazily. “Get dressed.”

She blinked, dazed. “What?”

“You gotta go. We got business.”

“But the pizza—”

“Gone. And your tip? Consider it spent.”

The room tilted. She scrambled up, tank twisted, no bra, no dignity. Her thighs stuck together. Her chin dripped. Her lips burned.

One of the seated men tossed her jacket. She caught it with fumbling hands.

“Door’s there, sweetheart,” the boss said, already lighting a cigarette. “Tell your manager whatever story keeps you employed.”

She opened the door with shaking fingers. The hallway air hit her like ice.

Bare thighs. Jacket zipped to her throat. No underwear. No pizza. No tip.

She walked fast, head down, heat blooming in her face as she passed another guest.

What do I even say? she thought. Wrong room? Mugged? Threw up and left?

Her lips still tingled. Her jaw still throbbed.

And her manager would ask why she came back empty-handed and red-eyed.

She didn’t have the answer. Not yet.

But whatever excuse she made— it wouldn’t be the truth.

[smutmind]

Retroactive Pt.8 ft. Irene

Part 7 here

Irene’s office was dim, the blinds half-drawn, the door propped open like bait.

You knocked once. She didn’t answer.

You stepped inside.

The desk was cleared. Two chairs, one facing the door, the other tucked neatly beside it—and then there she was. Irene stood by the window, her white lab coat loose over a tight black turtleneck, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on her nose.

“Close the door,” she said without looking.

You did. The click echoed.

“I expected you sooner,” she murmured.

“I was... occupied.”

She turned. Smiled. “I know. That’s why this will be interesting.”

She nodded to the second chair.

You blinked.

Wonyoung.

She sat there, legs crossed, sweater too big for her frame, school ID still clipped to her collar. She looked up slowly, cheeks pink.

“Hey,” she said. Voice soft, uncertain.

“What’s going on?” you asked, eyes flicking between them.

Irene walked toward you, heels clicking. Calm. Measured.

“This is a trial,” she said. “Controlled. Necessary.”

She turned her tablet screen toward you. A chart glowed on it—neural receptors, hormonal spikes. “Your bloodstream has changed. You’re emitting something... unique. A pheromonal trigger. I isolated the chemical last week. It’s not just charisma. It’s biological manipulation.”

Wonyoung shifted in her chair, her thighs pressed tightly together.

“She’s responding to you because her body has to,” Irene said. “And I want to see how far that goes.”

She turned to Wonyoung.

“Do you trust him?”

Wonyoung nodded, breath catching. “Yes.”

Irene handed her a silk blindfold. “Then wear this. We’re testing sensitivity—reaction independent of visual input.”

Wonyoung stood and turned toward you. “Will you tie it?”

You did. She gasped at your touch.

Irene backed away, voice a calm metronome. “You’ll touch her. Speak to her. Make her feel. Let’s observe.”

Wonyoung’s moans started as whimpers. She trembled as your hand brushed her side. Your mouth found her neck. Her knees bent when you whispered against her ear.

“She’s hyper-reactive,” Irene murmured. “Her skin’s flushed. Pupils dilated behind the blindfold. Continue.”

You stripped her slowly. She whimpered as her sweater lifted. Her bra unclasped. When you kissed down her chest, she cried out.

You dropped to your knees. Her legs shook as your mouth opened her.

“Oh god—ah—please—don’t stop—please—”

She came fast, loud. Bent over your mouth, shaking.

“She’s flooded with oxytocin,” Irene said. “You haven’t even fucked her yet.”

You stood. Undid your belt.

Wonyoung knelt blind, her hands clumsy. Her lips found your cock, and she moaned as she took you in.

“So big,” she panted. “Tastes so good...”

She sucked you deep, sloppy and eager.

Then she whispered, “Please fuck me. I need it—I want it so bad—”

You bent her over the desk. She arched her back, begged through every moan.

“Yes—yes—fuck me—please!”

You drove into her. She screamed.

Irene’s voice: “Her sensitivity is unreal. You’ve become a drug.”

You kept going. Every thrust made her cry out.

“I’m cumming—again—fuck—don’t stop!”

You groaned. Spilled into her, pulsing deep.

Wonyoung collapsed, gasping, soaked and limp.

Irene stood slowly. “The chemical is unstable. But potent.”

She slipped off her coat. “Now I need a direct sample.”

to be continued...2 more chapters to go

[smutmind]

since the wife is over, and it seems like there's more to tell, does that mean there's a sequel series soon??

It's not over :)

[smutmind]

The Wife Pt. 3

----

FULL CHAPTERS HERE

----

The warehouse floor gleamed with bleach and blood history, stripped bare for a ritual that never left records, only shadows.

Jihun stood at the center of the concrete chamber, shirtless under a ring of cold industrial light. His breath fogged with each exhale, chest rising in slow control. The concrete below him was spotless—no blood yet, but soaked in old promises. Around him, six men formed a silent circle. Three masked, three bare-faced. All in black slacks, open jackets lined in crimson silk. Not quite uniforms, but nearly ceremonial.

On a lacquered table nearby: a ceremonial blade, a brass shot cup, a flask of soju, and a folded white cloth. Symbols in a rite of blood and silence.

Mina stepped out of the darkness. Her tailored black coat flared with each movement. No blouse beneath, just skin, smooth and pale, marked by a tiger tattoo crawling up her ribs. Her heels struck the floor with deliberate, slicing rhythm. Every step a warning. She didn’t smile. Didn’t need to.

Chaeyoung lingered off to the side. She was all angles and stillness, her coat buttoned, posture razor-straight. Her chin lifted like she belonged to no one, but her gaze betrayed her. It kept drifting toward Jihun—measuring him. Watching his breath, his stance, his silence.

Mina approached him and stopped a foot away. “This is not a game. Not a costume. You cross this line, there’s no coming back.”

Jihun nodded. “I understand.”

She held out the knife.

“Blood binds,” she said.

He accepted it with both hands, turned it, tested the weight.

“Left finger.”

He pressed his hand to the cloth, eyes steady, and sliced the pad of his ring finger. Blood welled instantly, hot and red. One of the masked men stepped forward and caught it in the brass cup like it was sacrament.

Mina took the cup, uncorked the flask, and poured a splash of soju into the blood. She stirred it with a wooden stick, mixing metal with burn. Then she handed it back to him.

“You drink. Not for taste. For truth.”

Jihun drank. The bitter heat hit like a warning bell in his chest. His throat flared. He didn’t cough.

Mina nodded. “Sunbae?”

Chaeyoung stepped forward, her heels ghost-quiet on the floor.

“I vouch,” she said. Her voice was steady, even.

Mina arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes. If he fails, I take the punishment.”

Mina tilted her head, smile sharp. “Interesting. Very... interesting.”

She stepped back. “Kneel.”

Jihun knelt.

“Repeat after me,” Mina said.

He did. Word for word. Each vow stacked like stone:

“I pledge loyalty to this brotherhood.”

“To obey without hesitation.”

“To protect our names and bury our secrets.”

“To choose death or prison over betrayal.”

“To honor the blood before me, and those who bled for it.”

She poured a new round of soju, passed it to each man. They drank. Jihun drank last.

Mina touched his shoulder.

“From this day forward, your birth name dies.” She leaned in. Whispered, “Eun-hwan.”

“You live by it now. If the name dies, so do you.”

The others repeated it once. Eun-hwan.

A cloth was tied around his bleeding hand.

Chaeyoung hadn’t moved. But her hands were clenched white at her sides.

Mina turned, stepped toward her, and muttered beneath her breath. “You’re falling.”

Chaeyoung stiffened. “Don’t start.”

“You keep looking at him like that.” Mina smirked. “He’s in now. He belongs to all of us. Not just you.”

“He’s a tool. A useful one.”

“Tools don’t make you flinch when they bleed,” Mina said quietly.

Chaeyoung inhaled slowly. “I’m not falling.”

Mina gave her a long, flat look. “He’s not your husband. He never will be.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop looking at him like he could be. That’s how it starts.”

Chaeyoung’s eyes snapped to hers. “You think I’m weak?”

“I think you’re grieving. And grief looks a lot like love when it finds something soft to latch onto.”

Chaeyoung didn’t answer. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes found Jihun again.

“He’s not him,” Mina said, softer now. “He never will be.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” Chaeyoung whispered.

Mina watched her, then nodded once. “That’s the problem.”

She turned away, coat flaring.

Chaeyoung didn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, her eyes slid back to Jihun. Or Eun-hwan.

And something inside her didn’t want to look away.

By the time they left the warehouse, Jihun's new name clung to his skin like sweat and steel. "Eun-hwan"—a name whispered into his ear, now bound to blood and silence.

The black van rolled through the city's underbelly, lights flashing off rain-specked glass. In the front seat, a low-level soldier drove without a word. The curtain behind him hung half-drawn. In the back, Jihun and Chaeyoung sat side by side on the bench seat.

They both wore matching tracksuits—black with bold white stripes. Hers was brightened by the shocking red of her jacket, zipped just low enough to hint at the curve beneath. Her hair was tied into two high ponytails, bouncing with each subtle movement, making her look absurdly cute and terrifying all at once.

Jihun glanced at her. "You sure I look the part?"

She smirked. "Trust me. You look dangerous enough."

"Because of the bruises or the tracksuit?"

"Both."

She leaned closer, playful. "Besides, we’re married, remember? You’re my gangster husband."

He smiled. "That part I don’t mind."

She brushed her fingers along his bandaged knuckles. "Just follow my lead. No killing. Just enough pain to remind them."

"Got it."

. . .

The karaoke bar pulsed with red neon and stale smoke. Five punks lounged around, loud and drunk.

Chaeyoung entered first. Her red jacket caught every eye. Her ponytails bounced behind her. She looked like a cartoon character drawn for vengeance.

One of the thugs laughed. "Hey there, baby. Lost your girl scout troop?"

She didn’t flinch. "You’re done here. Mina says so."

He stood, grinning. "Make us."

Before he could finish, Jihun stepped in and sent a punch straight into his face, the crack loud and satisfying. Chaos followed. Jihun took a few hits, delivered more. One thug tried to swing at Chaeyoung. Jihun caught the punch midair and slammed the guy into a table.

It was quick. Brutal. Loud. No weapons. Just fists and panic.

When it was over, the punks groaned on the floor.

Jihun nudged one. "Still wanna sing, dumbass?"

Chaeyoung laughed—a short, sharp laugh she hadn’t meant to let out.

They locked eyes. Her smile softened. He looked breathless, proud. She felt her chest tighten.

. . .

Traffic was a nightmare on the ride back. Red lights reflected inside the van like blood stains. The van hadn’t moved in five minutes.

In the back, Jihun bounced his knee, adrenaline still high. Chaeyoung pulled out a small med kit.

"You’re bleeding again. Give me your hand."

He extended it. "You saw me? I was a goddamn movie scene."

She dabbed antiseptic on his knuckles. "You were messy. But hot."

He grinned. "So you admit it."

She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned closer. Whispered to the driver. "Take your time. Don’t look back."

She reached up, pulled the curtain shut. The world disappeared.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him. Her body pressed warm and firm against his.

"You earned something," she whispered.

Her fingers found the zipper on her red jacket and pulled it down—slowly, deliberately. Underneath, she wore nothing. Pale skin glowed under the cabin light. Her small, pert breasts rose with each breath, nipples flushed and tight.

"Suck them," she said, voice low and commanding.

Jihun's eyes widened with hunger. He leaned in, mouth hot and eager. His lips closed over one nipple, tongue flicking. She gasped, threading her fingers into his hair.

"Fuck—yes, baby. Just like that."

She rocked her hips against him as he sucked harder, switching sides. She whimpered, body trembling.

Then she kissed him. Hard. Hot. Her mouth crushed his, tongue deep, greedy. There was no space between them now.

She pulled her panties aside and sank down on him, her wet heat taking him all at once. Her moan filled the van.

"You feel so fucking good," she groaned. "So deep."

He thrust up into her, groaning against her lips. She rode him like she needed to fuck the truth out of herself, bouncing harder, grinding deeper.

Their kisses turned rough—wet, hungry, full of teeth. She clung to him, breasts bouncing, her jacket open and forgotten.

"Harder," she gasped. "Make me come. Now."

He slammed into her, gripping her waist, groaning as she clenched around him.

She cried out, orgasm ripping through her.

He came seconds later, buried deep, his name tangled in her breath.

She collapsed against him, chest heaving. Lips kissed his jaw, then softly—his mouth again.

For a moment, it wasn’t a lie.

In the front seat, the driver typed a message.

Confirmed.

Mina smiled.

"So," she whispered. "It begins."

[smutmind]

Can you do Misamo in their favorite position getting dominated and fucked hard, what are the phrases they saying and how would they moan.

The suite hums with quiet opulence, city lights casting fractured gold across silk sheets.

Mina kneels between your legs, spine straight, thighs tucked under her. Her silk robe slips from one shoulder, baring the soft curve of skin that glows in the bedside lamp. She doesn’t speak. Her lips part slightly, breath steady, her gaze fixed on your cock with the calm of a woman who’d decided long ago exactly what she wanted to give.

You let the silence stretch. Her fingers move first, delicate and slow, wrapping around the base of you like she’s measuring the weight of her offering. Then her mouth—hot, velvet, patient—closes over you. No hesitation. No need for praise. This isn’t obedience; it’s devotion.

Your hand slides into her hair. Not to guide. Just to hold. Her rhythm is smooth, fluid, and controlled, every glide of her mouth punctuated by a soft exhale through her nose. Her tongue curls with deliberate pressure, as if tracing every vein is an act of reverence.

She blinks up at you once. The look isn’t pleading. It’s open. Receptive. Wanting only your satisfaction. It stirs something feral.

“Wider,” you say.

She obeys without question, jaw relaxing, letting you ease deeper past her lips. You press forward slowly, watching her throat flex. She swallows, the sensation clenching around you. When her eyes water, she doesn’t pull away. She blinks through it, cheeks hollowing, arms resting neatly in her lap.

You hold her there for a long breath, then withdraw an inch.

“Good,” you murmur. “Again.”

Her body shifts forward eagerly, accepting you, surrendering her throat like it’s sacred space meant for your pleasure. Each motion is unhurried, unflinching. She allows you to use her mouth completely, her only reward the low growl that escapes your throat.

She pulls back just long enough to whisper, voice husky and reverent, "Use me, please... I want to feel you deeper. I want to taste all of you."

Then her lips wrap around you again, messier now, more desperate. Between thrusts, muffled by your length, she moans, "You're so hard for me... so deep in my throat... I love how full you make me feel."

Her hands grip your thighs now, holding steady as you thrust. "Don’t stop," she gasps during a breath. "Keep going... we have all night."

The tempo builds. Your grip tightens. Her moans vibrate along your shaft, soft and muffled, her saliva pooling freely. Outside, the moonlight leaks across the floor, as if it, too, wants to witness this.

When you finally spill, she doesn’t flinch. Just swallows everything with quiet grace, then licks the tip clean, a final act of reverence.

You lean forward, brushing a thumb along the wetness at her lip.

Mina smiles.

“Happy?” she whispers.

“Always,” you say.

The loft is quiet except for the brutal rhythm of your hips slamming into Sana.

She's naked, on all fours over the couch, back arched deep, ass high. Her pale skin is flushed and marked where you've gripped her hard. Her brown hair is a wild mess, strands clinging to her sweaty face as she moans, face buried in the cushions.

You're deep in her, unforgiving. No slow build, no mercy. Just raw dominance. She takes it. All of it.

“You're mine,” you growl, one hand fisting in her hair. “Say it."

She gasps, voice cracking. "I’m yours! Fuck—I’m all yours!"

You pull her hair tighter, her spine bowing as you bury yourself to the hilt. Her cunt clenches, dripping wet, welcoming every brutal thrust.

“You're just a hole for me now, Sana. Say it."

She sobs, arousal soaking the couch beneath her. "Yes! Just your fuckhole! Use me... please use me harder...!"

Her tits bounce violently beneath her with every thrust, nipples raw from scraping fabric. Her legs tremble, thighs slick. You slap her ass, hard.

“Louder. I want the neighbors to know who you belong to.”

“Aaah! I belong to you!” she screams, voice high and broken. “Only you! Fuck me rougher—I can take it!"

You pound her deeper, driving her into the cushions, her breath ragged and cut with cries. Her body rocks with each slap, every inch of her obeying your command.

“Yabai... yamete... hidoi... demo suki... suki...!” she wails, tears streaking her cheeks. Her orgasm hits like a seizure, body locking around your cock as she shudders violently.

You keep going, chasing your own release, using her until you empty deep inside her with a growl.

Sana collapses, twitching, a mess of sweat and cum and raw desire. She turns her head, lips trembling.

"More," she whispers. "Please. More. I'll take everything."

You don’t know how long it’s been. Hours maybe. Days, by how your body feels. The loft reeks of sex—sweat, heat, the sharp scent of Momo’s nonstop release.

She’s still on top of you.

Her thighs straddle your hips, sticky and trembling, but unrelenting. Her skin shines under the overhead light, slick and raw, flushed from crown to toe. Her nails rake down your chest as she rides you again, her hips rolling in ruthless, perfect rhythm.

You lost count of how many times she came. The sheets are soaked, the couch ruined, your body half-broken beneath her. And she just keeps going.

Her eyes are wild. Feral. Her lips parted, gasping for air but grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Because she does.

“Still hard,” she pants. “Good boy. I’m not done.”

You try to speak, but your voice is a scrape. She leans down, bites your bottom lip, then kisses you hard, grinding down to the base.

“Cum again for me,” she growls against your mouth. “I’ll take it. Every last drop. I’ll milk you dry. Ain’t nobody around... do it like you should."

You grip her waist on instinct, but she shoves your hands down, pinning them. She rides harder.

Your mind spins. You don’t know if she loves you or if she’s trying to end you. The way she moans, cries out with every orgasm—yet never stops. The way she looks at you like you're hers to ruin.

She throws her head back. “Fuck… I’m cumming again—don’t you dare stop!”

Her body clamps down, and you explode inside her, helpless, aching, drained. She doesn’t move off.

She just rocks, slow now, savoring it.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Good fucking boy. You’re mine."

And you believe her.

P.S. You don't dominate Momo, she dominates you. HAHA

[smutmind]

Bro you really down bad for Sana and Miyeon. Do you have any upcoming fics for for them? If yes, can you give some spoilers.

I have the Summer Guest Part 3 almost ready for disposal. But I am just waiting for the first part to gain 1000 notes. Felt like I should make sure an idol gets 800notes up before I write for them again haha.

[smutmind]

You get blindfolded and tied on the bed by an idol and she can do whatever she wants. Who's idol you want it to be?

You can blindfold and tied any idol and do whatever you want. Who you want it to be?

I'll be very boring. but I'm a man of routine. It will be Sana or Miyeon. As per usual haha

[smutmind]

not a request but fuck your 'Borrowed Hearts'. It literally put a fucking hole in my heart. Very well written, the smut was fire but the angst was fucking trauma. It feels like 'not all heroes wear cape' type of drama. Kudos.

To be honest the idea is not original, I adapted a korean film I've seen way back in the early 2000s. I just added layers to it. I still think the one I got it from, April Snow, is better. This one just has more explicit stuff for the imagination haha Thanks for liking it!