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yieldtotemptation · 9 months ago

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CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting. It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. So wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets. You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye; she’s still watching you. Enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.”

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants. “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you somehow manage to choke out.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

Wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

#kpop smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut #male reader

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pucksandpower · 6 months ago

Text

The Interview

Max Verstappen x journalism student!Reader

Summary: when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened

The classroom smells faintly of old books and freshly printed handouts as you sit in your usual spot, third row from the front, slightly to the left. The room is slowly emptying out, the hum of post-class chatter gradually fading as students make their way out into the hallway. You’re gathering your things, sliding your notebook into your bag, when you hear Professor Carter clear his throat.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone firm but not loud. “Could you stay behind for a moment?”

You pause, your hand gripping the strap of your bag. His voice isn’t one that invites argument, and you’re already running through the possibilities of what this could be about. Your mind flickers to your most recent assignment — the interview with Max. The nerves you’ve been trying to suppress all week twist in your stomach.

You watch as the last few students shuffle out, closing the door behind them. Professor Carter leans back in his chair, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a stack of papers. His desk is a mess, as usual — books stacked haphazardly, coffee stains on nearly every surface, but his eyes are sharp when they finally meet yours.

“So,” he begins, tapping a finger on the paper in front of him. “Your latest assignment. The interview.”

You nod slowly, trying to gauge his mood. “Yes, sir.”

He holds up the paper, and you can see your neat handwriting sprawled across the page. “You interviewed Max Verstappen.”

It’s not a question, but you nod again anyway. “Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Tell me, Y/N, how exactly did you manage that?”

Your heart skips a beat. You knew this might happen — knew that choosing Max, of all people, might raise some eyebrows. But you hadn’t expected it to be this ... confrontational. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Well, I’ve known Max for a while,” you say, carefully choosing your words. “I asked him if he’d be willing to help me with the assignment, and he agreed.”

Professor Carter leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Known him for a while, you say?”

“Yes,” you reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We’ve been ... friends.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Friends.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you stiffen. You know what he’s implying — he doesn’t believe you. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze, forcing yourself to stay calm.

“Professor,” you start, choosing your words carefully, “I understand that it might seem unlikely, but I assure you, the interview was real. I can-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “Y/N, let’s be honest here. You’re a student at the University of Sheffield. Not exactly the kind of place where one casually befriends a Formula 1 driver.”

Your stomach twists tighter. “I’m not lying,” you say, a little more forcefully than you intended. “Max and I-”

“Enough,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He sets your paper down on the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. “If you’re going to fabricate an interview, at least make it believable. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, you know. Students who get desperate, who think that stretching the truth — or outright inventing it — will get them the grade they want.”

You stare at him, disbelief coursing through you. “I didn’t fabricate anything,” you insist. “I really interviewed him.”

Professor Carter’s expression doesn’t change. “Then prove it.”

You blink. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Show me some kind of proof that this interview actually happened. Otherwise, I’m going to have to give you a zero for academic dishonesty.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A zero. That would tank your grade — maybe even your entire semester. But the worst part is that he’s asking for proof you can’t provide, not without exposing the relationship you’ve been so careful to keep private.

You hesitate, your mind racing. What do you do? Do you tell him the truth? Risk everything to save your grade? But the thought of Max — his need for privacy, the way you’ve both agreed to keep things quiet for now — weighs heavily on you. You can’t just throw that away. Not for this.

You swallow hard. “I ... I can’t.”

Professor Carter’s eyes narrow. “You can’t?”

“I mean, I can’t give you proof,” you clarify, your voice wavering slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re a smart student. You should know that in journalism, credibility is everything. Without proof, your story doesn’t hold up.”

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m telling you the truth. I did interview him. Just because I can’t show you proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And just because you say it did happen doesn’t mean it did,” he counters, his tone cool. He taps the paper again, a final, dismissive gesture. “I’m sorry, but unless you can provide evidence, I have no choice but to give you a zero.”

You’re stunned into silence, your mind reeling. You can’t believe this is happening. It feels unfair, like you’re being backed into a corner with no way out.

“Professor Carter,” you try again, your voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. I’m not lying. I wouldn’t risk my grade like this if it wasn’t true.”

He regards you for a moment, and for a split second, you think he might relent. But then he shakes his head, resolute. “I’m sorry, Y/N. My decision stands.”

The weight of his words presses down on you, and you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, determined not to let him see you cry. This is supposed to be a professional conversation, and you won’t let your emotions get the better of you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I understand,” you say, though your voice is tight. “Thank you for your time.”

He nods curtly, already turning his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk, dismissing you without another word. You force yourself to walk out of the classroom with your head held high, even though every step feels heavier than the last.

When you finally make it out into the hallway, the reality of the situation hits you full force. You lean against the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing yourself to keep it together. You can’t believe this is happening. A zero. All because you refused to betray Max’s trust.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out with trembling fingers. It’s a message from Max.

Hey, just finished training. Want to grab dinner later?

You stare at the screen, a lump forming in your throat. How do you even begin to explain this to him? Do you tell him everything? Or do you keep it to yourself, like you’ve been doing for the past year?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words you want to say tangled up in your mind. Finally, you type a simple response.

Yeah. Let’s meet at our usual spot.

As you hit send, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’ll figure this out. Somehow. You have to.

***

The restaurant is quieter than usual, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware blending into a muted backdrop. You sit across from Max in your usual booth by the window, the warm glow of candlelight casting soft shadows on his face.

He’s already ordered for both of you, the way he always does when he gets here before you. It’s a small thing, but it makes you smile — a reminder of how well he knows you, your likes and dislikes, the little details that make up your routine.

But tonight, the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You can feel the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, a knot of tension in your chest that you can’t seem to shake. Max is talking about his day — something about the latest adjustments they’ve made to the car — but the words are barely registering. You nod along, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the conversation with Professor Carter, the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his voice.

“Hey,” Max’s voice cuts through your thoughts, gentle but insistent. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring at your untouched glass of water for the past minute. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just ... tired.”

Max studies you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not convinced, you can tell. But he doesn’t push, not yet. Instead, he leans back in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Long day, huh?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, picking up your fork and poking at the salad in front of you. You’re not really hungry, but you force yourself to take a bite, if only to keep your hands busy. The last thing you want is for Max to start asking questions. You know him too well — he’ll find a way to make this his fault, even though it’s not. And you can’t handle that right now, not on top of everything else.

Max is still watching you, though, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s always been able to read you like a book, and tonight is no different. After a few more moments of silence, he sets his glass down with a soft clink.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

You glance up at him, confused. “What thing?”

“That thing where you say you’re fine, but you’re not.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath it. He’s not going to let this go. “Come on, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. “No, nothing happened,” you lie, trying to sound casual. “It’s just been a long week, that’s all.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and you can feel his eyes on you, searching for cracks in the facade. “Because you’re always this quiet when nothing’s wrong.”

You sigh, pushing the lettuce around your plate. “Max, I’m fine. Really.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear him exhale softly, like he’s trying to be patient. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Your stomach twists at his words, but you keep your eyes on your plate. You know he’s right — you’ve never been good at hiding things from him. But this ... this is different. You can’t just blurt it out, can’t just tell him what happened without worrying about how he’ll react. He’ll get upset, maybe even angry, and he’ll blame himself for something that isn’t his fault.

“Just ... drop it, okay?” You say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Max’s expression softens, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Y/N,” he says gently, leaning forward. “If something’s bothering you, I want to help. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

You shake your head, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s nothing you can help with.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Max’s hand is on yours, warm and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Let me decide that,” he says quietly. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you, but you bite down on the words that are clawing at the back of your throat. You can’t do this, not here, not now. So instead, you pull your hand away gently, offering him a small smile.

“Really, Max, it’s fine,” you say, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, okay?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between wanting to respect your wishes and wanting to press for answers. But eventually, he nods, though the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “Okay. But if you change your mind ...”

“I know,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

You both lapse into silence after that, the conversation stilted and awkward. You try to focus on the food, on the comfortable routine you’ve built together, but the knot in your chest only tightens with every passing minute. You hate this — hate that you’re keeping something from him, hate that you’re letting it affect your time together. But you don’t know what else to do.

It’s Max who finally breaks the silence, setting his fork down with a sigh. “You know, I’m not very good at this.”

You look up at him, frowning. “At what?”

He gestures between the two of you. “At ... whatever this is. The whole ‘let’s pretend nothing’s wrong’ thing. It’s not really my style.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “I know.”

“So why are we doing it?” He asks, his tone gentle but probing. “Why are you pretending that everything’s fine when it’s clearly not?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because ... I don’t want to ruin dinner?”

Max’s lips quirk into a half-smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Dinner’s already ruined if you’re not happy.”

The words hang between you, heavy and honest, and you feel the walls you’ve been trying to keep up start to crumble. You take a deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest loosen just a fraction. Maybe ... maybe it’s time to tell him. Maybe he deserves to know.

“Okay,” you say quietly, setting your fork down. “But ... promise me you won’t get mad.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Mad? Why would I get mad?”

“Just promise.”

He sighs, nodding. “Okay. I promise.”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s about my journalism assignment. The one where I interviewed you.”

Max nods slowly, waiting for you to continue.

“So ... my professor — Professor Carter — he, um ... he thinks I faked it.”

Max’s expression darkens immediately, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What? Why would he think that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because ... well, because he doesn’t believe that I actually know you. He thinks I made the whole thing up to get a good grade.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max says, his voice rising slightly in disbelief. “Why would he assume that?”

“Because I’m just a student at Sheffield,” you explain, your words tumbling out faster now. “And you’re ... well, you. He doesn’t think someone like me could actually know someone like you.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. “That’s-” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “What did he say?”

“He said ... he said he’s giving me a zero for academic dishonesty unless I can prove that the interview was real.”

Max’s eyes widen in shock. “A zero?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Max sits back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s insane. You shouldn’t be penalized for telling the truth. Did you explain to him that we’re ... you know ...”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I didn’t tell him about us. I didn’t want to ... I mean, we’ve been keeping things private for a reason, right? I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Max frowns, his frustration evident. “Y/N, you shouldn’t have to choose between protecting our privacy and your education. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I know you would have found a way to blame yourself for this.”

Max looks at you, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he says quietly. “I’d rather the whole world knew about us than have you lose out on your grades.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault, Max. I made the decision to keep things quiet, too. I don’t regret it.”

“But now you’re paying the price,” he mutters, frustration lacing his tone.

You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. “We both knew there would be challenges. We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hate that this is happening to you. If I could talk to your professor-”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “I don’t want you getting involved. That would just make things worse.”

Max frowns, clearly unhappy with your decision, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb still tracing soft circles over your skin. “But what are you going to do?” He asks quietly.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can talk to him again, try to convince him without bringing you into it.”

Max shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “It’s not right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself like this.”

“I know,” you say, your voice soft but resolute. “But I don’t want to drag you into it. We’ve worked so hard to keep our relationship private, and I don’t want this to be the thing that changes that.”

Max looks at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he sighs, squeezing your hand one last time before letting go. “Okay. I’ll respect your decision. But if it gets worse, if he keeps pushing ...”

“I’ll let you know,” you promise, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “But for now, let’s just try to enjoy dinner, okay?”

Max nods, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t quite ease. “Okay,” he agrees, though there’s a note of reluctance in his voice.

You both lapse into a more comfortable silence after that, the conversation slowly returning to more familiar, lighter topics. But even as you talk about other things, you can feel the weight of the situation lingering between you. Max’s concern is palpable, and you know he’s still thinking about it, even if he’s trying not to show it.

But for now, you’re both doing your best to push it aside, to focus on the time you have together. You know you’ll have to deal with the situation with Professor Carter eventually, but for tonight, you’re content to just be here with Max, to enjoy the quiet moments that are yours alone.

No matter what happens, you’ll figure it out together.

***

Professor Carter’s classroom is as stifling as ever, the air thick with the scent of old books and the faint smell of chalk dust. You’re sitting in your usual spot near the back, trying to focus on the lecture. But it’s impossible to concentrate. Every time Professor Carter glances in your direction, your stomach twists with anxiety. The weight of his accusation still hangs over you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone in the room knows what happened, that they’re all silently judging you.

Your notebook lies open in front of you, but the words on the page blur together. You can barely pay attention to the lecture, your mind constantly drifting back to the conversation with Max. You told him you’d handle this on your own, but now, sitting here under Professor Carter’s scrutinizing gaze, you’re starting to doubt yourself. What if you can’t convince him? What if you really do end up with a zero on the assignment?

As if sensing your distress, Professor Carter pauses mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he looks in your direction. “Miss Y/L/N, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” He asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You snap out of your thoughts, your heart racing. “No, sir,” you mumble, trying to shrink into your seat.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your response. “Then I suggest you pay attention. This material will be on the final exam, and I’d hate for you to miss out on any more important details.”

There’s a smattering of laughter from your classmates, and you feel your face flush with embarrassment. You nod quickly, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

Professor Carter smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and turns back to the board. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. But just as you’re about to refocus on the lecture, the door to the classroom swings open.

Every head in the room turns to look at the sudden interruption, and you feel your heart stop when you see who’s standing in the doorway.

Max.

He’s dressed casually, in a black T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no mistaking who he is. The entire room goes silent, the air thick with shock and disbelief. You can see the recognition in your classmates’ eyes, the way they start whispering to each other, nudging each other and pointing in his direction.

Max strides into the room with the kind of confidence that only he possesses, his gaze scanning the room until it lands on you. His expression softens for a moment when he sees you, but then he turns his attention to Professor Carter, who is staring at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Can I help you?” Professor Carter asks, his voice sharp, though there’s a note of uncertainty beneath it.

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, actually, you can,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “I’m here about Y/N’s assignment.”

Professor Carter’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together what’s happening. “I’m sorry, but this is a private class,” he says, his tone regaining its usual authority. “If you have concerns about a student’s work, you can schedule a meeting during my office hours.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest, unfazed. “I think we can sort this out right here.”

You feel a mix of panic and gratitude welling up inside you. You didn’t want Max to get involved, but now that he’s here, you can’t deny the relief that floods through you. He’s taking a stand for you, and you can see that he’s not going to back down.

Professor Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to maintain his composure, but there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Max Verstappen, I presume?” He says, his tone clipped.

Max nods. “That’s right. And I’m here to prove that Y/N didn’t fake her interview with me.”

There’s a collective gasp from the students, and you can feel the tension in the room spike. All eyes are on Max now, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they realize what’s happening. Professor Carter, however, doesn’t seem impressed.

“I see,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to you for a moment before returning to Max. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Max’s expression hardens, and you can see the determination in his eyes. “Simple. I’m here, aren’t I? She couldn’t have faked an interview with me if I’m standing right here.”

The room falls silent again, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Professor Carter opens his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no words come out. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting this. He was so sure of himself, so confident that you couldn’t possibly know someone like Max Verstappen. And now, here Max is, standing in front of him, making him eat his words.

“I ... appreciate your enthusiasm,” Professor Carter finally says, though his voice lacks its usual bite. “But this doesn’t prove anything. For all I know, you could be here out of some misguided attempt to protect her.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the frustration building in his eyes. “You think I would waste my time lying for someone? If she didn’t do the interview, I wouldn’t be here.”

Professor Carter’s gaze shifts to you, and you can see the doubt still lingering in his eyes. “Miss Y/L/N, I told you that if you could provide proof, I would reconsider your grade. But this ...” He gestures to Max. “This isn’t exactly the kind of proof I had in mind.”

You feel a surge of anger rising within you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re standing up, your voice trembling but firm. “What more proof do you need? He’s here, in front of the entire class. He’s telling you the interview was real. What else do I have to do to make you believe me?”

The room falls silent again, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they watch you stand up to Professor Carter. He looks taken aback, his usual smug expression faltering as he stares at you.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then, Max steps forward, his voice calm but filled with conviction. “Look, Professor, I get that this might be hard to believe. But Y/N isn’t lying. She interviewed me, and she did a damn good job, too. If you don’t believe me, you can check with my team. They’ll confirm it.”

Professor Carter hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining his authority and acknowledging the reality in front of him. He glances around the room, seeing the way his students are hanging on every word, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

Finally, he exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Verstappen. But I expect Miss Y/L/N to submit any additional documentation that can verify this interview. Understood?”

You nod quickly, relief flooding through you. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Professor Carter waves his hand dismissively, clearly eager to move on. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to continue with the lesson.”

Max glances at you, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmurs, and with one last look at Professor Carter, he turns and walks out of the classroom.

As the door closes behind him, you sink back into your seat, your heart still racing. The tension in the room starts to dissipate, and you can feel the curious stares of your classmates on you, but for the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel a sense of calm. Max believed in you enough to do this, to stand up for you, and that’s all that matters.

Professor Carter clears his throat, trying to regain control of the room. “Alright, everyone, back to the lesson. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

You open your notebook again, but this time, the words on the page seem clearer, more focused. You can do this. You’ve got this. And no matter what happens next, you know you’re not alone.

***

When you step out of the building, the late afternoon sun is warm on your face, but you barely notice it. The adrenaline from the confrontation in class is still coursing through your veins, and all you can think about is getting out of here, away from the stares and whispers that followed you as you left the room.

You spot him immediately.

Max is leaning against his car, casually checking his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But you can see the way his shoulders tense when he catches sight of you, the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

The sleek black car gleams in the sunlight, and you can’t help but notice the way people are staring, some pointing, others whispering to each other. Max Verstappen waiting outside a university lecture hall is not something anyone expected to see today.

You make your way over to him, trying to ignore the attention and the pounding of your heart. You had told him not to do this, told him you’d handle it on your own. And yet, here he is, right in the middle of everything, like he promised he wouldn’t be.

“Hey,” Max says casually, slipping his phone into his pocket as you approach. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s waiting for your reaction.

You stop in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved,” you say, your voice tight.

Max raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too calm for your liking. “I said I’d respect your decision. And I did — until I realized your professor is a jerk who needed to be put in his place.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to maintain your anger, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there looking so smug, so unbothered by the situation. “That’s not the point, Max. You went behind my back.”

He tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Did I, though? Because I seem to remember you didn’t explicitly tell me not to.”

You huff in frustration, knowing he’s right but refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max shrugs, unbothered by your accusation. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

You want to stay mad. You really do. But the way he’s looking at you, with that infuriating mix of confidence and affection, makes it impossible. You try to hold on to your irritation, try to keep the scowl on your face, but you can feel it slipping away.

Max must see it, too, because he steps closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Maybe a little.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. “No, you’re not.”

You look away, trying to maintain your resolve, but Max reaches out, gently turning your face back to him. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your anger melting away as quickly as it came.

“Stop trying to be cute,” you mumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

Max grins, clearly enjoying this. “I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that tugs at your lips betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still love me,” Max counters, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, Max leans down and presses his lips to yours, effectively cutting off any protest you might have had. The kiss is soft, gentle, but there’s an undeniable intensity behind it, a promise that he’ll always be there, even when you tell him not to be.

For a moment, you forget where you are, forget about the stares and the whispers, the anxiety that had been gnawing at you all day. All that matters is the feel of Max’s lips on yours, the way his hand cradles the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your heart racing for a completely different reason now. Max looks down at you, his eyes dark with affection, and you can’t help but smile up at him, any remnants of anger long gone.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, still slightly dazed from the kiss. “Maybe I’m not that mad.”

Max chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back completely. “I knew it.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real frustration behind it anymore. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I know.”

You glance around, noticing the continued stares from the students passing by. You sigh, knowing this moment of privacy is short-lived. “We should probably get out of here before someone decides to take a picture.”

Max follows your gaze, nodding in agreement. “Good idea. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the car, trying to ignore the curious eyes still on you. Max walks around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the engine. As the car purrs to life, he reaches over, taking your hand in his again.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his tone more serious now, the teasing edge gone.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks for being there, even if I didn’t ask for it.”

Max smiles softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t have to ask. I’ll always be there for you.”

And just like that, the tension that had been weighing on you all day finally eases. You know things aren’t completely resolved with Professor Carter, but right now, with Max beside you, it doesn’t seem as daunting. You’ll figure it out — together.

***

The classroom buzzes with the usual energy as students shuffle into their seats, chatting with friends or tapping away on their phones. It’s a typical day, but there’s a different kind of tension in the air. Today, Professor Carter is returning the results of the investigative journalism assignments, and no one is quite sure what to expect.

You settle into your usual spot near the back, trying to shake off the nerves. It’s been a few months since the whole incident with Max interrupting your class, and while things have calmed down somewhat, Professor Carter’s stern demeanor hasn’t wavered. You still catch him eyeing you from time to time, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up.

The door slams shut as Professor Carter strides in, a stack of papers in hand. The chatter in the room dies down instantly. He’s never been one for small talk or pleasantries, and today is no different. He doesn’t bother with a greeting, just dives straight into it.

“Good afternoon,” he says curtly, his voice slicing through the silence. “As you know, today I’ll be discussing the assignments you all turned in. Some of you excelled, others … less so.”

You swallow hard, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. You did everything you could to make your article stand out, but now that the moment of judgment is here, doubt begins to creep in.

Professor Carter begins pacing the front of the room, flipping through the stack of papers as he speaks. “Several of you chose topics that were predictable but handled them with enough depth to warrant commendation. For example, Miss Klein tackled the opioid crisis in rural England — an important and underreported subject.” He glances up at a blonde girl in the front row, who nods in acknowledgment, her cheeks flushing slightly at the attention.

“Then we have Mr. Patel,” Professor Carter continues, stopping briefly to peer down at a lanky guy two rows in front of you. “Your examination of government surveillance policies in urban areas was thorough, albeit a bit heavy on the technical jargon. But it’s clear you put in the work.”

You watch as Professor Carter moves on to the next paper, calling out names and offering critiques with the same detached professionalism. The topics range from environmental justice issues to the economic implications of Brexit — serious, weighty subjects that demand rigorous analysis. The longer he speaks, the more you feel the sinking sensation in your stomach. Your topic, in comparison, feels like a joke. An entertaining joke, sure, but still …

And then he pauses.

Professor Carter reaches the last paper in the stack, and his expression falters for a moment before he collects himself. He clears his throat and addresses the room, his voice taking on a more formal tone.

“And then we come to one particular assignment,” he begins, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing squarely on you. You freeze, every nerve ending on high alert. “An assignment that, while unconventional in its subject matter, demonstrated an impressive level of dedication and — dare I say — ingenuity.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the room. You feel the heat of a dozen eyes on you but keep your gaze firmly on Professor Carter. His words are oddly measured, as if he’s trying to make sense of them himself.

He raises the paper in his hand slightly, glancing at it before looking back at the class. “Miss Y/L/N,” he addresses you directly, causing all the whispers to stop. “Your decision to investigate whether or not Toto Wolff, the team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team, dyes his hair … was certainly unexpected.”

You hear a few muffled snickers, but you keep your face neutral, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“However,” Professor Carter continues, raising his voice slightly to silence the snickers, “the lengths you went to in pursuit of the truth were nothing short of remarkable. Going through Mercedes' trash? That shows initiative. Questionable ethics, perhaps, but initiative nonetheless.”

There’s a stunned silence in the room. You feel the urge to either laugh or shrink under your desk. You aren’t sure which. Instead, you nod slightly, acknowledging his words without letting the grin you’re fighting show.

Professor Carter takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. “In a field where skepticism is necessary, and where finding the truth often requires unorthodox methods, your work stood out. So much so that I found myself contemplating the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, reading about a billionaire’s grooming habits as though it were a matter of national importance.”

This time, the laughter from the class isn’t stifled. It rings out freely, and you feel your own lips twitch despite yourself.

“But,” Professor Carter interjects, silencing the room once more, “that is precisely the point of investigative journalism, isn’t it? To find the story others overlook, to dig deeper, even when the subject seems trivial. Miss Y/L/N, your article was, in its own way, insightful. You followed the evidence, and you made your case with conviction.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you. “Though I must say, I’m not entirely convinced that your methods were ... strictly ethical. Dumpster diving isn’t exactly taught in this classroom.”

You finally allow yourself a small, nervous laugh, shrugging lightly in response. “All in the name of journalism, right?”

Professor Carter lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose so. Regardless, your paper has made an impact — certainly more than I anticipated.”

He drops your paper onto his desk and addresses the class one last time. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. Journalism isn’t always about the grand topics. Sometimes, the most interesting stories come from the strangest places. I encourage you all to think outside the box.”

With that, he begins handing back the assignments, and the classroom slowly returns to its usual rhythm. Conversations pick up again, but this time, they’re punctuated by curious glances and nods in your direction. You try to focus on the papers being passed down your row, but your thoughts are still stuck on Professor Carter’s words.

When your paper finally lands in front of you, you can’t resist flipping through it. There, scrawled in red ink at the top of the page, is your grade — a solid A. Next to it, Professor Carter has written a brief note: Keep pushing boundaries, but remember — ethics matter.

You smile to yourself, feeling a mix of relief and pride. The assignment had been a gamble, but it paid off in the end. And while the ethical considerations may have been a little murky, you can’t deny that the thrill of the chase had been worth it.

As class ends and students begin to file out, a few stop by your desk, offering congratulations or asking for details about how you managed to pull it off. You answer their questions with a grin, reliving the absurdity of your investigative methods. And though it feels surreal, you can’t help but feel a sense of validation.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Professor Carter catches your eye and nods in your direction, a rare hint of approval in his usually stern expression. You nod back, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between the two of you.

Stepping out of the classroom, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. The whispers and glances no longer bother you. Instead, they serve as a reminder that you’ve proven yourself, in your own way.

And as you walk through the corridors of the university, you can’t help but think about what Max will say when you tell him about today. Knowing him, he’ll probably tease you about your methods, but you also know he’ll be proud — just as you are.

Because sometimes, in journalism and in life, it’s the unconventional stories that make the biggest impact.

3K notes · View notes

kyunghwannie · 1 month ago

Text

"Velvet Restraint"

Myoui Mina x M!Reader

➤ Word Count: 13.2K ➤Tags (18+): Domination/Submission, Possessiveness/ Jealousy, Mommy Vibes, Spanking (thighs, chest), Hair Pulling, Bondage (a little), Dirty Talk, Choking, Face-Sitting, Blindfolding (temporary), Rough Sex, Orgasm Denial, Temperature Play (a little) ,Face Fucking, Edging, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, Anal Gape, Cum-painting, A2M

➤Teaser: She was elegance in motion—graceful, poised, untouchable. But when jealousy laced her soft voice and her touch turned commanding, Realizations dawn upon something dangerous: beneath Mina’s calm, there lived a storm... and tonight, it had only one target—you.

➤Note: Nothing major stuff. I was just extremely hormonal for my queen Minari. And this was requested with a minor plot so yeah.

The last flashes of the camera still flickered in your vision as you stepped aside, watching the TWICE girls gather around the monitor to check the final shots. Their energy was infectious—chattering, laughing, half-teasing each other as they reviewed their poses. You tucked your hands into the pockets of your slacks, wearing that small, casual smile you didn’t even realize always lingered around them.

"Y/N, come here!" Dahyun called out brightly, beckoning you with a wiggle of her fingers. "You have to see this one. I think I’m finally mastering my 'mysterious' face."

You laughed, stepping up beside her. "Mysterious? You look like you're hiding a secret from the entire planet."

Dahyun gave a mock gasp, elbowing you lightly in the side, her white blazer crinkling with the movement. "That was the point!"

Nearby, Jeongyeon snorted. "No, no, Y/N’s right. You look like you just committed a crime." She nudged your arm conspiratorially. "See? This is why we need his feedback. He's brutally honest but still makes you feel good about it."

"It's a skill," you joked, tossing a wink at Jeongyeon, who exaggerated a swoon for comedic effect.

The easy banter continued. Sana joined, slipping an arm casually through yours, resting her head dramatically against your shoulder. "Y/N always makes everyone feel pretty. It’s unfair."

You glanced down at her, grinning. "You're acting like you need me to tell you that, Sana. You practically invented 'pretty.'"

She laughed, her hair brushing your arm. In the background, a faint click of heels echoed against the polished floors, almost drowned out by the voices around you.

You barely caught the flash of dark, observant eyes—Mina, a few feet away, standing almost perfectly still beside the drinks table, her fingers lightly curled around a bottled water she hadn’t opened. She said nothing, simply watching, her posture so elegant and composed that it blended into the white-and-gold decor of the studio.

You didn’t think much of it. Mina was always a little quieter after shoots, and you figured she was just letting the others have their moment. After all, the chemistry you had with them wasn’t anything romantic; it was warmth, familiarity—the kind of easy relationship that naturally bloomed after months of working together.

Still, you peeled away slightly from Sana, giving her a gentle pat on the hand before slipping free of her arm. You didn’t want anyone, especially Mina, thinking you were being careless.

"Alright, Miss Visual," you teased Dahyun instead, turning to her next. "Let’s see this masterpiece."

She showed you her favorite shot, her cheeks puffing out in faux seriousness as you studied it. You nodded thoughtfully, pursing your lips. "Honestly?" you said, making her lean in eagerly. "You look like you're planning world domination. But like, in a very fashionable way."

Dahyun burst out laughing, slapping your arm playfully. "I’ll take it! Queen behavior only!"

Chaeyoung wandered over, grabbing your sleeve. "Oppa, you gotta tell them I looked cooler, though," she demanded with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I had that 'don't mess with me' vibe."

You glanced at her shots, pretending to squint in deep examination. "Mmm... more like 'cute but pretending to be dangerous.' Like a kitten trying to growl."

"Yah!" she protested, whacking your arm as Tzuyu giggled behind her hand.

The laughter around you was natural, easy. You gave and received it without thought, radiating that casual affection you always carried—a warmth that had become part of who you were to them.

Still, somewhere at the back of your mind, you caught it—a feeling, a prickling on your skin. A gaze. It wasn’t hostile, but it was sharp. Heavy. Watching.

You turned your head just slightly. Mina hadn't moved. She hadn't smiled, hadn’t joined the circle. She merely stood there, her posture rigid yet graceful, her gaze lingering on you with something unreadable in its depths.

You lifted a hand slightly, giving her a small smile across the space. An invitation.

She didn’t return it. Instead, she took a small, deliberate sip from her water, set it back down with a soft click, and walked towards you, slow and composed like a ripple moving through still water.

The chatter around you didn't even falter. The girls kept laughing, arguing lightheartedly about whose photos were better. No one seemed to notice how Mina's eyes never left you.

She stopped close—closer than she usually would when others were around. Her voice was low, soft enough only for you to hear, but carrying a firm weight beneath it.

"Y/N," she said, her tone wrapped in velvet but unmistakably commanding. "We should go now."

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. "Already? I thought you wanted to—"

Mina’s hand brushed your wrist lightly, the briefest contact, but it silenced whatever you were about to say. There was no anger in her expression. No open jealousy. Mina wasn't the type to make a scene.

But her eyes—those deep, endless eyes—held something else entirely. A quiet decision. A possessive glint hidden behind her usual demure calm.

You swallowed down your protest. Something about the way she was looking at you... You knew better than to argue.

"Alright," you said quietly, flashing an apologetic glance at the rest of the group. "I’m heading out with Mina. Great job today, everyone."

They barely batted an eye, waving you off with playful goodbyes and last-minute jokes about working hard for the next shoot.

But as you stepped away, Mina stayed close—closer than normal, her presence a quiet tether between you. You didn’t even realize until you passed through the exit doors just how tightly your heart was pounding.

And Mina... Mina hadn't said another word. But somehow, you could feel the storm she was carefully, elegantly holding back.

The car door clicked shut behind you with a sound that felt too loud in the suffocating silence. Mina’s fingers curled around the steering wheel, her manicured nails—usually so pristine—digging just slightly into the leather. The engine purred to life, smooth and controlled, just like her.

You stole a glance at her profile. The streetlights flickered across her face as she pulled out of the parking garage, casting shadows over the sharp line of her jaw, the unreadable set of her lips. She hadn’t looked at you once since you got in.

Fuck.

You shifted in your seat, the weight of her silence pressing down on you. "Mina—"

"Seatbelt," she murmured, her voice soft but edged with something that made your stomach tighten.

You obeyed instantly, the click of the buckle sounding like a lock snapping into place.

The drive was agonizing. Mina navigated the streets with her usual grace, but there was a tension in her shoulders, a quiet restraint in the way her fingers flexed against the wheel every time you opened your mouth—then thought better of it.

You tried again. "You know I wasn’t—"

A red light. The car rolled to a stop. Mina finally turned her head, her dark eyes meeting yours with a slow, deliberate intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

"Do I look like I want to talk right now?"

Her voice was silk wrapped around steel.

You swallowed hard. The air between you thickened, charged with something dangerous—something that coiled low in your gut and made your fingers twitch against your thighs.

Mina held your gaze for a heartbeat longer before turning back to the road, her lips parting just enough to let out a slow, controlled exhale.

The light turned green. She didn’t speak again.

But the way her thigh brushed against the gearshift—the way her skirt rode up just slightly, revealing the barest hint of toned skin—every tiny movement felt like a taunt. A promise.

The city lights blurred past the window as Mina drove in silence, her slender fingers tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel. You watched the neon signs reflect in her dark eyes, those beautiful pools usually so warm but now cold as polished onyx.

Was it really about the joking around with the members? You replayed the moments in your head—Dahyun's playful elbow, Sana's arm linked with yours, Chaeyoung's whiny "Oppa." Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual easy camaraderie you'd built with all of them over time.

But Mina... Mina wasn't looking at you. Mina wasn't speaking. And Mina never shut you out like this unless something had really gotten under her skin.

"Was it Sana?" you finally ventured, keeping your voice low. "You know she just does that with everyone. It doesn't mean—"

The car jerked slightly as Mina pressed the accelerator a little too hard in response, her lips pressing into a thin line. You sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the seat.

Okay. Wrong move. You tried again, softer this time. "Baby..."

Mina's jaw tensed. A muscle feathered under her smooth skin. Still silent. You exhaled, sinking back into the seat. "I wasn't flirting. You know I'd never—"

"You don't decide what bothers me." Her voice was quiet, lethally calm, slicing through your excuses like a knife.

Your pulse spiked. There it was—the first real crack in her porcelain composure. And fuck if it didn't send a thrill straight down your spine.

Mina turned into the driveway of your shared apartment, the tires crunching over gravel. She killed the engine. Silence swallowed the car whole.

Then, slowly, she turned to face you. Her eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them. "Get inside," she murmured, her voice dripping with quiet authority. "Now."

The elevator ride up to your apartment was the longest thirty seconds of your life. Mina stood beside you, her arms crossed, the scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—filling the small space. You could feel the heat of her gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t dare look.

Instead, you muttered under your breath, eyes flickering upward as if heaven itself might intervene. “God, if you’re listening… save me from my goddess.”

Mina’s fingers twitched. The elevator dinged.

You shuffled out behind her, still whispering your desperate prayers. “Mina noona is gonna kill me… I swear I didn’t do anything wrong. Help. Please. I’m too young to die.”

Mina unlocked the door with deliberate slowness, her back still turned to you. But you could see the way her shoulders tensed—the way her grip on the doorknob tightened just a fraction.

She stepped inside. You hesitated in the doorway, gulping.

“Maybe… maybe I should sleep at a hotel tonight?” you tried, voice cracking.

Mina didn’t answer. She just turned, slowly, her eyes locking onto yours with terrifying precision.

Then, with a voice like velvet dipped in poison, she murmured:

“Close the door, Y/N.”

Oh. Fuck.

You stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you. The door clicked shut behind you. And as Mina’s fingers curled into the front of your shirt, dragging you forward, you realized— Prayer wasn’t going to save you tonight.

Her hands shoved against your chest the second you crossed the threshold, sending you stumbling backward into the bedroom. The backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and you barely had time to register the dangerous glint in Mina’s eyes before she turned on her heel and walked out. The door clicked shut with terrifying finality. "M-Mina—?"

No answer. Just the sound of her heels clicking down the hallway, fading into deliberate silence.

You sat there, pulse hammering, listening to the distant sounds of drawers opening, something metallic clinking, the rustle of fabric. Your imagination ran wild. "Oh god. Oh god. She’s getting the rope. She’s getting the cuffs. She’s definitely getting the—"

A soft thud from the other room cut off your mental spiral. Then—silence. Too much silence.

You swallowed dryly. "Noona…?"

Still nothing. The tension coiled tighter in your gut. And then— Click. The door swung open.

The air in the room thickened as Mina’s fingers trailed up the curve of her waist, unhooking the clasp of her blouse with deliberate slowness. The fabric parted, sliding down her shoulders before pooling at her feet. Your breath hitched—her skin glowed under the dim bedroom light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blush creeping up her chest.

She didn’t speak. Just hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, letting it drop with a whisper of fabric.

Black lace clung to her hips, the delicate straps framing the sinful dip of her waist. Her breasts—small, perky, perfectly shaped—strained against the sheer cups of her lingerie, nipples pebbled beneath the satin. And her ass… god, her ass. That tight, pert curve TWICE stans lost sleep over, barely contained by the scrap of lace riding up her thighs.

Mina smirked, noticing where your eyes lingered. “Eyes up here, sweet thing.”

Your gaze snapped to hers, heat flooding your cheeks. She took a step forward, the sharp click of her heels against hardwood making your pulse stutter. “Did I say you could look?”

Your throat went dry. “N-no, Noona.”

She hummed, circling you like a predator. “Naughty boy. Getting distracted already.” Her fingers brushed over your shoulder, nails grazing just enough to tease. “Pants. Off. Now.”

You fumbled with your belt, fingers trembling under her watchful gaze. The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room, your cock already straining against your briefs.

Mina’s lips curved. “Mm. Eager, aren’t we?” She tilted her head, trailing a finger down your bare chest. “But we’re not rushing tonight.” Her voice dropped, velvet and steel. “Hands on your thighs. Don’t move them unless I say.”

You obeyed, palms flattening against your legs, fingertips digging into your own skin to keep from touching her.

Mina stepped back, sinking onto the edge of the bed with effortless grace. She crossed her legs—slow, torturous—letting the lace ride higher up her thigh.

“Now,” she purred, “show me how badly you want me.” Her eyes flicked down to where your cock leaked against your stomach. “And remember… good boys don’t cum without permission.”

Her own hand slipped between her legs, fingers tracing lazy circles over the damp lace. Mina’s smile sharpened. “Stroke.”

And like a puppet on her string, you obeyed. Your fingers wrapped around your aching cock with a shaky exhale, the first slow stroke drawing a bead of pre-cum that glistened at the tip. The air between you and Mina felt electric—charged with something far more dangerous than anger. Possession.

Mina watched, her dark eyes tracking every twitch of your hand, every uneven breath that escaped your lips. Her own fingers moved in slow, teasing circles over the lace between her thighs, the fabric already damp with her arousal.

"Slower," she murmured, her voice a velvet command. "You don't get to rush this, my sweet sugar."

You bit your lip, forcing your grip to loosen, your strokes to drag out agonizingly slow. The sensation was maddening—every nerve in your body screamed for more, but Mina's gaze pinned you in place, her dominance a tangible weight in the room.

She let out a soft sigh, her head tilting back slightly as her fingers pressed harder against herself. "Good boy," she cooed, the praise sending a jolt straight to your cock. "Just like that. Show me how well you listen."

Your cheeks burned. There was something unbearably intimate about this—being laid bare under her watchful eyes, your pleasure entirely at her mercy. It wasn't just the physical act; it was the way she owned you in this moment, her jealousy morphing into something far more intoxicating.

Mina's breath hitched as she hooked a finger under the lace, pulling it aside to reveal glistening pink. "See what you do to me?" she whispered, her voice dripping with sinful sweetness. "All because you couldn't behave."

You whimpered, your hips twitching involuntarily.

"Ah-ah." Her free hand lifted, a single finger wagging in warning. "Did I say you could move?"

You froze, your cock throbbing in your grip.

Mina smiled—a slow, dangerous thing—before dragging her fingertip up her slit, gathering wetness and bringing it to her lips. "Mmm…" Her tongue darted out, tasting herself with a hum. "You want to know how you taste on me, naughty one?"

The question punched the air from your lungs.

She didn't wait for an answer.

"Then be good," she breathed, spreading her legs wider, her fingers working in slow, obscene circles. "And maybe—just maybe—I'll let you find out."

Your strokes stuttered, your entire body trembling with restraint.

Mina's laugh was soft, triumphant.

"That's it… suffer for me."

Mina’s fingers slowed against her own slick folds, her gaze sharpening as she watched you struggle to maintain the languid pace she demanded. Your cock—thick, veined, flushed deep red with desperation—twitched in your grip, pre-cum beading at the tip only to be smeared messily down your length with each torturously slow stroke.

“Look at you,” she cooed, her voice saccharine sweet even as her thighs squeezed tighter around her own hand. “My pretty, fair-skinned boy. Even your cock behaves so prettily for me.” Her free hand lifted, gesturing idly. “Tighter. Just at the base—yes, like that.”

You whimpered, your fingers obediently tightening where she instructed, the pressure bordering on painful. Your hips jerked instinctively, but a single raised brow from Mina froze you in place. Her smile turned venomous.

“Oh? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Her fingers abruptly stilled against her own wetness, her voice dropping into something darker. “Like how you didn’t notice me after the shoot?”

Your breath hitched.

“You made them laugh,” she continued, her tone deceptively light as she resumed circling her clit, slower now. “You let Sana cling to you. Let Dahyun demand your praise. Let Chaeyoung call you oppa like she has any right—” Her nail dug sharply into her own thigh, her breath catching before she steadied it. “But me? You barely glanced my way.”

You swallowed hard, your strokes faltering. “Mina, I didn’t—”

“Did I say you could stop?” Her voice cracked like a whip, her other hand slamming down onto the bed beside her. “Keep. Going.”

You hurried to obey, your cock aching from the uneven rhythm. Mina leaned forward, her lace-clad breasts swaying with the movement, her eyes locked onto yours. “You don’t divide your attention, Y/N.” Her thumb pressed hard against her clit, her breath hitching. “You don’t share what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in her voice sent a brutal throb through your length.

“Faster now,” she commanded, her own hips rolling into her hand. “Show me how much you regret it. Show me you know who you belong to.”

Your hand sped up, the slick sounds of your strokes filling the room alongside Mina’s soft, controlled gasps.

She watched you with half-lidded eyes, her lips parting around a moan she refused to let out. “G-good boy,” she managed, her thighs trembling. “Just—just like that. Mine.”

Mina's chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths as the last tremors of her climax faded. Her fingers, glistening with her release, lifted from between her thighs—her dark eyes pinned you in place before you could so much as blink. "Come here," she murmured, her voice honey-thick with satisfaction.

You hesitated, your hand still working your cock at the uneven pace she'd demanded. Mina's lips curled. "Did I say you could stop stroking?"

Your grip tightened reflexively, your thighs tensing as you shuffled forward on your knees, your free hand bracing against the bed for balance. Mina watched your struggle with quiet amusement, her damp fingers hovering just inches from your lips.

"Open," she commanded. You obeyed, your mouth parting around a shaky exhale.

Her fingers pressed against your tongue without warning—taste exploding across your senses, sweet and musky and undeniably hers. Your groan was muffled around her skin, your cock twitching violently in your grip as she dragged her fingertips deeper, until your lips brushed her knuckles.

"Suck," she breathed, her other hand tangling in your hair without mercy. "Clean them like the good boy you should have been today."

You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue lapping greedily at her digits, the salt-sharp tang of her arousal flooding your mouth. Mina's breath hitched, her grip tightening in your hair as she watched you through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Look at you," she mused, her voice dripping with mocking praise. "So eager to please me now. Where was this energy earlier, hm?" Her fingers thrust deeper abruptly, cutting off your air for one breathtaking second before pulling back just enough to let you gasp. "Pathetic."

Your eyes watered, your strokes faltering as her fingers fucked shallowly into your mouth.

Mina's smile turned razor-sharp. "Did I say you could slow down?" Her free hand snapped out, wrapping around your wrist to guide your pace back to the punishing rhythm she'd demanded. "You don't get to stop. Not until I say."

Pre-cum dripped from your tip onto the sheets below, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding back—of obeying.

Mina leaned in, her lips brushing your ear as she murmured: "Remember this taste the next time you think of ignoring me."

Then her fingers plunged back into your mouth, her hips rolling against nothing as she watched you choke around her.

Your hand was slick with sweat and pre-cum, your strokes ragged and uneven—desperate to keep up with Mina’s impossible demands. Every muscle in your body trembled with restraint, your cock swollen and throbbing, veins straining beneath feverish skin.

Mina watched you unravel with a predator’s patience, her fingers still tangled in your hair, her own arousal glistening on her parted lips.

Then—smack!

Her palm cracked against the back of your hand, knocking it away from your cock so hard your skin stung. You gasped, hips jerking forward into empty air, your entire body tightening like a coiled spring.

"Ah-ah," Mina tutted, her voice saccharine-sweet even as her fingers wrapped around your length in a ruthless grip. "You don’t get to decide when to touch yourself."

Her thumb swiped over your leaking tip, spreading the sticky mess down your shaft before she began stroking—hard, fast, no pity in her touch. Your vision blurred.

"Look at me," she demanded, her grip tightening near the base, squeezing just shy of too much. You forced your eyes open, meeting hers through the haze of pleasure-pain.

Mina’s lips curled. "You want to cum, don’t you?" Her other hand cupped your balls, weighing them in her palm before giving a warning press. "Beg for it."

You swallowed, your voice ragged. "P-please—"

"Please what?" she purred, twisting her wrist on the upstroke, her nails grazing just beneath your swollen head. You choked. "Please let me cum, Noona—fuck!"

Mina slowed her strokes abruptly, her thumb circling your slit in slow, torturous presses. "Mm… I don’t know," she mused, tilting her head. "Do you really deserve it?"

Your hips bucked into her fist, a broken whimper tearing from your throat. She laughed—soft, cruel—and leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "Fine."

Her hand snapped tight around your shaft, stroking brutally, her pace relentless.

"Cum."

You shattered. Rope after rope of thick, pearly release painted her fingers, your hips jerking erratically as she milked you through the aftershocks, her grip unyielding even as your legs gave out beneath you.

Mina pulled back just enough to examine her glistening hand, her tongue darting out to taste the mess you’d made. "Good boy," she murmured, her voice softening—just a fraction.

Then she smeared the remnants across your lips, pressing in with her thumb until you tasted yourself. "Next time," she whispered, "you won’t make me wait."

Mina’s fingers trailed down your sweat-slicked chest, her touch featherlight yet commanding as she nudged you backward onto the mattress. The silk sheets clung to your overheated skin, still trembling from the brutal release she’d wrung out of you.

Her lips brushed your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Good boys don’t move,” she murmured, her voice laced with dark promise. “And you are going to be good for me now, aren’t you?”

You barely had time to nod before the cool glide of smooth fabric whispered against your eyelids—black silk, thick enough to plunge you into immediate darkness. Mina tied the blindfold snugly behind your head, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

Click.

A drawer slid open. The faint clink of glass, the rustle of something being uncapped. Then—silence. No warning.

Just the sudden, searing heat of slick fingers tracing down your chest—oil? Wax?—before something damp and freezing pressed against your nipple. “Hah—?!” Your back arched off the bed, the shock of cold stealing your breath.

Mina’s laugh was low, wicked. “That’s right,” she purred, dragging the ice cube in slow circles around your pebbled skin. “Every time you move, I add another.”

Your fists clenched in the sheets, your cock already twitching back to life despite the overstimulation. “Shh,” Mina soothed, her free hand trailing down your stomach—only to pinch your other nipple hard. “Be still. Let me play.”

The contrast was maddening. One nipple numb from cold, the other burning from her sharp nails, your hips straining not to buck as Mina’s teeth grazed your inner thigh.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispered, her breath hot against your straining cock before—another ice cube, this time dragged slowly up your length.

You choked on air. Mina’s tongue chased the melting trail, her lips scorching against the chilled skin. “Mmm… see how sweet you taste when you suffer for me?”

Then—without warning—her mouth closed around you, heat enveloping your throbbing cock as the last of the ice dripped onto the sheets.

The blindfold turned the world into a fever dream of sensation—Mina’s lips scorching where the ice had been, her teeth dragging just shy of too much, her nails digging crescent moons into your thighs. Every breath she took against your skin sent a tremble through you, every hum of approval vibrated straight down your cock.

Then—nothing. Her warmth vanished. You jerked instinctively.

SMACK!

Her palm came down hard on your inner thigh.

“Did I fucking say you could move?” Her voice was a whip-crack of dominance, no longer velvet—just raw, unfiltered command. The bed dipped as she straddled you, her lace-clad cunt pressing against your stomach, already dripping. “You think this is fun for me?” Her fingers twisted in your hair, wrenching your head back against the pillows. “Having to remind you who you belong to?”

Your breath came in shallow gasps. Mina leaned down, her lips brushing yours—so close, but not close enough to kiss. “Say it,” she snarled. “Say you’re mine.”

“Y-yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Noona—fuck!”

Her hand wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to cut off air—just enough to own. “Damn right you are.” She ground down against your stomach, her wetness smearing across your skin. “And next time you even think about making me wait—her hips rolled, her clit dragging against you with a filthy grind, “—I won’t be this nice.”

The threat sent a shockwave straight to your cock, your hips bucking up on instinct. Mina’s laugh was dark. “Oh? You like that idea?” Her grip tightened. “You want me to ruin you for everyone else?”

You couldn’t even speak—just nodded desperately. She released your throat only to slap your cheek lightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Too bad.”

Her hand wrapped around your cock again, stroking with brutal efficiency. “You’ll take what I give you—” Squeeze at the base. “When I let you—” Twist of her wrist. “And you’ll thank me—” Her lips crashed onto yours, swallowing your groan as your back arched off the bed. “—for being so fucking patient with you.”

Mina’s fingers were relentless—stroking, squeezing, rewiring every nerve in your body until pleasure blurred into pain and back again. The blindfold made it worse, every touch amplified, every tease magnified. You couldn’t see her smirk, couldn’t anticipate the cruel twists of her wrist, the way she’d slow to featherlight touches just as you teetered on the edge. “Ngh—Mina, please—”

“Please what?” Her thumb swiped over your leaking tip, spreading the slickness down your shaft before her grip tightened near the base, cutting off your climax with ruthless precision. “You don’t get to beg yet.”

Your hips jerked, desperate for friction, but she pressed her free hand flat against your stomach, pinning you down. “Stay. Still.”

Her voice dripped with faux sweetness, but her touch was pure punishment. She dragged her nails up your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting, before wrapping her fingers around your cock again—tighter this time, her pace agonizingly slow.

“You’re so pretty like this,” she murmured, her breath hot against your ear. “All flushed and trembling. Fighting so hard to be good for me.” Her lips brushed your jaw. “But you’re not there yet, are you?”

You shook your head, your sweat-slicked skin sticking to the sheets beneath you.

Mina hummed, her thumb circling the swollen head of your cock, smearing pre-cum in slow, torturous circles. “I could keep you here forever,” she mused. “Right on the edge. Desperate. Mine.” Her fingers twisted on the upstroke. “Would you like that, sweet thing?”

You choked back a sob. She laughed—soft, melodic—and squeezed. “Too bad.” Her hand vanished entirely, leaving you aching, your cock twitching against empty air.

“Remember this,” she whispered, her nails trailing lightly up your chest as she shifted off the bed. “Next time you even think about ignoring me.”

The door creaked open again, pulling you from your trembling haze. Your cock twitched against your stomach, still painfully hard, still aching from her merciless edging. The silk blindfold clung to your damp skin, shutting out the world—until fingers hooked beneath the fabric, yanking it away in one sharp motion.

Light flooded your vision—blinding, disorienting. Mina loomed over you, her lips curled in a smirk, a bottle of lube dangling from her fingers.“Miss me?” she purred. You opened your mouth to answer, but she pressed a finger to your lips, silencing you.

“Ah-ah.” Her free hand grabbed your wrists, pulling them above your head before wrapping the blindfold around them in a tight knot. The silk dug into your skin, just shy of too much, anchoring you to the headboard. “No talking. Just taking.”

She uncapped the lube with a soft click, pouring a generous amount onto her fingers. The cool liquid dripped onto your chest, making you shiver as she dragged her slick fingers down your torso—slow, teasing, maddening.

“You’re going to watch,” she murmured, her other hand trailing down to her own soaked lace. “Watch what you could have had if you hadn’t made me wait.”

Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric, her breath hitching as she stroked herself in slow, deliberate circles. “See how wet you made me?” she gasped, lifting her fingers to your lips, glistening with her arousal. “Lick.”

You obeyed, your tongue lapping at her essence, the taste flooding your senses. Mina moaned, her hips rocking into her own touch. “Good boy,” she breathed. “Now watch as I fuck myself thinking of you—but not letting you have me.”

Her fingers moved faster, her thighs trembling, her eyes locked onto yours as she denied you everything—except the sight of her unraveling.

Mina’s fingers worked between her thighs with slow, deliberate strokes—her lace pushed aside, her glistening pink folds on full display as she circled her clit in tight, teasing motions. Her breath hitched, her hips rolling into her own touch, but her eyes never left yours.

“Look at you,” she cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine praise even as her fingers plunged deeper, fucking into herself with obscene wet sounds. “So good for me. So obedient.”

Your cock throbbed against your stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip, but you didn’t dare move. Not with your wrists bound above your head, not with Mina’s dark gaze pinning you in place.

She smirked, dragging her free hand up your chest, her nails scraping lightly over your nipples. “You want to touch me, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, your voice rough with desperation. “Y-yes, Noona—”

“Too bad.” Her fingers curled inside herself, her back arching as she moaned. “You had your chance earlier. Now you just get to watch.”

Her pace quickened, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “F-fuck,” she whimpered, her walls fluttering around her fingers. “You see what you do to me? How wet I get just from owning you?”

You groaned, your hips twitching helplessly. “Mina, please—”

“Please what?” she taunted, slowing her movements to a torturous crawl. “Please let you fuck me? Please let you claim what’s already yours?” She leaned down, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss. “You should’ve taken me the second we got home.”

Her words sent a jolt straight to your cock, your restraint fraying. Mina pulled back, her fingers still working between her thighs, her voice a whisper. “But you didn’t.”

She pressed her slick fingers to your lips, forcing you to taste her. “So now you suffer.”

Mina’s legs trembled as she slowed the sinful drag of her fingers, her arousal glistening in the dim light. She exhaled sharply, her dark eyes studying you with a mix of dominance and something dangerously close to mercy.

“Tell me,” she murmured, her thumb brushing your lower lip, still wet from her taste. “What would you do for me right now?”

Your voice cracked. “Anything.”

A slow, wicked smile curled her lips. “Good answer.”

With deliberate precision, she reached behind your head, her fingers tugging at the silk binding your wrists. The fabric loosened, slipped free—your arms fell stiffly to your sides, blood rushing back into your fingertips. But before you could even think of moving, Mina’s palm flattened against your chest, pushing you back down.

“Ah-ah.” Her fingernails dug warningly into your skin. “You don’t move until I say.”

You nodded feverishly.

Mina shifted forward, her knees framing your shoulders as she hovered above your face. The scent of her—musky, sweet, undeniably hers—flooded your senses. Her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head up just enough to meet her heated gaze.

“Open.”

You obeyed instantly, your tongue darting out in anticipation.

Mina’s breath hitched. “Not yet.” Her grip tightened. “You don’t lick until I tell you to. You don’t suck unless I demand it.” Her free hand trailed down her stomach, fingers spreading her glistening folds right above your mouth. “You breathe me in. You take what I give you.”

A whimper escaped you—whether from desperation or worship, you weren’t sure. Mina’s smirk deepened. “Now.”

You dove in. The first lick was tentative—testing, reverent—but Mina’s hips jerked forward impatiently. “Harder.”You groaned against her, your tongue dragging up her slit in one firm stroke before circling her swollen clit.

“Y-yes—like that,” she gasped, her thighs squeezing around your head as you laved at her with slow, deliberate pressure. “But slower—make me feel it—”

You obeyed, dragging your tongue in torturous, wet strokes, reveling in the way her grip on your hair turned punishing.

Mina’s back arched, a broken moan tumbling from her lips. “F-fuck—right there—!” Your fingers dug into her thighs, holding her steady as you worshipped her the only way she’d allow.

The dichotomy was intoxicating—Mina’s stage persona, all elegant restraint and poised artistry, now reduced to trembling thighs and wrecked gasps above your tongue. Her public image was one of whispered elegance, the untouchable swan of TWICE… but this Mina? This Mina was fire and filth.

“Deeper,” she demanded, her fingers tightening in your hair as she ground down against your mouth. You groaned against her, your tongue plunging past her folds, fucking into her with slow, deliberate strokes. The taste of her—salt and sin—flooded your senses, her slick coating your lips, your chin.

Mina’s breath hitched, her hips rolling in time with your movements. “Y-yes—just like that—” Her voice wavered, the polished cadence of her idol tone cracking into something raw, hungry. “God, your tongue—fuck—”

The contrast made your cock throb against the sheets.

Her public smiles were measured, delicate. Now? Her lips parted around panting moans, her head thrown back as she rode your face with shameless need. “Slower,” she gasped, her thighs shaking. “Make it last—ngh—!”

You obeyed, dragging your tongue in torturous circles around her clit, savoring every twitch, every stifled cry. Her back arched, her nails scraping against your scalp as she teetered on the edge— Then yanked your head back with a snarl.

“I didn’t say you could make me cum,” she panted, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with possessive fury. “You already made me wait tonight. Now it’s your turn.”

Her thumb swiped over your slick-stained lips, smearing her essence across your mouth before pressing in—hard.

“Lick.”

You sucked her taste from her skin, your groan vibrating against her fingertips. Mina shuddered, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Good boy… now beg for the rest.”

Mina hovered above you, her thighs still framing your face, her arousal glistening under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The air between you crackled—half-tension, half-desire—as she studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The same eyes that could command stadiums of fans with a single glance now pinned you in place, your pulse hammering under her scrutiny.

You parted your lips to speak, but she pressed a finger to them, silencing you before the words could form. "Ah-ah." Her voice was velvet wrapped around steel. "You don’t get to just ask. You beg." A shiver ran down your spine.

The Mina the world saw was all grace—gentle smiles, elegant gestures, the quiet charisma of TWICE's unshakable ice princess. But this Mina? The one who had you tied up moments ago, the one whose fingers had been knotted in your hair as she rode your tongue? This Mina owned you.

You swallowed hard, your voice dipping into something hushed, reverent. "Noona... please."

Her eyebrow arched. "Please what?"

Your gaze flickered downward—just for a second—but she caught it. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Oh?" She tilted her head, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "You want more than I’m giving you?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning. Mina exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers trailing down her own body, skimming over the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. "Then ask properly," she murmured. "Or I walk away right now."

The threat sent a jolt through you. "W-wait—!" You reached for her, but she caught your wrist effortlessly, her grip tightening in warning."I—I want..." You hesitated, your throat dry.

Mina's eyes narrowed, impatient. You took a shaky breath. "I want to taste all of you." Her fingers stilled against your wrist.

"Everywhere," you continued, bolder now, your voice rough with want. "Not just your pussy. You." Your gaze flickered lower again, lingering on the curve of her ass—the same one that drove ONCEs wild on stage, the same one that had you biting your lip every time she turned away in those skin-tight stage outfits. "Let me worship you there, too."

Mina’s lips parted slightly.

"I promise," you added quickly, your fingers curling into the sheets, "I won’t even look at anyone else the way I look at you. Not Dahyun, not Sana—no one."

The room fell silent.

Mina studied you for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "Tch." She released your wrist, her nails dragging lightly over your palm as she pulled away. "You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight."

Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned—presenting the sinful curve of her back, the smooth expanse of her waist, the perfect swell of her—

Your breath caught. Mina glanced over her shoulder, her voice dropping into a whisper. "Well? Go on. Prove it."

Your hands trembled as they settled on the sinful curve of Mina’s ass—soft yet firm, the kind of perfection that made ONCEs lose their minds in fancams. But they only got to look.

You got to touch.

A reverent groan escaped you as your fingers kneaded into her flesh, savoring the way it yielded under your grip. Mina exhaled sharply, her back arching slightly, but she didn’t pull away.

“Mmm… that’s it,” she murmured, her voice dripping with approval. “Like you’re handling something precious.”

You swallowed hard, your thumbs brushing the crease where her cheeks met her thighs, teasing but not quite venturing further. Not yet.

Mina glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Scared?”

“N-no,” you lied, your pulse hammering.

She smirked. “Liar.” Leaning forward slightly, she presented herself more fully, the roundness of her ass practically begging for your mouth. “Prove it.”

Your breath hitched. Then—you dove in. Your lips pressed against the swell of her right cheek first, kissing slow, open-mouthed trails down to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Mina’s breath stuttered, her fingers tightening in the sheets as you nipped lightly, leaving faint marks in your wake. “F-fuck—”

You grinned against her skin before dragging your tongue up the other side, worshipping every inch with deliberate slowness. The salt-sweet taste of her arousal still lingered, mixing with the faint musk of her skin, and you savored it—like she was your last meal.

Mina shuddered. “Y/N—”

You hummed in response, your hands spreading her cheeks apart, exposing her most forbidden hole. She tensed. You paused, your breath hot against her. “Noona…?”

A beat of silence. Then—“Do it.”

Your tongue swiped up in one firm stroke, laving over her tight rim before circling it slowly. Mina jolted, a broken gasp tearing from her lips. “Hah—!”

You did it again, this time pressing in, just enough to make her thighs tremble. “S-shit—” Her fingers twisted in your hair, yanking you closer. “More.”

You obeyed, your tongue fucking into her with slow, filthy strokes, your hands gripping her hips to keep her in place. Mina’s moans were unfiltered, her usual composure shattered as she ground back against your mouth. “Y-yes—right there—!”

You worshipped her like religion—because to you, she was. And when her legs finally gave out, her body collapsing onto the bed with a shuddering gasp, you followed—your lips still pressed to her skin, your devotion unshaken.

Mina turned onto her back, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with something between lust and awe. “You—” She swallowed hard. “You’re dangerous.”

You grinned, licking your lips. “Only for you, Noona.”

Mina's body was a temple—immaculate, revered, flawless. Every inch of her skin carried the faint scent of lavender and something uniquely her, a testament to her meticulous hygiene. And now, as she lay trembling beneath your worship, you were determined to defile her in the most reverent way possible.

Your fingers traced the curve of her ass, spreading her cheeks wider, exposing her tight, pink hole to the cool air of the room. Mina shuddered, her breath hitching as your thumb brushed over the sensitive rim, just teasing.

"Y/N—" Her voice was a warning, but the way her hips pressed back betrayed her desperation.

You smirked against her skin before leaning in, your tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe from her perineum all the way up to the base of her spine. Mina gasped, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "F-fuck—!"

You did it again, this time circling her rim with the very tip of your tongue, savoring the way her muscles fluttered under your touch. The taste was clean, faintly sweet—perfect.

Reaching for the bottle of sweet lube on the nightstand, you poured a generous amount onto your fingers, warming it between your palms before slicking it over her asshole. Mina whimpered at the sensation, the coolness of the lube contrasting with the heat of your breath.

"Relax," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the small of her back. "Let me take care of you."

Your tongue pressed flat against her hole, laving over it in broad, wet strokes before focusing on the tight ring of muscle. Mina's back arched off the bed, a broken moan tearing from her lips as you pushed inside, just enough to make her gasp.

"Oh god—!"

You groaned against her, the vibrations sending another shudder through her body. Your hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as you ate her out like a man starved—flicking, sucking, devouring every inch of her.

The sweet lube mixed with her natural flavor, creating an intoxicating blend that had your cock throbbing against the mattress. But you ignored it, focusing solely on her, on the way her thighs trembled, on the way her breath came in ragged gasps.

Mina's fingers twisted in your hair, yanking you closer. "D-deeper—please—!"

You obeyed, your tongue fucking into her with slow, deliberate strokes, your nose pressed against her ass cheek. The lewd squelch of the lube, the sharp slap of skin against skin as she ground back onto your face—it was filthy.

And it was heaven.

Mina's moans grew louder, more desperate, her body writhing under your touch. "Y/N—I can't—!"

You pulled back just enough to whisper against her skin, your voice rough with want.

"Yes, you can."

Then you sealed your lips around her rim and sucked.

Mina’s fingers knotted in your hair like a vice, her breath ragged as she forced your face deeper between her cheeks with a sharp, commanding tug.

"Mmmph—!?" Your moan vibrated against her rim, muffled by the sinful press of her ass against your lips, your nose buried in the crease of her thigh.

"That’s it," she panted, her voice dripping with dominance, her hips rolling back to grind against your tongue. "Take it. Take all of me."

The sweet lube made her skin slick under your palms as you gripped her waist, your fingers digging into the soft give of her flesh. Every desperate noise she made—every choked gasp, every shuddering whimper—only drove you deeper, your tongue spearing into her tight hole with relentless strokes.

Mina’s thighs trembled around your head, her back arching as she used your mouth, her control slipping back into place like a crown.

"You love this, don’t you?" she taunted, her voice a sultry rasp. "Being my good little pet, eating my ass like it’s your last meal?"

You groaned in response, the sound swallowed by her skin as she ground down harder.

"Answer me," she demanded, yanking your head back just enough to let you gasp for air.

"Y-yes, Noona—fuck, yes—"

"Good boy," she purred, before shoving your face back into her with a brutal snap of her hips. "Now clean me up."

Your tongue swirled around her rim, lapping up every trace of lube, every drop of her, your nose pressed so deep into her ass you could barely breathe.

And Mina?

She reveled in it—her moans filthy, her grip unrelenting, her dominance absolute.

"Mmm… just like that," she sighed, her voice syrupy with satisfaction. "Worship me right."

You obeyed. Because what else could you do?

Mina’s thighs quivered around your head, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as your tongue worked her rim with precision—broad, flat strokes alternating with pointed flicks that made her toes curl into the sheets. The sweet lube had long since mixed with her own slickness, creating a sinful glaze over her skin that you lapped up greedily.

“F-fuck—right there—” Her fingers twisted in your hair, her hips canting back desperately, chasing the pleasure coiling tight in her gut. “Don’t you dare stop—”

You hummed against her, the vibrations wringing a broken moan from her lips.

You could feel it—the way her muscles fluttered around your tongue, the way her breath hitched with every drag of your lips. She was close.

Too close. And so—you pulled back.

Your tongue retreated with a final, teasing lick, your lips leaving her rim with an obscene pop. Mina froze. Silence. Then— “Y/N.”

Her voice was dangerous. You pressed a kiss to the small of her back, your hands smoothing over the curve of her ass in mock apology. “Yes, Noona?”

She turned—slowly—her eyes blazing with fury and need. “You little shit,” she hissed, her chest heaving.

You grinned up at her, your chin glistening with her taste. “You did say I had to worship you right.” You leaned in, nipping at her inner thigh. “I’m just… taking my time.”

Mina’s nails dug into your shoulders, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Finish what you started.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Or what?”

Her smile was lethal. “Or I’ll edge you for hours.”

… Well. Shit.

You ducked back between her thighs with a whimper. Mina’s laugh was triumphant.

The threat of Mina’s revenge coiled like a live wire in the air—hours of her merciless hands denying you release, her taunting voice reducing you to a whimpering mess. The memory alone sent a jolt of fear (or was it anticipation?) straight to your aching cock.

No. You knew better than to test her.

With a ragged exhale, you dove back between her thighs, your tongue laving over her neglected rim in one long, apologetic stroke. Mina’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening in your hair—warningly—but you didn’t hesitate this time.

You ate like a man starving.

Your lips sealed around her tight hole, sucking gently before fucking into her with firm, rhythmic strokes of your tongue. Mina’s hips jerked, a broken moan tumbling from her lips as you redoubled your efforts— "Ngh—fuck—!"

Her thighs trembled around your head, her heels digging into your back as you ruined her. The sweet lube mixed with the salt of her skin, the musky essence of her arousal, creating a flavor so hers you could’ve gotten drunk on it.

"Y-Y/N—I’m—" Her voice cracked, her body bowing off the bed as pleasure snapped tight in her core.

You doubled down—sucking, licking, devouring—until her grip on your hair turned punishing, until her moans dissolved into mindless whimpers, until—

"Cumming—!"

Mina’s back arched violently, her thighs clamping around your head as her orgasm ripped through her—silent at first, then shattering into a gasped cry you felt vibrate through her entire body. You rode it out, gentling your tongue to soft, coaxing strokes until she slumped bonelessly into the mattress, her chest heaving.

Silence. Then— A slow, dangerous chuckle. "Good boy," Mina purred, her fingers trailing lazily through your hair. "Now… let’s talk about your punishment for teasing me."

You scrambled back onto your knees, hands clasped in exaggerated supplication, eyes wide with theatrical remorse.

"Noona, please—I swear I’ll never edge you again! I’ll worship you like the goddess you are! I’ll—"

Mina’s fingertip pressed against your lips, silencing you mid-plea. Her other hand trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs before wrapping around your throbbing cock in a grip that made your breath stutter.

"Cute," she murmured, her thumb swiping over your leaking tip, smearing pre-cum down your shaft. "But lies don’t suit you."

Her lips—those lips, the ones that drove ONCEs wild with every pout, every smirk—parted around a slow, taunting exhale, her breath ghosting over your wet skin. "M-Mina—"

"Ah-ah." Her tongue darted out, flicking the underside of your cockhead with infuriating lightness. "You don’t get to beg now."

Every nerve in your body screamed as she dragged her mouth lower, her lips brushing your balls before pulling away with a tch.

"So desperate," she mused, her fingers tightening just shy of painful. "All this mess… just for me?" You nodded frantically. Mina’s smirk was sin itself.

Her lips sealed around your tip, her tongue swirling in slow, torturous circles as she sucked just the barest inch of you into her mouth.

"Hhhngh—!" Your hips jerked instinctively, but her free hand slammed down on your thigh, pinning you in place.

"Mmhn~?" Her hum vibrated straight down your spine, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the taste of you—taunting, toying, giving you nothing but the barest hint of heat.

And when you whimpered? She pulled off with a filthy pop, her lips glistening. "Oops."

Mina’s lips were maddening—soft, slick, and just tight enough to make your cock twitch in her grip, but never enough to give you what you craved. Every time you teetered on the edge, her mouth would retreat with a cruel pop, her tongue flicking over your slit just to watch you squirm.

"N-Noona—" Your voice cracked, your fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please—fuck—"

"Please what?" She dragged her tongue up your shaft, her breath hot against your throbbing skin. "You want me to finish you?" Her teeth grazed your tip, just shy of pain. "After how you teased me?"

You groaned, your hips bucking involuntarily—but Mina’s hand pressed down on your stomach, holding you in place. "Uh-uh." Her smirk was wicked. "You stay."

She took you deep, her lips sealing around your cock in one smooth glide, her tongue pressing just right against the underside. Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as her head bobbed slowly, methodically, her fingers tightening around your base to deny you. "M-Mina—I can’t—"

She hummed, the vibrations shooting straight to your core, her pace agonizingly measured. You snapped.

One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her down until your cock hit the back of her throat—

GLRK~!

Mina’s eyes watered, her nose pressed flush against your stomach, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers dug into your thighs, her throat fluttering around you as you fucked into her mouth with ragged, desperate thrusts.

"F-fuck—sorry—" You panted, your grip loosening slightly—But Mina’s nails dug in, her gaze locking onto yours.

Don’t you dare stop.

So you didn’t. The wet schlck~ schlck~ of her lips, the choked gulp~ as she swallowed around you, the slap of skin against skin—it was filthy.

And it was heaven.

Mina’s moans vibrated through you, her lashes fluttering as she took every inch, her own pleasure written plainly in the way her thighs squeezed together.

You were so close—Then—She pulled off, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. "Not yet," she whispered, her thumb swiping over your leaking tip. "We’re not done."

The switch flipped in an instant—desperation overriding restraint, hunger eclipsing worship. Your fingers tangled deeper into Mina’s silken hair, guiding her back onto your cock with a guttural groan. “Take it,” you rasped, your hips rolling up to meet her lips. “All of it.”

Mina’s eyes flared—surprise, then challenge—before her lashes fluttered shut, her throat relaxing in surrender.

GLRK~!

The sound was filthy, her nose pressed flush against your pelvis as you bottomed out inside her mouth. Her lips stretched obscenely around your girth, spit pooling at the corners as you held her there, savoring the way her throat fluttered against your tip.

“F-fuck—” Your grip tightened, your thighs trembling as you dragged her back, then shoved in again—harder.

GULP~! SCHLORP~!

Mina’s fingers clawed at your thighs, her nails leaving half-moon indents, but she didn’t fight—just let you use her, her tongue lapping at your underside with every retreat.

“Look at you,” you panted, your voice rough with awe. “TWICE’s perfect princess—choking on my cock.” Her moan vibrated through you, her eyelids fluttering as drool dripped down her chin.

You fucked into her mouth with shallow, brutal thrusts, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. Her throat clenched around you, her gag reflex overridden by sheer obedience, her tears smearing her mascara into dark streaks.

“Mina—” Your hips stuttered, your release coiling tight. “I’m gonna—fuck—”

She dug her nails in—hard. The slap of flesh, the gagged moans, the drip of spit onto her chest—it was too much.

You came with a snarl, your cock pulsing down her throat as she swallowed every drop, her lips sealed tight around you until you whimpered from oversensitivity.

Finally, she pulled off with a pop, her breath ragged, her lips ruined. “Good boy,” she croaked, her voice wrecked. And just like that—she was back in control.

The second you released her hair, Mina pounced—her knee slamming between your thighs, her palm flattening against your chest to pin you to the mattress. Her lips were swollen, her smudged mascara giving her a feral edge, but her eyes...

Her eyes burned with pure, unadulterated hunger. "You dared," she hissed, her nails scraping down your sternum. "You fucked my face like some animal."

Your breath hitched—part fear, part arousal—as she leaned in, her teeth grazing your jaw. "And now?" Her hand slipped between your legs, her fingers squeezing the base of your still-hard cock. "You’re going to repent."

Before you could utter a word, she spun, straddling your waist in one fluid motion—her back pressed to your chest, her ass grinding against your stomach. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her lace panties, yanking them down just enough to expose her drenched folds.

"You’ll take me like this," she commanded, her voice trembling with need. "No hands. No control. Just your cock buried inside me while I ride you like the brat you are."

Her hips lifted slightly, her free hand guiding your tip to her soaking entrance. "And Y/N?" She glanced over her shoulder, her smile dangerous. "You don’t get to come until I say so."

Then she sank down—

SCHLICK~

—taking every inch in one brutal slide, her walls clenching around you like a vise.

"F-FUCK—!" Your head slammed back into the pillows, your hips jerking up instinctively—

SMACK~!

Her palm cracked against your thigh. "Did I say you could move?"

You whined, your nails digging into the sheets. Mina laughed—a breathless, delighted sound—before rolling her hips in slow, agonizing circles, her inner walls milking you with every drag.

"Mmm... better," she purred, her ass pressing flush against your stomach. "Now watch—" Her fingers trailed down her own body, pinching her nipple through the lace of her bralette. "—as I ruin us both."

Mina’s back arched like a bowstring as she rolled her hips, her tight, dripping cunt stretching obscenely around your girth. The angle was brutal—her walls hugged every ridge, every vein, her inner muscles fluttering as she adjusted to the sheer size of you.

“Hah—!” Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into your thighs for balance as she lifted herself up—only to drop back down with a wet schlrrp~!

Your cock throbbed, your vision whiting out for a second at the sensation of her clenching around you. “F-fuck—Mina—”

“Quiet,” she panted, her voice trembling with exertion. “You don’t get to talk while I’m riding you.”

Her hips began to move in slow, grinding circles, the swollen head of your cock dragging against her sweet spot with every rotation.

Squelch~ Sqwelsh~

The lewd squelch of her arousal filled the room, her thighs trembling as she worked herself open on your length. Her lace bralette clung to her sweat-slicked skin, the fabric stretched taut over her bouncing tits as she chased her own pleasure.

You ached to touch her—to grip her waist, to help her move—but her earlier command burned in your mind.

Mina’s breath came in sharp, broken gasps as she bounced faster, her ass slapping against your thighs with every descent.

CLAP!—CLAP!—CLAP!

“Y-you feel that?” she moaned, her fingers twisting in the sheets. “How tight I am around you? How badly I’m milking your cock?”

You nodded frantically, your teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle a groan.

Mina laughed—a breathless, wicked sound—before slamming down harder, her walls rippling around you in a way that made your toes curl.

“Good,” she purred. “Now remember it—because this is all you’re getting tonight.”

And with that, she leaned forward, her pace turning ruthless—her cunt squeezing you like a vice, her moans music to your ears.

You were so close—But her rule stood.

Mina’s thighs quaked as she rode you with desperate, uneven strokes—her earlier dominance fraying at the edges as her orgasm crested, her body burning with the need to break.

“Y-Y/N—!” Her voice was a wreck, her nails scoring your skin as she ground down, her swollen clit rubbing against your pelvis with every roll of her hips.

You ached to thrust up, to chase your own release—but you held still, your muscles trembling with restraint. “Please—” The word tore from her lips, raw and unfiltered, as her walls clenched around you in erratic pulses. “I—I can’t—!”

That was all the permission you needed.

Your hands—finally free—dug into her waist, yanking her down as you snapped your hips up, burying yourself to the hilt.

SCHLAP!—GLORP~!

Mina screamed, her back arching as her orgasm shattered through her—her cunt flooding around your cock, her thighs clamping around your sides as she shook apart.

“F-fuck—Mina—!” Your voice was strangled, your release coiling tight—

“Inside,” she gasped, her fingers fisting in your hair. “Fill me—now—!”

You obeyed. You pumped into her one last time—your cock pulsing as you emptied yourself deep into her clenching heat, ropes of cum spilling into her with every throb.

SPURT~ SPURT~

Mina whimpered, her body twitching as she milked you dry, her walls fluttering around your oversensitive length.

For a moment, there was only silence—the sound of ragged breathing, the drip of sweat onto the sheets, the stickiness between your bodies.

Then— Mina collapsed against your chest, her lips brushing your collarbone in a tired kiss. “...Good boy,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but satisfied

Mina’s fingers traced idle patterns on your sweat-slicked chest, her nails occasionally digging in just enough to remind you—she wasn’t done with you yet.

The room was thick with the scent of sex, the air still humming from the intensity of her climax, but her dark eyes held a chilling edge as they locked onto yours.

“So,” she began, her voice deceptively soft, “tell me again why you spent thirty minutes helping Sana with her dance steps yesterday?”

Your breath hitched. Oh. Oh fuck.

You’d thought she hadn’t noticed—or at least, hadn’t cared. But the way her thigh tensed against yours, the way her fingers twitched near your throat—

You’d fucked up.

“I—it was just practice,” you stammered, your pulse racing under her touch. “She asked for feedback, and I—”

“Feedback?” Mina’s laugh was icy, her knee pressing deliberately between your thighs. “Is that what we’re calling the way you stared at her ass in those shorts?”

Your mouth went dry. “N-no, Noona, I swear I wasn’t—”

“Liar.” Her hand slid down your stomach, her fingers wrapping around your half-hard cock with terrifying ease. “You think I didn’t see you? My sweet, obedient pet, drooling over another woman?”

Her grip tightened, her thumb swiping over your tip just hard enough to make you jolt. “M-Mina—”

“Quiet.” She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “You’re going to prove to me who you belong to. Every night. Until I believe you.”

Her teeth grazed your lobe—punishment and promise in one. “Starting now.”

The bottle of lube thumped against your chest, still cool from the air conditioning. Mina didn’t say a word—just arched a single, imperious brow before turning onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to you with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips.

You knew that ass. Worshipped that ass. The same one that had ONCEs screaming in fan calls, the same one that looked sinful in every stage outfit—tight, round, perfect. And now? Now it was yours, her cheeks spread just enough to reveal that tight, pink pucker, already glistening from the remnants of your earlier… attention.

Your cock twitched, still sensitive from your last orgasm, but you didn’t dare hesitate.

“N-Noona,” you stammered, fumbling with the cap of the lube. “You’re sure—?”

A smack echoed through the room—her palm cracking against her own ass cheek, leaving a faint red handprint in its wake. “Did I stutter?”

Message received.

You poured a generous amount onto your fingers, warming it between them before pressing gently against her hole. Mina hissed, her back arching, but she didn’t pull away—just pushed back, forcing your fingertip inside with a lewd pop~.

Tch—!

Her muscles clenched around you, burning hot and tight, and you had to bite back a groan.

“Fuck,” you breathed, working your finger in slow circles, feeling her flutter around you. “Noona, you’re—hnngh—so tight—”

“More,” she demanded, her voice strained. “Don’t coddle me.”

You obeyed, adding a second finger, scissoring her open with careful strokes. The squelch of lube, the way her body fought then yielded—it was maddening.

Mina’s breath came in sharp gasps, her fingers twisting in the sheets as you curled your fingers, searching—“Ah!” Her hips jerked, a shudder running through her. “T-there—!”

You grinned, hitting that spot again, ruthlessly, until her thighs trembled and her moans turned broken. “N-Noona,” you panted, crooking your fingers one last time before pulling them free with a wet sound. “You ready?”

Mina glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark, her lips swollen from biting them. “Hurry up,” she ordered. “Before I change my mind.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Lining yourself up, you pressed into her with a groan, her ass stretching around your cock in agonizing increments.

POP~ SCHLURK~

Mina choked, her nails scoring the sheets as you bottomed out, her walls clenching like a vice.

“F-fuck—!” you gasped, your vision whiting out for a second. “N-Noona, you’re—hnngh—killing me—”

“Good,” she panted, her voice shaking. “Now move.”

The moment your hips drew back, the schlorp~ of her overstretched rim clinging to your cock was obscenely loud—a wet, sticky protest as her body fought to keep you buried inside. Mina’s breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the sheets until her knuckles bleached white.

“Ngh—!”

You paused, your own thighs trembling from the effort of restraint. “Noona—?”

Her answer was a sharp snap of her hips backward, forcing you even deeper with a brutal glrk~ as her inner walls convulsed around your girth.

“Did I say stop?”

The challenge in her voice sent a jolt down your spine.

You obeyed.

Your next thrust was punishing, your pelvis meeting her ass with a smack~ that echoed off the walls. Mina’s back arched, her elbows buckling as her forehead pressed into the mattress, but she didn’t retreat—just took it, her body yielding to yours in a way that bordered on sacrilege.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

The rhythm was filthy, each snap of your hips punctuated by the squelch~ of lube and the ragged hitch of her breath. Her hole, once impossibly tight, now gaped around you with every withdrawal, her rim flushed a deep pink from the abuse.

“Look,” you growled, your fingers digging into the supple flesh of her ass, spreading her wider. “Look how open you are for me.”

Mina whined, the sound muffled by the sheets, but she didn’t protest—just pushed back harder, her body demanding more.

You gave it to her.

Your pace turned feral, your cock spearing into her with reckless abandon, the slap of skin drowning out her choked moans. Her insides were scorching, her muscles fluttering in erratic spasms as you ruined her, your tip brushing that spot with every thrust.

“F-fuck—!” Her voice was a wreck, her thighs quaking as she neared her edge. “Y/N—I’m—!”

You dug your thumbs into her cheeks, spreading her apart as you pulled out slowly, watching in awe as her gaped hole clung to your shaft, her rim pulsing around nothing before you slammed back in.

SCHLAP!—GLORP~!

Mina screamed, her body bowing as her orgasm ripped through her—her ass clenching viciously around you, her walls milking your cock in desperate pulses.

But you held back, your own release coiling tight but denied—just as she’d wanted.

“N-Noona,” you panted, your voice raw. “You—fuck—you okay?”

Mina’s response was a weak laugh, her body collapsing onto the mattress.

“Again,” she whispered.

Mina’s fingers clawed at the sheets, her breath coming in ragged gasps as you pounded into her with reckless abandon. Every snap of your hips sent her body lurching forward, only for her to push back against you with a desperate grind, her ass clenching around your cock like a vice.

“H-harder—” Her voice was a broken whimper, her thighs trembling as she arched her back, demanding more.

You obeyed.

Your hands dug into the soft flesh of her hips, your fingers bruising as you yanked her back onto your cock with a brutal thrust.

SMACK!—GLORP~!

Mina screamed, her nails scoring the mattress as her body jolted from the impact. Her rim, already stretched and flushed, gaped around your girth with every withdrawal, her hole pulsing as if begging for you to ruin her further.

“F-fuck—Noona—” Your voice was hoarse, your own thighs burning from the effort of keeping up with her relentless pace. “You’re—hnngh—killing me—”

“Good,” she hissed, her head turning just enough to glare at you over her shoulder. “You deserve it.”

Then—

Her hand shot back, her fingers digging into your thigh as she forced you to slow.

“But I decide how you take me,” she breathed, her voice dripping with dominance. “Understood?”

You nodded frantically, your cock throbbing inside her as she rolled her hips in slow, agonizing circles, her walls milking you with precision.

Squelch~ Sqwelsh~

The lewd sound of her dripping arousal mixed with the slick slide of your cock stretching her wide filled the room, her moans turning filthy as she tortured you both.

“M-Mina—”

“No,” she snapped, her fingers tightening around your thigh. “You don’t get to beg.”

Then—

She dropped forward onto her elbows, her ass rising higher, her gaped hole clenching around you as she glanced back with dark eyes.

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

And God help you—

You did.

Your hands gripped her waist, your hips snapping forward with brutal force, your cock spearing into her with punishing strokes.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!

Mina’s screams were music, her body quaking as you ruined her, her gaped hole fluttering around your length with every thrust.

Mina’s body was a masterpiece of ruin—her ass jiggling with every brutal smack of your hips, her rim stretched obscenely around your cock, glistening with lube and the faint sheen of sweat. The clench of her muscles was vicious, her inner walls rippling in sinful waves as she controlled the pace with nothing but the roll of her hips and the squeeze of her thighs.

"Slower," she hissed, her voice a whip-crack of command, her fingers digging into the sheets as she arched her back, forcing you to still.

You groaned, your cock twitching inside her as she tensed around you, her hole fluttering like a heartbeat.

"N-Noona—"

"Look," she breathed, her hand sliding back to spread herself wider, her thumb pressing against her own stretched rim. "Look what you do to me."

Fuck.

Her asshole was puffy, reddened from the relentless pounding, the tight ring of muscle gaping slightly as you pulled back, her insides glistening with lube and the faint drip of her own arousal. The sight alone was maddening—her ruin, her surrender, all under her command.

"You like this?" she taunted, her voice thick with power, her hips grinding in a slow, cruel circle. "Being used like this? Filling me up until I decide you can cum?"

Your whimper was answer enough.

Mina laughed—a dark, delighted sound—before slamming herself back onto you with a drawn moan.

SCHLAP!—GLORP~!

The wet squelch of her stretched hole taking every inch of you was filthy, her body yielding and resisting in equal measure as she rode you with punishing precision.

"Mine," she growled, her nails scoring your thigh as she pushed you deeper, her grip on your cock unrelenting. "Every fucking thrust—mine."

And God—

You obeyed.

Your hands gripped her waist, your hips snapping up to meet her brutal pace, your cock spearing into her clenching heat with desperate strokes.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

Mina’s moans were broken, her body quivering as she chased her own pleasure, her control slipping with every jolt of your cock against her walls.

Mina's breath came in sharp, fractured gasps—each ragged inhale hitching as your cock stretched her ass wider, deeper, carving a place inside her that no one else had ever touched. Her thighs trembled violently, sweat-slicked and trembling, as her body fought the pleasure, then surrendered to it with a choked whimper.

"Y-Y/N—!"

Her fingers clawed at the sheets, her spine arching as her orgasm loomed, an avalanche of sensation crashing through her with every brutal thrust.

"N-No—wait—!"

But you didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Your hands dug into her hips, forcing her back onto your cock with punishing precision, the slap of skin drowning out her broken pleas.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!

Mina's body locked—her ass clenching around you like a vise, her muscles fluttering in erratic spasms as her climax tore through her without mercy.

"F-FUCK—!"

Her scream was raw, unfiltered, her back arching off the bed as her body betrayed her—her thighs soaking the sheets beneath her, her cunt pulsing around nothing as she squirted in ragged, uncontrollable bursts.

SPLOOSH~! SPLATTER~!

The sound was filthy, her release gushing in sticky waves, her hole milking your cock with desperate greed even as she shook apart beneath you.

And still—

You fucked her through it.

Each jerk of your hips dragged another scream from her throat, her orgasm rippling endlessly as her body surrendered to the relentless invasion.

"S-stop—I c-can't—!" Her voice was a wreck, her thighs quivering as she collapsed forward, her face pressed into the mattress.

But her ass—God, her ass—

It held you like a claim, her rim fluttering around your shaft as if begging you to stay.

So you did.

Your pace slowed, but never stopped, your cock grinding into her with lethal precision until her moans dissolved into whimpers, her body limp beneath yours.

Only then—

Did you finally still.

Mina breathed—a shaky, shattered exhale—before her fingers twitched weakly against the sheets.

"...Bastard," she whispered, her voice hoarse but satisfied.

Mina's thighs were still trembling from her explosive climax when she suddenly rolled onto her back, her dark eyes glazed yet commanding. Her fingers—still slick with sweat and lube—wrapped around the base of your cock in a vice-like grip, yanking you from her ruined ass with a wet schlorp~ that made you whimper.

"You've been good," she murmured, her voice hoarse but dripping with authority. "So I'll let you finish... my way."

Before you could process her words, her other hand fisted in your hair, dragging you down until your throbbing cock hovered just above her parted lips. Her breath—hot and uneven—fanned over your sensitive tip, her tongue darting out to flick at the precum beading there.

"N-Noona—"

"Quiet," she ordered, her nails digging into your scalp. "You don't get to speak when I'm about to taste your filth."

Then—

She opened wider, her lips sealing around your cockhead in one smooth motion, her tongue lapping at the underside with lethal precision.

GLRK~

You jolted, your hips bucking instinctively, but her grip on your hair tightened, forcing you still as she took you deeper, her throat fluttering around your length.

"M-Mpfh~!" Her nose wrinkled slightly at the taste—musky, bitter, hers—but she didn't pull away. Instead, her free hand cupped your balls, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

"Cum," she demanded, her voice vibrating around your cock. "Half in my mouth... half on my face."

Fuck.

You obeyed.

With a guttural groan, you pumped into her mouth, your release surging in thick, pulsing ropes as she swallowed the first few spurts with greedy gulps.

GULP~ GULP~

But then—

Just as commanded—

You pulled back, your cock slapping against her cheek as the remaining load splattered across her face in glorious streaks—her forehead, her nose, her swollen lips.

SPLAT~ SPLURT~

Mina's eyes fluttered shut, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop as it dripped down her chin.

"Messy boy," she chided, her voice thick with your cum. "But... good."

Then—

With a wicked smirk—

She licked her lips clean.

You collapsed onto the mattress, your body wrecked, your soul hollowed out by Mina’s relentless dominance. Your arms splayed out like a sinner begging for absolution, your chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps.

"Dear God," you whispered into the ceiling, your voice hoarse. "If you get me through tonight without Mina murdering me, I swear I’ll never even glance at another woman. Not Sana’s hips, not Tzuyu’s legs, not even Jeongyeon’s stupidly attractive tomboy swagger—nothing. Just… please."

A soft click of the tongue cut through your prayer.

"Talking to God instead of me?"

Mina’s voice was lighter now—sweet, almost playful—but the threat still lingered beneath. You turned your head just enough to see her standing at the foot of the bed, a damp towel in hand, her face now meticulously cleaned of your earlier… offering.

She looked angelic.

Which was terrifying.

"N-Noona, I was just—"

"Hush." She climbed onto the bed, her movements graceful as ever, before dropping the towel onto your chest with a pat. "Clean yourself up. You’re sticky."

You obeyed immediately, wiping away the remnants of sweat, lube, and other things with trembling hands. Mina watched you, her dark eyes unreadable, until finally—

She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she crawled forward and collapsed onto your chest, her cheek pressing against your rapidly beating heart.

"...Idiot."

The word was soft, fond, her fingers tracing idle circles on your stomach.

You blinked.

"N-Noona…?"

"You do know I don’t actually think you’d cheat on me, right?" She tilted her head up, her nose scrunching in that adorable way that made your chest ache. "I just like reminding you who you belong to."

Your breath hitched.

"O-Oh."

"But," she continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "if you ever stare at Sana’s ass like that again, I will lock you in this bedroom and ride you until you forget your own name."

A beat.

"...Can I get that in writing?"

Mina pinched your side—hard—before burying her face in your neck with a grumbling laugh.

"Go to sleep, you pervert."

You let out an exasperated sigh, fingers threading through Mina’s hair as she nuzzled against your chest. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and expensive—mixed with the musk of sweat and sex still clinging to both of you.

“Noona,” you started, voice tinged with playful indignation, “I literally just adjusted Tzuyu’s dress strap today because it was slipping. And I held Sana’s jacket for three seconds while she fixed her in-ear. That’s it.”

Mina’s fingers, which had been tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, dug in slightly—just enough to make you jolt.

“Exactly,” she murmured, her voice a low, honeyed threat. “Your hands should be busy—just not with them.”

You groaned, tilting your head back against the pillow. “I was working—”

“And now,” she interrupted, propping herself up on one elbow to glare down at you, “you’re mine.”

Her free hand trailed down your chest, her nails scraping lightly over your skin before her fingers wrapped around your half-hard cock with terrifying ease.

You jolted, your hips twitching instinctively.

“N-Noona—!”

“After shoots,” she continued, her grip tightening just so, “your first priority is me. Not Jihyo’s mic check. Not Dahyun’s missing shoe. Not even God if He showed up asking for a fitting.”

Her thumb swiped over your tip, smearing the bead of precum that had already gathered there.

“Understood?”

Your breath hitched, your body burning under her touch despite the exhaustion weighing your limbs down.

“Y-Yes, Noona,” you stammered, your voice raw.

Mina hummed, her lips curving into a satisfied smirk before she released you, patting your thigh like you were a well-trained pet.

“Good.”

Then—

She collapsed back onto your chest, her fingers lacing with yours as she snuggled closer.

“Now sleep,” she ordered, her voice soft but final. “You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

And God help you—

You shivered, pulling her closer as your eyes fluttered shut.

Worth it.

Your fingers stilled in Mina’s hair, curiosity prickling at the back of your sleep-deprived mind. "Noona… what’s the plan for tomorrow?" you mumbled against her forehead, lips brushing her skin.

Mina’s lashes fluttered open, revealing those dark, dangerous eyes that always saw too much. A smirk curled at the corner of her swollen lips.

"‘Talk That Talk’ jacket shoot," she purred, her nails digging possessively into your hip. "Fishnet stockings. Corsets. Thigh-highs."

Your throat went dry.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You’d seen the wardrobe previews. The stylists had outdone themselves this time—sinful lace, skimpy cutouts, outfits designed to make ONCEs lose their minds. And now you had to stand there, professional, while Mina—

"You’ll be good, won’t you?" Her voice was sweet, but her fingers traced your jawline with the threat of a guillotine. "No staring at Chaeyoung’s corset. No fixing Momo’s garter belt too slowly."

You swallowed hard.

"I—I’m working, Noona—"

"Exactly," she interrupted, her knee pressing between your thighs with lethal precision. "And if I catch you looking anywhere but my face during close-ups?"

Her free hand slid down your stomach, her fingers brushing over the sensitive skin just below your navel.

"I’ll ruin you in the dressing room," she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. "And this time? No one will hear you beg."

A shiver tore down your spine.

"Y-Yes, Noona," you choked out.

Mina hummed, satisfied, before nestling back into your chest.

"Good boy."

And as you lied there, staring at the ceiling, one thought circled your mind like a vulture—

You were so, so fucked tomorrow.

You knew better than to let Mina’s threat linger. With a slow, deliberate movement, you tilted her chin up, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Her breath hitched—just slightly—before she melted against you, her fingers loosening their death grip on your hip.

"Mmhn~..." she murmured against your mouth, her lashes fluttering. "Cheap tactics."

You didn’t stop.

Your lips trailed down her jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot beneath her ear—the one that always made her shiver.

"Not cheap," you corrected, your voice a rough whisper. "Strategic."

Mina huffed, but her body arched into your touch, her earlier dominance wavering under the persistent press of your mouth.

"You think this’ll save you tomorrow?" she breathed, her nails scraping down your chest.

You grinned, kissing her again—deeper this time, your tongue swiping at her lower lip until she moaned into your mouth.

"Worth a shot," you mumbled, your hands squeezing her waist.

Mina sighed, her body sinking into yours with resigned pleasure.

"...Fine," she grumbled, her voice laced with fond irritation. "But if you breathe too long near Sana’s corset, I’m tying you to my dressing room chair."

You chuckled, pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

"Noted."

And as she snuggled closer, her breaths evening out against your skin, you smiled into the dark.

Victory.

#twice #twice mina smut #twice mina #mina smut #myoui mina #twice x male reader #twice x reader #nayeon #chaeyoung #jeongyeon #jihyo #momo #sana #dahyun #mina #tzuyu #twice smut #girl group smut #gg smut

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iris-qt · 16 days ago

Text

🧹 Eyes on the Quaffle, Riddle

“Formations!” you yell, blowing your whistle. “Get in position, you too, Riddle!”

Mattheo, who is currently doing absolutely nothing helpful except leaning on his broom and watching you like you personally invented oxygen, blinks innocently.

“I am in position,” he says, fluttering his lashes. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally.”

“You’re standing on the grass.”

He checks. “So I am.”

You narrow your eyes. “Fly. Now.”

He finally mounts his broom and kicks off, but not before flying close enough to whisper, “Yes, ma'am.”

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth protest. Dating Mattheo Riddle, as it turns out, is a full-time job. Especially when you’re also his Quidditch captain, and he thinks professional boundaries are just suggestions with optional side quests.

“Alright, we’re running the Porskoff Ploy,” you call out. “Riddle, take left flank—"

“I’ll take your left hand in marriage if we win this game.”

“—and shut up,” you finish, pointing your gloved finger at him.

He salutes with a wicked grin, then actually does what he’s told, which is suspicious and terrifying. For a solid twenty minutes, he flies like a model teammate. Executes every play. Doesn’t flirt once.

Naturally, you're worried.

You blow your whistle. “Alright, bring it in.”

They circle back. Mattheo’s sweaty, flushed, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure. You’re holding the clipboard when he lands beside you, peeling off his gloves.

“Proud of me?” he asks casually.

“You actually followed directions,” you mutter, flipping the page, eyes glued to your clipboard. “Should I be concerned?”

He leans in. “I just wanted to see what it takes to get Captain Bossy Boots to kiss me in public.”

You elbow him in the ribs. “Don’t test me.”

“I love testing you,” he says. “You love my tests. You crave the exams I bring into your life.”

“Okay, now you're just saying words.”

“I was being a good boy,” he murmurs. “Didn’t I earn a reward?”

You don’t look up from the clipboard. “You earned laps. For the first thirty minutes when you were being a menace.”

Mattheo groans loudly. “This is workplace harassment.”

“You don’t work here.”

He leans in again, voice dropping. “Then kiss me and I’ll consider it volunteer service.”

You glance around. The team is distracted, some stretching, some rehydrating. You shift your clipboard to block your face and peck him quickly.

He freezes.

“Wait—did you just—”

“One more word,” you warn, eyes still on your notes, “and I’m making you wear the spare practice kit.”

His face drops. “The one that says ‘Kiss the Keeper’ on the back?”

“Exactly.”

He groans again but doesn't push his luck. You smirk to yourself and whistle. “Alright, back in the air! Riddle, keep your hands to yourself this time.”

Mattheo flies off, but not before yelling, “No promises, sweetheart!”

You’re going to murder him.

Or marry him.

Maybe both.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle x y/n

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heethera · 12 days ago

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˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐥?

➜ summary: what happens when your ex-best friend lawyers you into marrying him? exhibit a: the marriage contract you both wrote and signed when you were twelve.

pairing: lhs x f!reader, wc: 18k words , genre: work romance, fluff, slight angst (not really) w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing, implied sex

12 YEARS AGO

Twelve was a ridiculous age.

At twelve, you knew just enough to survive. Water was good. Hunger sucked. Sleep was non-negotiable. You understood that cereal could be dinner if no one stopped you, and that bruises from falling off your bike hurt less than the sting when Park Jongseong, your first middle school crush, told you your pigtails were uneven. For some reason, that hurt.

But love? Love was still the kind of thing you learnt from watching episodes of Phineas and Ferb when you were bored or whatever drama your mum had playing on the TV in the background. You didn’t really understand what it was.

All you knew was that it probably had the same colour and scent as Lee Heeseung.

It was the summer of 2014, and you were lying flat on your stomach across Heeseung’s bedroom carpet, the pattern of the rug imprinting little diamonds into your knees. The fan overhead creaked in slow, lazy circles. Outside, someone’s dog wouldn’t stop barking. Inside, Heeseung was twisting around with a new fidget toy he got from the dollar store.

“Do you think I’ll have a boyfriend twelve years from now?” you asked, chewing the end of your pencil.

He didn’t even look up. “Beats me.”

“Hee, I’m serious,” you pressed.

With a groan as dramatic as his limbs were long, Heeseung finally glanced up. “What do you even want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, pencil now balanced horizontally between your upper lip and nose like a moustache. “I’m just thinking.”

Heeseung leaned back against the side of his bed, gaze flicking to the ceiling like the answer might be hidden in the fan’s creaky rotations. “Twelve years from now… we’d be—” He held up a hand, counting quietly. “Twenty-four.”

“That’s the age my parents got married,” you said, as if that somehow doomed you to a ticking clock.

Heeseung made a face. “Gross.”

You frowned, dramatic in the way only preteens could be. “I wanna get married.”

He clicked the fidget toy shut with a snap. “What is it with you and boyfriends lately?”

“I mean… twenty-four is old, Heeseung. Way old.”

“Barely,” he replied, then paused, his brow quirking slightly. “Besides, someone’ll like you.”

You cradled your face in both hands. “What if they don’t?”

He reached out and poked your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You’re pretty. I’d like you.”

You blinked at him. “You would?”

“Sure.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “But not now. You’re weird.”

You cracked a smile. “Hm, so you think I’m pretty… that’s not what Park Jongseong said last week when I beat him at basketball. He said I looked like a ‘sweaty worm.’”

“Oh yeah.” Heeseung snorted, eyes crinkling. “That was funny.”

You launched a cushion at his face in retaliation. He caught it with one hand, barely blinking.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, tone casual as he dropped the cushion to the floor. “When we’re twenty-four… we’ll get married.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

“Just in case,” he replied with a shrug. “If you don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t have a girlfriend. Then we’ll get married.”

You stared at him, unsure if he was joking. Heeseung always said ridiculous things—like how he was going to invent a chocolate that never melted, or become the first person to skateboard across the ocean. But this? This was different.

“Really?” This time, you sat up properly, legs crossed beneath you, your heart doing something weird and fluttery in your chest.

“Yeah.” He nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Are you just saying that?”

Heeseung shook his head. “We can pinky swear on it.”

“A pinky swear?” you scoffed, arms folding. “That’s, like, so elementary school. We need something more binding.”

“Like what?”

You rummaged through your pencil case, digging out a crumpled sheet from your favorite Hello Kitty notebook, half-covered in doodles of stars and lopsided flowers. “A contract.”

Heeseung leaned closer, peering over your shoulder as you smoothed the page flat on the carpet. “You’re seriously writing this down?”

“Absolutely.” You grabbed a glitter gel pen and scribbled across the top in loopy, uneven letters: Marriage Pact – Do Not Ignore (Even If You’re Famous or Rich)

Heeseung burst into laughter. “What kind of title is that?”

“A legal one,” you replied seriously, already underlining it twice. “Sign here, please.”

Heeseung took the pen from your hand, tongue sticking out slightly as he wrote his name in slow, deliberate strokes. Then he passed it back.

You signed yours underneath, dotting the “i” in your name with a tiny heart.

And just like that, two twelve-year-olds, were legally bound by glitter ink.

12 YEARS LATER

You slammed your apartment mailbox shut with your foot, flipping through the envelopes as you climbed the stairs.

You sighed. “Electric. Insurance. Internet. Phone. Rent. Water,” you muttered, voice rising with each envelope. “Can’t believe we live in a world where they charge us for clean water.”

You shoved the stack under your arm and nudged the apartment door open with your hip, stepping inside and closing it behind you with the heel of your foot.

Jake looked up from the couch. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You held up the bills with a deadpan stare. “If ghosts came in white envelopes and demanded a fuck ton of money, then yeah. Paranormal as hell.”

Jake looked up from the couch, controller still in hand. “Again?”

“Yes, Jaeyun. Bills happen every month. That’s what we signed up for when we became roommates.”

You tossed the stack onto his lap. He sighed and paused his game, the TV screen freezing on a very intense moment in Mario Kart.

He flipped through the envelopes, brows furrowing as he read each one aloud. “Electric. Insurance. Internet. Phone. Rent. Water.”

He looked up at you with disbelief, “Can’t believe we live in a world where they charge us for clean water.”

“That’s what I said!” you replied, dropping your bag by the side of the couch and kicking off your shoes.

Jake was about to make another sarcastic comment, but then he paused.

He squinted at one of the envelopes, holding it up by its edge like it might bite. “What’s a Lee Heeseung?”

You stilled. “…What do you mean?”

Jake held it up with two fingers like it was radioactive. “Someone named Lee Heeseung addressed a letter to you. Wait…Lee Heeseung… sounds familiar. Isn’t this the guy who–”

You lunged forward, snatching the envelope out of his hands so fast the paper rustled.

He started to stand. “Wait—”

But you were already on your feet, clutching the envelope to your chest like it held state secrets.

“I’m going to my room,” you said quickly, already halfway down the hall.

Jake called after you, “You can’t just run away!”

But you were gone.

You dropped the envelope onto your desk and began pacing, feet dragging slightly over the worn hardwood floor. Back and forth. Hands on your hips, then rubbing the back of your neck, then up through your hair like you could physically scrape the panic out of your scalp.

Lee Heeseung.

You hadn’t heard that name in six years. Not since you were 18. What the hell was he doing sending you letters after 6 years of ghosting you? Letters, of all things. Not a text. Not an email. A letter.

You rubbed your face with both palms, fingers pressing into your temples. Your entire body felt tight with confusion.

You stared at the envelope for a long second.

Should I open it? you asked yourself.

Your fingers twitched.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were already tearing into the envelope, clumsily slicing the top open with your nail. The paper ripped slightly at the corner from how fast your hands moved. The letter slid out, crisp and neatly folded.

You read it, then stood in silence, blinking. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Brain empty. You were confused. Stunned. A little stoned but from shock. Absolutely floored. Like someone had drop-kicked your frontal lobe.

This letter is to formally present the enclosed documentation for legal execution of a prior agreement, namely a childhood contract between yourself and one Mr. Lee Heeseung. The aforementioned contract, signed voluntarily at age twelve, contained a clause regarding marital union at the age of twenty-four should both parties remain unwed. Pursuant to this clause, Mr. Lee Heeseung has submitted the original document, legally notarized, and formally requests your signature on the attached marriage certificate to fulfil the terms of said agreement. Please review the enclosed documents at your earliest convenience. For any clarifications, feel free to contact our office or Mr. Lee directly.

Your mouth moved but to be honest, all you could manage was:

“What the fuck is wrong with him.”

You were late.

You weren’t usually late. In fact, you were one of those annoying people who showed up fifteen minutes ahead of time and still apologised for making others wait. But today? Today was the one day you really didn’t want to be late.

Your first day at your big girl job and here you were, sprinting toward the building that held your future career by its palm.

Your shoulder bag bounced wildly against your side as you dodged a man holding a suspiciously large iced coffee, barely avoiding a full-blown caffeine collision. The turnstile doors loomed ahead sleek and metallic. You jabbed your access card against the reader. You slipped through and finally looked up.

And then you saw Jake.

“Hurry up!” he called, gesturing frantically as the elevator chimed. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into getting the bus without you.”

You jogged over, breathless. “Well you’d be late and you know I get the nervous poops.”

He glanced at his watch. “Yeah but couldn’t you have held it in? You know how they say the first impression counts.”

You rolled your eyes as you stepped in beside him. “They also say to surround yourself with supportive friends, but look how that turned out.”

Jake grinned, holding the door for you. “Touché.”

The elevator doors slid shut with a polished ding, sealing you and Jake into a box of brushed metal and awkward first-day jitters.

“I still can’t believe we got the last two spots at Aureum,” You said, “The Aureum.”

“Well,” Jake said, trying to catch his breath, “we fought our way here and beat out that no-good Park Eunmi and her bratty—”

“Jake.” You shot him a warning look. “We’re adults now. We don’t go around talking shit about people we won’t even be seeing anymore.”

He blinked. “Weren’t you the same person who called her, and I quote, a ‘two-faced conniving bitch’ yesterday?”

“Like I said,” you replied, smoothing your blouse, “I’m an adult now.”

As two of the newest Junior Marketing Associates, you and Jake had beat out over a hundred applicants. A hundred other applicants who probably practiced their interview answers in the mirror a million times before. And somehow, two under-slept twenty-somethings from a shared apartment with a broken microwave made it through.

Your eyes flicked around the office, trying to drink it all in, endless cubicles with glowing monitors, people tapping away at keyboards like they were born doing it, voices murmuring through headsets, and behind closed doors, offices that belonged to people with email signatures way fancier than yours.

You clutched your lanyard a little tighter.

“Come on in, guys. Sit down, sit down.” A man in a blazer and slacks stood by the doorway, gesturing everyone inside with brisk efficiency. His voice was clear, professional, and used to being listened to.

You followed Jake into the room, quietly settling into one of the twelve chairs arranged in a half-circle around a low conference table. The space was bright, glass walls on one side, soft overhead lighting, and a large flat-screen monitor mounted neatly in front. A clicker and laptop sat idle on the table. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable.

“I’m Park Jongseong,” the man announced once everyone had filtered in. “We’ll be starting orientation in about five minutes. We’re just waiting for the head of department to arrive, and then we’ll get going.”

The name hit you oddly. A little familiar. Park Jongseong. It tugged at the back of your memory, but you brushed it off. Probably a coincidence. Jongseong wasn’t exactly rare.

He continued, tone practised. “Before that, let’s take attendance. Please scan the QR code on the screen, log in using your company ID, and mark yourself as ‘present.’”

The screen flickered to display the code. A few people reached for their phones immediately.

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask,” he added, hands clasped in front of him, his expression neutral but approachable. The lanyard hanging around his neck read Human Resources – Manager. That explained the ease, the polished tone. He’d clearly done this many times before.

You unlocked your phone and scanned the code, fingers moving over the login screen. Jake leaned over slightly to peek at your screen, making sure he was doing the same thing right.

You tried to focus, but the name still lingered somewhere in your mind. Park Jongseong.

You shook your head, returning your attention to the task at hand.

It couldn’t be. Not that Jongseong. Right?

“Okay, he’s here,” Jongseong said, glancing toward the glass wall. He gave a quick nod to someone just out of sight. “Please use my company email if you have any HR-related issues. Thank you, and I’ll see all of you after this session.”

He stepped aside, and a man entered the room.

“Good morning everyone, I’m the head of department,” the newcomer said, tone cool and efficient. “For anything related to your job, your submissions, deadlines, or team responsibilities, they will come through me. Understood?”

A quiet chorus of nods followed. You nodded too, still focused on your phone screen. It was taking forever to load. You squinted, trying to figure out why, until you realised you’d typed your employee ID wrong. You had tapped 7 instead of 6.

You tapped back, correcting it, only half-hearing the voice that came next.

“Right,” came a quiet chuckle. The voice was warmer this time, slightly amused. Familiar. “Sorry—I forgot the intro bit. I’m Lee Heeseung. You can call me whatever feels comfortable."

Your finger froze on the screen.

The pen you had been holding slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a small clack. You stood up so quickly your chair scraped the polished floor, every eye in the room swivelling toward you.

Heeseung paused mid-sentence, glancing in your direction. His gaze landed on you and stayed.

Your breath caught. Your brain refused to supply anything useful, like words.

Heeseung blinked, the faintest trace of recognition crossing his face but he said nothing.

“Is there an issue?” Jongseong looked up from his tablet, glancing around before his eyes landed on you. His brow furrowed slightly. “Hey, aren’t you—”

“No.” You shook your head a little too quickly, a little too firmly. “Nope.”

“But you’re—”

“Not her.”

Jongseong paused. “You didn’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” you replied, already feeling the heat rise to your face.

“But how do you know who I’m thinking about?” he countered, eyes narrowing slightly.

There was a long, loaded beat of silence. You could feel Jake watching your exchange, an eyebrow raised.

You exhaled.

“Okay,” you muttered, shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m her.”

“I knew it,” Jongseong said with a grin, nudging Heeseung with his elbow. “I told you she looked familiar. Didn’t you just send her that stupid lawyer–”

Heeseung cut in, his voice even. “That’s enough.”

The room was silent.

You cleared your throat, brushing your hair behind your ear and reaching for your pen like none of that had just happened. “Anyway. Please continue, Mr. Lee.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, stepping to the front of the room. “Where were we?”

And just like that, orientation resumed.

You sat stiffly in your seat, eyes glued to the screen at the front, pretending to take notes on the company’s mission statement while internally drafting your resignation letter in all caps.

You could feel it.

That unmistakable weight of a stare, burning, pointed, patient. Heeseung’s gaze practically drilled through the crown of your head. And you couldn’t bring yourself to look up. Not once. Not even when Jake elbowed you under the table, trying to stifle a grin.

Unbelievable. Out of all the possible outcomes in this capitalist hellscape, this was what you got?

As if that wasn’t enough to emotionally flatten you, you'd also just received a letter from his lawyers three days ago.

Because apparently, a glitter-gel-penned contract you made when you were twelve still counted.

“What the fuck was that?” Jake hissed, yanking you halfway out of your new ergonomic chair before you could even take a seat.

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “The whole thing with Mr. Lee and Park Jong… something.”

“Seong. It’s Park Jongseong,” you corrected, brushing down the front of your blouse as you stood properly this time.

“Yeah, that. What was that about?”

You glanced around quickly. The office floor was open-concept, dotted with neatly arranged cubicles, each one separated by low partitions and decorated with cheerful onboarding folders and branded pens. Too many ears. Too much glass.

“Could you not ask me about it when his office is right there?” you muttered, trying not to move your lips too much.

As if summoned, the two of you instinctively turned your heads.

Heeseung’s office sat just a few feet away. And through the transparent wall, you saw him.

Already looking. Directly at you.

You and Jake immediately snapped your heads back around like guilty children caught cheating on a test.

You could feel the heat rush to your face. Jake ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “He definitely saw that.”

“Of course he did,” you whispered.

“Okay. Lunch,” Jake said, already tugging on your sleeve. “You’re telling me everything.”

“Do you remember that guy I told you about… when we first met?” you began cautiously, already regretting this entire conversation.

Jake didn’t even blink. “The almost ex who broke your heart? The one who vanished without a word, no texts, no emails, just poof? The guy you cried over every night for the first two months we shared a dorm? That guy? The one who had you in sweatpants for so long our professor personally pulled you aside after our first group presentation to suggest dressing like you hadn’t just escaped a deadly house fire?”

You gritted your teeth. “You could’ve just said yes.”

“I like my answer better,” Jake replied, flashing that annoyingly smug grin of his.

You rolled your eyes, arms folding over your chest. “Fine. Yes. It’s… that guy.”

Jake’s eyes widened so fast. “Holy fuck. Wasn’t he the one who, correct me if I’m wrong, lawyered you into marrying him like 3 days ago?”

You nodded slowly. “I doubt it’s even legal, but… yes.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, the disbelief painted across his face shifting into something almost amused. “This is highly coincidental,” he said, voice rich with sarcasm. “Almost like…it's fate.”

You stared at him for a beat, then stabbed your spoon into your bowl and shoved a mouthful of meat in before mumbling through it, “If this is what fate is, then fate’s a fucking bitch.”

“Do you think they’re dating?” Heeseung asked, eyes fixed on the other side of the company cafeteria.

Jongseong followed his line of sight.

Across the room, you and Jake were seated at a small corner table, trays pushed aside, both of you laughing, loud and unbothered.. You were leaned in close, practically in tears from whatever Jake had just said.

“Looks friendly to me,” Jongseong shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re still in love with her. Thought you hated her.”

“I do,” Heeseung said quickly. “It’s just—I don’t know. I mean… she was right in some sense.”

Jongseong didn’t miss a beat. “Dude, she didn’t even show up at the airport. You waited there like an idiot until the last minute. You almost missed your flight.”

Heeseung gave a tight laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe she was busy…”

Jongseong raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, I don’t blame her,” Heeseung said quickly. “She was scared. She thought long distance would ruin us. That we’d fall apart, stop being friends, stop meaning something to each other.”

Jongseong turned his head, slow and deliberate, fixing him with that look, the one he always gave before saying something brutally true.

“Well,” he said, voice calm, “are you friends now?”

Heeseung said nothing.

“Didn’t think so,” Jongseong muttered, then grinned as he picked up a piece of kimchi. “Are you also forgetting who you video called the first hundred times you cried in Canada?”

“Why do you love bringing that up?” Heeseung groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Jongseong took a long, smug sip of his drink, barely suppressing a grin. He turned back to his tray of cafeteria food before pointing his chopsticks at Heeseung like they were an accusation. “Because it’s funny.”

Heeseung didn’t respond, just glared at his soup.

Jongseong raised an eyebrow. “So by the looks of it, I’m guessing you really got Beomgyu to send that lawyer letter to scare her?”

“To be fair,” Heeseung muttered, “I didn’t know she’d end up under me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jongseong said through a mouthful of rice, chuckling as he shook his head. “But if you wanna get all weirdly poetic about it, I guess this is kinda like destiny, isn’t it?”

Heeseung stared down at his tray, “Well,” he muttered, “if this is destiny then destiny’s a fucking bitch.”

Listen…Heeseung was smart.

He climbed Aureum’s corporate ladder in less than two years, thanks to an impressive portfolio born out of his time in Canada. Moving there had been a blessing in disguise. Academically, professionally, it launched him. He made the most of it. Graduated top of his class, turned internships into job offers, turned job offers into power.

But for all of Heeseung’s intelligence, his work ethic, and his calculated rise, if there was one thing he was consistently stupid about, it was you. He didn’t understand it. In fact, he couldn’t even explain it. You were the one area of his life that turned logic into mush and rationality into dust.

It started as a joke. A stupid, drunken mistake that should’ve stayed buried under the dim lights of some bar on a Thursday night.

It was happy hour. He and Jongseong were at their usual spot, a watering hole they swore they were too old for but kept returning to anyway. One tequila turned into four. Somewhere between rounds, Heeseung started rambling, slurred sentences about you, the past, and that dumb glitter-pen marriage pact you’d made when you were kids.

Jongseong, drunk and equally dumb, grinned and said, “Dude. You should actually send her something. Like get lawyers involved. Just to freak her out.”

Heeseung, handsome as ever and dumb as a fork, blinked. His eyes widened. “Wait. That’s… actually kind of funny.”

“No it’s not,” Jongseong had said, already laughing. “That’s what makes it brilliant.”

Which is how, somewhere around midnight, Heeseung scrolled through his contacts, called the first legal name he recognised, Choi Beomgyu, law school graduate, part-time legal consultant and said:

“Hey, can you help me draft a marriage contract?”

It had been two days since you started working at Aureum.

Coincidentally, it had also been two days since Heeseung had done any actual work.

Each morning, like clockwork, he walked in, tailored suit, briefcase in hand, and Prada shoes. He placed his bag neatly on the desk, powered on his computer, clicked into his emails… and then lost all sense of purpose. The first thing he did every morning was type a message to Jongseong.

Subject: emergency i madonna die i mgona die shes lookihng voer pretty pretty u think shell love me back ohne day? Actually im jk i hate her but if hate why prtty? omg shes lookg voer...pretend teim oding work im doing many work work is fun work is cool Work . im work Best Regards Lee Heeseung Head of Marketing | Aureum & Co. 📞 +82-10-XXXX-XXXX ✉️ [email protected] 🌐 www.aureumcorp.kr “We don’t do average.”

He’d hit send. Then he'd type a second variation and send that too. On the first day, Jongseong had replied with “You good?” On the second, he didn’t respond at all. By day three, Heeseung didn’t even expect a reply. He was just venting into the void.

Heeseung told himself he just wanted a moment. A single conversation. A little closure. Maybe an opportunity to push your buttons, mess with you, throw you off your game. Because as far as he was concerned, you still owed him that. And now, here you were.

Still stupidly, infuriatingly pretty.

He sat behind his desk, legs crossed under the polished oak surface, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, eyes fixed on the list of new hires.

But all Heeseung cared about was one thing: getting you alone.

He had crafted a plan that was equal parts desperate and genius, hosting a Getting to Know You session for each new employee. No one could question it.

Nishimura Riki—Ni-ki. A boy with his hoodie still half-zipped, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks like he was allergic to authority. He entered without knocking, took the seat opposite Heeseung with zero urgency, and stared blankly at the offered glass of water. Said maybe six words in ten minutes. Heeseung didn’t mind. He respected the quiet ones. Good for him.

Next came Kim Sunoo.

He bounced into the room like the sunlight had a personality and sat with both palms flat on the table like he was bracing for takeoff. Heeseung barely finished the question—“How’s working here so far?”—before Sunoo launched into a detailed narrative about his family, his dead turtle, and the emotional trauma of overwatering a succulent. At one point, he teared up. Heeseung slid the tissue box across the table silently. You know what, good for him too.

Then came Yang Jungwon.

Jungwon knocked twice, entered with a clipboard, and sat like a model intern. His back straight, pen ready, shoes perfectly aligned under the chair. He answered every question clearly, thoughtfully, and didn’t overshare once. Heeseung liked him. He even made a note in the corner of his notepad: Promotion material.

And then Jake Sim.

Jake entered all smiles and sunshine, like he was walking into a brunch spot instead of a corporate office. His tie was off-centre. Shirt sleeves rolled too high. Hair a little too perfect. He slid into the chair across from Heeseung, crossed one ankle over his knee like he owned the place, and grinned.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

The office suddenly felt hotter. Like the air conditioning had given up. Heeseung straightened the papers on his desk even though they were already perfectly aligned, mostly just to stop himself from flipping the table.

“So,” he started, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward with faux interest, “do you see yourself working here long?”

Jake nodded, no hesitation. “Yeah, working at Aureum is honestly a dream. It’s been on my list of dream companies since uni.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “One of your dream companies?”

Jake blinked. “Uh—well, yeah. I mean, I had a few, but Aureum was definitely—”

“So what you mean to say,” Heeseung said, leaning back slowly in his chair with a smile that was definitely not a smile, “is that you’re disloyal.”

Jake froze. “What? No! That’s not—”

Heeseung picked up his pen and made a note on the paper in front of him. It had nothing to do with Jake. He just wrote ‘boring. lame. has uglier hair than me.”

He didn’t hate Jake Sim.

He despised him.

No real reason, of course. Except that Jake seemed to be exactly the kind of person you were comfortable around. The kind you laughed too easily with. The kind you sat next to at lunch and leaned into like it was natural. Didn't help that Jake was incredibly suave and handsome. Damn it.

It wasn’t personal.

Except it completely was.

Heeseung exhaled as soon as Jake left the room, running a hand through his hair and glancing at the final name on the list.

Your name.

He cleared his throat, stood up, and walked to the small mirror near the bookshelf to fix his hair, like that would somehow fix everything else.

And for the first time all day, Heeseung felt nervous.

You cleared your throat, then knocked. Heeseung looked up instantly.

His smile appeared before he could stop it, quick and unguarded, warm enough to light the whole damn office. Then, as if remembering himself, it vanished just as fast. His expression flattened into something more controlled. Nonchalance, he reminded himself. Be cool.

But it was hard to be anything close to composed with you standing there. Your head poked through the doorway, eyes bright and curious. That little hairclip still holding your bangs to the side, the same way you used to wear it when you were younger. Your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulder, reaching just past your waist. It swayed slightly as you tilted your head.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice soft.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting up straighter, shoving a file to the side like he hadn’t just been zoning out for ten full minutes. “Of course.”

Heeseung gestured to the chair across from him, and you made your way over, smoothing the front of your blouse before sitting down. The cushion dipped beneath you, and for a moment, you didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Heeseung cleared his throat. “Well… I already know you.”

You looked up.

A small pause.

“Do you want me to go?” you asked, half-standing.

“No!” he blurted, way too fast. He cleared his throat again, more controlled this time.

Heeseung leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, fingers tapping once against the wood before stilling. He glanced down at the paper in front of him, your employee profile probably and cleared his throat.

“So,” he began, voice measured, “you’ve been placed in the campaign strategy team.”

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s what the onboarding email said.”

He hummed, eyes scanning the paper like he didn’t already know what it said. “You’ll be working on the upcoming brand relaunch. A lot of external collaboration, internal pressure, long hours.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“You sure?” He looked up now, eyes sharp. “Because I need people who follow through. Who don’t just start strong and then bail when things get inconvenient.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Heeseung shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I’m asking if you’re the kind of person who sticks around when things get hard. Or if you’re more of a… run-and-disappear type.”

There was a pause.

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “Is this about Aureum, or about us?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

And that was answer enough.

Something in your chest twisted. “Because if you want to drag the past into this, you better say it plainly. Don’t wrap it up in company protocol and pretend it’s part of my fucking job description.”

And then, quieter, more bitter, he added, “It’s just… I thought you were serious about things. But apparently, you were only serious when it was easy.”

The room felt colder.

You inhaled slowly, the words slipping out before your brain could catch up. “You left. Not me.”

Heeseung flinched but you caught it. That flicker of something raw behind his eyes. But then, just as quickly, his expression closed over, sharp and unreadable again.

“No,” he said flatly. “You left first.”

Your breath hitched. “How did I—?”

“I needed you,” he cut in, his voice low, rough, brimming with a bitterness that stung more than you were ready for. “I could’ve used support. A friend. Anything. But the girl I loved the most—” his jaw tightened, “—she left me first.”

“I—”

“So before you paint me out to be the villain,” he said, his eyes dark, voice thick with something between anger and heartbreak, “think about how you ignored me after I told you I loved you.”

Your mouth opened, then closed, your chest rising and falling too quickly. “I didn’t ignore you because of that—I…” The words caught in your throat like they were afraid to come out. “How was I supposed to react? We finally—finally—got together and then right after, you told me you were leaving.”

“It wasn’t my choice!” he shouted, the words shattering between you like glass.

There was silence after that. Not the passive kind, but the kind that stung, like a slap in the middle of a quiet room.

“Mr. Lee,” you said, tone cool, professional, clipped. “I would like to leave now, since this meeting has had nothing to do with my job and everything to do with some attempt to lower my pride or exert some kind of personal power play that I don’t want any part of.”

You reached for the doorknob. And that’s when he panicked.

His mind raced, grasping at anything, everything, until one sentence tumbled out of his mouth like the world’s worst reflex.

“You’re supposed to be marrying me.”

The words dropped heavy into the room like a weight you hadn’t seen coming. You froze, hand still on the doorknob, back turned, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

“Did you think that lawyer letter was a joke?” His voice was quieter now, but there was something about the way he said it—like he was testing the air between you, like he wasn’t sure if you’d laugh or scream.

Slowly, you turned around, brows drawn together, the confusion and disbelief etched across your face. “Heeseung, that was a contract from when we were kids. Do you really think I’m some kind of idiot?”

He didn’t flinch. “It still stands actually… unless you want to get sued.”

You blinked. “Are you fucking with me?”

Heeseung held your gaze, mouth twitching into a slow, lopsided smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”

And then, he started walking toward you. Steady, unhurried steps that somehow made the air feel thinner with every inch he closed between you. Your heart began to pound erratically in your chest, loud enough you were almost certain he could hear it. Damn him for looking like that—like a fucking model in fitted slacks and a shirt that clung just right to his frame.

He stopped in front of you, close enough for you to catch the faintest scent of his cologne, clean and a little woodsy. God, he was hot.

“Because I’m not.”

“You are insane!” you hissed, voice rising.

“I’m not the one yelling in a see-through office,” he replied, gesturing lazily to the glass walls.

You paused, suddenly aware of the four to five people from accounting who were staring directly at the scene. You cleared your throat and lowered your voice only slightly. “I am not marrying you, Heeseung.”

He clicked his tongue and placed his tea down. “Did you read the bottom? The fine print?”

“I’m not reading anything that came from you and your fuckass lawyer,” you snapped.

Heeseung sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his temples like you were the one being unreasonable. “If you bothered to read a very legal document, you’d know that... it’s either marriage,” he paused to take another sip, “or you pay $20,000.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“$20,000,” he repeated, a little too casually. “As outlined clearly in the exit clause.”

Your jaw dropped. “And where is a girl who JUST started working supposed to get that kind of money?”

Heeseung shrugged, stepping closer. His footsteps were slow, annoyingly calm. He stopped right in front of you and gently lifted your chin with two fingers, like he was mocking you. “Well,” he said, voice low and irritatingly smug, “that’s up to you.”

You swatted his hand away, hard. “I am not marrying you,” you repeated, practically growling.

“So you’re giving me the $20,000 then?” he offered again, tilting his head, lips forming a mock pout.

You narrowed your eyes, then without thinking, leaned in and bit his fingers.

“OW—what the f—” He jerked his hand back with a laugh.

“I should’ve bit your face,” you muttered.

Heeseung grinned through the sting, shaking his hand. “Or... and I’m just spitballing here,” he said, stepping back with an exaggerated stretch, “I let you go—no marriage, no payment—if you do everything I say for one year.”

You stared at him like he’d grown three heads. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Just a year of doing whatever I say.”

You crossed your arms. “Three months.”

“Eight,” he shot back, without missing a beat.

“Four.”

“Six.”

You squinted at him. “Five and I don’t get you coffee.”

“Nope. Six, and you do exactly what I say.”

The air between you crackled, neither of you willing to back down. You stepped closer, closing the space between you with slow, deliberate steps until you were standing toe-to-toe in front of his desk. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in, eyes dark with challenge, the corners of his mouth curling like he was already claiming victory.

Your nose nearly brushed his. “Fine,” you hissed. “Six months. But if you so much as make me iron your stupid ass fancy Prada suit, I’m out.”

“Okay,” Heeseung said smoothly, his voice low and maddeningly smug. His breath fanned your face. “But you should know, I don’t wear wrinkled suits.”

And thus began the worst month of your life.

Day 1: He made you sort his alphabetised collection of business cards… in cursive. Handwritten. On new cards. With a quill. “It builds character,” he said..

Day 5: He scheduled a client meeting at 7am. You arrived. There was no client. He strolled in at 10 with a latte and said, “Wow. You’re early. How driven.”

Day 6: Assigned you to shadow a client. You followed a random man around a bookstore for 45 minutes before he texted: “Wrong guy btw.”

Day 9: Email subject line: “URGENT – FOOT EMERGENCY.” The body? “Buy me socks.” No context. Follow-up email: “With little cartoon frogs. The happier the better.”

Day 11: He asked you to water the plants in his office. None were real. One was a coat rack. You watered it anyway. He thanked you with a straight face.

Day 13: He demanded lunch delivered to his apartment. On your break. You found him mid-couch, watching Shrek 2 with subtitles and a face mask on. “Wanna join me?”

Day 16: Made you create a 23-slide presentation titled: “Why Lee Heeseung Is the Greatest Asset to This Company and Mankind.” You had to present it. To two confused interns and Park Jongseong, who heckled the whole time.

Day 18: Sent you to buy exactly 50 blueberries. “Not 49. Not 51. 50. Count them.” You did. The cashier thought you were insane.

Day 23: Assigned you to “reorganise the supply cabinet.” Inside was a single banana, a picture of himself and Jongseong’s car keys.

God. you hated Lee Heeseung.

The soft clink of chopsticks against a lunch container echoed across the sleek, minimal office. Jongseong sat casually on Heeseung’s guest couch, feet kicked up, poking at his lunch.

“You know,” Jongseong began between bites, “this little revenge you’ve got going on? Don’t you think it’s starting to get a little...much?”

Heeseung didn’t look up. “What’s much?”

“You made her pretend to be a floor tile last week.”

Heeseung barely blinked, expression flat.

“And to be fair, she was very convincing,” he muttered, like it was a genuine compliment.

Jongseong set his chopsticks down, suddenly serious. “Hee. Be honest. Are you trying to punish her, or are you just scared to talk to her like a normal human being?”

Heeseung’s lips parted, but no words came out. His jaw flexed. The silence stretched, and for the first time in weeks, he hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

Just then, the door swung open. You strode in without knocking, your eyes on fire and your movements sharper than necessary. You slammed a paper bag on his desk, the contents shifting loudly inside.

“Here’s your goddamn lunch,” you snapped, not sparing him a glance.

And before he could even process the noise, you turned on your heel and stormed out, leaving the door wide open in your wake.

A beat of stunned silence passed.

Jongseong blinked. “You sure she’s not poisoning that?”

Heeseung finally looked down at the crumpled paper bag, then at the door you’d stormed out through. He didn’t move for a moment, fingers hovering near the bag, like it might explode.

Then, with a low sigh, he leaned back in his chair, swivelling slightly toward Jongseong. “Can you check if she’s had lunch?”

Jongseong narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I’m just saying, she’s been running around all morning like a lunatic. Maybe she skipped lunch.”

“Why don’t you check yourself?” Jongseong smirked, already enjoying this. “Or better yet, pack it for her next time. Maybe write a little note with hearts on it.”

Heeseung groaned and rubbed his face with one hand. “Jesus. I’m not in love with her.”

“I never said love,” Jongseong sang. “You did.”

Heeseung glared at him. “I’m just doing what a responsible boss would do. Basic leadership. Workforce efficiency. You know, keeping employees from fainting.”

“By micromanaging her blood sugar?”

Heeseung pointed at him, still scowling. “Shut up and just go check.”

Jongseong stood, grabbing his soda and grinning. “Whatever you say, boss.”

As he walked out, he muttered just loud enough for Heeseung to hear, “Bet if she skipped lunch, you’d hand-feed her a five-course meal.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. He just turned back to the lunch bag and quietly moved it a little closer to his side of the desk.

You were done. You hated Lee Heeseung with every fibre of your being.

You had been mid-task, setting up a fragile product display for a major investor walkthrough—when the shelf gave way beneath your hand. One of the glass panels slipped, and in your rush to keep it from shattering, your palm dragged hard against the sharp metal edge of the support frame. You hissed, sucking in a breath as pain bloomed across your skin, followed by a streak of red pooling fast..

It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was definitely more than a paper cut. You stood frozen for a second, blood dripping onto the glossy marble floor, the scent of antiseptic and showroom polish mixing unpleasantly in the air.

Heeseung was across the room but moved in an instant, almost stupidly concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice sharp with something that sounded a lot like panic.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, clenching your hand as if squeezing the pain away.

“Let me see.” He was already digging in the drawer for the office first aid kit, grabbing a pack of antiseptic wipes and a bandage like it was muscle memory.

You pulled your hand away before he could touch you. “Can I go now?”

He froze. “I’m just trying to help. Stop being so stubborn.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you serious right now? You’re the one who sent me to fix a million-dollar display alone. Don’t act like you suddenly care.”

Then you walked off without another word, your wound throbbing in time with the storm brewing behind your ribs.

Heeseung stood there, staring at the streak of blood you left behind on the polished floor. The silence in the showroom echoed louder than it should’ve. The first aid kit was still in his hands, unopened. For once, he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Had he been too harsh?

The thought circled, bitter and biting. He meant to keep things light, or at least ridiculous. Make you squirm a little. Maybe even get back at you for leaving him all those years ago. But this? Watching you walk away, shoulders tense, hand bleeding—this didn’t feel like winning.

It felt like being the asshole.

He set the first aid kit down a little too hard on the nearest counter and exhaled slowly. Damn it. He hadn’t wanted to actually hurt you.

Maybe Jongseong was right. Maybe this whole thing was going too far.

And maybe, just maybe, he needed to stop acting like he wasn’t still in love with you.

But god, you made it so damn hard.

You hadn’t spoken to him. Not once. Not since that night.

You hated what he’d turned into, this cold, distant version of the boy who once knew you like the back of his hand. He was still familiar, his face carved a little finer now, his jaw set a little firmer, but everything else? Foreign. A stranger wrapped in the skin of someone you used to love.

He used to be yours.

The boy who’d race across districts just to find that one ridiculous snack you were obsessed with because the local mart ran out. The one who never let you cry alone, whose hoodie always smelled like laundry powder and peanuts, who sat silently beside you, his arm around your shoulder, steady as a heartbeat.

He wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t the one who once turned to you, eyes soft and sure, and said, I love you.

Not anymore.

But somehow, even through the pounding in your chest and the sting behind your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel it, that awful, twisting weight in your stomach. Guilt.

Because he was right.

You had left him first. You had pulled away. When he needed you the most, you had shut down, locked the door, and disappeared behind your own fear.

He was scared. Of course he was. Scared of leaving everything behind. Scared of starting over in a place where no one knew his name or the way he liked his coffee or how he bit his lip when he was nervous. Scared of being alone in a country halfway across the world. And the only person he had counted on to be his constant, you, had walked away.

6 YEARS AGO

Heeseung’s palms were sweating. His grip on the bouquet tightened, the white petals of the daisies trembling ever so slightly, your favourite flower. He glanced at his watch, then at his shoes, then back again, heart pounding louder with each passing second. It was noon. You’d be here any moment.

And he felt like he might be sick.

Just yesterday, everything had changed. His parents had sat him down with carefully measured smiles and voices too gentle to be comforting, ‘We’re moving to Canada. It’s a good opportunity. It’s what’s best for the family.’

But what about him? What about you?

His throat turned dry, mouth full of words he didn’t know how to say.

Today was supposed to be your first date. The start of something new, something real. Just two days ago, he’d stood under the willow tree with shaking hands and a confession written at the back of his hand. Then, he’d told you he liked you. And you had kissed him for the first time.

This day was meant to be perfect. But now, all he could feel was the weight of goodbye on his shoulders and it stunk.

And then there you were.

Pretty as ever, like he hadn't just found out his universe was crashing just the day before. You waltzed into view with a skip in your step, a loose, ribboned blouse tucked into jeans, your hair tied up in a ponytail that swayed with every bounce. Your eyes were wide, full of light, full of him, and everything in you screamed excitement for the day ahead.

“Flowers?” you grinned, raising a brow. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

Heeseung’s lips curved before he could stop them. “Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought.”

And just like that, the knot in his chest loosened. Just like that, he remembered how you always made him feel. Like everything was okay even when nothing was.

Then you smiled. And he was wrecked all over again.

You reached out, fingers finding his, lacing them together. “So…” you murmured as your hands swung between you, “where we going today?”

“I’m not one to spill secrets.”

“Oh? And is it a crime to wonder what my best friend has planned for our very first date?”

Heeseung winced playfully, biting his lip. “God, the word friend is starting to drive me insane.”

You laughed, soft and teasing. “Well, you haven’t actually asked, so I can’t just go around calling myself your girlfriend. That’d be… desperate.”

“You could reek of desperation,” he said, gaze steady, “and I think I’d still be in love with you.”

You let out a low whistle, raising a brow. “Damn. Dropping the L bomb already?” You leaned in with a crooked grin. “Didn’t peg you as a simp, Lee.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a hater,” Heeseung shot back, his smile matching yours.

Heeseung led you down a winding trail, hand in hand, until the trees parted to reveal a quiet creek. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves. A few couples lounged on checkered blankets, laughter drifting through the breeze. It was peaceful, idyllic.

“Ta-da,” he said, stepping aside with a grin so wide it made your heart stutter.

Before you was his surprise: a small picnic set up just for the two of you. A rattan mat stretched across the grass, a modest basket nestled in the middle. Inside were some store-bought sandwiches, your favourite yoghurt drinks, and tucked beside it all, two small square canvases with a neat set of watercolours.

“We’re painting,” he announced proudly.

You stared at him, then burst into laughter. “So we’re being secretive and artsy now? Who are you and what have you done with Lee Heeseung?”

He nudged your shoulder, feigning offense. “Hey, I can be romantic.”

“Oh please, you totally stole this off Pinterest.”

“Guilty,” he admitted shamelessly. “Honestly, it’s a miracle I even got Jongseong to help set this up while I distracted you.”

As if summoned by name, Jongseong emerged from behind a tree with a dramatic sigh.

“I swear, I do the darndest things for you,” he muttered, stepping into view, brushing off invisible dirt. “Now enjoy, lovebirds. Just remember, if the ravens start circling and steal your food, don’t come crying to me.”

The two of you had spent hours painting and teasing, talking over each other, laughing so hard it echoed off the trees.

“That’s supposed to be me?” you scoffed, squinting at his canvas. “Why are my eyes two completely different sizes?”

“It’s a work in progress,” Heeseung said, scandalised, snatching the canvas back. “Stop looking at mine!”

“I can’t help it! It’s like watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.”

“Oh, like yours is any better?” he shot back, rolling his eyes. “Why are my eyes so far apart?”

“They’re not!”

“They’re a mile away from each other,” he groaned, holding his face dramatically.

You gasped. “I think they look nice!”

“You made me look like E.T.!”

“They look nice, you’re just picky!” you snapped, pointing at the eyes you’d painted. “They’ve got that same sparkle your eyes have! See? Both pretty.”

He blinked. Then his cheeks turned pink. “So you do think my eyes are pretty.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You just said that.”

“No, I said my painting was pretty.”

“Oh, so now we’re pretending?” he drawled, a slow smile curving on his lips. “We kissed two days ago, and you’re back to acting like calling me pretty is a scandalous revelation? Pretending we’re just best friends again?”

His arm brushed behind you, anchoring against the mat, his body leaning a little closer, warm and steady beside yours.

You swallowed hard. “Well… you are my best friend.”

“Am I?” His voice was softer now, like velvet.

You nodded, a breath catching in your throat. “Y-Yes.”

He hummed, tilting his head. “That’s a pity. I really liked kissing you.”

Then he leaned in. His eyes flicked to your lips and you froze. You waited, heart pounding, lips parted slightly, breath shallow. Eyes fluttering closed.

And then…

Nothing.

You opened your eyes to find him gone, leaned back with a smug grin and the audacity to be laughing.

“You fucking asshole,” you hissed, shoving him with a pout, arms crossed tight across your chest.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Heeseung wheezed, still laughing as he reached for your wrist, trying to pull you back.

You turned away, refusing. “You just love embarrassing me.”

“Aww, come on, I was joking.” He bumped his shoulder gently into yours, trying to peek at your face. “You looked so cute.”

“You just want to humiliate me for your own selfish amusement.”

“Aw, baby, please—I was kidding—”

You both froze.

Baby.

Your head turned slowly. “What did you just call me?”

“Nothing.”

“You called me the b word.”

“I’d never call you a bitch,” he said quickly.

“No, not that b word.”

“Best friend?”

“Heeseung.”

“Okay, okay,” Heeseung said, hands raised in surrender, the corners of his lips still twitching with that smug, boyish grin of his. “Fine.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have, stretched tight between you like a string neither of you wanted to pull too hard in case it snapped. The leaves rustled above, a soft hush from the wind, but you couldn’t hear any of it over the way your heart was pounding.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual but your voice still came out sharper than planned. “If you’re not gonna ask me to be your girlfriend, then fuck it.”

He blinked, startled. “Huh?”

You turned your body fully to face him now, cheeks hot, but your eyes steady. “Heeseung?”

He straightened a little, eyes narrowing in confusion, like he wasn’t sure if he was being messed with. “What?”

Your lips curled upward, small but sure. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Heeseung stared.

And for a moment, there was nothing. No cheeky remark or flirty deflection. Just silence.

You hadn’t expected silence. You were bracing yourself for a grin, for the way he’d pull you into a hug and say yes like it was the easiest thing in the world. But he didn’t.

“Hee?” you said softly, your voice faltering, a knot of dread starting to twist in your chest. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I… can’t,” he whispered, barely audible.

You blinked. “What?”

Heeseung’s gaze dropped to the rattan mat between you. His fingers curled into the fabric like he could steady himself with something solid, something real, but the words still caught in his throat. How was he supposed to say it? How could he tell you now after everything? After the daisies. After telling you he loved you. After you asked him that question.

“I’m leaving,” he said, suddenly. The words spilled out like they’d been choking him.

You laughed, but it was hollow, disbelieving. “Leaving?"

“My dad,” he murmured, eyes still downcast. “He got a job offer. In Canada. We’re moving. I’m going with him.”

You sat there for a second, like the wind had been knocked out of you. And then you swallowed hard.

You hated reliving that memory.

It haunted you in quiet moments, when the house was too still, when a familiar song played, when someone said his name by accident and the air shifted. That gnawing, hollow ache of losing your best friend. The ache of watching someone who once felt like home turn into a goodbye you never got to say properly.

You’d stopped talking to him not out of cruelty, but because every word felt like watching him slip further away. Because you were scared. Because it hurt. Because loving him and losing him at the same time felt unbearable. You were selfish, and you understood that now. But he was leaving. And what did a couple of teenagers really know about long distance? About staying in love through time zones and silence?

You told him that. You stood there crying and told him it wouldn't work. That it was better to end it before it hurt more. He shook his head. He believed that if you loved each other enough, you could survive anything.

But what could you have given him that would make him stay?

You were no one special. Just a girl. And deep down, you’d convinced yourself he deserved better, someone who could give him everything he was reaching for.

Your own insecurities… they were the cracks that broke everything apart. And by the time you realised that, by the time the fog of fear cleared and you understood what you’d done, he was already gone.

Instead of blaming yourself, you clung to bitterness. You told yourself he was the one who left without saying goodbye. You told yourself he should’ve told you the date, that he should’ve made it clearer. You told yourself that if you had known, you would’ve run to him. That you would’ve fought harder.

But he didn’t tell you.

And you didn’t ask.

And that was the end of it.

You sent message after message after he left. DMs, texts, half-drafted emails, all swallowed by silence. No reply. No closure. You watched his life unfold through your screen. New friends. New places. A girlfriend.

He looked happy.

And in some twisted, aching way, you knew you had done the right thing. You had let him go. And maybe he was never yours to keep.

PRESENT

“Did you eat the last cronut in the pantry?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you kicked Jake’s shin under the table.

He flinched and gave you an innocent look that was anything but. “Nope. I think that Ni-ki kid did.”

“Aw, man,” you groaned, sinking further into your chair.

The two of you were slouched in the company conference room, half-heartedly going over the slides for a pitch that your project manager, Park Sunghoon, had asked you to prepare. The room was quiet except for the tapping of your laptop keys and Jake’s occasional groan of disapproval whenever a client email annoyed him.

Then your elbow nudged into his side. “Hey, do you think Park Sunghoon’s hot?”

Jake barely glanced up. “He’s alright.”

“Alright?” You stared at him like he had personally offended you. “Dude, look at him. Jawline? Chiseled. Eyes? Big and brooding. And those muscles—my God, I can see them through his shirt.”

You pointed through the glass wall of the conference room where Park Sunghoon stood in conversation with another colleague, Jungwon, looking far too polished for a Thursday.

Then a throat cleared behind you.

You froze. Jake froze.

The two of you slowly turned around to find Heeseung standing at the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face and a very prominent vein pulsing in his jaw.

Your squeal was high-pitched and unmistakably guilty.

“Mr Lee! We were just working,” Jake said quickly, voice smooth but eyes flickering with panic.

You didn’t say a word. Still not speaking to Heeseung. Not after what he had essentially made you do.

Heeseung shifted awkwardly in the doorway, scratching the back of his neck like he wished he’d knocked first. “I—uh—I need one of you to be my assistant for tomorrow’s meeting in Busan.”

“Busan?” Jake blinked, his brows lifting. “I can’t. I’ve got that strategy consult with Sunoo.”

Then Heeseung turned to you. His voice gentled, just slightly. “You?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes fixed on your laptop screen, fingers still tapping random nonsense into the spreadsheet just to look busy.

“I’ll get a car to pick you up at eight,” he said, hesitating like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t.

You nodded again. Still didn’t look at him. And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, but his presence still hung heavy in the air like the scent of cologne he always wore.

Jake let out a long, low whistle. “You guys are so dead.”

Heeseung had told you to pack light. Light, as if you weren’t being dragged into a two-day conference in Busan with the human equivalent of the devil. Unfortunately, there was no suitcase small enough to prepare you for the storm of spending that much uninterrupted time with Lee Heeseung.

It was 6 in the morning, and the sky was still the kind of grey that made everything look sleepy and slightly unreal. You stood outside your apartment building, rubbing your eyes, a hat over your messy hair.

Jake stood beside you like a 1960’s housewife sending off her husband. Dressed in a hoodie tossed over his pyjamas, yawning every three minutes, he looked one gust of wind away from collapsing back into bed.

“You can go back inside and sleep, Jake.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but I need to see you get into the car safely or I’ll assume someone kidnapped you and I can’t pay rent alone.”

“You could just say you care about me.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Jake grinned. “God, you’re shivering,” he muttered, before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders without another word.

Just then, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. Right as Jake tucked the jacket around you, the window rolled down, revealing Heeseung behind the wheel.

You blinked. “I thought you were sending over a car.”

“He couldn’t make it,” Heeseung said coolly. “So I’m driving us there.”

Your jaw dropped. “You want me to sit in a rolling asylum with you for five hours?”

“Just get in,” he said with an eye roll, already unlocking the doors.

You turned to Jake dramatically. “If I don’t make it back, it means Heeseung has killed me and buried my body in the woods.”

Jake snorted. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said, before softening. “But seriously, text me every hour just so I know you’re alive.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Bye! Be safe!” he called out, watching as you reluctantly opened the passenger door and slid in, still wrapped in his jacket.

And just like that, the trip began.

The first hour passed in heavy silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of your legs adjusting uncomfortably or the low hum of the road beneath the tyres. You stared out the window, arms folded, trying to pretend you weren’t painfully aware of Heeseung sitting just inches away.

Then, out of nowhere, he cleared his throat. “So… are you and Jake together?”

You choked on your own saliva, coughing into your elbow as you glared at him. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Heeseung nodded, unbothered, eyes fixed on the road.

Another three minutes of silence wrapped around the car. You sighed, leaning your head against the window.

“But if you must know,” you muttered, “no. We’re not.”

“Oh,” he replied, nonchalant. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You turned to him, brow raised. “Never had a female friend before?”

His lips quirked. “Had one. Just like you. In fact, I think it was you.”

That shut you up.

You trailed behind Heeseung, dragging both your suitcase and his, the wheels rattling against the tiled floor. Somewhere along the line, you'd just… assumed this was your role for the trip. His assistant. His shadow. His indentured servant, thanks to that ridiculous contract or what would’ve been a $20,000 debt hanging over your head if you refused.

You didn’t complain. Not out loud, at least. But inside, you were already cursing every single decision that led you here.

But before you could even reach the hotel lobby, Heeseung turned around and without a word, took both suitcases straight out of your hands.

“I can do—” you started, blinking.

“Shh,” he said, not even looking at you as he cut you off with a single syllable, raising one hand dismissively.

You stared at him, stunned, as he coolly rolled the two bags into the hotel. Like you hadn’t spent the last hour building him up in your head as the undefeated king of petty power plays.

And now he was carrying your luggage.

You hated that your heart skipped a little.

“I have a reservation Under Lee?” Heeseung said to the hotel receptionist, casually placing both suitcases beside the counter.

You stood just behind him, twiddling your thumbs and trying not to look like someone being dragged into a hostage situation.

“Oh!” the receptionist squeaked, her eyes lighting up. “Lee Taehyun, right? This must be your beautiful new bride! You two look so good together!” She beamed, completely unaware of your soul leaving your body. “And for newlyweds, we actually have a special promotion going on, rose petal turndown service, champagne on ice, and, of course, a complimentary aphrodisiac dessert to spark the honeymoon magic.” She winked.

You sputtered. “No. No, no. Absolutely not. We’re not Lee Taehyun or Lee whatever-he-is. We are Lee Heeseung. Could you please check that instead? Thank you.”

Heeseung scoffed beside you. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” you hissed, turning toward him with wide eyes. “She was about to sell us off to the forest spirits and feed us magical truffles so we could get pregnant and return here every anniversary for the rest of our cursed lives.”

Heeseung sighed, rubbing his temples like he’d heard this exact flavour of overthinking from you a hundred times before. “Still as dramatic as ever.”

You huffed, crossing your arms and looking away. Okay. Maybe you had gone a little off the rails with the cursed honeymoon fantasy, but still. Aphrodisiacs? Really?

“…Whatever.”

“Oh, right!” the receptionist chirped, tapping away at her keyboard. “Here we have it—a suite reserved for Mr Lee and his girlfriend.”

Heeseung blinked. “Suite?”

She nodded, all smiles. “Yes, sir. One king bed, ocean view, complimentary couple’s spa vouchers. Booked by a Mr Park Jongseong.”

Heeseung’s eye twitched. “No, that can’t be right. I got Jongseong to reserve two single rooms.”

She frowned, double-checking the screen. “I’m afraid this is all we have under your name. Mr Park Jongseong booked you a suite.”

Heeseung let out a slow exhale, the kind that clearly said I’m going to murder someone when this is over.

Fucking no-good Park Jongseong, he thought, gripping the edge of the counter. Ruining my life once again.

“Well, can you change it to two single rooms?” Heeseung asked, voice strained but still clinging to the last threads of patience.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist said with an apologetic smile. “That suite is the only room available tonight.”

“No, but—”

“It’ll be fine. Thank you!” you cut in brightly, grabbing the room key from the counter before he could dig himself deeper. You turned and started walking toward the elevators without looking back.

Heeseung followed, flabbergasted. “How is this fine?”

“Oh, relax,” you said, pressing the elevator button. “We’re just sharing a room.”

“Ten minutes ago, you looked horrified at the idea of someone thinking we were a couple, and now you’re suddenly fine with us sharing a bed?”

You turned to him with a sweet smile. “Oh, we’re not sharing a bed. You’re sleeping on the couch.”

He scoffed. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh yes, you are. I’m a woman.”

“And you also owe me $20,000.”

You turned your head sharply toward him, narrowing your eyes.

Heeseung smirked. The elevator doors slid open. This was going to be a very long trip.

This was one of the rare times you’d seen Heeseung serious and you hated to admit it, but it was kind of… annoyingly attractive. The way he stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, voice steady and low as he discussed strategy and projections like he actually cared. His posture, his tone, the faint crease between his brows, it all screamed quiet authority.

“I heard you’re quite the hopeless romantic, Mr Kim,” Heeseung joked mid-discussion, flashing a polite smile.

Mr Kim, a big-shot client who’d made waves in the industry, chuckled. He was currently planning to invest in a luxury jewellery company as a surprise anniversary gift for his wife. Conveniently, Aureum had just acquired one of the most prestigious jewellery lines in the country. Heeseung saw it as a win-win.

“Well, I’m sure you’d understand, Mr Lee,” Mr Kim replied, eyes glinting knowingly.

Heeseung cleared his throat. “Of course.”

The truth? He was bluffing. Completely.

Heeseung had heard stories from others who’d worked with Mr Kim, he valued authenticity, sentiment, sincerity. The only reason the man was even entertaining a partnership with Aureum was because Heeseung had, against every corporate bone in his body, lied and said they were alike. That he too was deeply in love, devoted to his long-term partner.

Meanwhile, you were perfectly content by the buffet table, happily snacking on hors d’oeuvres. Free food, no responsibilities? You were thriving.

“I’d love to meet her,” Mr Kim said suddenly, sipping his drink. “You said you brought her here today?”

Heeseung hesitated for only a beat before nodding. “Uh, I did.”

Mr Kim looked around. “Where is she?”

There was a long, tense pause. Heeseung glanced around the room, praying for a miracle. Then his eyes landed on you, halfway through chewing a mini tart, looking entirely unbothered and, in his opinion, far too cute for your own good.

“There,” he said, pointing. “She’s right over there.”

Mr Kim followed his gaze and smiled. “She’s beautiful. Seems just like what your type would be.”

Heeseung forced a smile, hand loosening slightly around his glass.

God, you were gonna kill him.

Then you wandered over, completely unaware of everything, happily licking tart crumbs off your thumb. “Have you tried the tarts?” you said cheerfully. “They’re so good.”

Heeseung turned to you. “There you are,” he said, voice dripping with sudden warmth. It was…weird. You looked at him, eyebrows raised, but he was already putting on his best smile. “I was just talking about you to Mr Kim.”

You blinked, gaze shifting to the man in front of you. Oh. Mr Kim. You knew who he was. Big client. Even bigger deal.

You quickly bowed. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Ah,” Mr Kim said, smiling warmly. “Heeseung tells me about you all the time.”

Your head snapped toward Heeseung. “He has?”

“He told me you were beautiful,” Mr Kim continued, chuckling. “And I see now he didn’t lie.”

Your eyes narrowed just a fraction, head tilting. “He did?”

“You seem surprised,” Mr Kim said, raising a brow, clearly confused by the disconnect.

Then you felt a light poke on your back. Heeseung leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper against your ear. “Play along and I’ll let go of the $20,000.”

You straightened immediately, laughing a little too quickly. “Oh! I’m just surprised he talks about me, that’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mr Kim said warmly. “You’re beautiful. The two of you look beautiful together.”

And then you froze.

Beautiful together?

You gulped, lips twitching into a forced smile.

Back in the hotel room, you slammed the door behind you, nearly tripping over your own suitcase.

“You’re insane,” you snapped, spinning on your heel to face Heeseung.

“Look,” he said calmly, shrugging off his blazer and tossing it onto the couch, “just do this for two days, and I let go of the twenty grand. Seems like a win-win, doesn’t it?”

You stared at him, jaw dropped. “I can’t even stand being in the same room as you for two days, and you want me to pretend I’m your fiancée? You are actually, clinically insane.”

Heeseung gave you a lazy smile, then leaned against the table. “The deal’s already done. Once these two days are over, you’re free. Mr Kim’s contract is worth a million dollars to the company. So either you suck it up and act like you're in love with me… or you pay me one million—plus the existing twenty thousand you already owe.”

You stared at him. Then blinked. Then stared some more.

Your brain scrambled for a response, but all it managed was a silent scream and a thousand curse words you couldn’t legally say out loud.

You gulped, glaring at him through gritted teeth. “…Fine.”

It was the night of the conference. The hotel ballroom was already packed, sleek suits, designer gowns, the clinking of wine glasses, and enough perfume to drown in. Just the thought of having to smile and lie to at least a hundred people about being Heeseung’s loving, devoted fiancée made your stomach twist.

Earlier, Heeseung had sent you to a nearby salon, muttering something about how he refused to walk in with someone who “looked like they just rolled out of a laundry pile.” You’d wanted to punch him. But now, walking out of the room, you… almost didn’t recognise yourself.

Your hair was done in a half-up ponytail, the rest curled into soft, elegant ringlets. The makeup was natural but glowing, and the pink dress they sent up fit so well, hugging the right places, flowing gracefully just at your knees. Pink ballet heels, delicate dangling earrings brushing your collarbones. You looked like you belonged here.

But you didn’t feel like it.

Heeseung had already left for the conference earlier, texting only once to tell you where to meet him and, of course, to not embarrass him.

Charming.

You stepped into the corridor, a bit dazed, and decided to take the longer route through the golf course. There was a lake just beyond the path. The air was crisp, the sky painted with fading pinks and purples. You’d never stayed anywhere this fancy before. It felt like walking through someone else’s life.

Then you spotted it.

A lady in a chef’s hat, sprinting awkwardly across the green grass, arms outstretched, chasing something. A blur of white darted ahead of her.

A rabbit.

Your eyes widened. Were they going to cook it? Serve it at dinner for the hotel guests? You knew people ate rabbit. You weren’t someone to judge—“let people eat what they want” was practically your moral code—but the way the rabbit bounced in terror, its tiny legs scrambling to escape?

No. Nope. Couldn’t do it.

Without hesitation, you lifted the hem of your dress and ran. Full sprint. Across the grass, heels sinking slightly into the dirt, heart thudding as you caught up. With an ungraceful lunge, you scooped the bunny into your arms.

“Please don’t kill him!” you cried, standing defensively in front of the chef.

The chef skidded to a stop, looking at you like you were the crazy one. “What?”

“I know he’s probably delicious, but please! Don’t do it!” You clutched the rabbit tighter. “He’s scared! Look at him!”

The woman blinked… then chuckled. “Miss.”

“I’ll give you money,” you blurted. “I don’t have much but I’ll transfer to you some, just please, let him go!”

She laughed harder now, motioning to the other side of the lawn. “Miss… the rabbit’s a family pet. We’re just trying to get her back into the hotel suite. You see?”

You followed her finger and saw another staff member standing sheepishly beside an open rabbit cage.

“Oh.”

The chef blinked at you for a second, startled, before her features slowly softened into a smile, wide, warm, the kind only older women could pull off.

You were still clutching the rabbit like it was a child in danger.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman said, chuckling as she approached you gently, palms raised like she didn’t want to startle you this time. “We’re not gonna cook the bunny.”

You blinked, still catching your breath. “So… you’re really not going to cook him?”

She laughed, her whole frame shaking. “No, darling. This naughty girl escaped from our suite when the door was left open. We’ve been trying to catch her for the last twenty minutes. But thank you for your… enthusiasm.”

You looked down at the rabbit, who blinked lazily in your arms.

The chef stepped closer and gently took the bunny from your arms. But before she stepped away, she paused, looking at you with a fond smile.

“You’re too cute,” she said softly, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Such a kind heart, and so pretty too.”

And then the chef walked off, humming to herself, rabbit nestled contently in her arms like none of the chaos had just happened.

You glanced down at your watch—and froze.

“Crap!” you hissed, eyes widening. You were 10 minutes late. You were supposed to meet Heeseung 10 minutes ago, and knowing him, he probably already assumed you'd either bailed or spontaneously combusted. You lifted the hem of your dress and took off running, again, heels clicking wildly against the marble floor as you made a mad dash through the hotel.

Heeseung stood at the entrance of the ballroom, posture stiff, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit. His tie was perfect, his expression… not. He had done the early rounds, greeted the important names, planted the seeds for tonight’s main pitch, and now all he needed was his fake fiancée.

He looked down at his watch for the fourth time. Then toward the entrance. Then back at his watch. He groaned under his breath, jaw tightening.

Of course you were late. Of course you’d leave him hanging, tonight of all nights. He was already imagining himself pulling out his phone to text you a series of snarky messages when the ballroom doors opened.

And then you stepped in.

Heeseung's breath caught mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything. Time didn’t slow down; it stopped. He swore the music dimmed just to make space for the sound of his heartbeat. There you were, framed by the golden light of the chandeliers, hair curled into soft, glimmering ringlets that fell perfectly over your shoulders. Your heels clicked gently against the floor, matching your earrings that caught the light with every step, brushing your collarbones like a secret. You looked perfect.

And Heeseung? Heeseung forgot what air was. Forgot that this was a business event. Forgot that this was pretend. All he could think was that no one else in the room existed but you.

You made your way toward him, a little breathless, cheeks warm, your eyes meeting his with that familiar glint of mischief and irritation and something softer underneath. He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting his collar like it was suddenly suffocating him.

“You’re… late,” he muttered, voice low, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably—because all he could think was how the hell do you look this pretty and expect me to act normal?

“I was trying to save a bunny,” you said, completely serious. Your brows were drawn together in the most sincere little frown, concern written all over your face like you were still thinking about the damn rabbit.

Heeseung blinked.

You had that look in your eyes, the one where they went all wide and sparkly and impossibly earnest.

He was this close to melting. Just folding into your arms right then and there, because what the hell. Who gave you the right to be this pretty and this adorable? He wanted to squeal. He wanted to throw a chair. He wanted to tuck you under his coat and never let you do anything dangerous or heartbreaking or normal ever again.

But instead, he cleared his throat, forced his lips into a flat line, and muttered, “Yeah, well… you were still late.”

Pathetic. Even his pretend-annoyed voice sounded whipped.

Heeseung found himself standing beside Mr Kim near the open bar, both nursing glasses of champagne. The conversation had drifted from projections and sales to something lighter, more personal but Heeseung’s shoulders were still stiff, his eyes constantly flicking toward the far side of the ballroom to you.

You were talking to people. Merging into a circle of clients and industry professionals as if you belonged there. He watched as you laughed politely at something someone said, nodding attentively, gesturing animatedly when it was your turn to speak. He caught the way someone leaned in closer when you talked, how another man offered you a drink with a too-eager smile.

He clenched his jaw and looked away.

“She’s quite charming,” Mr Kim said, following Heeseung’s gaze with a subtle smirk. “Looks like she’s handling herself just fine.”

Heeseung chuckled stiffly. “Yeah, she tends to make a good impression.”

Mr Kim smiled knowingly, taking another sip of his drink. “My wife was talking about someone like her earlier. Said she saw a girl in a pink dress out on the golf course and thought she was watching a Disney princess chase after a rabbit.”

Heeseung nearly choked on his drink.

“Begged the chef not to cook it,” Mr Kim added, clearly amused. “Turns out it was our family pet. Apparently your fiancée offered money to save it.”

Heeseung groaned under his breath, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide the grin trying to creep up. “That sounds… exactly like her.”

“She’s adorable,” Mr Kim said warmly, his tone turning unexpectedly sincere. “Rare to see someone so real in a room full of people wearing masks.”

He paused for a beat, then added, “To be honest, I wasn’t sold on the jewellery deal at first. Didn’t see the heart in it. But my wife couldn’t stop talking about that girl—your fiancée. Said any company that attracts someone like her must be doing something right.”

Heeseung’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass. His eyes found yours across the ballroom, animated and smiling as you spoke to a small group. For a second, something soft bloomed in his chest, something he hadn’t meant to feel.

He nodded once. "She's perfect."

The conference had gone better than expected, and the energy in the room had shifted to celebration,champagne flutes half-filled, smiles looser, jackets coming off shoulders.

“If I may,” Mr Kim said, standing tall at the front of the ballroom, his voice warm but commanding enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room, “I’d like to invite someone very special to say a few words.”

The chatter died down instantly.

“Him and his fiancée are the reason I’ve decided to move forward with our partnership with Aureum,” Mr Kim continued, smiling. “It wasn’t just the impressive numbers, or the sleek portfolio, or even the pitch, which, I’ll admit, was still excellent. It was the authenticity. The human touch. In a world full of polished presentations and rehearsed lines, it’s rare to meet someone who speaks like they still believe in what they do and that’s why I’m here.”

Then Mr Kim’s eyes flicked toward him, his smile widening just a little. “Mr Lee. Would you join us for a quick toast? Perhaps say something about your lovely fiancée as well?”

Heeseung froze.

You almost choked on the crabcakes you were devouring.

Heeseung’s hand froze mid-air, fingers curled slightly around the stem of his glass. His eyes widened just a fraction, enough for you to see the panic ripple beneath the surface of his carefully maintained expression.

He stood slowly, giving you one last glance like he was walking straight into a firing squad, and made his way to the front of the room.

Mr Kim clapped him on the back. “I’ve always admired honesty, Mr Lee. Let’s hear what love sounds like from someone living it.”

Heeseung stepped up to the mic.

The room quieted. The seconds stretched. You watched his throat bob, watched the slight tremble in his fingers where they gripped the edge of the podium. He was freezing.

And Mr Kim noticed.

The man tilted his head, expression beginning to shift, curiosity folding into doubt.

You stood.

Heeseung’s eyes found yours immediately. And you didn’t think. You just walked.

You made your way up to the stage, your heels clicking softly against the ballroom floor, your heart pounding. You reached him, gently touched his arm, and turned to the mic. Heeseung stepped aside without a word, his jaw still tight.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice light but clear. “My fiancé’s not really used to a big crowd. He’s the kind of guy who can negotiate million-dollar deals without blinking, but ask him to express a single human emotion in public and he acts like he’s being held hostage.”

A soft laugh rippled through the room.

You turned slightly, your gaze catching Heeseung’s from the corner of your eye.

“Well...uh...Heeseung and I… we’ve been friends for as long as I can remember,” you began, “Then at the age of 18 left me for Canada. Canada. Can you imagine? Leaving this—” you gestured to yourself with mock offense, “—for Canada?”

The crowd laughed, a ripple of amusement breaking through the room.

You smiled, softer this time, your voice dipping gently. “We drifted after that—stopped talking, stopped being us. And then… he came back. Somehow, we reconnected, and, as fate would have it, he was actually even more insufferably annoying than I remembered.”

Another laugh bubbled from the audience, gentler this time.

“He knew exactly how to push my buttons. He was cocky, arrogant… God, I hated him. Made me do the dumbest things. Made me run the craziest errands. Like, have you ever seen someone counting exactly 50 blueberries in the middle of a supermarket? If you have, that was probably me.”

The room stilled, the laughter fading like it had never been there. The shift was subtle—just the way attention turned sharper, the way even the background music felt like it had lowered itself into a hush.

“But somehow…” you continued, your voice softer now, almost hesitant. You turned your head fully, locking eyes with Heeseung, and the noise of the room blurred around the edges.

“After all those years, after all the silence… I realised something.”

You drew in a breath, one that trembled slightly on the way out. “I blamed him for so much time lost. I blamed him for leaving, for not telling me when, for not trying harder. But I forgot…”

You paused. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, but it needed to be said.

“I forgot to blame myself,” you whispered. “And I never apologized.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the mic. The words felt raw, too honest, and somehow… exactly why you had hated him back then. Because loving him hurt, and you didn’t know how to carry that without turning it into anger.

Heeseung’s expression shattered—composure gone, his eyes soft and stunned, like you’d touched a place inside him he thought you’d never reach again. There was something breaking open in his gaze. Something unspoken but unmistakable.

“Till now,” you finished, voice barely above a whisper.

And then, with the ache growing full in your chest, your eyes still locked on his, you breathed into the mic.

“I’m sorry.”

The word hung in the air louder than you intended. You wiped the single tear that rolled down your cheek, hoping no one noticed. But then it hit you, you were still on stage. Still holding the mic. Still standing under a literal spotlight in front of dozens of clients and colleagues.

You cleared your throat and plastered on a small, tight smile. “And of course,” you said lightly, forcing the laugh into your voice, “none of this would have happened if we weren’t madly in love and getting married in exactly” ,you glanced at your imaginary watch, “three months and four days. But who’s counting? Apparently, bridezilla herself!”

The crowd laughed. A few people even let out soft awws, and someone near the front clapped.

You gave a stiff little bow, muttered a quick “thank you,” and then got off the stage.

And ran.

You had somehow found your way back to the golf course. You walked faster, heart pounding, heels sinking slightly into the grass. You didn’t want him to find you. Not like this. Not when your walls were crumbling and your heart was screaming things you weren’t ready to say out loud.

But then, a hand gripped your wrist, gentle and firm, stopping you in your tracks. You spun around, startled, only to find Heeseung behind you.

“What you said back there,” he said, voice low, shaking slightly, “did you mean it?”

“What?” you blinked. “I was just lying to get him off our backs. You know. I was doing my job as your fake fiancée, remember?” You tried to laugh it off, but it came out hollow.

Heeseung didn’t even flinch. “It didn’t seem like a lie.”

You scoffed, looking away. “I was just tryna get the $20,000 off my back, Heeseung.”

“You still love me,” he said, cutting you off. His voice was raw now.

You froze. “No, I don’t—”

“Stop lying to yourself!” Heeseung shouted, the words cutting through the quiet night, raw and ragged, like something inside him had finally broken loose. “Stop lying to me! I can’t take this anymore!”

His voice echoed across the empty golf course, full of something desperate and real, something that made your chest tighten and your breath catch.

“That girl…” he said, voice cracking, “that girl I was in love with… who I still am in love with—she’s in there somewhere. I refuse to believe she didn’t show up at the airport.”

“Heeseung,” you breathed, eyes wide, frozen in place.

“Why?” His voice wavered. “Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you show up? Why did you just… shut me out after I told you I was leaving—”

“Because!” you snapped, your voice breaking as you finally let it spill. “Because I’m selfish!”

Heeseung paused, taken aback. His brows pulled together.

“I didn’t want to get hurt,” you whispered.

“That’s not the truth,” he said quietly.

“It is,” you insisted, but your voice wavered.

Heeseung shook his head, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours. “You’re lying.”

You ran a trembling hand through your hair, your voice cracking as you looked away. “Fine! You want the truth? You really want to hear it?”

Your chest rose with a sharp breath, the words clawing their way up. “It’s because I thought… I thought if you stayed, I’d ruin you.”

You turned, eyes burning as they met his. “You were 18, Heeseung. 18. You were so smart. You had this whole brilliant, blinding life ahead of you. A future so much bigger than anything I could give you. And me?” Your voice broke. “I was scared I’d be the reason you didn’t shine. That you’d look back one day and realise you settled.”

You swallowed hard, “So I let you go. Because it felt easier to lose you than to stay and watch you wake up one day and realise you made a mistake by choosing me.”

Heeseung’s breath caught, his entire body tensing. “Why?” he asked, voice cracking, his voice growing louder each with each second passing by. “Why would you think I’d ever regret choosing you?”

You turned your face away, “Because I was scared, okay? I was 18. I was still trying to figure out who I was, let alone what I meant to you. And then suddenly I had to make a decision that felt like it would shape the rest of your life.”

You faced him again, voice rising with the ache in your chest. “You were leaving for this big, shiny life. New country, new people, new everything. And I—” You choked. “I didn’t want to be the reason you stayed and resented it.”

He stared at you like he didn’t even know how to speak. “What was good for me?” he echoed quietly, like the words were something sacred. Then louder, sharper—“You! You were! I fucking loved you so much, how could you not see that?”

“Then why didn’t you tell me when you were leaving!” you cried, your voice breaking under the weight of years unsaid. “I would’ve come. I would’ve come, Heeseung. If I’d known—if you had just told me when—”

“Yes I did!” Heeseung’s voice cracked again. “I wrote it. In the letter.”

You froze. “What letter?”

“The letter I gave your mom,” he said, breathless. “The one I—God, I gave your mom a letter. I told her to give it to you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“What fucking letter?” you whispered.

“I gave your mom a letter,” he said again, quieter this time. “It had everything. The date. The time. Everything. I thought you didn’t come because you chose not to.”

“My mom… never gave me a letter,” you said softly, the words tumbling out like a secret you hadn’t known you were holding.

Heeseung’s eyes widened. “What?”

“If I did know, I would’ve shown up,” you continued, your voice cracking at the edges. “I would’ve told you not to go. I would’ve begged you to stay.” Your throat burned.

“I didn’t mean to leave,” Heeseung said quickly, shaking his head, his voice full of urgency. “God, I didn’t just leave. I waited. I waited until the last possible second. I looked for you until they started calling my name for final boarding.”

Your eyes brimmed with tears, heart pounding. “Now I know you didn’t.”

Heeseung took a shaky step forward. “And now I know you didn’t ignore me. You didn’t walk away.”

You nodded slowly, unable to speak as the tears slipped down your cheeks. Before you could hide, before you could even wipe them away, Heeseung stepped forward and gently tugged you into him, his arms wrapping around you like they were made to.

He pressed your head to his chest, where his heart was beating fast and loud, just like yours. One hand cradled the back of your head while the other brushed against your cheek, wiping your tears.

Then, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry for the shit I put you through.”

And this time, you didn’t hold back.

“I should've asked. I'm sorry.” you whispered back.

You tilted your face up to him, eyes still wet but softer now, like the storm inside you had finally started to settle. Heeseung looked down, gaze flicking between your tear-streaked cheeks and the curve of your lips, his thumb still gently resting beneath your chin.

And then you leaned in.

The both of you were hesitant at first. But the second your lips met, everything else slipped away. His hands in your hair, your fingers gripping his tie.

The kiss deepened. His fingers curled around your waist. Then, without warning, he tapped your thigh twice.

You understood immediately, jumping up as he caught you with ease. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, and he held you there, effortlessly.

Your lips never parted, not even as he turned and started walking, steady and sure. The golf course faded behind you, quiet except for the occasional rustle of wind.

He pulled back just enough to grin against your cheek. “As much as I like the idea of christening the 9th hole… I think we should take this somewhere less… open.”

The door clicked open behind you, but you barely registered it.

In one breath, Heeseung had you in his arms again, his hands firm at your waist, his lips crashing onto yours. There was nothing hesitant about it. Just years of built-up longing released in one desperate, searing kiss.

He guided you backwards gently, lips never parting from yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumbled slightly, gasping into his mouth, and he caught you with a quiet laugh, pressing you down with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Jongseong’s gonna have a field day with this one,” he whispered, grinning against your skin.

You let out a soft laugh. “Well, Jake too.”

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow at you. “Did you really have to mention Jake when I’m trying to put some moves on you?”

“You mentioned Jongseong first.”

“Yeah, but… Jake’s gross.”

“You’re just jealous.”

He scoffed. “What if I am?”

“Then you’re stupid, because Jake’s like a brother to me.”

“I wanna fire him.”

You snorted. “You can’t fire him without an actual reason, dumbass.”

Heeseung groaned, flopping onto the bed like the world had betrayed him personally.

“This is so unfair. I fall for a girl and her emotional support dog comes in the same package.”

You rolled your eyes, hovering just above him with a smirk tugging at your lips. “Now are we making out, or are we gonna keep talking about our friends?”

“I definitely prefer the first option,” he muttered.

And then his hand slid to the back of your neck, and he pulled you down into him again, his lips meeting yours, firmer this time, no hesitation. Just heat and honesty and a kiss that felt like it had been years in the making.

Morning light spilled in through the hotel curtains, soft and golden, casting gentle shadows across the sheets tangled around your legs. You blinked slowly, the haze of sleep clinging to your lashes, the warmth beside you anchoring you to a reality that felt too perfect to be true.

Heeseung was still asleep, bare-chested, one arm slung lazily over your waist, hair a complete mess, lips parted slightly like he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence. His face, usually so composed and sharp, looked peaceful like this.

You smiled, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of his shoulder.

Then you sat up. And screamed.

“Heeseung!”

He jolted awake like someone had lit a fire under him. “What? What—what’s wrong?”

“We’re late! The breakfast meeting!”

For a second, you both just stared at each other, completely frozen in chaos. The clock read 8:43. The meeting started at 9.

“Shit.”

You scrambled to untangle yourselves from the sheets, clothes flying across the room as you grabbed the first items in reach, your skirt halfway zipped, his shirt buttoned all wrong.

Heeseung stumbled while trying to put on his socks, nearly falling face-first into the carpet. “Why didn’t we set an alarm?!”

“Because someone was too busy whispering sweet shit in my ear and kissing my shoulder for an hour.”

“Well excuse me for being emotionally available for once!”

You both raced around the room like it was on fire, bumping into each other, yanking open suitcases, swearing under your breaths, and then suddenly, just as you were jamming a shoe onto your foot, Heeseung grabbed your wrist and spun you toward him.

“Wait,” he said, breathless. “Just one. Please.”

You blinked. “Hee, we don’t have time.”

“Just one,” he whispered, already leaning in. “One kiss.”

You sighed. Let your hands wrap around his collar as he kissed you, messy, rushed, and full of everything you’d both been too stubborn to say for years.

When you finally pulled away, both of you slightly dazed, Heeseung grinned. “Totally worth it.”

You smacked his arm. “Let’s go, idiot.”

And hand in hand, grinning like fools, you bolted for the elevator.

It’d been a few days since everything had changed. Since the night on the golf course. Since the hotel room. And since well, you and Heeseung had…done stuff. Multiple times.

You weren’t official but you were… together. Always orbiting each other like you were tethered by something invisible. No one knew. Not Jake. Not your team. And definitely not HR, which, unfortunately, was Park Jongseong himself, a man with a love for company policies and a suspicious sixth sense for office romance.

And so, here you were. In the office pantry with Jake, who was minding his coffee.

Jake nudged your elbow as he poured milk into his mug. “So, how was the trip with the devil himself?”

You sipped your coffee. “It was fine.”

“Fine? Really?” Jake squinted at you. “Damn, I thought you were coming back with at least three things I could use to file an anonymous complaint.”

You shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “Y’know… actually, he’s not that bad.”

Jake slowly turned to face you. “Not that bad? He made you pretend to be a floor tile.”

You winced. “Okay, yeah, but—look, we were both kind of crazy. I spat in his coffee once, so like… we’re even.”

Jake nearly dropped his mug. “Even?” He stared at you like you’d just told him you’d taken up sword-swallowing as a hobby. “Who are you right now—wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Wait, wait—oh no.”

You froze.

Jake’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. The two of you hooked up, didn’t you?”

You opened your mouth then closed it.

Jake looked personally betrayed, “I knew it. I knew you were all weird this week! Who the hell goes to the janitor closet for breaks?”

You froze mid-sip, eyes darting away.

Jake’s jaw dropped. “Heeseung was in there, wasn’t he?”

You blinked.

“Oh my god—you two did it in the janitor cl—EW!” Jake staggered back like the mental image physically harmed him. “I eat lunch near that hallway!”

You held up a hand. “First of all, we did not—”

“You hesitated! That was a hesitation!”

“Jake, if you don’t shut up, I swear I’m going to tell Jongseong you said his HR memo font choice was ugly.”

Jake rolled his eyes, lowering his voice only slightly. “Fine but just so you know, this doesn’t mean I like him. He’s still an asshole.”

You shrugged, sipping your coffee like this wasn’t the most ridiculous conversation you’ve had in weeks. “Good. Because he hates you too.”

Jake blinked. “What the fuck did I do?”

You shrugged, “Exist.”

Heeseung sat at his desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as he finalised the proposal for Mr Kim. It was clean, sharp, every slide perfectly aligned to close the deal he’d been working for almost half a year. A deal that, according to the company group chat, had already been deemed one of the most high-profit wins in Aureum’s history.

He should’ve been riding the high of corporate glory.

But none of it really mattered. Not compared to the fact that he’d come back with you.

He tried to stay focused but every few minutes his eyes drifted upward, toward your little cubicle across the hall. You were hunched slightly over your desk, tongue peeking out the corner of your mouth in concentration.

He rested his cheek on his palm, watching you like an idiot. You were so pretty.

And then you looked up.

Your eyes met his, and instead of pretending he hadn’t just been caught openly simping, Heeseung grinned because ever since the two of you were unofficially official, he didn’t even bother to hide it anymore.

You tilted your head, smirking. Then sent him a flying kiss.

Heeseung squealed. Audibly. And sent one right back with two hands like a dramatic fool.

And that was when the office door swung open.

“What the fuck are you doing?” came Park Jongseong’s voice, disgusted and traumatised all at once.

Right. Glass walls. Stupid, transparent, company-branded glass walls.

Heeseung sat up straight, clearing his throat. “I was… practicing.”

Jongseong blinked. “Practicing what, exactly?”

“…Nevermind."

Jongseong sighed and muttered "You're so weird,” before walking out.

Then the door opened again.

“Wait...I smell something,” Jongseong declared.

Heeseung didn’t even look up. “What?”

“A HR violation,” Jongseong said with a sniff, eyes narrowing.

As much as Heeseung loved Jongseong, god, the man could be such a self-righteous pain when it came to company policies.

“I don’t smell anything,” Heeseung said, typing without looking.

“No, no. I smell it. There’s a strong odor of office romance in the air and it reeks in here.”

“You must be sniffing yourself.”

“Oh please. This company only hires uglies.”

“You’re not the catch you think you are, Jongseong.”

“Yes I am,” he said with absolute confidence, “and I will find out who is reeking of romance. It’s horrendous.” Then, dramatically, he turned to Heeseung. “Is it you?”

Heeseung gulped, eyes twitching. “Couldn’t be me.”

Jongseong stared harder. “You’re right. You reek too much of a man who hasn’t gotten laid in three years because he’s been secretly in love with his subordinate.”

Heeseung blinked. Deeply offended, but smart enough not to give in. “Yeah sure. Whatever you say.”

Then, without warning, Jongseong spun and pointed directly at Jake, who had just walked in with his smoothie.

“It’s him!” Jongseong gasped. “He has the cheekbones for it. Look at him—he looks gorgeous. No way this man isn’t pulling chicks.”

“Cheekbones?” Heeseung scoffed. “They’re more like rotten apples. Don’t you think?”

“No. This man looks like he was carved by God himself.”

“Or the devil, actually.”

“No. Look at him,” Jongseong insisted, grabbing Heeseung’s shoulders and spinning him toward Jake. “He looks like a piece of Renaissance art with a gym membership.”

“He looks like three-day-old underwear.”

“You’re just jealous… because… oh my god.” Jongseong’s eyes widened, turning to face Heeseung fully. “He’s dating her, isn’t he?”

“What?” Heeseung looked at Jongseong like he’d just suggested he was secretly a lizard.

“That’s why you’re extra moody today,” Jongseong gasped. “Because Jake and her are together. And that leaves you all alone.”

Heeseung’s stomach flipped violently. He hated the image of you and Jake together. He hated the way Jongseong even said it like it made sense.

“They’re not together,” he snapped.

“Well, if they are, we could always just fire Jake,” Jongseong offered casually, sipping his coffee.

“We are not—” Heeseung paused. “Hold on. That’s a good idea.”

“Well, then she’d have to go too. Because, y’know, also dating Jake.”

“Oh. Right.” Heeseung grimaced.

Jongseong raised a brow. “Not like you care though? You fucking hate her.”

“Actually, people change,” Heeseung muttered. “She apologized. She’s… not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Jongseong repeated slowly, squinting.

He looked at you through the glass. Then at Heeseung. Then at you again. Then back at Heeseung.

His mouth dropped open.

“It’s you,” Jongseong gasped, pointing between the two of you like he’d just cracked a government conspiracy. “It's you two!”

Before another word could escape his mouth, Heeseung shot up from his chair and launched himself at him.

Jongseong barely had time to react before Heeseung had tackled him into a makeshift headlock, one hand slapped over his mouth as the two of them stumbled into the corner of the office.

“Let go of me!” Jongseong struggled, flailing under Heeseung’s grip. “I have rights!”

“Not until you promise you won’t say a word!” Heeseung hissed, tugging on Jongseong’s shoulders and trying to wrestle him into silence while Jongseong kicked wildly at the air.

Outside the office, you and Jake stood with your coffees, watching everything unfold behind the glass.

Jake blinked. “What the hell do you think is happening in there?”

You shrugged, casually sipping from your mug. “No clue. Glass walls don’t help if they built the place like a soundproof aquarium.”

Back inside, Jongseong finally managed to pull Heeseung’s hand from his mouth long enough to shout, “I am a man of the people! I have to report this monstrosity!”

“Calm the fuck down,” Heeseung gritted through his teeth, still trying to keep him pinned. “You’re a HR manager, not Captain America.”

Jongseong wheezed, flailing. “The people must know!”

“The people can suck it!” Heeseung growled, still halfway wrestling Jongseong into the carpet.

“Jongseong, I swear to God, if you’re the next obstacle to us getting back together, I’m never forgiving you.”

“I—I—” Jongseong wheezed, still pinned beneath Heeseung’s arm. “When the hell did you get—so—strong?”

Heeseung didn’t even flinch. “Pilates, bitch.”

Outside, you took another slow sip of your coffee, eyebrows raised. “Five bucks says Heeseung bribes him with cake to shut up.”

Jake nodded. “Ten if it’s that strawberry shortcake from the café downstairs.”

“Deal.”

Jongseong finally shoved him off, crawling backward until he could breathe. “Okay, fine!” he huffed, adjusting his rumpled blazer. “You seem pretty serious about her.”

Heeseung straightened, flicked his collar, and gave the smuggest little smirk. “I am.”

There was a pause.

Then, softer this time, “So please?” Heeseung added, meeting Jongseong’s eyes. “Could you just… keep it down?”

Jongseong looked at him. Then at you through the glass. Then back at Heeseung.

He sighed deeply, like he was about to betray his entire code of ethics. “Fine.”

Heeseung grinned. “Thank you.”

“But the second you start getting gross in meetings, I’m reporting both of you to HR which is me.”

“Deal,” Heeseung said, already pulling out his wallet. “Strawberry shortcake?”

Jongseong paused. “Extra whipped cream.”

Heeseung nodded. “Done.”

You knew it was a risk.

The moment Heeseung had grabbed your wrist in the hallway and tugged you into the janitor’s closet with that familiar look in his eyes, the one that always made your knees weak and better judgment nonexistent, you knew.

And yet here you were.

Pressed against the wall between a mop and a bucket, lips tangled with yours. His hands roamed your waist with urgency, and your fingers were tugging at his tie.

“This is your fault,” you whispered against his mouth.

“You kissed me first,” he murmured back, breathless, grinning.

“Because you looked hot during the finance meeting!”

“You said profit margin like it was a dirty word!”

You were about to argue when—

The door opened.

“Oh my GOD,” Jake’s voice rang out, horrified.

“What the hell—” Jongseong's words trailed off as he stepped in behind Jake, immediately shielding his eyes with a clipboard. “I knew it. I knew it! I’m reporting the two of you to HR.”

You scrambled to fix your blouse, cheeks burning. “Jake, shut the door!”

“You’ve scarred me. I need therapy.”

“Technically,” Heeseung said, calm as ever, “we’re on our ten-minute break.”

“That’s it,” Jongseong snapped. “This is the third time this week I’ve caught you two doing something borderline illegal in the fucking mop closet. I’m reporting you. I’ve been way too tolerant.”

“How about a hundred bucks and we pretend this never happened?” Heeseung offered smoothly.

Jongseong paused. Then grinned. “Damn. Didn’t know I could go blind for ten minutes, but apparently, I can. Nice doing business with you.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, how about me? I can still report this to HR too!”

“You’re lucky I don’t fire your ugly ass on the spot.”

Jake scoffed. “I told you two months ago—I don’t want your ratty-ass girlfriend. You can stop being weird about it.”

“Ratty?” you gasped, hand to your chest like you’d just been stabbed.

Jake rolled his eyes. “You know I’m exaggerating. You’re the prettiest princess in the entire damn kingdom.”

You giggled. “Hee, apologise to him.”

“Absolutely not. He just called you pretty right in front of me.”

“Am I not pretty?” you asked, feigning offence.

Heeseung groaned. “You’re very beautiful. Which is exactly why we’re in this situation in the first place!”

“Well, then, could you please apologise to Jake?”

Heeseung sighed, dramatically pained. “Fine. I’m sorry, and I don’t hate you.”

Jake blinked. “…Thanks?”

“Now,” Heeseung said, already tugging the door shut again, “can we have five more minutes?”

“NO!” they both shouted in unison.

The door slammed shut anyway.

Jake stared at it, traumatised. “I’m never opening a janitor’s closet again.”

Jongseong nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen things. I need bleach.”

“Join the club.”

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