Stars & Secrets

she/her • Old Masterlist • Fanprose

[mysonesecret]

16. Rebel Heart (I've Got A Secret Series)

Male OC(s) x Karina, Sakura, Tzuyu, Jennie ft. Sullyoon, Hanni, Eunha, Xiaoting, Jiheon, Arin, Yoona | 23k words | Table of Contents

Chapter tags: drama, angst, bdsm, dubcon, rough sex, group sex, gangbang, anal, dp, aphrodisiac, rimming, brat taming, reverse gangbang

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If there was a Hell, it certainly didn’t wait for death. It had to be this life itself; death was merely the reward for completing this treacherous journey.

The lines between reality and nightmare had long been erased for me, but nothing could have saved me from this—this cruel, twisted game that we’d all been dragged into against our will, tossed away and abandoned by this despicable world that saw us as pawns and objects instead of flesh and fear, as soulless shells and empty vessels instead of warm bodies with beating hearts and hopes and dreams.

And all I could do was beg for it to stop. For everything to end. From the echoes of Sora’s cries still lingering in the room for anyone left with a conscience to hear, to the undeniable trembling of Karina’s fingers that could only be seen by eyes of those still human.

But begging, as I’ve learned, was futile.

Nobody cared. Nobody heard, and nobody saw.

There was no one left.

So even an eternal kingdom of fire would’ve been better than this.

Team 3 x Karina: x2 Jacks x2 Kings (+60) (₩5,430,000,000)

The results hung over the stage like a guillotine blade waiting to drop, and my stomach twisted so hard I thought everything inside me would spill out. I was still on my knees; the ghost of Yujin’s warmth had yet to fully fade from my skin, and the drugs were still pumping violently through my veins, making the edges of my vision vibrate like a broken screen.

Why do they want two Jacks instead of their full table? There has to be a reason—

“Jack,” the handler’s voice interrupted whatever train of thought I had left. “You’re up again. Can you continue?”

Continue? Right now? Like this?

My lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass, and my head was pounding like a thousand hammers were striking it all at once.

“I...” my voice cracked. I couldn’t even start the sentence, let alone finish it.

“He looks spent,” another voice sneered from the shadows.

A male figure stepped forward boldly—arrogantly—and I didn’t need to look twice to know who it was. The smug Jack. Of course he was assigned. It was like the King of Spades was doing it on purpose.

“I have to admit he fucked that Yujin whore real good earlier,” he said, stretching his arms, as if warming up for a gym session. “But there’s no way he can go again.”

“Call her that again,” I grunted, fingers curling into the carpet, “and I’ll—”

He laughed mockingly. “And you’ll do what? You can’t even move.”

“Jack of Spades,” the handler repeated, impatient now. “Are you capable of performing, or do you need to be replaced?”

My legs trembled, ready to buckle against my will, but the threat of the alternative kept me breathing. “I can do it,” I forced out, pushing myself up. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he tilted his head, his silver mask reflecting what little light there was backstage. “Because if you are unable to perform, we have a reserve ready.”

Choi Mingyu? No way. If he comes out here—if he gets his hands on Karina—

“No!” I snapped, the word ripping out of my throat to interrupt my own thoughts. “I said I’ll do it!”

The smug Jack chuckled, walking past me to stand by the Dealer. “We’ll see how long this lasts, pretty boy.”

Two more figures emerged from the wings, their masks more discreet than every other VIP’s—less flashy; a matte, dull, lifeless gold. During the break, whispers had floated around the waiting room that the guests from Table Three were Korean politicians, but I couldn’t tell exactly who from just the bottom half of their faces, only that they certainly looked the part, in all the worst ways.

They didn’t look at me, at the Dealer, or even at the audience. Their eyes were locked on the singular figure standing in the center of the stage, like she was the target from beginning to end.

Karina.

She looked unreal, more like a portrait or a masterfully carved statue than a person, the way she stood perfectly still with her hands folded behind her back. The blindfold cut across her face like a stroke of blood and the red collar hugged her throat like a fresh wound, a stark, violent contrast against her pale complexion radiating underneath the spotlight, making her look like a fallen goddess.

“Let us begin, shall we?” the Dealer’s voice slithered through the speakers.

The two Kings moved in a terrifyingly rehearsed unison, as if it wasn’t their first time—on the stage, together, or with Karina.

“Finally,” one of them said, his voice laced with excitement but also something blatantly sinister. “We meet again, High Ace Karina.”

“A High Ace no more,” the other corrected, smacking his teeth. “How pitiful. The shame you must feel facing the crowd like this.”

Without warning, one of them grabbed her arm; the other her hair, yanking her head back—not hard, but enough to show the entire room who was in control. Karina gasped loudly, a sharp, broken sound that echoed through the silent hall.

“Careful, gentlemen…” the Dealer warned from the distance. “As I’m sure you both know, our Karina is quite... fragile. She has a tendency to fold when things become even a little unpleasant.”

“We know,” one of the Kings grunted, running his fingers down her body like he’d been waiting all night, perhaps even longer. “Don’t worry… we’ll be more gentle this year. Just a little.”

Karina didn’t say a word. She just stood there, glaring at them through her blindfold like their presence alone made her sick to her stomach.

“She folded too early last year!” a voice shouted from the audience. “Don’t let her off easy this time!”

More voices joined in.

“Yeah! Make her put on a proper show!”

“This is a giant pot this year, make it worth it!”

The smug Jack strutted over, eyeing her like a vulture waiting for scraps. “I have an idea. Why don’t we just cover her mouth?” he said, pulling a ball gag from the table of equipment. “Prevent her from even saying the safeword. Make sure she can’t fold—”

“Put that away! What the hell’s your problem?” the King snapped. “Are you sick in the head? Besides, they also have hand gestures to fold. The rules say it’s one or the other, and I’d rather tie her cute little hands.”

The Jack furrowed his brows. “Huh… didn’t know there were rules like that.”

“Are you joking? We played two Jacks so you could help control the tempo, given your familiarity with her. And you didn’t even know the rules? Tell me you at least know her limits so you can prevent her from folding.”

The Jack shrugged. “I’ve never fucked this slut before. She’s too elite.”

“What?” they asked, diverting their eyes to me now. “What about you?”

It was like my mouth worked on autopilot. “Go fuck yourselves,” I murmured, steadying my breathing. “Scumbags.”

The two of them scoffed in disbelief and looked into the darkness of the stage. “Hey, House! We need new Jacks—”

The smug Jack put his hands up, interrupting their demand. “Wait. Let me stay. I’ll work with you. We’ll make sure she doesn’t fold,” he said, his voice overly accommodating. “Don’t replace me, I wanna know how her pussy feels. This might be my only chance.”

“This isn’t a charity, Jack. We paid good money for this.”

“I know, I know—but trust me, the other Jacks back there are all done after Yuna fucked them dry earlier,” he said, inching closer, as if trying to gain the trust of a feral animal. “If we’re talking quality, I’m the best you’ve got, really.”

There was some hesitation and murmurs amongst each other, but they eventually nodded.

“Then put that damn thing away and come help,” they said, waving him over.

“Fine,” the Jack muttered, tossing the gag on the floor. “Let’s tie her up.”

“And you too,” one of them pointed at me. “Get over here.”

I didn’t move. I would have rather been shot dead.

“I said come here,” he repeated.

“No,” I snarled, limbs barely holding me up. “I’m not playing your fucked up game.”

There was a rather menacing laugh from the shadows that echoed through the stage, but I couldn’t tell who it was from, nor did I have the capacity to care.

“Why the hell did they send you here then if you’re not going to do anything?” the Jack spat, looking down at me. “Fucking coward. You’re a disgrace to the House of Spades.”

The three of them quickly pulled the crimson ropes from the tables, as if they had practiced a hundred times before the round started. The red cord bit into her shoulders first, looping under her arms and crossing over her chest in intricate patterns that emphasized her breathing without restricting it. Then, they pulled the knots tight at the base of her neck, right beneath her collar, forcing her spine to arch. Finally, they wrenched her wrists upward against her back, securing them into the web they had woven like a cage against her skin.

“So fucking beautiful,” one of them growled, admiring her bound figure. “An actual human goddess... reduced to this.”

“Who do you serve tonight, Karina?” the other said, burying his face into the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply—a wet, sniffing sound that made me want to vomit.

She flinched slightly, clenching her jaw. “Y-you, Master,” she forced out.

“Oh?” He pulled back, feigning disappointment. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”

“Did we just pay two and a half billion won for a girl who’s unwilling?” the other sneered, stepping closer.

“No,” Karina gasped, voice shaking. “I want to serve you, Master. I… I can’t wait to make you happy. Please, tell me what you want me to do.”

“We want you to enjoy this,” one of them whispered against her ear, licking her jaw in a slow, dangerous stroke. “Show the audience what it means to be an Ace of Spades, Rina. Wear your collar proudly if you really think you deserve it.”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he purred, guiding her down, forcing her to her knees in front of the other King, who had taken his seat on the black velvet chaise, legs spread wide. “Now open up.”

Karina struggled to keep balance with her arms bound behind her back, but the King gripped her shoulders, aligning her carefully, forcing her lips to navigate the space and her tongue to find the hardened cock before her. Her head then fell over, taking him whole, as if anchoring her entire upper body over his cock.

“That’s it,” the sitting King sighed, tangling his fingers in her hair to pull her deeper. “Just like that, baby. Put that pretty mouth to good use.”

“Damn.” The Jack chuckled to himself as he paced around the three of them, admiring the horrifying view. “I wonder if she’s even half as good at sucking dick as Jang Wonyoung.”

“We don’t give a shit about Jang Wonyoung,” the other King muttered, running his hands all over her body as she continued slurping on the other’s cock. “Karina is the only Ace that matters.”

“Well, you’re missing out then,” the Jack said, leaning against the frame of the chair next to them. “Jang Wonyoung’s mouth is crazy. I thought the rumors were overblown, but that whore is an oral prodigy. But don’t worry, I’ll let you know how this one compares once it’s my turn.”

“You talk a lot for a Jack,” the King on the chaise grunted. “Did you know that?”

He grinned proudly. “So I’ve heard.”

The King who had been standing finally dropped to his knees, his shadow swallowing her small frame as he buried his face against the nape of her neck, dragging a hot, wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down the delicate line of her spine, causing her to shiver. His hands moved possessively, kneading the full, pale flesh of her breasts that the ropes had pushed up to accentuate their shape, squeezing them until her skin flushed underneath.

But he didn’t stop there; he dragged his face lower, past the trembling arch of her lower back, taking a long moment to admire the view.

“God,” he breathed, spreading her cheeks wide with zero hesitation, “what a fucking gorgeous looking pussy.”

Before she could even brace herself, he buried his tongue deep in her hole with a sloppy, animalistic hunger that echoed sickeningly through the silence.

Karina choked around the other King’s length, a small, desperate sound escaping the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she tried to accommodate the girth forcing her jaw open, but without her hands to stabilize herself, her head bobbed helplessly with every thrust, her neck straining like a flower stem about to snap.

“Fuck… it tastes so good,” he groaned ecstatically, his voice muffled against her skin. He pulled back, frustration bleeding into his tone as he ran a thumb roughly over her clit. “Too bad it’s not even a little wet.”

The Jack let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Sounds like a skill issue to me.”

“Watch your mouth, you little shit,” the King snapped, glaring over Karina’s trembling hip. “You think you can do better? This is Karina. She doesn’t just give it up.”

“So what if it’s Karina?” The Jack smirked, stepping closer with an arrogance that irritated the entire room. “Every bitch gets wet if you actually know how to break her.”

“Prove it, then,” the King spat, abandoning his position behind her. “Show us your tricks. That’s why we brought you.”

He crawled up her body, burying his face in her cleavage, latching onto her exposed nipples with a hunger that resembled a child’s tantrum. The sound of thick, sloppy suction filled the air, mixing with the choked noises escaping Karina’s throat as the first King continued to thrust deeper into her mouth, forcing saliva to spill out down her chin.

The Jack just smirked and knelt between her splayed legs, prying her apart with ease. He didn’t touch her yet—instead, he leaned in close until his nose brushed against the smooth skin of her inner thigh.

“Whoa, she smells really good,” he snickered, breathing her in. “And her body is soft as hell.”

Karina whimpered, her head thrashing as much as the cock in her throat would allow, eyes squeezing shut.

“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to know,” the Jack taunted, his voice a low, annoying purr as he licked the crease between her cheeks, tongue swirling dangerously close to her other hole. “What it feels like to break... Karina.”

Karina gagged, pulling back just enough to free herself for a split second while she gasped for air, her chest heaving against the King’s mouth.

“How... how dare you,” she rasped, her voice trembling but filled with an innate rebelliousness. “You call Aces by their names?”

“Who’s going to stop me?” The Jack grinned, eyes gleaming with malice. “You?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He buried his face between her thighs, tongue driving straight into her tight hole with a ruthlessness that made her entire body quiver.

“Nngh!”

The sound was torn from her throat—a raw, high-pitched cry that shattered her composure, her mouth falling open in a silent scream that followed.

The King nursing on her breasts pulled back with a wet pop. “Wow, look at that,” he said, amused. “The great Karina melts for a dirty Jack’s tongue in her pretty little asshole? It was that easy?”

“Let’s see her face now,” the King grunted, his cock glistening with her saliva under the harsh stage lights.

He reached down, ripping the blindfold away in one rough motion. She blinked rapidly against the harsh spotlight, her pupils blown wide and swimming in a haze of humiliation.

“Look at us,” he taunted, slapping her cheek lightly with his hard length. “Tell us who you belong to tonight.”

“…I belong to you, Master,” she choked out, though her voice cracked in the middle. “I’m—aah!”

The Jack tongued her hole harder, swirling deep inside, then lapping circles around it afterward, forcing her spine to arch involuntarily.

“There—she’s getting wet now,” he declared in triumph, pulling back slightly to admire the evidence.

“You’re more impressive than you look—and sound,” the other King remarked.

The Jack grinned. “I told you it was worth keeping me in. Now, let’s see how her juices taste...”

He dragged his tongue in a long, wet stripe from her ass straight down to her clit, slurping with a disgusting noise that echoed through the room.

“Oh, that’s good.” He shoved two fingers inside her, curling and snapping against her walls while his mouth ravaged her flesh. “It’s not Minju good, but it’s up there. It’s nice and addicting for sure.”

Karina bucked, a muffled scream tearing through her throat, her eyes rolling back as her thighs trembled violently against the Jack’s shoulders as if the pleasure short-circuited her brain.

“You like this, don’t you?” He laughed, smacking her cheeks repeatedly, leaving pink marks behind. “Say it.”

“I like it,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible over the wet sounds of his tongue.

“Louder!” He continued sucking harder, lapping at her flesh like a dog that hadn’t seen water for days. “Say what you like, you little pervert!”

Drool slipped out of the sides of her lips as she struggled to stay balanced, her hips bucking to every loud, animalistic lick.

“I love having my ass licked,” Karina moaned, the shameful confession leaking out like the wetness below her. “I’m a perverted Ace who really enjoys having this Jack’s tongue in her asshole.”

The audience roared, shouting wild obscenities as the Jack’s fingers worked her relentlessly, forcing her hips to jerk and her cheeks to bounce with every movement.

“Damn, you really are the perfect sex doll, aren’t you?” he chuckled to himself. “No wonder they all love you.”

He pulled back to play with her ass thoroughly, kneading the milky soft flesh and slapping it just hard enough to make it jiggle in front of the crowd, watching with satisfaction as his own spit dripped down towards her now soaking folds.

“You’re just another dirty little slut in the end,” he said, teasing both her holes with his wet fingers. “You’re all the same.”

“Please don’t stop,” she begged, arching her back against the ropes, pushing herself backwards into his touch. “Please… I wanna come while you lick my asshole…”

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, echoing off the walls with a needy, gruesome fervor that caused the King sitting down to grow impatient. He grabbed a handful of her hair, then slammed his cock back into her open mouth, stuffing her full to stifle the sound of her moans.

“Sorry,” he snickered. “As sexy as you sound when you howl like a dog, your mouth is too good.”

The other King stood up, examining the mess the Jack was making between her legs with a visible hunger. “Get out of the way now,” he ordered. “You did your job.”

“Aw, come on,” the Jack laughed, his face slick with her juices. “There’s room to share.”

The King slid himself underneath her hips and forced her thighs wider, dropping his face directly below her now glistening lips, pulling her bodyweight down while the Jack stayed buried between her cheeks.

She squirmed as both of their tongues devoured her holes simultaneously, lapping and slurping with a horrifying ferocity. Her hips and cheeks bounced on their own, each movement increasing in speed, chaining the pleasure until she was squealing like a trapped animal.

“Make her scream,” the Jack grunted. “She’s too quiet. I hate it when they’re quiet.”

“She’s not a screamer,” the King replied, ignoring her exhaustion and shoving himself back into her mouth with a wet slap. “She takes it like a good whore, don’t you, Rina?”

“I can make her scream,” the Jack grinned, eyeing her backside. “Let me fuck her in the ass. That always works.”

“No! She’ll fold. Keep her within her limits.”

The scene blurred into a montage of flushed skin and tangled limbs. They didn’t just use her; they passed her back and forth like a toy, rotating her through positions that felt endless.

But it wasn’t the swapping of juices, the slapping of flesh, or the redness blooming on her body that made my skin crawl—it was how her strangled cries slowly, but surely, dissolved into wet, breathless whimpers of what could only be deciphered as an awakening carnal need.

I watched, because that was all I could do. My stomach twisted into tight, painful knots as two of the Kings hoisted her effortlessly into the air, gripping her thighs like handles, suspending her fragile body like a trophy while the third drove into her from below with a force that shook her entire frame.

“Look at her pretty face,” one grunted. “This is the real Karina. Loving every second of this.”

“Yes, Master…” Karina gasped, her head rolling back, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. “I love it so much. Please keep fucking me like this. Please continue to destroy my perverted pussy that can’t stop coming for you.”

Her legs didn’t kick him away; they hooked around his waist, locking him in for more, while her head fell back with a broken, high-pitched moan that sounded terrifyingly like release.

Then the scene shifted.

She was on her knees, head bobbing helplessly as one of them took her from behind, his hips snapping against her rippling ass while his hands reached around to roughly fondle her breasts, squeezing the pale flesh until her hardened nipples peaked through the slots of his fingers. The other two loomed in front of her, rotating through her mouth. She didn’t even have time to gasp for air before the next one was shoving himself down her throat, and yet, she didn’t pull back. She started leaning forward, her tongue chasing the taste of them desperately, like it was keeping her alive.

“She’s pretty fucking good at this,” the Jack laughed, grabbing her hair to force her deeper onto him. “You’re not too far behind from Wonyoung. No wonder you used to be High Ace.”

Karina pulled back for a split second, a string of saliva connecting her lips to him. “Don’t… ever… call me by my name…” she slurred, her eyes heavy and unfocused. “I’m an Ace… I’m the High Ace of Spades…”

“You’re a cocksleeve,” the Jack corrected, shoving himself back in. “So do your job and make me come.”

And this time, she didn’t argue—she swallowed him whole in a daze of pure, mindless pleasure.

They forced her down onto the Jack’s lap, and she sank onto him with a broken gasp, her hips beginning to grind in a slow, exhausted rhythm. The two Kings wasted no time descending upon her like birds of prey, flanking her on either side, burying their faces into her chest.

“You love it, don’t you?” the King mumbled against her skin, biting down. “Getting your pretty nipples sucked like this. God, you’re delicious.”

“Please…” she sobbed, but her hips were snapping against the Jack, progressively harder and faster. “Keep sucking them. I’ll come. I’ll come again. More, more, more!”

They didn’t let her rest. They hauled her onto the chaise, draping her body over the edge so her head hung over the armrest while a King drove into her with a rhythm that made her entire frame shudder. The second one hovered above, dragging his length between her breasts with bruising force.

She wasn’t drowning anymore; she was drinking from their cups of lust, disappearing under the weight of their desire, her eyes rolling back into a storm of white, completely lost to the pleasure of her own ruin.

The longer it went on, the more it was clear that Karina was breaking, piece by piece, inch by inch, right in front of me.

I knelt there, frozen and useless, paralysis rooting me to the floor, praying for the word “fold” to leave her lips.

But it never came.

The nightmare didn’t end because they were finished with her; it paused because they needed to catch their breath.

“I need a minute,” a King grunted, his chest heaving as sweat dripped down the sides of his face.

He looked at me, his eyes now reduced to black orbs behind the gold mask, as he grabbed Karina by her arms, hauling her up from the floor like a ragdoll, shoving her hard toward me.

My arms wrapped around her trembling frame instinctively as she stumbled and crashed straight into my chest. She felt feverishly hot; her skin was covered with sweat and spit.

“Your turn, hero,” the King sneered, turning his back to grab a glass of water. “You fuck her now. Make yourself useful by keeping her nice and wet for us.”

I looked down at her carefully, afraid that even my gaze would break her. Her head was resting against my shoulder, breaths coming in shallow, broken gasps.

“No,” I whispered, the word barely scraping past my throat. “I won’t.”

A tap from the glass startled me as the handler spoke into his earpiece, “Participate, Jack, or you will be removed.”

I swallowed and gripped Karina’s shoulders, pulling her back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were swimming, pupils dilating from the pills.

“Karina,” I hissed, my voice merely a desperate thread of sound. “Listen to me.”

She flinched, blinking rapidly. “Karina? Another Jack who—”

“No, it’s not like that—I’m not really a Jack—I know Sora and John,” I whispered, hoping the mics wouldn’t pick it up. “And Wonyoung, too.”

She froze. The haze in her eyes cleared for just a split second.

“I’m Wonyoung’s boyfriend,” I lied—the same lie I’d told a hundred times, but it was the only one that made more sense than the truth. “I came here to help.”

“Wonyoung’s… boyfriend?” She stared at me, brows furrowing with whatever strength they had left. “You’re the Park… Wonbin person? You’re the reason she got in trouble?”

I nodded, guilt twisting in my gut like a knife. “I know you two don’t like each other, but I’m on your side. I want to help you—”

She looked at me like I was insane. “What do you mean we don’t like each other?”

“I—I saw the video where she took your collar. And your title.” I stumbled, confusion washing over me suddenly. “I just assumed you hate her—”

“I love her,” she breathed out, shaking her head weakly. “We’re like sisters.”

Sisters? Wonyoung and Karina?

“Then why—” I started, my voice cracking.

“We’re all playing a role. Just like you are right now.”

In my periphery, I could see the Jack begin to turn back around, looking at the clock.

“Listen to me, Karina,” I choked out, panic rising in my chest. “You have to fold. Please. Just fold.”

“I can’t,” she whispered against my skin. “I can’t just fold for no reason. If the House feels cheated... if the audience feels cheated... I’ll be punished later. It’ll be worse than just enduring this.”

“I can’t do this to you!” I begged, my hands shaking so violently on her bare arms I thought I might bruise her. “Please, Karina. I don’t want to touch you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t hurt me. Just do as you’re told.”

“They want me to have sex with you. I can’t. I can’t do that to you—or to Wonyo—”

“Do it,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a desperate, commanding tone. “Just do it. If you won’t, they will.”

I shook my head frantically, tears blurring my vision until she was just a smear of pale skin and red rope. “I can’t do this to you. Sora and John came to save you, but they failed because of me. This is all happening because of me. I’m the last person who should be—”

“If you want to help me,” she said, pulling me closer until her forehead rested against mine. “Then make me fold yourself.”

“W-what?”

She looked up at me, her eyes tragic and beautiful and full of a terrifying resolve.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded. “Fuck me until I can’t take it anymore. Break me so that they can’t. Give me a proper reason to fold. I’ll fold for you.”

“That’s crazy! I can’t! There has to be another way—”

“Hurry! The drugs are taking over again, I can feel it. Please!”

I stared at her, paralyzed. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythm so violent it made my vision swim. This wasn’t a choice or a favor, it was an execution. I was being asked to destroy her myself out of mercy, as if I hadn’t committed enough sins against her already.

“If you won’t start,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “then I will.”

She dropped to her knees.

“Karina, wait—”

Before I could even protest, her hot, wet mouth had already engulfed me completely.

“Karina, stop!” I gasped, my knees buckling as the sensation hit me like a physical blow.

My own mind was fracturing. Every nerve ending was screaming. The feeling of her tongue—soft, wet, and so incredibly skilled—wasn’t just pleasure; it was an assault. It was like she was trying to suck the soul out of me.

It feels… so good. I have to stop her, but I can’t. My body won’t listen. Why does it have to feel so good? Why is she so good? Is this… really the mark of an Ace of Spades?

My hands hovered over her head, trembling, unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer. But she didn’t stop. She sucked with a desperate, terrifying thirst, her head bobbing furiously like she was trying to force me to cave.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” she mumbled around me, pulling back just enough to look up. Her lips were swollen, chin covered with saliva, eyes swimming in a hypnotic haze. “Am I not good enough for you?”

That’s not it—I just can’t see you that way. You’re Sora’s dongsaeng, Karina. I can’t.

Her fingers rubbed frantic circles around her clit, and her moans became so loud in between her sucks and slurps that they started drowning out the murmurs of the crowd.

“Is Wonyoung that much better than me?” she demanded, her voice rising, cracking into a sob.

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Is she? How can anyone be better than this? This… feels like heaven and hell all at once.

“Does she fuck you so good that no one else can ever compare? Is that why you won’t touch me?”

She gagged around me intentionally, deep and wet as her throat convulsed around my length. When she pulled back again, there was genuine anger in her eyes—a flash of fury that had nothing to do with the auction and everything to do with being denied.

“Answer me!” she hissed. “You don’t want to fuck me? Even like this? Even when I’m begging you?”

My mouth finally worked. “K-Karina, please—”

“Look at me!” she screamed, grabbing my hips to pull me closer. “Everyone wants me! Why don’t you? Why are you denying me? I’m Karina! I’m the High Ace of Spades! You should be honored!”

Before I could answer, the Kings grabbed her arms, hauling her away from me like a piece of luggage they were reclaiming. “Come back here, we’re not done with you.”

“She’s finally losing it,” the smug Jack laughed, watching her thrash against them. “What did you do to her? She’s broken now.”

But something had shifted in her eyes. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was like she wasn’t the same person, and it made me question if she was ever afraid to begin with.

Karina screamed, but it wasn’t a plea or a cry for help. It was a raw, almost animalistic sound of frustration that tore through the room, sending chills down my spine as I kneeled hopelessly on the floor.

She broke free from their holds and lunged forward, grabbing my legs, burying her face in my thighs again.

“Fuck me!” she growled, kissing my skin wildly. “I want you to fuck me!”

I looked down at her—at the desperation in her eyes that was quickly turning into resentment. Then I looked at the audience. No one I recognized was there anymore. John, James, Jake—everyone was gone. Only a sea of monsters practically drooling at the edge of their seats.

“I can’t,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. “I’m sorry, Karina. I can’t.”

The Jack grabbed her ankle, dragging her back. “Pathetic,” he spat, looking at me with pure disgust. “She’s begging you to use her, and you’re refusing. You’re not a Jack. You’re a fraud.”

He turned to Karina, towering over her. “And you. You’re no High Ace. You’re just a used-up toy. Wonyoung deserves to take your place. She’s twice the woman you are.”

Something inside her completely snapped. I saw it happen in slow motion—a hot wave of rage flooded her face, drowning out whatever was left of the girl begging me for help.

She laughed. It was a manic, broken sound that echoed uncomfortably in the silence that followed.

“Is that what they say now?” she snarled, her voice trembling with a dark, venomous amusement. “That she’s twice the woman?”

A terrifying smile spread across her face, not one of submission, but of a predator recognizing its prey—or rather, a prey realizing it was never one at all.

“You’re all pathetic,” she whispered, the sound low and dangerous. “I’m bored of this show.”

She dropped to her knees in front of the Jack, her hands flying to his already hardening length with a speed that made him stumble back in surprise.

“What the hell—”

Before he could even steady himself, she had him in her mouth, taking him deep with a suction so intense his knees buckled instantly.

The Kings stood frozen, shocked by the sudden act of rebellion and shift in power. They didn’t move to stop her; they just watched, stunned, as she worked the Jack with a violent, punishing rhythm. Her head bobbed furiously, her tongue swirling around his tip while her throat massaged him deeper than he had probably ever been taken in his life.

She looked up, spit still trailing from her chin. “You think only Wonyoung can make you come with her mouth?” she taunted, her voice dripping with anger. “Who do you think carried this House before she was drawn? Who do you think you’re talking to when you dare to speak my name so casually?”

“H-hold on, wait—”

She didn’t let him answer—she didn’t care what he had to say. She swallowed him whole again, sucking with such ferocity that he cried out, his legs shaking violently until he spilled into her mouth with a loud groan of defeat.

“Never call an Ace by her name again for as long as you live,” Karina snarled, spitting his cum directly onto his face just before shoving him aside. “Worthless trash.”

Then she spun around, grabbing the nearest King by the shoulders and forcing him down onto the mat. “Now you,” she said calmly.

“Karina, what’s gotten into—”

There wasn’t a single ounce of care left in her to explain. She mounted his face, grinding her dripping pussy against his mouth with a feral energy that forced him to work for every breath. At the same time, she reached up and grabbed the second King, pulling him down until his cock was level with her face.

“Hurry up and come,” she commanded, her voice ragged as she began stroking him firmly. “I’ve got better things to do with the time remaining.”

She took the second King into her mouth while riding the first one’s face, turning the scene into a grand, shocking performance that left the audience with no room to breathe, let alone think.

But she didn’t stop there.

“Get up.” She grabbed the King beneath her by his hair, yanking him upwards. “Fuck me properly,” she ordered, pushing him to his knees.

She kneeled upright, aligning her ass with his cock before impaling herself back onto him.

“J-Jesus,” he muttered, his hands scrambling to grip her waist for balance as her pussy swallowed him whole. “Fuck—you’re crazy!”

Then, she grabbed the second King’s cock, forcing it between her breasts, squeezing them together around his length.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he groaned, struggling to keep balance.

“Harder,” Karina commanded the King behind her, arching her back. “You two talked a big game earlier, but this is all you’ve got?”

She alternated between dragging her wet, open mouth down the second King’s shaft, swallowing him whole, and then pulling back to suffocate him with the softness her cleavage.

“Fuck!” the King in front of her cried out as she squeezed her breasts around his length, milking him with a rhythmic, ruthless pressure.

He couldn’t last. He erupted, hot white streams firing across her chest and neck, painting her pale skin with his defeat.

She didn’t flinch or even move; she just watched him come undone, her eyes gleaming with a triumphant satisfaction as he shuddered and went limp in her grasp.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, staring him down as she continued to grind back against the King behind her.

His composure had shattered completely; his hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh like they were the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world.

She leaned her weight back against his chest, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair, yanking his head forward with a sharp, commanding force. “Come on,” she hissed against his ear. “Harder. Faster. Deeper.”

He obeyed, his hips snapping forward with a desperate, animalistic speed that made her breasts bounce violently with every impact, forcing the cum covering her chest to splash and drip down her stomach.

“Make me fold, Master,” she taunted, her lips parted as she looked right into his defeated eyes. “I dare you.”

He groaned, a low, weak sound of surrender, and leaned back on his hands, his head falling back as the pressure built to what looked to be an unbearable peak.

She didn’t slow the rhythm; she took control instead—pushing herself back onto him with a grinding motion that caused him to whimper.

“I’m com—”

She popped off his length right as he groaned loudly, leaving him to spill his seed uselessly into the air, before hot, thick spurts splashed messily over the curve of her ass and thighs.

“It was that easy?” she scoffed, repeating their words mockingly.

She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as the three of them lay panting on the floor.

“Oh my,” the Dealer said, voice blaring over the roar of the crowd. “It would seem that the performance has taken quite the turn this year, folks…”

Karina looked at the clock and finally turned to me, as if ready to collect a prize with whatever time remained. Her chest was heaving, her skin flushed a violent shade of pink, and her eyes were wild—dilated, dangerous, and completely locked onto mine. She crawled over the mat, the red ropes trailing behind her like a leash she had snapped.

She didn’t ask this time. She grabbed the back of my neck and buried her face there, her teeth grazing the skin of my throat.

“Park Wonbin,” she whispered against my pulse, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “I cleared the table for you. Now will you fuck me?”

She sucked hard, intentionally leaving a mark, branding me right below the leather collar for everyone to see.

“Why are you doing this?” I breathed, my entire body practically screaming to have more of her, even though my mind was fighting profusely. “Why do I have to fuck you? It’s already over. You won.”

She pulled back, her hands tangling in my hair, yanking my head back until I was forced to look up at her. “It’s not over until you make me fold,” she said with a smirk.

“What’s the point?” I said, feeling my mouth water against my will as my eyes focused on her swollen red lips. “What’s gotten into you?”

She tilted her head like a predator toying with its food. “I just want you to fuck me, Park Wonbin,” she said with a fake tone of innocence. “We have to play our roles. They’re all watching. Or are you going to disappoint everyone like you disappointed her?”

She sank down onto me without warning.

“F-fuck…” I gasped, my hands gripping her waist instinctively as her heat completely enveloped me.

She was so terrifyingly hot and wet, moving with so much precision that it was like she was curating every sensation around my shaft.

“Is this how she likes it?” she spat, grinding her hips down. “Does Wonnie prefer when you just sit there and make her do all the work?”

“Leave her out of this,” I grunted, clenching my jaw. “If you want to play games, don’t mention her name.”

She rode me with a punishing rhythm, her nails digging into my scalp, twisting the strands. “Are you mad? Are you going to punish me now?”

It was like my hands had a mind of their own. They latched onto her ass, squeezing hard into her cheeks, lifting them as they bounced up and down my length.

“There you go,” she moaned, running her tongue across my ear. “Touch me. You want to, I know you do.”

“Why are you like this, Karina?” I moaned. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Come on, make me fold. You promised you’d help. You came all the way here to help, didn’t you? Or are you secretly enjoying this too much?” She feigned a gasp. “You love how my pussy feels, don’t you? Could it be—my god—you like fucking me more than Wonnie? You like me more—”

Something inside me snapped. The jealousy, the drugs, the sheer audacity of her taunts—it all boiled over into an exploding rage.

“Shut up,” I growled, flipping her off me.

She gasped loudly as her back hit the mat, but before she could react, I was on top of her. I grabbed her ankles and forced her legs up, pinning them back until her knees were beside her shoulders, exposing her completely.

Her pussy was drenched in arousal, practically leaking onto the mat below us, and her nipples were so stiff that it looked like they were screaming to be sucked on.

I drove into her, sliding right back into her slippery hole without any resistance.

“Ah!” Her head slammed back against the cushion, eyes rolling back.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” I said, thrusting harder into her as we glared at each other, eyes locked between a dense layer of sweat and fury.

“Oh god,” she moaned, her hand drifting down to rub her clit furiously. “You’re so deep, I can feel you all the way inside me.”

“No.” I reached down and snatched her hand away, pinning it above her head. “You don’t get to come. You have to fold.”

“Then make me!” she screamed, bucking her hips to meet me. “Choke me! Slap me! Fuck me to dea—”

My hand found her throat, squeezing just hard enough to silence her and make her eyes flutter. My other hand lightly struck her cheek; the sound was sharp, shocking, but she just whined, her hips snapping faster, desperate for more.

“Fold!” I barked, slapping her again.

“Harder!” she demanded, hitting me back, stinging my cheek. “Stop holding back! Everyone can see you being a fucking coward! Aren’t you embarrassed?! Do it properly, you worthless Jack!”

It was like I was possessed by something that wasn’t human anymore. I flipped her over, pressing her face into the cushion, and grabbed her hips, pulling her back onto me to fuck her flat on the floor with a fast, punishing pace.

“Fold, now!” I yelled, somewhere between a command and a plea.

“No! I don’t want to fold!” she sobbed into the mat, her voice muffled but ecstatic. “Your cock feels so fucking good! Keep fucking me just like this! Fuck me harder than you’ve ever fucked Wonnie!”

I slapped her ass—once, twice, three times—leaving bright red handprints on her pale skin, but the harder I tried, the more she screamed in delight.

“Fold!” I commanded, pumping into her violently, forcing loud splashing sounds out of her hole as I pulled one of her knees up to deepen the angle.

She smiled, eyes rolling now. “More! Give me more!”

“You really won’t fold?” I warned, reaching down to wet my thumb with her overflowing juices before circling the entrance of her other hole. “Last chance.”

Her lips parted, eyes widening as she stared straight into my eyes, past wherever the windows to my soul were supposed to be. “Do it,” she dared.

I pulled her cheeks apart and pushed my thumb right into her ass, feeling the warm flesh squeezing me immediately like they were fighting off an intruder.

Her entire body seized.

But I kept fucking her roughly, driving into her as hard as I could while my thumb sank deeper with every thrust until she’d swallowed it whole.

“Oh fu—oh fu—fuck—fuuuuck—I’m coming s-s-so hard—ungh—”

She still didn’t fold—she shattered, clamping down on me in both places, milking me with a violence that tore a roar from my own throat.

I couldn’t hold back. I was drowning in whatever demonic force had cursed the both of us to share this sinful moment together.

“Fold, please—” I begged, just before pulling out at the last second.

My hips jerked uncontrollably as I spilled all over the curve of her ass and the dip of her lower back, collapsing right on top of her, lungs burning, heart hammering like a malfunctioning machine.

We lay there for a moment, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, while the audience roared with such intensity that I thought it would break my eardrums.

Then, slowly, she turned her head. She shifted, crawling out from under me, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my drenched forehead.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice broken but mischievously satisfied.

Then she turned to the Dealer.

“I fold,” she announced, right before falling over me.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

“Ladies and gentlemen… the moment has arrived at long last.”

The first thing I felt was the cold, pressing flat against my cheek, as my eyes slowly opened to the sound of the Dealer’s voice echoing through the stage. My skull was hollow, and my limbs were somewhere far away from me, like they weren’t even a part of my body anymore.

Then came the smell: floral, warm, and mildly sweet against a room that reeked of sweat, sex, and cigars.

The lingering trace of Yujin’s perfume mixed with Karina’s clung to my flesh, branded into my throat, collarbone, and arms, reminding me that the nightmare had been real the entire time.

“We now begin the final round of the Blackjack Auction. The last, yes… but certainly not the least—and for many of you, this may very well be the beginning of the real show.”

I blinked against the overhead lights, my body still catching up on what my ears had just registered.

The last round. It was almost over, but the end never felt so far away.

“Now, for our first-time auctioneers, you may have noticed from the beginning that your decks each came with an ace card,” the Dealer said, moving along the edge of the stage with that annoying, exaggerated stance. “Yes, you guessed right… In the final round, these aces can finally be played.”

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. How many more people were going to be dragged onto this stage before these sick bastards were satisfied?

“My lovely patrons, if you’re thinking that ace cards may be used in the final round to bring back Aces from the previous rounds, then you’d be correct!” The Dealer raised a single finger, his voice dropping into a low warning. “But do keep in mind, you may only summon Aces that belong to the same House as the performer—there will be no cross-mixing tonight!”

Bring them back.

The words landed like a slap to the face. All of them, pulled back under these lights for another round of whatever these masked animals decided they were worth tonight.

“However! It comes with a very hefty price tag.” He stopped and spread his arms wide, basking in the hunger of the crowd like it was sunlight as the audience leaned forward in their seats. “You see, Ace cards cost… exactly half of their own pot during their round. So yes, use them wisely… for they can get quite pricey, even for the most prestigious of guests.”

A low hum of whispers broke out across the tables; some sounded like shock, others entertained and greedy.

Half of their pot, just to pull someone back out here. Just to buy another performance from a body that had already given everything it had.

“Now then,” the Dealer said, his voice laced with both malice and excitement. “Shall we begin?”

The giant screens suspended above the stage flickered, plunging the room into total darkness for a split second before a massive, bleeding crimson heart illuminated the space. The scarlet glow washed over the masked faces in the audience, turning the sea of billionaires into what looked like a gallery of predators covered in blood.

“For the House of Hearts’ final performance, we present the princess herself,” the Dealer announced. “She has reigned over the industry for countless years, her career and track record a force to be reckoned with, stealing the hearts of many. Please welcome the High Ace of Hearts… Sakura of LE SSERAFIM!”

The crowd cheered loudly as Sakura stepped out from the shadows, her movements so delicate that she didn’t seem to disturb even the air around her. Like all the other Aces, she wore nothing but a velvet red collar around her neck and a matching silk blindfold, shadows carefully hugging her waist like a dark corset to exaggerate every dip and curve of her doll-like proportions.

“Welcome back, my dear,” the Dealer purred, stepping to the side as if he were unworthy of sharing her spotlight. “In a mere two years, the House of Hearts has already molded you into a deity. Tell me, what do you plan on showing our patrons tonight?”

Sakura stood perfectly still, her hands gracefully clasped behind her back, tilting her chin up slightly. “I have a special talent that I’d like to show you all,” she said softly. “I also want to remind our wonderful VIPs… that those who love with all their hearts will receive nothing but devotion in return from our House.”

An enthusiastic applause instantly filled the hall. It was surprisingly polite, but underneath the cheers and steady clapping, there was an undeniable excitement of men rushing to grab their cards.

“You heard her! Thirty seconds, my lovely patrons!” the Dealer announced with a loud clap. “Show us your true devotion!”

BIDDING OVER Sakura ♥ [Team 1] 🅹 + 🅹 [Team 3] 10 + 10 + 10 + 10 = 40 [Team 5] 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 (Winner!) Total points: 40 + 6 🅹 (₩2,200,000,000)

It clicked instantly to me upon seeing the results. No one was even bothering with normal cards anymore—the entire auction had turned into a strategic standoff of who was hoarding their Jokers for their favorite High Aces. Everything prior to this was just foreplay to these people.

“Team Five has played a perfect hand, with no contenders!” the Dealer shrieked, pointing at the board as the numbers shifted to tally the final cost. “Let’s waste no more time, show us your face cards!”

Team 5 x Sakura: x3 Ace x1 Queen x1 King ((109 + 102 + 175) / 2 + 35) (₩4,480,000,000)

“One King and three Aces! These Hearts simps are so stupid that it hurts!” someone laughed from the front row. “This Hearts round costs almost as much as Karina’s!”

“Finally, we see the infamous Harem of Hearts!”

“Now this is one round you’re better off watching than participating in!”

The Dealer threw his arms wide, silencing the guests. “Team 5 has claimed the High Ace of Hearts! And in their infinite generosity, they have invoked the absolute right to resurrect the entirety of the House of Hearts!”

He paused for effect—letting the anticipation build before leaning into the microphone.

“Let us welcome back our lovely Aces of Hearts… The delicate Sullyoon! The sweet Eunha! The enchanting Hanni! And of course, the one who holds them all in her embrace… the one and only Queen of Hearts, Yoona!”

From Table Five, only one man stepped forward, just as the screen had promised. He walked up the stairs slowly, carefully unbuttoning his suit jacket as if approaching an altar, before stopping just short of the chair set in the center of the stage.

“It is an absolute honor, Sakura-ssi,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he bowed his head to the goddess before him. “I’m such a big fan. I’ve admired you for so many years.”

Sakura reached back and untied her blindfold, letting the silk drop to the floor. She paused to admire the view, her gaze slowly dragging over his sharp suit before a gentle smile bloomed on her face.

“Your Majesty,” she replied softly, pressing her palms flat against his chest to guide him backward until he sank helplessly into the chair. “The honor is entirely mine.”

“You’re so gorgeous,” he breathed, not even blinking once. “You’re just so perfect—”

She captured his tongue without hesitation. It wasn’t a forced kiss, but it was deep and sensual, clearly a reward for his devotion.

They moved together so seamlessly that it looked like a movie scene, right up until she finally pulled away, leaving a glossy shine of saliva across his lips under the stage lights.

“You’re a good kisser,” she said shyly. “I got lucky tonight.”

With a soft exhale, she dropped to her knees, dragging his hands down with her and resting them on her shoulders.

“I want to kiss you here too,” she whispered, keeping her eyes locked with his, as if they were tethered to one another. “Can I?”

“Of course,” he said, heaving from anticipation. “Anything you want.”

“Make sure you serve a King who cherishes us properly, Sakura-ssi,” a velvety voice purred from the dark.

Sakura bit her bottom lip playfully. “Yes, sunbae-nim,” she said, turning her head.

Yoona stepped into the light, her red dress flowing around her ankles while a golden crown gleamed brightly atop her head. She knelt right beside Sakura on the floor, and with practiced, feminine grace, unzipped the man’s trousers, freeing his already throbbing length.

He gasped, eyes darting between the two of them. “I-I thought Queens weren’t part of the show—”

Yoona’s smile alone was enough to silence him.

“Queens can do whatever they want,” she said, simply.

“Thank you, my Queen…” the man whispered, his chest heaving with a mix of lust and profound respect. “I adore all of you…”

Yoona just looked across his lap, catching Sakura’s eyes as they shared a soft, almost telepathic smile—a quiet, mutual understanding of exactly what they were about to do to him before they both leaned in.

“Nice and slow,” she murmured, leaning in to run her tongue slowly up one side of his shaft while Sakura mirrored her on the other. “Just like we always practiced.”

Their heads bobbed in perfect unison as they shared him completely, moving with care, their tongues swirling around the head and shaft, trading saliva and soft, muffled moans. Every few seconds, Sakura would pull back just enough to press a gentle kiss to Yoona’s lips right over him, sharing his taste before diving back in.

The King let his head fall back against the velvet chair, a long, shaky sigh escaping his throat. His fingers tangled lovingly in their hair, gently stroking it instead of pushing them down.

“You’re both so good…” he whispered, his voice overwhelmed with emotion. “This must be what heaven feels like…”

“Only for you, Your Majesty,” Sakura answered, looking up at him with large, adoring eyes as she gently squeezed the base. “We’re yours tonight. All of us.”

Somewhere from the darkness then came Sullyoon, crawling up from behind the velvet chair. Her skin practically glowed under the lights, appearing as pristine and vibrant as a fairy stepping out of a dream. Her hair fell in perfect, silky waves over her shoulders, and her lips held a flawless, rosy tint that completely masked the exhaustion of the night.

The King tilted his head back to look at her, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You look radiant, Sullyoon-ssi,” he murmured, a genuine sense of awe in his tone. “It’s as if your earlier round never even happened.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I had a lot of time to rest.” Sullyoon smiled sweetly as she presented a single blue pill between her fingertips. “Would you like to extend your pleasure with us?”

He parted his lips without hesitation, allowing her to place it directly onto his tongue with hers.

“I saw there were other colors earlier on another stage,” he said, and swallowed it dry as she delicately traced his jawline with her finger. “Why only the blue one?”

Yoona briefly pulled off his shaft. “The House of Hearts only uses pleasure pills, Your Majesty,” she explained smoothly. “We have no need to artificially manufacture stamina or lust here.”

“It’s the only pill you need,” Sullyoon said with a soft giggle. “Even kisses will feel good. Let me show you.”

The King let out a soft, appreciative exhale as she leaned further over the backrest, her breasts pressing flush against his neck as she tilted his chin up, crashing her mouth against his to swallow his eager groans. Their tongues tangled messily as saliva pooled between their lips.

Beneath them, Sakura and Yoona continued their worship, the wet slurps and suction of their mouths perfectly complementing the sloppy sounds of the kiss above.

The stage seemed to soften around them as Hanni and Eunha gracefully made their way across the floor, moving like royal handmaidens, their bare skin catching the warm light as they came to kneel gently on either side of his velvet chair.

“Master,” Hanni said, her voice light and melodic as they looked up at him with bright, adoring eyes. “Can we kiss you too?”

He breathed softly, breaking his kiss with Sullyoon just long enough to reach out and lovingly cup their cheeks. But as his hand found Eunha’s face, his thumb gently stroked her cheekbone, a sympathetic frown forming on his lips.

“Are you alright, my sweet Eunha?” he whispered, his tone dropping into a cradle of genuine concern. “Those girls were so incredibly cruel to you earlier. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Eunha melted into his palm, a fragile, beautiful smile blooming on her face. “I’m perfectly fine now, Your Majesty,” she hummed, turning her head just enough to press a warm, grateful kiss against his palm. “You’re so sweet for asking.”

Both girls then leaned in delicately to unbutton his shirt, pressing soft, loving kisses against his chest. Their warm tongues darted out, swirling gently around his nipples with a teasing rhythm as he let his head fall back against Sullyoon’s breasts, completely melting into their tender care.

“Sakura-ssi,” Yoona suggested softly, pulling her tongue off the base of his length. “Why don’t you show him your special skill now?”

Sakura smiled affectionately, gazing up at the King through her eyelashes. “Not a lot of people know about this, Your Majesty,” she whispered, her tone playful and sweet. “Let’s keep it our secret, okay?”

Leaning in, she opened her mouth and swallowed his entire length in one smooth, flawless glide. She buried her face into his lap, her throat flexing as she took him incredibly deep, maintaining a wet, steady rhythm without a single gag. The King gasped, his hips instinctively bucking upward as he felt the tight, warm squeeze of her throat massaging him.

“My god… that’s incredible,” he breathed in awe, his fingers gently caressing her hair as he melted into the velvet chair.

After a few more devastatingly deep plunges, she slowly pulled back with a soft pop, leaving him completely coated in her saliva.

“I’ve been practicing something else lately, too,” she murmured, resting her chin delicately on his thigh. “Is it okay if show you?”

It was like he was completely captivated by her eyes and could only offer a weak, ecstatic nod.

Sakura smiled naughtily and nodded at Hanni and Eunha, who instantly dropped from his chest to gently grab his ankles. With careful elegance, they pulled his legs wide open and hoisted them up over the velvet armrests.

They seamlessly took over his length, burying their faces into his lap to lovingly suck his shaft and head with eager enthusiasm while Sakura ducked lower beneath them. She delicately cupped his balls, pulling them into her mouth and swirling her tongue around the skin before trailing her warm kisses further down.

“O-oh, wow…” he whimpered.

She pushed her face right between his thighs, her tongue diving beautifully into the crease, licking him with an eager, unapologetic passion that made him arch his entire spine off the cushion.

“God—wow—you—”

He let out a breathless groan, tilting his neck up to capture Sullyoon’s soft tits, as if to silence himself. She smiled as he sucked eagerly on her nipple, pulling out a sweet, melodic sigh from her mouth while Hanni and Eunha worked together in absolute harmony, their lips sliding up and down his shaft. Beneath them, Sakura’s tongue continued to push deep, exploring his lower body with an intimate, eager rhythm, making his toes curl into the velvet fabric of the chaise.

“Wait. Please… stop for a moment…”

He gently nudged Sullyoon back just enough to catch his breath, looking down at the tangled, gorgeous arrangement of stunning women worshipping him.

“Let me return the favor,” he breathed, his eyes locked onto Sakura with total adoration. “Please. I want to taste you.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” she replied obediently.

Sakura simply smiled as she pulled back, but before she could move, the King reached down and lifted her directly into his arms in one single motion as if she was weightless. He held her closely, pressing a deep, passionate kiss against her lips, letting out a soft, grateful hum before he gently laid her down onto the dark mat.

Her chest heaved softly, her bare legs spreading wide to expose her glistening entrance to the blinding lights. The King immediately dropped to the floor between her thighs and buried his face entirely in her wetness, groaning into her as he tasted her nectar.

“You’re so perfect, Sakura-ssi,” he murmured against her folds, eagerly slurping as he licked her with the same devotion she had just given him.

But he wasn’t alone.

“Let’s all worship Kkura-sunbaenim today,” Sullyoon whispered softly with a sweet smile. “She looks so pretty like this.”

She gracefully crawled over to Sakura’s sprawling body, with Hanni and Eunha immediately following right behind her. The three of them descended upon her like a gentle wave of love. They kissed her neck, tenderly sucked on her breasts, and ran their hands all over her trembling thighs. Serving their High Ace right alongside the King, their tongues traced the soft skin of her flawless body, mixing their sweet, lovely moans into a single, overwhelming chorus.

The edges of the room melted away again as the drugs pulsed through my veins. Time lost its meaning, the stage blurring into a continuous loop of gleaming skin and pink lips.

When my eyes managed to focus, the King was flat on the mat, entirely surrendered to them. Sakura had shifted her position, maneuvering herself directly over his face. He eagerly lifted his neck to lap at her wetness, slurping with the same hunger as before. On either side of her, Hanni and Eunha crawled in close, their tongues darting out to lick and suck at Sakura’s nipples, pulling soft, airy moans from her throat. Down below, Sullyoon positioned herself between his sprawling legs, taking his entire length deep into her mouth, bobbing her head in a steady, rhythmic worship.

The scene shifted like water changing containers, a fluid, graceful rotation that almost seemed habitual: Sakura, Eunha, and Hanni kneeling between his thighs, two of them dragging their tongues up and down the sides of his shaft while the third licked his balls, pausing only to crash their lips together in a sloppy, tangling three-way kiss as their saliva dripped onto his skin for Sullyoon to then devour along with his cock.

The next time I blinked, the King was standing up, his chest heaving as Sakura dropped to her knees, taking him entirely down her throat with absolutely zero effort. Behind him, Sullyoon knelt with her face between his cheeks, swirling her tongue into him while her melodic moans vibrated into his skin. Above, Eunha pressed her soft body flush against his front, capturing his mouth in a deep, dripping kiss with Hanni kneeling at his side, lapping at his nipples.

Eventually, his legs gave out, and he collapsed flat onto his back against the padded mat. But the girls didn’t let him rest; they took turns climbing over his hips, riding him with intoxicating grace. As Sakura bounced on his lap, leaning back and gasping at the ceiling, Sullyoon straddled his face, spreading her juices over his face and smearing them across his chin. Meanwhile, Eunha and Hanni stole their lips, all four of them worshipping each other just as much as they worshipped him.

The scene changed again. The King laid Sakura on her back, driving into her splashing pussy with slow, passionate thrusts. At his head, Sullyoon and Hanni leaned in to trap his mouth in that same signature three-way kiss, while Eunha positioned herself directly over Sakura’s face, grinding her hips back and forth.

I blinked again, and when my vision cleared, the King had pulled Sakura onto her hands and knees. He thrust into her from behind, the red collar a stark contrast against her flushed, sweat-drenched neck while she arched her spine upward, turning to secure his lips in a messy, eager kiss. Just below them on the dark mat, Sullyoon and Eunha were beautifully tangled together, their legs draped over one another’s shoulders as they buried their faces deeply between each other’s thighs. Beside their tangled bodies, Hanni crawled beneath Sakura’s arched frame, tilting her head up to lovingly latch onto her breasts, pulling and sucking at the soft nipples.

They shifted again and again, their voices melting together into a beautiful, overwhelming song of breathy sobs and cries of pure ecstasy. Sakura crawled forward, burying her face between Sullyoon’s thighs as the King relentlessly pounded into her from behind, every heavy slap of his hips met with a desperate, melodic harmony of moans. Behind him, Eunha parted his cheeks, burying her tongue into his hole with every thrust of his hips, her own muffled squeals of pleasure syncing perfectly with the chaotic rhythm of the stage.

“God—I’m going to—” he cried, his voice tearing raw against the heavy air.

Sakura instantly pulled away from Sullyoon and spun around, dropping to her knees to take him entirely down her throat just as his hips locked.

My skull pounded violently. The borrowed time I had was nearing its end.

The last thing my fading vision registered was Sakura pulling away, thick white liquid dripping from her swollen lips, before passing the load into Sullyoon’s waiting mouth. Hanni and Eunha immediately swarmed them, desperately swapping the cum between the four of them, their voices and giggles overlapping in a chaotic, needy chorus.

“Your Majesty, can you fuck us too?”

“Please, I want to come, too.”

“Me too, pretty please?”

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

“Our next High Ace is a true veteran of the Auction, a diamond that shines brighter than the sun itself,” the Dealer announced, pacing the edge of the spotlight. “A precious gem cut under pressure, honed by years of service. Her discipline is absolute. Her loyalty, unwavering. Her value, beyond dispute. This will be her fifth Blackjack Auction, and believe me when I say—she has only grown more brilliant with time.”

The crowd’s murmurs turned into a low, hungry roar as a tall, breathtaking figure stepped into the light. Tzuyu walked with a cold, untouchable elegance, her red collar catching the harsh beams like shattered glass scattered across her throat.

“Please welcome the High Ace of Diamonds—Tzuyu of Twice!”

The room erupted in a way it never had for the House of Diamonds before, a wave of cheers washing over the stage like a spotlight of sound.

“My dear,” the Dealer purred, stopping beside her and tilting the microphone toward her lips. “Your reputation is a force to be reckoned with in these halls. Your talents remain unchallenged after all these years. Tell me, what do you intend to carve into the memories of our esteemed guests tonight?”

Tzuyu answered without hesitation, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “For years, the House of Diamonds has served as the standard that others only hope to mirror,” she answered confidently. “True power stems from accepting that, ultimately, you possess nothing beyond your own desires. Many have tried and failed to relinquish their stubborn pride. Surrender to us, and be rewarded. Submit entirely, and we will serve you until you forget your very name.”

“You heard her, folks!” the Dealer roared, throwing his arms wide as the bidding screen lit up. “Who here dares submit to the House of Diamonds?!”

BIDDING OVER Tzuyu ♦ Results: [Team 5] 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) [Team 6] 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) Total points: 4 🅹 (₩1,200,000,000)

“A dead tie!” the Dealer laughed, spinning on his heels. “Which means, by our sacred laws, we immediately enter… Sudden Death!”

The audience roared, a mix of furious greed and primal excitement as the screens flashed again, loading the next set of bids in real-time.

Sudden Death: [Team 5] 10 + 9 + 10 + 7 = 36 pts [Team 6] 9 + 9 + 8 + 10 = 36 pts Sudden Death points: 72 (₩720,000,000)

“Another tie!” a woman shrieked from one of the elevated booths. “They’re matching each other card for card!”

“Thirty-six points each! We haven’t seen a bloodbath like this in years!” the Dealer howled, clutching his microphone as the crowd descended into absolute chaos. VIPs were leaning over their tables, shouting obscenities and placing side bets on who would break first. “But the Auction demands a single victor! We enter Sudden Death Round Two! Show us your hands!”

The hall held its collective breath as the massive screens zeroed in on the final two active tables. At Table Five, the silence was deafening. The guests sat frozen, staring at their hands.

Right next to them, Table Six watched the screen with predatory satisfaction. There was no celebration; they all just smirked as they slid their last card into the slot.

Sudden Death 2: [Team 5] OUT OF CARDS [Team 6] 2 + 4 + 2 + 2 = 10 pts Sudden Death points: 10 (₩100,000,000) Final points: 202 (₩202,000,000)

“And there you have it!” the Dealer shouted, his voice echoing over the thunderous applause and bitter groans of the defeated. “Team Six secures the magnificent High Ace of Diamonds! A historic victory built on absolute ruthlessness! Show us your face cards!”

Team 6 x Tzuyu: x3 Ace x4 King ((78+104+80)/2) +80) (₩4,130,000,000)

“Well, would you look at that,” he snickered, his voice dropping to a diabolical register. “Let us welcome back… the entire House of Diamonds.”

The girls stepped into the spotlight together, moving with a terrifyingly confident grace. Arin and Jiheon fell perfectly into step on either side of Tzuyu, with Xiaoting completing the tight formation right behind them. The four of them stood tall, accompanying their High Ace like a squad of royal guards, their respective diamond collars catching the harsh stage lights.

Then the four Kings from Table Twelve dragged themselves up the steps. The contrast was jarring. They were older, some rather thick around the middle, their expensive suits stretched over sloppy posture. They reeked of dark liquor and entitlement even from where I was. There was no polite bow, no formal greeting.

“Look at this,” the first King sneered, adjusting his mask. “All this money, and they just stand there like statues. You’d think they’d be begging on their knees to suck us off already.”

Xiaoting’s jaw tightened. She took a half-step forward, her chin tilting up in defiance. “Watch your tone. The House of Diamonds never begs.”

He let out a wet, ugly laugh. “You don’t beg? We just dropped three billion won on this table. You’re nothing but high-priced whores wearing shiny jewelry.”

Arin moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Xiaoting. “You bought thirty minutes of our time on stage,” she corrected. “Try to remember you are in a high-class establishment, assuming you even know what class means.”

The third King took an aggressive step forward. “Oh shut up, sweetheart. We paid for your mouth, but not to hear you speak.”

Jiheon let out a sharp, mocking scoff from Xiaoting’s other side. “Then you should have stayed at whatever shady back-alley club you crawled out of. You clearly came to the wrong place.”

The second King scoffed, stepping right in front of her. “Is that right? But we own you for the next thirty minutes, so I think you’ll do exactly what we tell you to do.” He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing her chin roughly.

Jiheon didn’t flinch, but her eyes narrowed with a cold, piercing look of disgust.

Tzuyu stepped between them, smoothly batting the King’s hand away from Jiheon’s face. She didn’t look angry—in fact, she looked utterly, terrifyingly calm.

“Kneel,” she ordered, simply.

The King stared at her, blinking in sheer disbelief before a booming laugh erupted from his chest. “Excuse me? Are you talking to me, you dumb bitch?”

“I said, kneel,” Tzuyu repeated, not raising her voice by a single decibel. “You are standing on our stage. You will show us respect.”

“I think you’ve got this backwards,” the third King said, stepping forward, trying to intimidate her with his height, even though he was barely taller. “You’re the one wearing the collar. You kneel.”

“Diamonds don’t kneel to cheap replicas,” a voice echoed from the back of the stage. “Not now, not ever.”

The Queen of Diamonds hadn’t moved from her throne, but her voice commanded the entire room. It was icy, carrying a heavy, threatening weight that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The first King turned toward the darkness, a nasty smirk spreading beneath his mask. “Are you sure about that, Your Highness? Because we paid a fortune for this round. And we want it to go exactly as we requested.” He turned to the audience, throwing his arms out as if addressing a coliseum. “We want everyone to dominate the High Ace tonight! We want her treated like the filthy slut she is! We want the other three Aces to use her, just to show the world what true power looks like!”

The room erupted. Men howled and cheered from the darkness, slamming their hands on the tables, feeding into their insane demands.

“Absolutely not,” the Queen replied, her voice snapping like a whip. “You do not get to treat any of my girls like a common whore. You will follow our rules, or the round is over before it begins.”

“Is that so?” the second King challenged, crossing his arms. He looked past the stage, directly toward the throne hidden in the shadows. “Hey, King of Diamonds! Are you going to let your Queen ruin the show we paid for? Is this what your House stands for? Defiance? Mistreatment of your guests? We are the Kings tonight!”

The entire ballroom held its breath, waiting for his reponse.

After a moment, a deep, distorted voice finally crackled through the curtains, “Let’s see how it plays out.”

The Queen surged to her feet, the heavy scrape of her heels against the stage floor cut through the dead silence.

“No. I will not allow this.”

“They paid for the table, my Queen,” the King’s voice droned back, casually dismissing her authority in front of thousands of spectators. “Our House honors its highest bids.”

“Not this one.” She marched down the steps, her steps clicking like gunshots. “If you allow these pathetic, unwashed pigs to lay a single hand on my Aces, I will toss this crown into the fire.”

My chest tightened until it physically hurt. The air in the room suddenly felt impossibly heavy, suffocating me. Like the entire room was standing on a landmine.

The four Kings at the front just smirked, feeding off the chaos. “Look at her,” the first King mocked, adjusting his belt. “Thinking she actually has a say in what we bought.”

Before the Queen could retaliate, Tzuyu moved.

She stepped perfectly into the center of the spotlight; her gorgeous silhouette blocked the harsh glare, casting her in a flawless, untouchable light. Even surrounded by wolves, she looked completely at peace.

“My Queen,” she said serenely. “It’ll be okay.”

The Queen stopped, her shoulders visibly tense, rising and falling under the expensive red fabric of her gown. “Chou Tzuyu, step down. I will not let them—”

“You taught us what is to be a diamond,” Tzuyu interrupted, her tone still soft but absolute. “From the very first day they fastened that pink collar around my neck, it was you who shaped me. It was you who built the women standing here today.”

She reached up, her long fingers brushing the heavy jewels of her collar. “You taught us that Diamonds are never afraid. That we are resilient. That we don’t break under pressure. That we are forged by it.”

Tzuyu slowly turned her head back to the four men panting at the edge of the stage. Her expression was somehow completely empty—an insanely beautiful, but absolutely terrifying void.

“I know men exactly like you,” she said, her voice so cold it could freeze the air in the room. “You buy your way through life and think your riches make you gods. You think money equals power. But you don’t fit into this world at all. You just rent space in it.”

“Sunbaenim, please don’t do this,” Jiheon pleaded from behind her. “Don’t let them break you.”

“Let them try,” Tzuyu stated perfectly, her voice echoing through the silent ballroom. “There’s not enough money in this world to make us shatter.”

The Dealer finally stepped out from the shadows, a thin, amused smile playing on his lips. “My my my,” he murmured, offering her a slow, solitary clap. “Truly—I’m moved. High Aces are all just rebels at heart, aren’t they? Folks, this will be one hell of a performance, that’s for sure.”

“I accept their request,” Tzuyu said firmly, turning to face him.

The audience ate it up. Someone screamed her name like it was a bet. Someone else shouted something obscene, and the people around them howled, slapping the table hard enough to rattle glasses.

“You heard her folks, let the performance… begin!”

Behind the curtain line where the light couldn’t reach, something heavy hit the floor—a sound like gold against hardwood, an unmistakable clink followed by the sound of something rolling until it faded into nothingness.

“Your speech was both insulting and touching at the same time,” the first King said, grabbing Tzuyu by the shoulders and violently shoving her to the padded mat. “On your hands and knees. Now.”

Tzuyu hit the floor hard, but she caught herself, pushing up into a steady position on all fours. Her face remained perfectly composed, but the sudden submission sent a shockwave of sick excitement through the men.

The Kings laughed like they’d just won something.

“Look at her,” the second King taunted, already undoing his belt. “The famous Rim Queen. We saw your earlier rounds, you Diamonds are so proud of making everyone else fall apart. Let’s see how you handle it when it’s your turn.”

He stepped in close behind her, his hands clamping onto her hips. Tzuyu’s fingers curled against the mat, but she didn’t pull away.

“This is what you want, isn’t it, High Ace?” he sneered, leaning down, his mask almost brushing her ear. “You said it yourself. Let them try.”

“That’s right, I agreed to the round,” Tzuyu said, her voice still hauntingly steady. “Not because you own me. Because Diamonds don’t run.”

“But do they fold?” one of them asked, causing the others to erupt in a chorus of mocking whistles.

The Kings moved in, circling her—one at her side, one near her shoulders, one hovering at her hip—as if they were cornering her even though she wasn’t actually trying to escape. Their hands landed all over her body, gripping just a little too tight, like they were trying to test her limits.

“Listen to her,” one of them laughed, fingers brushing her thighs. “Our brave little Diamond. Moaning like a good girl for her audience.”

“I’m not moaning,” she muttered, though her breath was hitching now.

“So tough,” he mocked, dragging his palm slowly up the back of her leg before smacking her outer thigh. The sound cracked through the room; a bright pink imprint immediately bloomed on her skin. “But you secretly love this, don’t you? The whole room watching you on all fours, showing a side of you no one’s ever seen before.”

He continued spanking her, and Tzuyu’s back arched, her shoulders rolling as the sensations hit one by one. A sound finally left her; a breathy, undeniable moan that caused the crowd to react instantly. A wave of feral noise crashed over the stage—cheers, whistles, disgusting chants I couldn’t even pick apart.

“Show your hoobaes who you really are,” the King growled, spreading her legs apart to admire the view.

Without warning, he buried his face directly into her cheeks. Tzuyu gasped, her spine snapping into a sharp curve as his tongue dove deep into her. The other three Kings swarmed her, grabbing her hips and thighs to hold her in place as they took turns taking vicious, sloppy laps at her hole.

“What’s this? You’re howling,” they taunted between wet slurps, hands cracking against her other thigh. “You love it, don’t you? You love getting eaten out like a dog.”

Tzuyu didn’t respond with words. Instead, another loud, broken moan escaped her lips, echoing through the speakers like a confession of her body’s betrayal.

“Get the others over here,” the first King barked. “We paid for them, too.”

Arin and Xiaoting crept forward like they were walking through a dream, their eyes glazed and heavy, their movements fluid but detached from reality. Their cheeks were flushed a deep, bruised pink, and as they stood over the sight of Tzuyu, their thighs pressed together in a restless, unconscious rhythm.

But as Jiheon tried to follow, two other Kings intercepted her, catching her by the wrists.

“Not you,” one of them sneered, his gaze crawling over her with a bitter hunger that made my stomach turn. “We want you all to ourselves, brat. You deserve to be punished for what you did to our Europrean friends earlier.”

They pulled her toward the other side of the stage, leaving Arin and Xiaoting alone in front of Tzuyu’s exposed, trembling body displayed on all fours.

“Use these on her,” a King commanded, his voice dripping with a sick glee as he dropped two silicone vibrating dildos onto the mat. “Make her take every inch.”

Arin’s fingers trembled as she reached down to wrap her hand around the toy. “There’s no way we can do this to her,” she murmured. “She’s our sunbae.”

“Do it,” Tzuyu whispered from the floor, her eyes glassy, empty, but perfectly confident. “Diamonds don’t shatter, Arin-ah.”

The hesitation didn’t break all at once; it melted slowly, like glass under a flame. Arin stared down at the thick silicone in her small hand buzzing loudly as she flipped the switch. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

“Diamonds don’t shatter,” she repeated to herself, swallowing hard.

Her eyes darted from the toy to Tzuyu’s exposed, glistening folds, and a dark flush crept up her neck. It was as if the sheer taboo of it, the unthinkable act of degrading her own High Ace, seemed to seep into her bloodstream like a drug—or worse, a curse: the curse of being in the House of Diamonds. The lust for power, no matter who it was over.

“Sunbaenim… Did you know… your pussy is so pretty…” Arin whispered, stepping closer, her thighs practically glued together.

She aligned the blunt tip against Tzuyu’s entrance, her lips parting as she watched the silicone slide past the wet folds. “I’ve… always wanted to play with it.”

Tzuyu’s back arched, a soft, strangled sound catching in her throat as Arin pushed deeper. “It’s so big…”

“It’s not that big, you’re just really tight…” Arin’s grip tightened; a dark, intoxicating curiosity flooded her face, quickly replaced by a heavy, undeniable lust. She began to pump the toy, her movements finding a slow, merciless rhythm.

“You’re already so wet,” she murmured, rubbing her own clit with her other hand. “You’re swallowing the toy whole.”

“A-Arin—not so fast,” Tzuyu moaned, lowering her head.

“You control it then, sunbae…” Arin suddenly pulled Tzuyu’s body upright, forcing her to ride the thick, plastic shaft while the Kings watched in sick fascination.

“The Queen left us,” Xiaoting said, dropping to her knees. The cold perfection she usually carried was completely gone, replaced by a feverish hunger. “Only you can teach us now. Show us how to ride a cock, sunbae, just like the old days.”

She hovered over Tzuyu’s trembling body for just a second, her breath brushing over her bare skin, then buried her face right between her jiggling cheeks. Tzuyu was already slowly bouncing on the thick dildo, her knees spread wide as she pushed herself down on it with loud, messy slaps.

“Look at you taking the whole thing like a pro,” Arin teased, leaning in closer. “Tell Pink to use her tongue, sunbae.”

“Xiaoting-ah, please...” Tzuyu whined, her thighs shaking as she forced the toy deeper into her dripping pussy. “L-lick me.”

Xiaoting didn’t answer; her tongue darted out, swirling against Tzuyu’s other hole with a wet, careful slurp that made her shriek, her back arching hard enough to completely throw off her rhythm.

“Keep going,” Xiaoting mumbled against her flesh, letting out a muffled moan of her own right before pressing the other vibrator directly over her clit.

Tzuyu choked on a sharp gasp, her hips stuttering as the vibration sent what seemed like pure shock through her body. “Oh my god, wait—both at once is too much—”

“Don’t stop riding it,” Arin ordered, a dirty smile crossing her face as she watched the mess unfold. “Keep bouncing. Show us what a good little slut you are, sunbae.”

“Listen to her,” Xiaoting agreed, her lips wet with Tzuyu’s taste. “Take it all, sunbae. We want to learn from you.”

Xiaoting’s hands gripped Tzuyu’s hips tightly, locking her in place so she couldn’t squirm away from the intense buzzing. She pulled Tzuyu’s ass deeper into her mouth as if she were starving for the taste of her submission, relentlessly eating her out while Tzuyu sobbed, hopelessly grinding her soaked pussy against the dildo to follow their commands.

A King stepped directly in front of Tzuyu’s face, his hardened cock twitching with excitement. She didn’t even wait for an order—she opened wide, her lips stretching to engulf his thick cock, sucking him with a submissive need. The stage lights caught the violent shimmer of the diamonds around their necks as her own Aces thoroughly dismantled her dignity.

Off to the side, Jiheon was getting absolutely dominated, but for some reason, she appeared to be loving every second of it. The two Kings had flipped her completely upside down, one of them shoved his cock entirely down her throat while she dangled by her ankles, and the other hammered his shaft deep into her soaking pussy. But instead of fighting it, she was practically vibrating—her eyes were wide, taking in the harsh treatment like the sheer humiliation was unlocking some sick, submissive side of her she never knew existed.

Even while gagging around a thick dick, her gaze kept darting over to the other girls. She watched Tzuyu sobbing and bouncing on the dildo while Xiaoting pleasured her, and the sight of it seemed to make Jiheon’s own juices pour down the King’s cock, like she was getting off just from watching her High Ace get used.

“You’re so fucking tight,” one of the Kings said, delighted. “What an incredible pussy.”

“You’re not even good at sex,” she taunted, a dark smile invading her lips. “Just hurry up and come so I can join the real show.”

“What the fuck did you say?” he growled, grabbing her throat.

She just laughed, eyes slightly rolling. “I said you’re terrible at fucking,” she repeated, despite him picking up the speed. “Even Arin unnie fucks me better with a strap-on than this.”

The Kings dragged her up to her feet, twisting her arms behind her back to lock her in place. One of them fucked her relentlessly from behind, his hands grabbing her hips to pull her into every brutal thrust, while the other grabbed her jaw, forcing her mouth open to spear her throat with zero mercy.

When he finally pulled out of her mouth so she could breathe, Jiheon let out a loud, wet gasp. Drool hung from her swollen lips, but she immediately nodded toward the other stage.

“Just let me go over there,” she whimpered, her legs shaking as the King behind her kept pounding her bare ass. “I want them to use me, too. Please, let me join them.”

The King holding her arms scoffed. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

“You’re not going anywhere, slut,” he growled, slapping his wet cock lightly against her cheek. “We’re nowhere near done with you yet. Open your fucking whore mouth.”

Tzuyu completely embraced the degradation, transforming into a hyper-submissive mess before my very eyes. She crawled over to the first King, eagerly sucking his bare toes, worshipping his feet before moving up to part his cheeks with her own hands.

“Let me demonstrate my famous talent on you,” she pleaded, licking him submissively, her tongue swirling deep in his hole while another King grabbed her hips and pounded her from behind.

Once again, the drugs in my system made the timeline blur, chopping the performance into visceral, overlapping scenes of absolutely sinful debauchery, where it quickly became unclear which side was in control.

In one blink, a King was flat on his back with his legs hoisted into the air with Tzuyu between his legs, her tongue diving deep into his ass while Arin eagerly sucked his cock. Above, Xiaoting squatted directly over his face, grinding her dripping wetness into his mouth.

“Lick me properly, King,” Xiaoting commanded breathlessly. “Taste every last drop. This is what you paid for.”

“F-fuck—” he cried, voice muffled and thighs trembling from the overloaded pleasure. “This feels too damn good!”

The lights flashed, and the formation shifted. Tzuyu bounced wildly on his lap, taking his full length while desperately stuffing two other cocks into her mouth. Right above her, Xiaoting rode his face, leaning forward to make out with Arin.

“Look at her choking,” one of the men laughed, grabbing Tzuyu by her neck, holding her in place. “She’s good with her mouth, but not her throat, I guess.”

In the next fractured second, my brain caught Jiheon getting tossed between her two Kings like a human doll. One of them had her by the hips, relentlessly pounding her from behind while the other grabbed her hair, aggressively shoving his dick in and out of her mouth. She wasn’t even trying to keep up anymore. She was completely losing her mind, her eyes rolled all the way back into her head with her tongue hanging out in a sloppy, drooling mess. She laughed like an absolute maniac around the thick cock, looking like a broken, brainless toy getting off on being entirely used up.

“You dumb slut,” the King behind her growled, the harsh smacks of his hips syncing with her muffled, delirious giggles. “Is everything a joke to you?”

“You’re so pathetic,” she squealed. “I don’t know why I’m coming so much for such a fucking loser though—aghh!”

Then, the stage rearranged again. A King was fucking Xiaoting hard from behind, her small body jerking forward as she sucked another cock on the opposite end. Tzuyu and Arin swarmed the one fucking her, making out with him while plunging their wet fingers into his ass.

“Deeper,” Arin ordered, her voice completely slurred with lust as she guided Tzuyu’s hand. “Fuck his tight little hole with your fingers, sunbae.”

My head spun as another King sat like a tyrant in the plush velvet chair. Tzuyu and Xiaoting were on their knees, sharing his thick cock, their mouths slurping together.

“Suck it together, you greedy sluts,” he groaned, his hands shoving their heads down.

Right behind Tzuyu, someone was eagerly slurping her backside while Arin straddled another man’s face a few feet away. Jiheon was now part of the main show, leaning over the back of the plush chair, making out with the seated King from above, completely helpless as a fourth King aggressively fingered her spot.

“Fuck, you’re making such a mess,” he laughed, burying his fingers deeper into her dripping cunt until her juices gushed out and splattered onto the floor.

The flashes of skin and sweat just kept coming. A King stood tall in the center of the stage. Arin captured his lips in a filthy kiss, Tzuyu bobbed her head on his shaft, Xiaoting sloppily licked his balls, and Jiheon crouched behind his legs to bury her face between his thighs.

“Sunbaenim, with respect, I think you could use some dick-sucking pointers from Jiheon,” Arin suggested against the King’s lips. “And maybe you can teach her how to properly do whatever the hell she thinks that is.”

As soon as he moaned in pleasure, Arin and Xiaoting pulled away to immediately apply the exact same treatment to another standing King.

“You and I are a better duo, aren’t we?” Xiaoting purred, her chin covered in spit.

“I’d say so,” Arin said, smirking. “Open up, Your Majesty.”

The final image burned into my retinas before the scene dissolved. Jiheon sat backward on a King’s face, completely smothering him under her jiggling ass.

“Come on, fuckface,” Jiheon taunted, grinding her hips down hard over his nose. “If you can’t fuck me properly, at least make out with both of my holes to compensate.”

Arin and Xiaoting surrounded her, violently making out with each other while getting fucked from behind by two other men.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you’re getting fucked like this,” Arin moaned directly into Xiaoting’s mouth as their wet lips crashed together. “Take it all like a good girl. Make our House proud, Pink.”

And right in the middle of the mess, Tzuyu rode the face-smothered King’s cock in a chaotic rhythm, bouncing to the sloppy rhythm of the entire stage. “My god, it’s so deep!” she shrieked, her thighs slapping wildly against his pelvis. “I’ve never had a dick this big before, I’m gonna co—”

The drugs hammered my brain, splicing the final moments into a frantic, dizzying montage of absolute surrender from both sides. The hesitation was entirely gone. Every single one of them was addicted to the power, the degradation, and the animalistic pace of the Kings.

The stage and the power shifted back and forth, over and over. All four Aces were lined up on their knees in perfect symmetry, each one deeply swallowing a thick cock as their heads bobbed in unison, their eyes rolled back in pure ecstasy, completely lost to the sensation of being utterly filled.

“Look at this,” one of the Kings growled, his hands tangled in Jiheon’s hair to hold her steady as she sucked him. “Everyone thinks the House of Diamonds is so classy and elegant. But underneath all that expensive jewelry, you’re really just a bunch of repressed cocksluts, aren’t you? You all just needed to be broken in properly and the truth comes out.”

A sharp whistle echoed from the audience, and the Kings roughly yanked them around. They slammed all four Aces onto their hands and knees, lining up their exposed asses in a row, driving into them from behind in an aggressive, synchronized pace. The wet, slapping sounds of skin colliding echoed through the night, pulling loud, breathy moans from the girls as they arched their backs to take it deeper.

“Fuck, you’re all so nice and tight,” another King panted, his hips snapping forward to bury himself in Tzuyu’s cunt. “Beg for it. Tell everyone what you actually are.”

“We’re your sluts, Your Majesty—” Xiaoting sobbed, face planted into her arms. “We’re no different from common cheap whores.”

Without pausing, the Kings grabbed their hips and forcefully pulled them backward. The four Aces seamlessly transitioned into riding them from above, bouncing wildly on the thick shafts, their rainbow assortment of diamond collars glinting under the harsh lights as they threw their heads back, completely surrendering to the brutal pace.

“I wonder what your Queen would say if she could see you right now,” a King laughed, grabbing Arin’s waist to force her down harder. “Would she be proud of how hard you’re bouncing on my dick? Taking it like a cheap street hooker?”

“She would be so ashamed of us,” Arin cried, her tits bouncing in sync with the other girls’. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, we’re all embarrassments to the House of Diamonds.”

The formation dissolved one last time. They were flipped onto their backs, their long slender legs hooked over the broad shoulders of the Kings. The men pounded into them mercilessly as the girls were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the mat. In the middle of being completely destroyed, Tzuyu reached out, grabbing Xiaoting’s jaw to pull her into a desperate, messy kiss, and beside them, Arin and Jiheon tangled their tongues together, sharing their moans while the men relentlessly filled them.

“There you go,” a King commanded Jiheon, driving his cock deep into her soaking pussy. “Taste how much of a whore your sisters are.”

The scenes blurred into chaotic, isolated flashes. I caught a glimpse of Tzuyu riding a King hard in cowgirl, her mouth completely occupied by another thick cock. Across the stage, Xiaoting was pinned against an invisible wall of flesh, getting absolutely ravaged by two Kings while standing on her tiptoes. Nearby, Jiheon lay flat on the mat, her legs spread wide for a King plunging into her tight hole, while Arin squatted directly over her mouth, aggressively grinding her dripping cunt against Jiheon’s lips.

The roaring of the crowd reached a deafening pitch. One by one, the men yanked out of the girls’ drenched, sloppy, overused holes. They stood over the trembling, exhausted Aces, their hands working furiously over their shafts.

“Open up!” they commanded.

Thick, hot spurts of cum splattered across Tzuyu’s cheeks, coated Xiaoting’s lips, and painted Jiheon and Arin’s chests. The men emptied themselves entirely, leaving the girls completely covered in their disgusting lust.

The girls crawled toward each other like magnetic puzzle pieces. With the crowd screaming above them, Tzuyu, Xiaoting, Jiheon, and Arin collapsed together, eagerly licking the hot loads smeared across each other’s lips, cheeks, and chests. High-pitched, euphoric moans spilled from their lips, echoing through the massive ballroom as they swapped the thick, sticky mess from mouth to mouth, their tongues tangling wildly in aggressive, breathless kisses as they clambered over one another’s bare bodies. Loud, wet slaps of flesh and ragged gasps filled the air as they continued grinding their soaking folds together to extend their own pleasure, desperately chasing the high right there under the spotlight. They were entirely lost to the chaos, thrashing against each other until all four of them were covered in the exact same, undeniable proof of their betrayal and submission.

The House of Diamonds had fallen. And they had loved every single second of it.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

“Although we are but one round from the finale, the night is far from over!” the Dealer’s voice vibrated through the speakers, dragging me back from the edge of unconsciousness just enough to register his words. “We have witnessed the absolute devotion of the House of Hearts! We have witnessed the terrifying display of power in the House of Diamonds! But now, it is time to shift our focus to a different kind of perfection.”

The giant screens above flickered, and the bleeding red diamond dissolved into a stark black club.

“Our next High Ace is famous even within these halls,” the Dealer announced. “Her history in this Society is as legendary as they get. You see, before she became the undisputed face of the House of Clubs, she belonged to a different throne entirely.”

The crowd began to murmur, a low, buzzing anticipation that vibrated against the floorboards as my cheek pressed flat against the padded mat below me.

“That’s right! She was once the prized possession of the House of Spades,” the Dealer continued, drawing out the suspense. “The High Ace who reigned supreme, long before our lovely Karina ever wore the black collar. But in an unprecedented, historic trade, her position was forfeited for the beloved Jang Wonyoung herself!”

The applause that followed was deafening—a chaotic, hungry roar that rattled the bones in my chest.

“A true icon! A goddess of pleasure! Ladies and gentlemen! For the eighth consecutive year, please welcome the one and only High Ace of Clubs… Jennie of BLACKPINK!”

I forced my eyes open, just a fraction. Through the hazy, shifting lights, a slender silhouette stepped into the harsh white spotlight. She moved with a rather charming arrogance, seemingly unfazed by the animalistic frenzy she had just incited. Even through the fog drowning my brain, I could feel the suffocating weight of the lust in the room fixated entirely on her.

The Dealer stood silently for a moment, letting the weight of Jennie’s presence settle over the room. She didn’t even twitch; she just stood there with the black velvet collar snugly wrapped around her neck, breathing steadily and evenly as the wolves began to descend on her.

Finally, the Dealer raised a hand, his voice dropping into that low, thrilling whisper. “My dear, you are the last performance before our grand finale tonight. The audience is absolutely rabid for you. Do you have any words before we begin?”

Jennie tilted her chin up just a fraction. A small, chilling smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. “I don’t need to say anything. They already know what they’re paying for. I’ve proven it year after year that I am the entire package and more.”

The crowd lost its collective mind. Men slammed their fists against the tables, howling, while women chanted her name like a prayer.

“Then let the bidding begin!” the Dealer roared, his voice distorting in my ears like it was being played through a broken speaker. “Thirty seconds to claim the undisputed Goddess of Pleasure!”

BIDDING OVER Jennie ♣ Results: [Team 1] 10 + 9 + 10 + 9 = 38 [Team 4] 🅹 + 🅹 +🅹 + 🅹 (Winner!) [Team 7] 🅹 + 🅹 [Team 8] 🅹 + 🅹 Total points: 38 + 8 🅹 (₩2,780,000,000)

“It’s decided!” the Dealer shrieked, the sound piercing through my splitting headache. “Table Four claims the High Ace of Clubs! Tell me, gentlemen, how will you build your court? Will you summon the rest of her House as well?”

“Wait,” Jennie cut in, her voice smooth and authoritative.

“Yes, my dear?”

Her chin tilted toward the darkness where Team 4 sat. “Don’t play any aces,” she ordered. “My girls have been through enough tonight. Let them rest.”

Discourse rippled through the audience, but Jennie simply smirked at the impending chaos.

“Besides,” she purred, tracing a slow finger down her own collarbone. “This is my stage. I don’t share the spotlight with anyone. You emptied your wallets for me, so I expect all of your eyes strictly on me and me only.”

The men at Table Four immediately barked like actual dogs, practically foaming at the mouth in agreement.

“No Aces!” one of them shouted over the noise. “Just Kings and Jacks! All for Goddess Jennie!”

The giant screen flashed above, calculating the final math.

Team 4 x Jennie: x4 Jack x2 King (+120) (₩3,580,000,000)

My eyelids fluttered as the stage fast-forwarded and transformed like a glitched video. They didn’t waste any time—six men, two Kings in tailored suits and four naked, tall, muscular American Jacks, surrounded Jennie, immediately boxing her in.

“You really wanted all of us to yourself, didn’t you?” a younger Korean-American King murmured, his hands immediately finding her tits.

“I remember you,” Jennie whispered back, her blindfolded face tilting up to capture his lips in a deep, controlling kiss. “Don’t disappoint me this year.”

While their tongues tangled, a Jack stepped up behind her. “Goddamn, baby, you are as gorgeous as ever,” he muttered, his large hands trailing down her small waist to grab a handful of her ass. “It’s been too damn long.”

She let out a soft sigh as he squeezed her flesh possessively. “You missed me, didn’t you?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

“I miss your tasty pussy,” he corrected, giving her cheeks a loud smack. “But you? Well, I’m still debating that one.”

She smirked just before her lips parted again. “Asshole.”

“Oh yeah—I definitely missed your tight little asshole, too.”

He let one hand slide down the curve of her back and slipped right between her thighs. Jennie gasped into the King’s mouth as the Jack drove two thick fingers into her.

“Look at you,” the Jack laughed quietly, pumping in and out of her with a familiar, practiced rhythm that instantly made her knees wobble. “Already so wet. You love being surrounded by all these big dicks, huh?”

“Just like old times.” Another Jack moved in next to her, running his tongue along her ear. “We know exactly how you like it, Jennie.” He reached down to join the first Jack, pressing his thumb firmly against her clit while the other kept playing with her wet folds. “Hard, fast, and rough. Isn’t that right?”

Jennie let out an airy moan, arching her back directly into his chest. “Fuck... right there,” she chirped, practically handing herself over to the men who clearly knew her body inside and out.

“Come on, babe, let’s get you ready for a proper fucking now.”

They swarmed her entirely after that. The King broke the kiss only to suck on her tits, biting down just hard enough to make her whine. Another King dropped to his knees, burying his face directly over her crotch, his tongue swirling greedily against her small clit.

“God, you even taste like a whore,” he snickered, smacking his lips. “You dirty little slut.”

Her hands didn’t stay still; she reached out blindly, her fingers wrapping around the throbbing lengths beside her, stroking them firmly and carefully like they were trophies.

“I’m your favorite little slut,” she panted. “Now give me all your cocks. They’re all mine.”

“Come on, let’s get her up,” the tallest Jack commanded.

They grabbed her by the thighs, hoisting her entirely off the mat, and Jennie let out a loud gasp as she was suspended in the air.

“Open up for us, baby,” one of them purred, stepping right between her dangling legs.

He buried his face into her soaked entrance, lapping fervently at her dripping juices.

“Oh, fuck—yes, right there, just like that—” she moaned, her head falling back. “Fuck—I forgot how good you are.”

Another Jack stepped right behind her elevated body, his tongue diving in to lick her other hole with a sloppy enthusiasm.

“Fuck,” she gasped as they devoured her from both sides, their loud slurping echoing through the massive hall. “Keep going—don’t stop—”

They didn’t stop. If anything, they just dug in harder. She threw her head back, her thighs thrashing uncontrollably while they dove into her holes, soaking her with spit and devouring her so relentlessly she was borderline sobbing.

“Turn her over,” someone ordered. “Let’s see what her mouth can do nowadays.”

They flipped her completely upside down, draping her legs securely over their broad shoulders.

“Remind us, Jennie,” a Jack demanded, guiding his cock past her lips. “Word on the street is that the new High Spades is better at sucking dick than you.”

“Jang Wonyoung? She fucking wishes. I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes,” Jennie snarled, then took him in effortlessly, sucking him deep while hanging upside down.

Her blindfold slipped right off her face as her loud moans vibrated against his shaft. His lips crashed onto her clit, while the man behind her continued to bury his tongue between her cheeks.

My vision swam, the harsh white lights dragging into long, dizzying streaks as the men shifted her again. They passed her around like a ball, flipping her right-side up into the waiting arms of another King. He caught her waist and immediately dove into her qrenched cunt. Jennie adjusted flawlessly to the new position as if she was thoroughly familiar with it, leaning her upper body forward to swirl her tongue thoroughly around the large balls of the one holding her up.

Before I could even process what was happening, the Jack holding her fell flat onto his back, dragging her down on top of him so she was straddling his face upside down with her thighs locked around his head.

Jennie let out a loud, muffled whine, her mouth hovering right over his giant length as he went straight back to devouring her pussy.

“Don’t just look at it,” another Jack barked, stepping in close so his cock brushed against her cheek. “Open up.”

Her lips were wrapped around the bottom Jack’s head, but the other didn’t wait his turn—he simply shoved his own cock in right next to it, forcing her to let the first one slide out, just enough to drag her wet lips over the other, constantly swapping her mouth back and forth between them.

Beneath her, the bottom Jack reached up and spread her cheeks wide open, putting her on full display under the harsh lights for everyone to see.

“Look at this perfect little thing,” he mumbled, his voice vibrating right against her soaking folds and puckering asshole. “God, it’s so fucking cute. You’d never guess it could take such a pounding.”

A third guy stepped up behind her without saying a word, poured a bottle of lube over her ass. He immediately used two fingers to massage the dripping liquid in, pushing deep inside her tight hole while she whined around the large cocks.

Within seconds, everything was a blur of hands working her over; fingers slid deep into her ass right as more pushed up into her pussy, stretching her out completely. A loud, desperate whine escaped through her nose, her head bobbing relentlessly over the two cocks while they aggressively worked both of her holes from below.

“Good girl. Now get on your knees.”

They finally set her down. Jennie knelt on the mat, breathing heavily, eyes barely functional as three men crowded her face. She opened her mouth and took one cock deep down her throat, while her hands reached out to grab the other two.

“More… I want more cocks…” She moved in a continuous, mesmerizing circle, sucking one while stroking the others, rotating her attention so fluidly that no one was left waiting for her touch.

A King dropped onto his back beneath her. “Sit on me, baby,” he commanded, lifting her leg over his body. “Let me taste that nasty pussy of yours.”

She hovered over his face and chin without a word, grinding her overflowing wetness all over his skin, smearing her juices across his jaw while she kept her head bobbing on the cocks in front of her.

The men groaned in a chaotic chorus, fully intoxicated by her rhythm, clearly using her for their own pleasure—but somehow, it seemed like she was the one being rewarded.

“Now down on the floor,” a Jack commanded, grabbing her shoulders to pull her flat onto her back.

They swarmed her small body, effectively trapping her in a cage of muscle and sweat. One of them immediately shoved his face back between her thighs, while two more pressed their shafts against her lips. She opened wide, continuously sucking them with wet, greedy slurps, and the remaining men held her tightly, their hands kneading her small breasts, squeezing her thighs, leaving absolutely no part of her untouched.

“Look at how she takes it,” a Jack snickered. “You’re so fucking tiny, but you swallow us all.”

“Mine,” Jennie hummed around the cocks in her mouth, her face now slick with a collection of all their pre-cum, and her back arching eagerly into their possessive grips. “You’re all mine. You all belong to me.”

The edges of the room melted away again for a moment, and when my eyes refocused, they had hauled her back up onto her hands and knees. A King knelt behind her, burying his face into her ass, his tongue diving deep while she diligently sucked the Jacks standing in front of her. The sound of wet skin, heavy breathing, and shared saliva somehow overpowered all the hollers and cheers from the crowd.

Suddenly, one of the Kings stepped up behind her and gripped her hips with a crushing force, pulling her flush against his thighs.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growled, lining himself up with her dripping slit. “I need to be inside you right fucking now.”

Without another warning, he thrust his hips forward, slamming himself completely inside her as Jennie threw her head back from the impact.

“Mmph!” she squealed.

He didn’t hold back. His hips snapped against her ass with loud, wet slaps. She moaned loudly, but the sound was quickly swallowed as a Jack shoved his thick cock directly into her mouth.

“Didn’t you say you wanted more dicks?” he taunted, shoving it all the way into her throat as she looked up at him with glossy eyes.

They took turns filling her up thoroughly. At some point, one of them grabbed her by the hips and yanked her backward, forcing her to straddle his lap. She rode him ruthlessly, bouncing hard on his length while her tongue kept furiously working the endless supply of cocks before her.

“Are you sure we belong to you?” the King beneath her ordered, his large hand wrapping firmly around her throat. “Or do you belong to us?”

He lifted her slightly by the neck, choking off her moans as he drove his hips upward, pounding deep into her pussy from below.

“I’m yours,” she whimpered, her juices splashing everywhere with every thrust. “I was wrong. I belong to you all. I was born to take your cocks.”

They laughed collectively. “Wow, it’s really true what they all say. Once a Spade, always a Spade?”

Two Jacks suddenly yanked her body upward, lifting her into their arms with her legs pinned to her shoulders, leaving her folds fully exposed and visibly dripping.

“Come on Jennie, say it proudly so everyone in the audience can hear,” one said, driving his fingers violently inside her, hooking upward to grind rough and hard against her spot.

“I’m just an overpriced sextoy,” she cried out to the men surrounding her, breaking apart while her hips desperately chased his rough fingers. “I’m simply a hole for you. All of you. Please use me well.”

“You have three of them,” a Jack corrected her, his voice cutting through the laughter. “And we intend to use every single one.”

“Yes, Master.” Her eyes rolled back until there was only a storm of white. “Use any and every hole to your liking.”

His fingers worked harder and faster, until she let out a wild, high-pitched noise as a stream started gushing out of her, drenching his hand while she thrashed against his grip.

“God, what a filthy bitch,” he laughed, shaking the liquid off himself. “I forgot she’s a squirter.”

Her body was still trembling when the King pulled her right on top of his lap, forcing her to straddle him. She sank down onto his cock, filling her drenched pussy to the base again, but her backside was completely exposed and totally defenseless as she rode him—which was exactly what the Jack was waiting for.

He walked right up behind her, and before she could even brace herself, he shoved his thick cock straight inside with little to no resistance. Jennie’s eyes widened, her spine snapping backward as her walls opened and wrapped tightly around his shaft. A collection of lust juices dripped down her thighs as the two of them started fucking her at the exact same time, pounding into her with an unsynchronized, messy rhythm that made her entire frame shake.

“Oh my god…” she cried, her voice as broken as her mind. “You’re filling me up… your humongous cocks… stretching my ass and my pussy out at the same time… I’m gonna break—”

“You’re already broken, whore,” a third Jack interrupted, walking right up to her face. He grabbed her by the chin and buried his hard cock straight over her tongue.

Her wild moans instantly turned into choked, sloppy sucking sounds. He just stood there using her throat, silencing her while the King and the other Jack continued stretching her holes together; the loud smacking of their hips hitting her thighs echoed through the room, perfectly matching the wet noises of her gagging on his cock.

When my eyes dragged themselves open again, the formation had mutated. They had flipped her onto her back; the King and Jack now ravaging her from below, lifting her slender legs over their broad shoulders as they hammered into both of her holes at the same time. Even fully stuffed, Jennie reached up to her own neck, wrapping her fingers around her throat as she choked herself.

“I’m such a bad girl…” she muttered, saliva leaking from her mouth as they all pumped mercilessly. “Bad girls deserve to be punished…”

The cock in her ass finally pulled out, and the King grabbed her waist and hoisted her into the air, using his own body as the only thing keeping her anchored. Two Jacks grabbed hers arms, pulling them wide, holding her suspended and helpless while a third fucked her in mid-air, his upward thrusts violently shaking her small frame while she moaned loudly for the entire room to hear.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god—” she cried, eyes rolling back as another hot rush spilled out like a geyser, trailing down his stomach and thighs as she let out a strangled scream, squirting helplessly while they held her wide open.

By the time I could focus again, they had thrown her back down onto the padded mat and pulled her hips high into the air, presenting her soaked, gaping holes to the audience. A Jack stood over her and drove straight down into her pussy with brutal force while one of the Kings straddled her head, lowering his balls and shaft directly over her mouth, riding her face while she slurped and gagged on him eagerly.

The stage lights flickered, leaving long, red afterimages burning behind my eyelids as the chaos shifted once again.

A Jack grabbed Jennie by the waist, flipping her roughly onto her stomach. The black velvet collar bit into her pale neck as she was shoved face-first onto the soft mat. Another King immediately dropped his knees directly in front of her, forcing his backside right over her lips. She didn’t hesitate, her tongue swirled out to eagerly lick him to the rhythm of the wet, slapping thrusts against her back.

“You love it, don’t you, you dirty little slut,” the Jack behind her sneered, slapping her ass hard enough to leave a bright red mark before plunging back in.

“I love it…” she whimpered, slurping and sucking the puckered hole. “I love it so much… I can’t get enough…”

My head swam, the drugs fighting to fully pull me under. Time passed and paused like the world around me was as broken as my own body. Their moans started sounding distorted, like a scratched record.

“I’m gonna come soon,” a Jack holding her jaw groaned loudly, his hands tangling ruthlessly into her hair. “Open up, bitch.”

“Give it to me,” she begged desperately, as if in a trance. “Give me all of your cum, please.”

They quickly swarmed the front of her; one by one, stroking themselves furiously, letting out ragged shouts as they emptied their thick loads straight into her mouth. She swallowed what she could, but the sheer volume was too much, and the hot, sticky liquid spilled past her lips in thick clots, dripping down her chin and pooling all over her flushed, sweat-drenched chest.

She collapsed onto the mat, her legs finally giving out beneath her.

But it wasn’t over.

Two Jacks pinned her arms high above her head while a King climbed over her, pounding into her pussy with desperate, shallow thrusts.

“Take it like a good little cum-dump, Jennie,” he growled, his hand wrapping around her small neck, groaning loudly before spilling his own release deep inside her thoroughly blown-out hole.

“…Paint my insides with your cum, Master…” she muttered with a satisfied smile, her voice slurring from exhaustion.

And before the first King even finished twitching, the next one took his place, thrusting into her cum-drenched body, causing it to spread across her skin like rain on a window, fusing with sweat and spit.

The remaining men stood over her, offering the last of their carnal lust as thick spurts of cum splashed across her broken face, coating her breasts, painting her stomach and thighs with white. They completely covered every inch of her tiny frame, leaving her twitching and breathless under the blinding lights.

The roar of the audience shattered whatever sanity I had left. My ears rang, the sickening smell of sweat and sex choking the last bit of air from my lungs before my vision caved again.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The last suitcase went into the trunk with a final thud.

My father shook hands with the driver while my mother fussed over the crease in her coat, already mentally halfway to Singapore. The neighborhood sat quiet in the grey morning drizzle, the same streets I had walked a thousand times looking completely foreign to me now, like they were already starting to forget I existed.

I stood by the open car door, one hand on the roof, and looked back down the road one last time.

Still nothing. Just the rain and the empty pavement.

“Wonbin-ah, let’s go,” my mother said gently from inside the car. “There’s a lot of traffic to Incheon today.”

I didn’t move. My eyes stayed fixed on the far end of the street, on the corner Wonyoung always came sprinting around whenever she was late for school. I kept waiting for the sound of her sneakers slapping against the wet concrete. Her ponytail. Her voice yelling my name like I was already in trouble for something. Anything.

The driver closed the trunk.

“Son.” My father’s hand landed on my shoulder.

I finally ducked into the cab. The door shut behind me with a soft but devastating click.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I pressed my fingers against the cold window glass, watching the neighborhood shrink behind us. My eyes stayed locked on the corner of the alley, desperately holding onto a hope I knew I shouldn’t have had.

Then, right as we turned toward the main road, a small, lanky figure came sprinting around the corner. Her hair whipped frantically in the rain, her clothes completely soaked through. She chased straight after us, her sneakers slapping hard against the wet asphalt.

“Wonbin! Wait!”

The image cracked down the middle, splitting like broken glass as the suffocating warmth of the car dissolved into the horrible stench of sweat, sex, and despair and the rain on the window melted into blinding stage lights searing into my skull.

“Wonbin! Wonbin! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Wonbin!”

I could hear remnants of Wonyoung’s voice pierce through the endless haze as my consciousness dragged itself out of the dark, piecing the world back together little by little, sending me right back into the living hell of reality.

When the screens finally flickered back to life, they didn’t display a glowing gem or a beating heart. It was a massive, sharp spade, swallowing up the light from the room like a black hole. Goosebumps immediately flared up my arms, and a cryptic chill violently crawled up my spine as I lay flat on the floor, face pressed against the cold, unable to move even an inch.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dealer’s voice echoed, now devoid of his usual theatrical mockery. “The moment has arrived at long last. We have reached the grand finale of the night.”

A single spotlight beamed down, cutting through the shadows.

Wonyoung stepped into it like a doll come to life, every movement practiced and perfect. The frantic, crying girl who had begged for Yujin just an hour ago was completely gone. She stood with a devastating, terrifying composure, her posture dangerously straight, even more so than normal. The black silk blindfold and the iconic black collar wrapped around her neck looked less like restraints and more like royal garments.

“You know her story well by now, my dear patrons,” the Dealer announced, pacing slowly around her flawless silhouette. “A most heartbreaking journey. A life for a life. A soul for a soul. A goddess forged in absolute darkness. A star amongst stars. Making her debut tonight as the new High Ace of Spades—it is my absolute honor to welcome Jang Wonyoung of IVE!”

The crowd didn’t just cheer; they lost their minds. I watched as a sea of billionaires shot out of their seats in slow motion, howling like feral animals in a deafening roar that shook the room like an earthquake.

I frantically scanned the sea of masked faces through the blinding glare, desperately searching for any lifeline left, but John, Sora, and the rest of them were nowhere to be found. Their half-finished drinks were still sitting on the glass table, but the seats were vacant.

A cold, horrifying realization ruptured in my stomach. They’d left because of Karina’s round. Because I messed everything up. My failure had cost them everything, and now I was entirely alone in the dark.

“My dear,” the Dealer purred, stepping close to her, tilting the microphone up. “On your path to glory, you have inadvertently stolen the valor of many—from your own sister An Yujin to the queen of the industry Jennie to even the great Karina herself. I’m sure many would say that no one deserves it more than you, but are there any words you’d like to share with our audience?”

Wonyoung tilted her chin up, a beautiful, hauntingly hollow smile gracing her plump red lips. “I have no use explaining myself,” she answered, her voice smooth, steady, and if you listened closely, almost resentful. “Your lips already speak my secrets and these walls already whisper my name to one another. Everything you’ve all heard and said about me is true.” She paused for just a second. “I am the High Ace of Spades. I’ve sacrificed everything and everyone to be here. You can sit in the dark and judge the choices I’ve made to survive, passing your moral sentence on a life you couldn’t possibly understand. Sure, do that.”

She took a slow, blind step toward the front of the stage. Even with the fabric covering her eyes, the way she tilted her head made it feel like she was staring down every single person in the room, judging them for their attendance.

“Or you can let me me show you what the absolute epitome of discipline creates. Let me prove to you why I alone am the true pride of the House of Spades.”

The audience exploded into primal screams of violent, angry lust and carnal worship.

It was like my nervous system completely short-circuited; my body physically rejecting the reality in front of me. She looked so hauntingly beautiful standing there on that stage, but no matter how flawless her face or how perfect her figure was, the reason she was there—the purpose of her existence for the night—was more than I could handle now that it was there right before my eyes.

I tried to scream her name. I tried to push myself up, to run to her, to do absolutely anything. But the drugs had severed the connection between my brain and my body and my vocal cords were completely paralyzed.

All that left my mouth was a pathetic, broken wheeze.

“Let the final war begin!” the Dealer shrieked, his voice piercing through my splitting skull. “Thirty seconds! For all the glory! For all the honor! For the High Ace of Spades!”

The screens above exploded into a chaotic blur of numbers.

BIDDING OVER Jang Wonyoung ♠ Results: [Team 1] 🅹 + 🅹 [Team 2] 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) [Team 3] 🅹 + 🅹 [Team 6] 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) [Team 10] 🅹 + 🅹 Total points: 14 🅹 (₩4,200,000,000)

“Fourteen Jokers in the first wave!” the Dealer roared, clutching his head. “A historic deadlock! I have never seen such a bloodbath so early! You know what this means, folks! Let us proceed to Sudden Death!”

The music spiked louder, more dramatic than ever before. Over at Table Two, a man ripped off his suit jacket, screaming at the servers to clear the glasses out of his way.

“Back the fuck off!” he howled, his face turning an ugly, bruised shade of red beneath his gold mask. “She’s ours! You already got the House of Diamonds, you greedy fucks!”

“In your fucking dreams, you old piece of shit!” a guest from Table Six roared back.

The men around him immediately joined in, hurling vicious, filthy insults across the ballroom, their voices cracking with sheer, unhinged greed. The remaining tables fed on the hostility, hollering and slamming their palms against the glass to instigate the war. They were turning into a rabid, drooling pack of wild dogs, ready to tear each other apart for the chance—and right—to destroy the love of my life.

Sudden Death: [Team 2] 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) [Team 6] 🅹 + 🅹 (Tied) Sudden Death points: 4 Jokers (₩1,200,000,000)

“They refuse to yield!” the Dealer howled, feeding off the unhinged greed radiating from the floor. “Four more Jokers burned to ashes! The decks are bleeding dry! Gentlemen, you must break this tie! Give us a second round of Sudden Death!”

The tension stretched the air so thin it felt ready to snap. This wasn’t just a bidding war anymore—it was a public execution of pride. The two groups glared at each other like starving wolves cornering the same prey. The men at Table Two were frantically arguing amongst themselves, their hands physically shaking as they shuffled through the remaining cards in their decks.

Sudden death 2: [Team 2] 10 + 10 + 10 + 10 = 40 pts (Winner!) [Team 6] 10 + 10 + 10 + 9 = 39 pts Sudden death 2 points: 79 (₩790,000,000) Final points: 619 (₩6,190,000,000)

“By a single point!” the Dealer screamed, his voice cracking through the speakers as Team Two threw their arms into the air in celebration. “Table Two claims the ultimate prize of the night! Hurry! Show us your face cards!”

My chest caved in. Every single digit added to the pot was another heavy chain wrapping around her, a suffocating reminder that to these masked monsters, the girl I loved more than life itself was just a number to beat.

Team 2 x Wonyoung: x3 Ace, x4 Jack, x1 Queen, x4 King ((109 +188+ 483)/2) = 390 +100) (₩11,090,000,000)

The price on the screen was incomprehensible. Eleven billion won.

“A masterpiece of a hand!” the Dealer cheered, bowing deeply toward the winning table. “Three Aces, four Kings, four Jacks, and a Queen! A Full House! Come forth, my Kings!”

Four men in expensive tailored suits immediately marched up the steps to the stage. As they moved into view, a sick, heavy wave of recognition crashed into my rotting gut. I knew exactly who they were. These were the exact same monsters who had claimed Minju and Yuna earlier.

The lead King adjusted his cuffs, his eyes locked onto Wonyoung’s waiting figure with a starving, familiar greed.

“Bring back the rest of the Spades,” he commanded, his voice dripping with arrogance. “And we want the new one, too. Bring us An Yujin.”

“No,” a voice said from the shadows.

“No? Who dares reject us?”

Suzy stepped into the harsh spotlight, her golden crown catching the glare as she stared down the four Kings with absolute disdain.

“An Yujin is not an Ace of Spades,” she said, firmly. “She will not perform for you.”

The lead King scoffed, stepping forward to challenge her authority. “Listen here, Your Majesty. We just dropped a fortune on this table. We bought the highest pot in Auction history probably. We want An Yujin out here right now, or—”

“Or what?” Suzy cut him off, her voice dropping into a deadly calm, looking down at the man like he was nothing but dirt on her shoe.

“Or we’ll let everyone know that the House of Spades does not respect—”

“You must have mistaken our House for another,” she said, her tone dripping with absolute contempt. “You can buy the pot. You can buy a temporary seat in our court. But a Spade can never truly be bought, and we certainly cannot be controlled.” She tilted her chin up, daring him to take another step. “Your money buys you exactly what we choose to give you. Nothing more.”

“Drop the royal act, bitch,” the King spat, his face twisting into a cruel sneer. “Crown or no crown, you’re just the head madam of a glorified whorehouse. Give up your queen card for An Yujin then if she’s not an Ace. Matter of fact, where’s the King of Spades, bring him out—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a massive, suffocating presence flooded the stage from the darkness behind the throne.

“You dare disrespect my Queen in front of this hall? In front of our guests? In front of her High Ace? In front of me?”

I didn’t need to look to know that the voice belonged to the King of Spades. I’d recognize his voice from anywhere.

“Her word is as absolute as mine,” he continued, his tone deep and distorted. “Your request has been denied.”

The lead King paused, visibly annoyed but smart enough to recognize he couldn’t overthrow a true King’s final word. “Fine,” he scoffed, adjusting his jacket as he took a reluctant step back. “Just the real Aces, then.”

There was a brief silence that crept through the room, like a brief calm before the final storm that would drown the night completely.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Let the grand finale… begin,” the Dealer whispered, right before disappearing into the darkness like it was his one last trick. “Long live the House of Spades.”

It was the beginning of the end, and it was finally here.

My brain screamed at my limbs to move. Get up. Stand up. You have to. I clawed at the mat, dragging my nails against the padding, but the drugs had fully taken over my traitorous body.

The handler nudged my ribs with his dress shoe. “Hey, Jack,” he muttered. “Can you perform?”

I twitched, letting out a pathetic groan as I tried to force my arms to hold my weight, but my elbows instantly buckled.

The handler clicked his tongue in disappointment as I fell right back down to the mat. “You’re really done this time, I guess.”

Wait! No, I can go—just give me a minute! Please!

He turned toward someone standing behind me. “Alright, you’re up.”

Every nightmare violently blended into reality before my eyes as Choi Mingyu walked out into the blinding glare of the stage. But somewhere amidst the never-ending storm raging in my soul, a pair of gentle arms slipped under my shoulders and carefully pulled me onto a soft lap.

I forced my heavy eyes open, blinking through the chaos and madness of this broken, despicable world.

“Yujin—”

But the darkness won again.

Just as it always had.

And perhaps as it always will.

End of Chapter 16.

--

A/N: Guys this was so dreadful to write from both a narrative and technical perspective T_T. It was sooo much smut and took me forever to write and then proofread, I'm so glad it's over, but I really had to go out with a bang, ya know? XD Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it at least! We're only two chapters away from the end now :') Thank you for following along this crazy journey! See you all soon! <33

Which scene was your favorite?

Karina's Rebellion

Sakura's Harem of Hearts

Tzuyu's Fall of Diamonds

Jennie's Solo Show

I liked them all equally

Voting ended onMar 1

[mysonesecret]

4. Giselle's Jealousy (The Chairman's Daughter Series)

Male Reader/OC(s) x Ningning, Karina, Winter, Giselle | 17k words | Masterlist | Read on Fanprose

← Part 1 ← Part 2 ← Part 3

Tags: smut, comedy, angst, drama, au, rich girl, threesome, voyeurism, degradation

--

You are Karina’s unofficial date for the gala. This, of course, means you get to stand next to the most desirable woman in the room—while everyone assumes you’re either her gay best friend or an ambitious charity case.

The ballroom smells like money. Old money, new money, clean money, dirty money—and then there’s you: no money. It doesn’t matter that the tuxedo fits perfectly (courtesy of Karina dragging you to her personal tailor while you begged her to let you just rent something). It also doesn’t matter that you have a literal angel on your arm; you can still sense the invisible barcode on everyone else in the room and feel all the eyes scanning you only to come up with insufficient funds.

Needless to say, you feel like a complete fraud.

“Breathe,” Karina whispers, her hand tightening around your arm.

You look down at her and immediately feel under-qualified to breathe the same air.

She looks downright devastating in black—a dress so elegant that it brings you physical pain. It clings to her skin like her body has its own gravity, emphasizing every single curve that you have to consciously avoid thinking about every time you look at her.

“I am breathing,” you say, swallowing hard. “I’m just calculating how many months of rent are currently hanging from that chandelier.”

She looks up with you. “And what’s the verdict?”

“I’m going with maybe 86. Minimum.”

“And max?”

“Somewhere in the hundreds, surely.”

“How about we stop doing math?” She leans into you. “You’re my human shield tonight, remember?”

Yes, you remember. Of course you remember, but unfortunately, the shield is already cracking.

“If anyone asks,” you say, scanning the room, “I’m telling them I’m the entertainment.”

This, of course, is very believable considering how much of a clown you look like next to her.

You watch as a dozen pairs of eyes glide over Karina like she’s a limited-edition asset, and to nobody’s surprise, it takes exactly thirty seconds for the first son-of-someone to appear.

“Yoo Jimin-ssi,” he says excitedly, as if her name itself is a down payment to his next apartment complex. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”

She smiles and bows politely while covering her chest. He’s visibly disappointed.

“Thank you. It’s nice to see you again,” she says, although you truly wonder if she actually remembers who he is.

He glances at you with the kind of look rich people reserve for valet staff. “And you are…?”

“Her emotional support employee,” you mutter.

Karina’s mouth twitches. “He’s a good friend of mine,” she corrects. “We work together.”

The man’s eyes do a quick calculation of your net worth based on your shoes, and looks back at her like he’d just received permission to flirt. “I’m Lee Daesung. My father—”

“I know who your father is,” Karina interrupts pleasantly, like she’s just complimenting his tie. “He’s the one who keeps calling mine to ‘catch up’ but somehow never forgets to mention that you’re single now.”

Daesung laughs too loudly, causing her to nearly flinch. He’s already failing the audition.

A second man slides in. Then a third.

They descend on her like vultures in fancy designer suits and shiny million-dollar watches. The sons of board members, the heirs to generational fortunes, the type of “promising young executives” her father wants to merge portfolios with.

They smile at you—polite yet dismissive smiles—before physically maneuvering their shoulders to box you out. Somehow, you’re slowly, strategically pushed away from your own date.

“Jimin-ssi, did you summer in Como this year?”

“Jimin-ssi, you simply must see the new gallery opening.”

“Jimin-ssi, pardon my forwardness, but your father mentioned that you broke up with your high school sweetheart?”

You stand there, holding her bag for half a second, then her drink, then nothing, then eventually the remnants of your own dignity, which isn’t much.

She flashes you an apologetic look over the shoulder of a man whose belt costs more than ten times your life insurance payout, but is then swept away by the tide of social obligation and familial piety.

So much for human shield, you think.

You step back, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with your hands so that you don’t end up throwing them at some billionaire’s son.

That’s when you see her.

Across the room, standing like an ice sculpture, is Winter. She’s wearing all white, practically glowing in the sea of black suits and dresses.

Her ex is also there, of course. He’s dressed like he’s auditioning for Most Punchable Man of the Year, one hand over her back like he’s guiding her through an angry crowd. Except the crowd isn’t what she needs to be saved from. It’s him. He’s the problem.

He’s your problem.

Winter tilts her head as she listens to him talk about something to someone. God, you hate that. Why does she even care about what he has to say?

You know that it makes no sense to feel this way, but your jaw tightens anyway. Jealousy claws up your throat, and all you can do is wash it down with expensive champagne.

It shouldn’t even matter. You came here with Karina, the woman who laughs at your dumb jokes and listens to your work rants like they’re Ted Talks. The girl who looks at you with soft eyes and wears your cheap gift on her five-to-six digit handbags. You should be focused on her.

But instead, your eyes are glued to the way Winter’s ex’s thumb brushes the bare skin of her shoulder, and that makes you want to walk over there and break his hand.

“You’re doing it again,” a voice purrs beside you.

You don’t jump—you’re used to it now.

Ningning appears next to you, sipping a martini. She has no date. She doesn’t need one—she’s treating all the men in the room like a buffet and sampling freely. If anything, having a date would be detrimental.

“I’m not doing anything,” you mutter, taking another drink from a passing server.

She steps closer to you, voice dropping. “He looks smug, doesn’t he? Thinking he’s the king of the castle.”

“He looks like he owns her,” you say, the words tasting more bitter than the liquor.

“Relax,” Ningning says, clinking her glass against yours. “The night is still young. We haven’t even sprung the trap yet.”

You open your mouth to ask what trap, exactly, but she doesn’t even look at you—her attention already flew past your shoulder.

You turn—and immediately feel like you’re about to get arrested.

Standing there, right behind you, is Yuna.

The first thing that you notice is that she looks good. Insanely good. She’s wearing a dress that is simply not shy to show off her absolutely ridiculous proportions. She’s ethereal—she’s a renowned model for a reason, and seeing her now in person makes you finally understand why.

“Ning Yizhuo, is that you?” Yuna says, her voice mockingly bright and airy. “What a pleasure. I almost didn’t recognize you without all the filters.”

Ningning’s expression shifts into a smile that is terrifyingly artificial, even by her standards. “Shin Yuna!” she exclaims. “Oh my god, hi! Wow, I love your dress. My grandmother has a tablecloth just like it.”

Yuna’s smile doesn’t even flicker. “It’s vintage Dior. But I wouldn’t expect you to know that. You seem more of a fast-fashion girly.”

“You know, speaking of fast—I saw your campaign before it got pulled,” Ningning says sweetly. “You’re truly so brave. To wear that color with your skin tone.”

Yuna steps closer, clutching her champagne glass. “The campaign didn’t get pulled. It was reimagined.” Her eyes narrow. “But it’s funny—ever since you crawled out of whatever Instagram DM they found you from, all our billboard spots suddenly belong to Aespa.”

“That’s the magic of working with a real Creative Director,” Ningning hums. “Kim Minjeong knows talent when she sees it. But you wouldn’t get understand. We know Ryujin only hires family.”

“Look, I don’t know what kind of messy game you’re playing to get your boss the top spot, but just a heads up—if you play dirty, people will eventually smell it.”

“Don’t worry,” Ningning chirps, batting her eyelashes. “I shower often. You should try it sometime. We can smell all the married executives underneath that perfume. What is it—Chanel No.5?”

Yuna’s grip on her glass tightens. “Careful,” she says, dropping the bubbly act. “Heels are tricky on this floor. Would be so embarrassing if you suddenly tripped and broke something. Like your nose.”

Ningning leans in just another centimeter. “Good news—it’s real, so it’ll heal,” she says, then pulls back with a smirk. “Enjoy the food, Yuna. I hear they have sour grapes. Your favorite.”

Yuna holds the stare for one second longer before flipping her hair and turning away.

Ningning keeps smiling until she disappears into the crowd. “Bitch,” she mutters, her face instantly dropping into a scowl.

You blink, trying to process whether all of that was scary or arousing. “You guys really do not like each other.”

“Did you see her shoes?” she hisses. “Last season. Embarrassing.”

She downs the rest of her champagne in one go, then her eyes snap back to you. “Anyway. Forget about that rat.” She nods past your shoulder. “Look who’s coming.”

You look toward the center of the room, where two women have just entered, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.

One of them is excruciatingly doll-like, with a smile that looks both sweet and terrifyingly practiced. The other has a sharp, charismatic gaze and a stride so confident it feels like she owns the entire building and is considering evicting everyone else by midnight.

“Who are they?” you ask, unable to even blink. “And why is everyone staring at them like they’re royalty?”

“That,” Ningning says, swirling her drink, “is the competition.”

“Competition,” you repeat. “Like… our company’s competition? Or your competition. Because you seem to have a lot of those.”

“Both.” She points a manicured nail discreetly. “Meet Jang Wonyoung and An Yujin. The crown jewels of IVE Corp.”

You glance again. Jang Wonyoung is already doing the whole smile-and-wave thing—soft laughs, perfect eye contact, hands on forearms like she’s collecting alliances one touch at a time. An Yujin stays half a step behind in a permanent, sweet smile, scanning the room like she’s identifying friends from foes with just one glance.

“Wonyoung is the face—handles the press, the image, the dazzling. Yujin is the muscle—handles the strategy, the execution, the burying of bodies.”

You’re still staring. “So one smiles and one murders.”

Ningning leans her chin on her hand, watching them work the room in perfect sync. “Exactly. They’re a perfect unit. They don’t fight—they just win. That’s what the Chairman wishes Winter and Karina were—if they weren’t so busy playing ‘who has more childhood trauma’ and fighting over scraps of validation.”

She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze drifting back to Winter, who is currently being steered by her ex toward a group of investors like a prize poodle.

“Instead, he has a fractured dynasty of daddy issues,” Ningning murmurs. “But luckily for him, he does have us.”

“What, two underpaid interns?”

“Batman and Catwoman,” she corrects. “Except you’re not rich.”

A sigh involuntarily escapes you. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Don’t worry. At least I’m hot,” she adds, taking a sip. “Especially in a leather suit.”

Before you can ask if she actually owns one, the double doors swing open again.

The Chairman has arrived.

Winter’s father isn’t a large man, but he always sucks the air out of the room like a vacuum. Ever since his “minor heart procedure” last year—which was definitely major surgery, judging by the stock dip—he’s been walking with a cane that he clearly doesn’t need anymore. Nowadays, he uses it less for support and more like a scepter to whack people out of the way.

On his arm is Giselle. She looks triumphant, clinging to him like she’s physically tethered to his wallet, soaking in the camera lights and the whispers.

“Look at her,” Ningning says, delighted. “She’s glowing. Or maybe that’s just from all the diamonds she bought with Aespa’s cash reserves.”

The Chairman steers her through the crowd like he’s showing off a new acquisition. You watch closely as the camera flashes speed up the more she waves.

He introduces her to Winter, who looks like she’s trying to swallow a lemon whole but bows politely—a full 45 degrees.

Then, he introduces her to the ex.

“And this is Minjeong’s boyfriend,” the Chairman says proudly. “He came to join us all the way from London.”

You immediately want to jump off the balcony.

The ex smiles—that smooth, practiced smile that makes you want to physically tear off—then takes Giselle’s hand and bows low, not just shaking it, but lifting it to kiss her knuckles.

“Did you see that?” Ningning hisses, gripping your wrist hard enough to leave a mark.

“See what? The performative kiss-assery?”

“His thumb,” she whispers, her voice tight with excitement. “He caressed her palm. Right in front of Winter.”

You look again. Winter is staring at them. She saw it too. Her face is pale, her jaw locked tight, but she says nothing. She can’t. Not in front of the father she’s so terrified of disappointing.

“God, I love it.” Ningning exhales. “This is messier than reality television.”

A shark-like grin spreads across her face, but something on the other side of the room suddenly catches her attention. “Okay, stay put,” she says, already moving. “I need to check the perimeter. Don’t die of jealousy while I’m gone.”

“For what—Ning, wait!” you hiss.

But she’s already slipped away into the shadows, leaving you standing alone with a potted fern that looks like it’s laughing at you.

After a few minutes of silently fuming and wishing you had another drink, a hand gently touches your elbow.

It’s Karina.

She looks exhausted. Not physically, but socially, like she’s just run a marathon of small talk.

“Karina,” you breathe, relaxing immediately.

She slides into the space beside you, using your body as a shield against the room. “Hide me,” she murmurs, pressing her shoulder against yours. “I’ve shaken hands with three people who didn’t know my name and one who called me Winter.”

“Who would mistaken Glinda for the Wicked Witch of the West?” you ask, pulling her closer.

“My face hurts from smiling.” She sighs, resting her forehead briefly against your arm. “Is my eye twitching? Be honest—do I look crazy?”

You look down at her. She looks perfect—terrifyingly so.

“Yeah,” you say, letting the alcohol take the wheel. “Crazy pretty.”

Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth to say something—maybe a thank you, maybe a deflection—but a voice cuts through the moment, as if the universe has a strict policy against nice things.

“Miss Yoo.”

She pulls away from you instantly.

A man in a sharp suit—one of her father’s assistants—is standing there, looking impatient, to say the least. He looks at you with the expression of someone scraping gum off their shoe, then ignores you entirely.

“Your father is asking for you,” he says to her, checking his watch. “The dinner ceremony is starting soon. He expects you at the main table.”

“Of course,” she says, straightening her back. “Be right there.”

Karina takes a breath, then looks back at you. “Let’s go,” she says lightly.

You blink. “Me? I’m not allowed over there. You know that.”

She reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist in a way that makes your pulse jump. “Sure you do. You’re my human shield, remember?”

The transition from cocktail hour to sit-down-and-be judged is immediate. You move to follow Karina toward the main dining area, trying to purposely lag behind, aiming for a table near the kitchen where you can eat bread rolls in anonymity, but Karina has a death grip on your elbow.

So instead, you harness all your strength to ignore every pair of eyes glaring at you before finally arriving at the head table—just as Karina’s father is taking his seat.

He looks up, eyes beaming the moment he sees her. “Jimin-ah!” he says, standing to greet her. “There you are. I was just telling the Kangs about your time in Paris.”

Then his eyes slide to you. “Oh, and who is this?” he asks, extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you with the Choi family?”

“Appa,” Karina interjects, her smile bright but the tendons in her neck are visibly tight. “This is my good friend. We met at work.”

Her father’s eyebrows lift just a fraction as she tells him your name.

“Is that so?” he says, shaking your hand firmly. “A pleasure to meet you. And which firm do you represent?”

You open your mouth to construct a vague, impressive-sounding lie, but Karina beats you to it, her chin tilting up in that stubborn way she usually reserves for when Winter has something bad to say about you.

“He works with us,” she says, confidently. “With Minjeong.”

“Minjeong?” He looks at you again, searching for the luxury watch or the expensive cufflinks that would make this acceptable. He finds neither. “In what capacity?”

“He’s an intern. In Creative.”

The temperature around the table basically drops ten thousand degrees.

Her father’s smile doesn’t vanish, but something dies in his eyes. He stares at you. Then at Karina. Then back at you. It’s not even anger; it’s confusion, as if Karina has brought a stray dog to a dog show expecting it to win.

“An intern,” he repeats.

At the next chair over, Winter pauses mid-sip of her water. Beside her, her ex leans back in his chair, watching the scene unfold like it’s his favorite sitcom.

“He’s incredibly bright and talented,” Karina adds quickly, stepping slightly in front of you. “Uncle loved his work on the holiday campaign. He personally approved the copy.”

“The Chairman also loves the janitorial staff when the floors are clean,” her father counters, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register meant only for family ears. “That does not mean he wants to eat dinner with them.”

“He’s also done some great—”

“Jimin-ah, look around you.” He leans in closer to Karina, lowering his voice further. “Felix Lee is sitting three tables away. The heir to Enhypen Group and both of his brothers are all here and currently single. Of all the men in this room—men who own islands, men who could merge portfolios with ours—you brought him?”

“I brought someone whose conversation and presence I actually enjoy,” she snaps back, quiet but sharp. “Would you prefer I bring Julian Kim so we can discuss his yacht insurance for three hours?”

“I would prefer you bring someone who doesn’t depreciate your market value just by standing next to you,” her father hisses.

Her breath stutters. “Market value?”

“This is a statement, Jimin. And the statement you are making is that you do not take your future seriously.”

“Appa, he is my guest,” she says, voice shaking now. “It would be incredibly rude to move him last minute—”

“No. It is rude,” her father corrects, “to seat staff next to the Chairman. It insults the board. And it insults me.”

Karina opens her mouth to argue like she’s one sentence away from nuking her own inheritance, but you touch her arm lightly, silencing her.

Then you turn to her father and bow. Lower than you’ve ever bowed before.

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Yoo,” you say, straightening up with a smile. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt the seating arrangement. The head table is for family and partners.”

Her father blinks, clearly surprised by the lack of resistance.

“I apologize for the confusion,” you continue calmly. “I’ll find a seat elsewhere. Please, enjoy your evening.”

His expression shifts from disdain to begrudging approval. He looks at you like a dog that has successfully learned to stay off the furniture.

“At least he understands his place,” he mutters to Karina, then turns away, satisfied.

Winter’s ex chuckles softly, swirling his wine. Winter shoots him a glare, then her eyes flick back at you. Her expression is rather unreadable, but it’s definitely not happy. For once, you don’t care enough to stick around to decode it.

Karina stares at you like you’d just slapped her. “Why did you—”

“It’s fine,” you whisper, stepping back. “Go.”

You swallow any pride you have left and turn to walk away, straightening your spine as much as possible while resisting the urge to sprint to the nearest exist. You can literally feel a hundred eyes on your back like they’re laser sights.

“Jimin, sit down,” her father warns from behind you. “Do not chase him. Do not make a scene.”

You don’t look back. You just focus on the marble pattern. Left foot, right foot. Don’t trip, don’t die in front of rich people—they won’t mourn, they’ll think it’s inconvenient during dinnertime.

Then you hear it—the scrape of a chair, and then the sharp, unmistakable sound of heels against the floor.

“Yoo Jimin!” her father hisses.

You don’t turn around, but the footsteps stop right behind you. You can hear her breathing—quick, shallow breaths that brush against the back of your neck.

“You’re going to get disowned,” you say quietly, still facing forward. “I’ve seen enough K-dramas to know how this ends.”

“Let him be mad,” she replies as her hand slips into yours.

Her palm is warm, fingers tightly threading through yours, like she’s afraid you might disappear if she loosens her grip.

You quickly turn and pull her away behind a pillar, out of sight from all the eyes of VIPs, where the shadows feel safer.

“Karina, what are you—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, fierce and breathless. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” Her eyes are huge and drowning in frustration. “And you shouldn’t have apologized to him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I de-escalated,” you say quietly. “Besides, he’s right. I don’t belong up there. I don’t even know which fork is for the salad.”

“The small one,” she answers without thinking. “And you belong where I am. I asked you to come here. So let’s find another table together.”

For a moment, the noise of the gala fades. It’s just her, looking at you with those big, soft eyes, holding your hand like it’s the only anchor she has in a room full of sharks. Except you don’t actually know how to swim here. Not in this ocean.

“Listen,” you say, squeezing back. “Go back. Sit with him. Don’t ruin your night because of me. We can talk later. I’ll text you snarky commentary on the award speeches.”

She searches your face, like she’s memorizing it one last time. “Promise you won’t disappear at midnight?”

You force a smile. “Promise. My suit might expire and vaporize though.”

She hesitates. She looks at her father’s table, then back at you. Then she nods, squeezes your hand one last time, and lets go.

Then she slips away, back into the light. You stay where you are, watching her leave as the warmth of her touch fades from your skin.

“Depressing, isn’t it? Trying to date fifty leagues upwards.”

You don’t flinch. It’s a law of physics at this point: Ningning somehow always appears at the right time—especially when it hurts most.

She slides next to you, right where Karina’s warmth is fading. She doesn’t care to even look at the dinner table. She’s staring at her phone, where a terrifying grin is illuminated by the blue light.

“Come with me,” she says, tugging your arm. “I have an update that will make you forget all about your newfound trauma, Romeo.”

You follow Ningning out of the ballroom, slipping between servers and clusters of executives who have snuck out to take calls. She leads you down a short hallway and ducks into a mostly empty side lounge—aside from a vase the size of a small child and a painting that looks more like a tax write-off than decor.

“Okay,” you say, leaning against the doorframe to block the view. “What did you do now?”

Ningning’s grin is sinister, like she had just ruined a life or two before coming to find you.

“I flirted with Winter’s ex by the bar during cocktail hour.”

“That was the perimeter?”

She continues. “Turns out he’s extremely vulnerable to sustained eye contact, mild admiration, and a hot girl laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. A real textbook case of narcissism.”

“That’s not news. That’s his factory settings. And it’s probably every other guy here.”

“That’s not all.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sleek, heavy-looking black pen. “You see this?” she says, swirling it around her fingers like a magician.

You blink. “Is this your Catwoman debut? Stealing a pen?”

“I have a twin.” She taps her phone screen. An app opens—audio levels dancing on a timeline. “Slipped the other one into his jacket pocket while he was distracted by my cleavage.”

You stare at her. “You bugged him.”

“Don’t make it sound so tacky.” She scrolls back on the timeline, humming a little tune. “Anyway, our boy had a very interesting chat immediately after I left. Take a wild guess with who.”

Your stomach tightens. “Giselle.”

“Bingo.” She holds the phone up between you and presses play.

The audio is scratchy, but the voices are unmistakable despite all the crackles.

“…I told you to stop texting me during family events,” he says, clearly irritated. “You’re going to make this harder than it has to be.”

“Oh, I’m making it harder?” she scoffs. “You’re the one who talked me into this circus to begin with. Marry him, baby. We’ll bleed him slow, he won’t even feel it. That was you, by the way.”

You feel your stomach dip.

Ningning watches your reaction with delight—in the way that only someone who thrives on chaos can. “Wait. It gets better. Or worse. Depends on your morals and how much you enjoy villain monologues, I guess.”

The recording rustles—fabric shifting and the dull clink of glasses hitting a table.

“We have to stick to the plan,” the ex says, sliding into that annoying, condescending tone. “You marry the Chairman, smile for the cameras, play the devoted fiancée, then the wife. Then you get access to the accounts. Meanwhile, I’ll keep Minjeong dangling. Between the two of them, we wipe your debts, my bad investments, and still have enough left to disappear somewhere with actual beaches.”

Giselle exhales a laugh—lower now, closer to the mic. Close enough that you can picture the angle of it. She must be right next to his jacket.

“And when you say disappear,” she says, “you mean just us. Right? Not a family package deal.”

“Obviously just us. You think I want to spend the rest of my life babysitting a neurotic ice cube and her control-freak father?”

“And if your little princess finds out you used her and her father?” Giselle asks. “She’s not stupid. Like, at all. She’s actually terrifyingly sharp.”

“But she’s insecure,” he corrects. “That’s even better than stupid. Insecure people are predictable. You tell them they’re special, that you see the real them, and they’ll crawl over broken glass to keep that illusion alive.”

You feel your hand curl into a fist without your permission.

“And you don’t feel… anything?” Giselle presses. “Guilt? Attachment? You’ve been with her for years.”

“Attachment?” He laughs. “To what? A walking bundle of daddy issues who only relaxes when you’re telling her she’s garbage? She’s a habit, not a person.”

Ningning quietly reaches over and pries your fingers open, thumb brushing your knuckles like she’s un-crumpling paper.

“Don’t break my phone,” she says mildly. “I need it to blackmail people.”

The recording continues.

“You’re cruel,” Giselle says, but there’s admiration in it.

“I’m resourceful,” he replies. “You didn’t fall in love with me because I’m nice.”

There’s a pause. Then the wet, sharp sound of a kiss.

“…and you’re not exactly innocent either,” he murmurs against her mouth. “Sleeping with the daughter’s boyfriend and then marrying the dad? Iconic.”

Giselle laughs, low and pleased. “Fine. So I marry him, you keep stringing her along. And when we’re done?”

“We cash out and go,” he says. “New names, new passports, new everything. No board meetings, no quarterly reports, no Minjeong crying because I didn’t text back in thirty minutes.”

“She cries?” she asks, seemingly amused.

“Constantly. You tell her she’s worthless during sex, she cries. You tell her she’s only good as a stress toy, she cries. Then she comes harder than anyone you’ve ever seen and thanks you for it. It’s pathetic.”

Your chest physically hurts from anger.

“You really think you can keep her in line forever?” Giselle says. “She doesn’t exactly look submissive out there.”

“That’s the fun part. No one suspects the golden girl wants to be wrecked. That’s my advantage. She’s terrified someone else will see that side of her, so she keeps coming back to the only person who already has. Me.”

“And the hotel thing?” she asks after a moment. “You’re sure that’s not overkill?”

“Relax.” He chuckles. “I already set up cameras in one of the suites here. She’ll think I’m planning some kind of romantic getaway. Tonight I’ll get something useful—full face, tears, begging. Insurance. If anything goes wrong with this plan, I leak the videos and she’s done. Her dad will throw her out of the boardroom so fast she won’t know what hit her.”

Your hands are shaking uncontrollably now. You knew he was low, but this is beneath the ground.

“God, you’re awful,” she says.

“Here’s a second key. Meet me up there later tonight. We’ll… celebrate.”

There’s a longer rustle, a muffled sound that’s unmistakably a kiss deepening.

Ningning taps her screen. The lounge drops back into silence, but the air feels toxic now.

“You wanted the truth,” she says lightly, slipping the phone back into her bag. “There it is. Uncut, unhinged, and deeply on brand for this company’s taste in men.”

“This has to be a prank,” you manage, rubbing a hand over your face. “Some sort of sick joke.”

You know it isn’t. You just wish it was.

“Like I said. He’s not just garbage. He’s organized garbage. That’s the worst kind.”

You drag your hand through your hair. “So we tell Winter’s dad. Or security. Or—”

“And say what?” she cuts in. “Hi, Mr. Chairman, sir. We illegally recorded your future son-in-law and your future wife discussing how they’re going to siphon your money and weaponize your daughter’s trauma.”

She scoffs. “He will nuke us before he lets this get public. The man hates scandal more than he loves his own last name on the building.”

You hate how accurate that sounds. The Chairman would absolutely sign your death warrant to save the stock price.

“So what do we do?” you ask, pressing your temples. “Just let it happen?”

“We make sure his little insurance policy never exists,” she says casually. “No sex tape, no leverage, no bargaining chip.”

You blink. “You want to find the camera.”

“Correct.” She checks her reflection in the darkened window. “He said one of the suites. That means somewhere in this hotel.”

You lean back against the wall, brain trying to catch up. “And how are we supposed to find a hidden camera in a random suite during a gala, surrounded by a couple hundred witnesses and a small army of security?”

Ningning’s eyes glitter like this is her favorite part. “And that,” she sings, “is where your tragic emotional attachment to a girl who treats you like garbage comes in handy.”

You just stare.

She pats your chest twice, like she’s testing structural integrity. “You are going to keep Winter busy.”

Your heart stutters. “Busy how?”

“I don’t know. Ask her how she’s doing. That usually pisses her off.”

“So you want me to annoy her.”

“Finally, a job you’re naturally gifted at,” she says with a smirk. “Your goal is to keep her downstairs, away from him. Meanwhile, I’m going to go turn the charm up and stick to the ex like glue until he’s drunk enough or horny enough to flash his keycard. Then I steal it, and we’ll have a room number and a key. Simple.”

Your brows furrow. “What? That’s not simple. That’s—”

“Another Friday for me,” she says, shrugging. “Once we have the key, you and I pay a discreet little visit to the love nest, rip out anything with a lens, and get out before he decides it’s showtime.”

“And if he drags her upstairs before we’re done?” you ask.

“Then we improvise. But regardless, he does not leave this building tonight with a camera full of leverage.” She opens her bag and pulls out a stick of lipgloss. “He wants to turn this place into a cash cow? Dream on. I’m not letting anyone milk this company but me.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing the sheer insanity of the plan.

She snaps her fingers in front of your face. “Hey. Focus. Mission first, feelings later. Do not let Karina’s eyes, hair—or tits distract you from keeping Winter occupied long enough for me to pull this off. Got it? You can go back to yearning after we’ve defused the bomb.”

She straightens her dress, rolling her shoulders like a fighter before round two.

“Alright. Game time,” she murmurs, already moving toward the door. “Go irritate your favorite disaster. I’ll go flirt with hers.”

The ballroom feels even louder when you step back into it, as if the music and conversations have been cranked up to max volume just to mess with your head even further.

When dinner is over, Winter is exactly where you expect her—near the edge of a crowd, close to the exits, yet far from any real escape. She’s standing alone with a nearly-empty glass in hand and a posture screaming “approach at your own risk.”

You take a deep breath and walk over.

She immediately sees you coming and exhales like the night has personally decided to test the last of her patience by sending you.

“Shouldn’t you be in the back with the other interns?” Winter asks, eyes flicking over your tux like she’s surprised you even own one. “Or did they run out of napkins to fold?”

“You must’ve missed the memo,” you say, stopping right in front of her. “I got promoted to Decorative Plant.”

She doesn’t laugh, obviously. “Congratulations on the lateral move. Go photosynthesize somewhere else.”

“Can’t,” you say sorrowfully. “It’s so much better over here next to this ball of sunshine.”

She sighs, a short, sharp exhale through her nose. “What do you want?” she asks, not looking at you. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

You could—and probably should—go with Ningning’s plan and start poking at sore spots, but the words that come out betray you.

“Are you doing okay?” you ask, quieter than you meant to.

There it is—the smallest hitch in her expression. Her fingers tighten almost unnoticably around the stem of her glass.

She doesn’t look at you when she answers. “Don’t,” she huffs.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t start. You’re an intern, not my therapist.”

“I’m serious,” you say, lowering your voice further. “You look miserable. Your dad’s parading you around like a trophy. Your ex is—” You stop yourself before you say something that can’t be unsaid. “Are you okay?”

Winter finally looks at you. Her gaze lingers on your face like she’s searching for an ulterior motive and hating that she’s not finding one.

“This is my life,” she says firmly. “This is normal. I don’t need concern from you.”

“You don’t want it,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Why do you do this?” she snarls. “Why do you always have to push? Can’t you just take an order and walk away?”

“God forbid someone actually gives a shit about you without asking for a stock option in return.”

Her mouth opens, then snaps shut. She stares at you, caught off guard by the sincerity in your voice. For a fleeting moment, she’s neither Kim Minjeong nor Creative Director Winter—just an overwhelmed, exhausted girl ready to fall apart.

“This isn’t the time and place,” she says, quickly gathering herself. “I have to survive tonight. That’s it. That’s the whole task.”

“It’s a gala, not a hostage situation.”

“Is there a difference?” Her eyes flash. “Has it ever occurred to you that nothing in my life is a celebration?”

“Then maybe you should change that—”

Your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket.

You quickly pull it out under the cover of your jacket—just in case it’s Ningning giving you an update on your first official mission as Batman and Catwoman.

Winter, of course, notices right away. She notices everything. Except the knife currently being sharpened for her back.

Yoo Jimin: hey human shield kind of need you right now they’re tag-teaming me about a “strategic marriage” if one more person says “two dynasties” i’m going to stab the dessert table

You glance over. Sure enough, Karina is across the room, surrounded by a semi-circle of men in suits who look like they learned how to flirt from tech entrepreneurs.

But then you remember Ningning’s warning—mission first, yearning later—and shove the phone away before you can do something stupid, like go save her.

“Sorry,” you say, putting it back in your pocket. “I’m supposed to be somewhere right now.”

“Where? Holding hands with the Head of Design in front of the board?”

You freeze. “I wasn’t holding hands. She grabbed me.”

“And you let her.” Her eyes narrow. “You looked like a lost puppy she picked up at the shelter to annoy her father. It was embarrassing.”

You tilt your head. “Are you jealous, Ms. Kim?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But it’s exactly what Ningning told you to do: keep her busy.

Winter freezes. For a second, you think she might actually throw her drink in your face.

“Jealous?” she repeats. “Over what? An intern who can’t even tie his own bowtie properly?”

She reaches out, her fingers brushing your throat as she fixes the knot. The brief contact sends a jolt of something straight through your body.

“I don’t get jealous over things I own,” she whispers, staring up at you through her lashes. “I get annoyed when they’re misplaced.”

Your breath hitches. “I wasn’t aware I was still your property.”

“Check your contract,” she says, mindlessly fixing your collar now. “You belong to my department. That means you don’t go running off to play Prince Charming for my cousin just because she smiled at you.”

“She needed a plus-one.”

“She needed a prop,” Winter corrects, eyes snapping back up to lock with yours. “Don’t tell me you think the great prodigy Yoo Jimin didn’t predict exactly how that played out earlier. She didn’t bring you there because she enjoys your conversations. You’re just a tool she used to flip off her dad so that he would be too mad to introduce her to any more of his friends’ sons. And you’re so eager to be used, aren’t you? As long as the person using you is pretty enough.”

“Strange coming from the person who calls me at 2am because she forgot her next-day presentation material.”

Her nostrils flare. “You choose to answer.”

“Yeah. I do. Guess why,” you say, instantly regretting it.

She freezes for a second, but then ignores it completely. “I call you because as much as I hate to admit it, you get things done.”

You scoff. “Just last week you told me that my very existence was an HR violation.”

“It is,” she says, fixing a strand of hair falling over your face with an annoyed look. “But tonight, you’re seemingly determined to be a PR violation, too.”

You catch her wrist before she can pull away. Her warmth is nostalgic, and her pulse dances under your thumb.

“The only PR violation tonight is your dumb boyfriend over there flirting with your father’s fiancée in front of all those cameras and people.”

You turn to the bar, where the ex is standing next to Giselle, bodies angled toward each other like magnets. Ningning is already there, squeezing herself between their conversation, laughing at something he’s said that you’re certain isn’t funny.

Winter stares at them and then back at you—furious, but just so painfully beautiful. For a fleeting moment, everything around you blurs away. It’s just her, looking at you like she wants to either slap you or kiss you.

“You are infuriating,” she says, pulling her arm out your grip. “Worry about your own love life.”

Your phone buzzes again.

Winter’s eyes flick to your pocket. “Popular tonight. Jimin unnie again? Asking you to come save her from a conversation about golf?”

Yoo Jimin: they’re bringing up golf metaphors now this is a cry for help

Ningning’s voice is loud in your head: Mission first, feelings later. Do not let Karina distract you.

You swallow, lock the screen, and then turn back at Winter. “She does hate golf.”

“Go then,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “Go be her hero. Go wag your little tail.”

“No, I think I’ll stay,” you say, leaning against the wall. “The view is better here.”

Winter blinks. “You’re such an idiot,” she mutters, looking away, though the corner of her mouth fights a losing battle against a smile.

“And you’re out of wine,” you say, nodding at her drink.

“Patience, too, soon,” she murmurs, biting her bottom lip as if trying not to laugh.

“Let’s get you another glass before that happens then.”

She hands you her glass. “You’re going to play fetch for me even off the clock?”

“I’ll check my contract again later.”

As you walk away, your phone buzzes again. You don’t even look this time.

You’re just about to signal the bartender—just about to lean in and cement the distraction—when a frantic voice cuts in.

“Director! Director Kim!”

It’s Manager Yoon, Winter’s personal assistant. She’s a tiny woman who always looks like she’s five minutes away from a nervous breakdown, permanently clutching a tablet to her chest like a shield.

Winter stiffens instantly, the playful anger vanishing. “Yes?”

“The Chairman is asking for you,” her assistant says, not even looking at you. “President Jang from IVE Corp has just arrived.”

Winter’s mask slams back into place, sealing away the girl who was just blushing at you. She lets out a short, sharp exhale through her nose. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

Manager Yoon nods fervently and scurries off to clear the path.

Winter hesitates. She looks at the bar, then back at you. For a split second, her shoulders slump—like a kid being dragged away from the playground.

Yoo Jimin: you owe me a dance later

--

“Mission status?”

Ningning has a new drink in hand. Her lipstick is slightly smudged in a way that feels absolutely intentional, and her eyes are bright with the adrenaline of a cat that just knocked a vase off a shelf on purpose.

“She’s staying downstairs,” you say, keeping your voice low. “For now.”

“Excellent,” she purrs. “Because phase two is officially a go.”

Ningning lifts her bag just enough for you to see the thin rectangle tucked between her manicured fingers.

A hotel keycard.

“You actually got it,” you breathe, staring at it like it’s a loaded gun. “You’re insane, Ning.”

“Please. He’s tragically predictable. Compliment his tie, laugh at his joke, touch his arm—he’ll show you his portfolio, his room number, even his childhood trauma if you give him ten minutes.” She tilts her head. “Giselle helped, actually.”

You blink. “How?”

“Ironically, she doesn’t like sharing,” she says, amused. “She saw me getting too close and dragged him into the hallway to mark her territory. He got distracted trying to calm her down, tossed his jacket on a chair… and, well, you can guess the rest.”

Your stomach twists. “And you said they’re meeting later?”

“In that same room.” She taps the sharp corner of the card against your chest. “Which means we have a very narrow window to sanitize the crime scene. So suit up and let’s go.”

“Right now?” you ask, pulse jumping.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, right now. We go up, we sweep the room, we steal anything with a lens or a blinking light, and we get out before anyone realizes their little porn set has been shut down.”

“If someone notices we’re gone—” you start.

“They won’t,” Ningning says confidently. “We’re interns. We are, tragically, forgettable. That’s exactly why only we can do this.” She pauses. “Unless you’d rather stay here and keep making moony eyes at Tits and Waist while they both ignore you for rich men.”

“Fine.” You exhale, turning your back on the ballroom. “Lead the way, partner.”

“I love it when you let me take charge,” she coos, looping her arm through yours and steering you toward the side corridor.

The elevator doors slide open on a carpeted hallway that smells like a very expensive air freshener. Everything is quiet and muted—basically the opposite of the chaos downstairs.

Ningning leads the way, counting room numbers under her breath until she stops in front of one that matches what’s on the keycard sleeve.

“Here,” she whispers. “This one.”

You both stand there for a second, listening. No voices. No movement.

“Okay, last chance to bail,” she says, voice barely audible. “We can go back, pretend we never heard anything, and just let this place implode on schedule.”

“You’re trying to talk me out of this now?” you ask, shivering despite your suit jacket.

“Not really. I just like giving people the illusion of choice.” She turns to the door. “Ready?”

You sigh one last time. “Not even a little.”

“Too late, Batboy,” she replies, and swipes the card.

The lock clicks. She pushes the door open, and the two of you step into the suite.

The room is immaculate. Too immaculate, even by five-star hotel standards. Bed made, pillows fluffed, a bottle of champagne on ice waiting patiently on the table.

“God, how tacky,” Ningning mutters, walking over to the ice bucket. She picks up the bottle, inspects the label, and sneers. “Who buys Moët for a blackmail scheme? At least go for Dom if you’re going to ruin someone’s life.”

You walk to the giant windows of the corner suite. The view of the city is breathtaking, but the reflection in the glass just shows two interns in over their heads, moonlighting as vigilantes.

“Alright, time to find those cameras,” you say, taking a deep breath.

You start with the obvious places, immediately moving to the dresser mirror, squinting at the frame.

Ningning, however, isn’t searching for lenses. Instead, she opens the wardrobe door, then checks under the bed, then opens the door to a large walk-in closet near the bathroom like she’s checking out the place for herself.

“Ning! Come on. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Relax, we have time,” she says, dropping her bag on the desk. She wanders toward the bathroom, then pivots to a large set of double doors. “He’s probably stuck in the elevator making small talk with a crypto bro.”

She opens the doors. “Oh hello, what’s this?”

“What are you doing?” you hiss, running your finger along the vanity lights.

“Looking for a hidey-hole just in case,” she replies, stepping inside the walk-in closet. “This one’s huge. Good acoustics, too.”

“Ning, focus—”

Beep. Click.

The sound of a keycard on the door cuts you off like a gunshot.

You freeze, your hand still hovering over the desk lamp.

Ningning stops mid-twirl. “Shit!” she hisses.

She lunges out, grabs your arm, and yanks both you and her handbag into the darkness of the walk-in closet just as the suite door swings open.

You stumble in, tripping over a rack of hotel robes, and she pulls the door shut. The space is surprisingly large—deep enough for luggage racks and a full-length mirror—but right now, pressed against Ningning in the dark, it feels suffocatingly intimate. You can smell her floral perfume clearly as her neck presses against your face. For a split second, you realize how much you miss her scent.

Through the slats of the door, you see two figures enter.

It’s the ex and Giselle.

“I told you, I lost mine,” he says, voice smooth and irritated. He walks straight to the minibar and pours himself a glass of whiskey. “I must have dropped it when I was talking to the investors.”

“You’re so careless,” Giselle snaps, sounding different than she did in the lobby—less confident, more anxious. “If the Chairman sees me up here—”

“He won’t,” he says, taking a sip. “He’s busy showing off his perfect daughter to the IVE execs. That meeting will take twenty minutes, minimum.”

“I don’t know if I like this,” she says, hugging her arms. “Minjeong isn’t stupid. If she sees a camera—”

“She won’t see anything,” he laughs, setting the glass down. “I put them in the blind spots.”

“What blind spots?”

He walks over to the desk. “One here in the floral arrangement,” he says, tapping the large vase. “Catches the entry, the bed, and the conversation. Audio is crisp, too.”

Giselle watches him with a look of distaste. “And the other one?”

He turns, pointing up toward the ceiling, directly above the pristine white bed.

“Smoke detector,” he says with a grin. “Top-down view. Catches everything on the mattress.”

She follows his gaze to the bed, at the crisp white sheets, the fluffed pillows, the perfect stage he’s set so carefully.

“You sure went through a lot of trouble,” she scoffs.

He shrugs. “Presentation is everything. If the set looks cheap, the star won’t perform.”

“The star,” she repeats bitterly. She crosses her arms, still staring at the pillows. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just doing this for leverage. You actually want to fuck her.”

He pauses, then sets the glass down and looks at her.

“Uh oh,” he purrs, taking a step toward her. “Someone’s jealous.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, closing the distance. “You’re mad that I’m going to fuck Minjeong’s brains out in this room, on that bed, while you go back downstairs and play trophy wife for her middle-aged father.”

Giselle flinches, but she doesn’t back away.

“Come here.” He grabs her waist and pulls her flush against him.

She lets out a small gasp, gripping his jacket. “What are you—”

He kisses her neck, and she melts into it instantly.

“You’re the biggest asshole I know.” She starts to pull him backward, toward the pristine white mattress.

“Ah-ah,” he says, stopping her cold.

He holds her in place, his grip tightening on her waist. “Not the bed,” he says, his voice dropping. “I need those sheets fresh for Minjeong later.”

Giselle freezes. For a second, you think she might slap him.

“I hate that bitch so much,” she breathes, her eyes oozing with resentment.

“Don’t worry,” he says, snickering. “It’ll be all worth it soon, babe.”

He spins her around, slamming her against the wall next to the closet door—inches from where you and Ningning are hiding. The impact rattles the hinges, sending a vibration straight through your shoulder where you’re pressed against the wood.

“Lift it,” he orders. “Show me that slutty little pussy of yours.”

Giselle stands frozen for a second with her back to him, staring at the wall next to the closet door. You can see her reflection in the full-length mirror—her eyes are wide and filled with an undeniable want.

She reaches down. Her hands shake visibly as she bunches the fabric of her dress up around her waist.

“God, you’re easy,” he mutters, shaking his head with a smirk that you can hear in his voice. “You were wet the second you walked in the door, weren’t you?”

He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of her panties, yanking it aside without bothering to take them off. The sound of the elastic snapping against her skin feels extra loud in the quiet room.

Giselle lets out a sharp yelp as he drops to his knees behind her. His hands slide up her smooth thighs, gripping her hips to hold her in place, digging into the soft, jiggling flesh.

“Please,” she whimpers, pressing her forehead against the wall. “Do it. I’ve missed you so much—”

He laughs, a muffled sound against her thigh. “You know I don’t even do this for Minjeong. She doesn’t like it. Probably thinks she’s too pristine to have her pussy licked.”

Ningning’s head tilts ever so slightly, and amidst the storm surging on the other side of that door, you find a tiny sliver of peace in knowing how completely wrong that statement is.

Giselle shudders, her fingers digging into the wallpaper. “Stop talking about her.”

He chuckles and runs his tongue up the back of her thigh slowly, teasing the very edge of her slit but refusing to give her what she wants yet.

“Tell me, Aeri,” he taunts. “Does the great Chairman Kim ever get on his knees for you?”

“Shut up,” she gasps, her hips twitching involuntarily, trying to chase his mouth.

He pulls back, denying her again. “Does he even look at you when he fucks you? Or does he just close his eyes and think about his dead wife while he pumps into you for two minutes?”

“Stop it!” she cries, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she presses back against him even more.

“He doesn’t eat you out, does he? He probably thinks it’s beneath him. A man of his status, slobbering over a trophy wife?”

He finally buries his face between her legs, slurping her with a hunger that sounds almost violent. It’s not even affectionate; it’s a demonstration of ownership.

Giselle’s knees buckle. She has to brace her hands wider against the wall to even stay upright while her head is involuntarily falling back.

“Oh god,” she moans, biting her own lip to keep the volume down. “God—it’s been so long—”

“I know,” he murmurs against her, not stopping. “You’re starving. You’re dripping down my chin because your future husband is useless.”

He works her relentlessly, finding the rhythm that breaks her composure. Low, broken moans escape her throat while her hips grind back against his face.

Inside the closet, Ningning is frozen. She’s not looking away—her eyes are fixed on the sliver of lights in front of you as her hand finds yours in the dark, squeezing hard. Her body is so close to yours now that you can feel the heat radiating off her skin as she continues watching.

Outside, the ex pulls back suddenly, right before Giselle reaches her climax, causing her to let out a frustrated whimper as she slumps against the wall.

“Look at you,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stands up. “You act like a lady downstairs, but up here, you’re just a little slut.”

“Come on,” she begs. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

“So impatient. Are you sure you can even play the long game?”

He undoes his belt and immediately grips her hips, thumbs digging into her flesh.

“Say please,” he teases.

“Ple—”

He suddenly thrusts into her from behind, hard and without warning.

She cries out—a sharp, high sound that is immediately muffled as her face hits the wall.

“How does it feel, Aeri?” he asks, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. “An engaged woman getting fucked by someone who isn’t her fiancée?”

“So good,” she cries, eyes rolling back. “Oh god, it feels so good.”

“Does he do this?” he sneers, slapping her ass. “Does the Chairman fuck you like this?”

“No!” she wails, shaking her head frantically. “No, he could never!”

“He’s too old, isn’t he?” He laughs. “Does he even get it up?”

“He’s useless!” she groans. “I hate it. I hate him. Please… please don’t stop.”

“You starved little bitch,” he growls, driving deeper. “You’re so desperate for a working cock you’re letting your future stepdaughter’s boyfriend use you like a toy.”

“I don’t care,” she gasps, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. “Just fuck me. Fill me up. I’m so empty all the time without your cock.”

“You’re such a cock-thirsty slut, Aeri. Lucky for you… I like them extra slutty.”

He continues to fuck her hard against the wall with a brutal pace, every thrust shaking the door frame you’re leaning against.

She takes it obediently, her head falling back. “Is this… is this how you fuck her?” she gasps.

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?” He drives deeper, making her toes curl on the carpet. “How I fuck my girlfriend?”

“Tell me,” she begs, her voice trembling. “Do you fuck her like this?”

“No,” he says, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “I don’t. Not like this. Because Minjeong isn’t a desperate whore like you.”

She lets out a wounded sound, half-sob, half-moan, as his words sink in deeper than his thrusts.

“Turn around,” he commands abruptly, pulling out.

Giselle stumbles as she turns, her face completely flushed, eyes wet with a toxic mix of humiliation and lust.

He grabs her right leg, pulling it high over his hip until she’s balanced on one foot.

Then he thrusts back into her from the front, burying himself deep. She gasps, her head knocking back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders to stay upright.

“Look at me,” he growls, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye while he pumps into her. “Admit it. You’re jealous of Minjeong.”

“I’m not—” she starts, but a hard thrust cuts her off.

“You are.” He slaps her cheek lightly. “You’re jealous that she’s younger, prettier, and smarter. You’re jealous that she’s the real heiress and you’re just the replacement wife. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” she breathes, her hips snapping forward to meet him, unable to fight it anymore. “Yes, I am.”

“Say it properly,” he demands, increasing the pace until she’s gasping for air. “Tell me how much you hate it.”

“I’m jealous of her, okay?” she wails, the confession tearing out of her. “I feel so inferior next to her! She has everything. Even back then, when we were classmates, she always got better grades and had more friends. And now… she even has you.”

“That’s right,” he says, grinning as he watches her break. “She has me. And do you want to know the difference, Aeri? Do you want to know why she’ll always win?”

“Tell me,” she whispers, eyes rolling back.

He leans in, lips brushing her ear. “Because she’s so nice and tight,” he growls. “Her pussy’s basically made for my cock. And she’s got that tiny body that feels like fucking heaven in my hands. Mm, that little snatched waist… those slender legs that she wraps around me when she begs me not to pull out. It drives me crazy. It makes me fuck her so hard that she passes out sometimes.”

Giselle sobs openly now, tears streaming down her face.

“And tonight?” he continues, relentless. “Tonight I’m going to make her beg. I’m going to tie her to that headboard with her own panties. I’m going to edge her until she’s crying, until she’s completely broken, and then I’m going to record every second of her pleading for my cock.”

He pulls back to look at her face—at the absolute devastation he’s caused.

“You’re just my cum dumpster, Aeri. She’s the real prize. Do you understand now?”

“I hate her!” Giselle cries, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping her standing. “I hate her so much!”

“Good,” he snickers. “You should. You’ll never be her.”

He gives her a few more punishing, deep thrusts, watching the light go out of her eyes as she surrenders to the jealousy ripping her apart. Then, abruptly, he pulls out.

“Now,” he says, stepping back and looking down at her. “Show me you know your place. On your knees.”

Giselle slides slowly down the wall until her knees hit the floor. She looks up at him—not with love, but with a pathetic devotion.

“Finish me off,” he orders, tangling one hand into her hair and tilting her head back. “I want to be empty so I can last all night with her.”

She doesn’t even react. She’s past the point of pride.

“All night?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “What are you going to do all night?”

“I’m going to make sure she remembers who owns her,” he says, staring at the ceiling as if visualizing it. “And you’re going to help me get ready for it.”

He presses his thumb against her bottom lip, dragging it down. “Open.”

She opens her mouth, and he pushes himself into her, forcing her to take him deep.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching himself in the mirror. “Take it. All of it.”

The only sounds in the room are the wet, rhythmic noise of her obedience and his heavy breathing. She works harder, sucking with a frantic intensity, as if trying to prove she’s worth something.

“Swallow it,” he commands suddenly, his hips snapping forward, voice straining. “Don’t you dare spill a drop. I want to be clean for Minjeong.”

She makes a choked sound and bobs her head faster, taking him all the way down as he releases into her mouth with a loud groan. He holds her head in place, fingers tightening in her hair.

She stays on her knees for a moment, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him like a dog waiting for a treat.

“Good girl,” he says, patting her cheek lightly. “Now go fix your face. You have a party to get back to.”

--

The room falls into a heavy, deafening silence as the door finally closes behind them.

“Jesus,” Ningning breathes, stepping out into the suite, fanning herself with her hand. She immediately walks to the mirror, checking her hair. “I really need another drink after that.”

“A drink and maybe a priest.” You stumble out after her, legs stiff. “But first, we need to find those cameras and get the hell out of here.”

“Right—cameras,” she says, snapping into focus.

You grab a chair from the desk and drag it to the center of the room. “I’ll get the one up here.”

You climb up, unscrewing the smoke detector cover. Sure enough, there’s a small black square taped inside, just as he brag.

“Found it,” you say, yanking it out.

Ningning is already at the desk, digging through the flowers. “Found the other one. What’s with villains and exposing all their secrets when they think no one’s listening?”

She pulls the tiny device out and holds it up to the light.

“Check it out,” she says, tossing it to you. “It’s just a camera. No transmitter.”

You catch it and look closely. She’s right. It’s a local storage unit—recording to a micro-SD card.

“He’s not streaming or saving it anywhere,” you realize. “Just recording it physically. Either doesn’t trust the hotel Wi-Fi or too cheap to pay for cloud subscription.”

“Which means that if we take these, he has nothing. No backup either. Just an empty slot where his 720p blackmail porn used to be.”

She pops the SD card out of her unit and slips it into her bra. You stare at her.

“What?” she hums. “We need it. For leverage.”

You roll your eyes and pocket the other camera. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

The only thing stopping your celebration is the sound of footsteps and chatter in the hallway. Multiple.

You freeze.

“What the actual hell?” Ningning hisses. “Already?”

Beep. Click.

The lock engages.

“It’s only been like ten minutes—”

You grab Ningning’s hand and dive back toward the walk-in closet just as the handle turns, tripping over your own shoes and practically throwing her into the bathrobes just as the handle turns.

“Come on, Minjeongie,” the ex says sweetly—a completely different tone from how he spoke to Giselle. “Don’t be like that. Julian flew all the way from London just to see us.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Winter says. “You didn’t say anything about—”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he cuts in. “We talked about this, Minjeong. Remember? You said you wanted to try it again.”

“I meant with another stranger,” she says, glancing nervously at the guy named Julian. “And somewhere in Europe, not down the street from my house with my entire family and company downstairs.”

“You trust me, don’t you?” He steps closer, stroking her arm. “Julian is a friend, yes. But he knows the rules. He knows who you belong to. It’s less messy that way. Besides, don’t pretend you don’t remember Berlin. You weren’t exactly shy with him then. You made out with him months before we even met.”

“It was at a party,” she argues weakly. “And we were drunk.”

“We can be drunk now,” he counters, eyeing the bottle of wine on the table. “Or we can just be honest. You liked it last time, Minjeong. You liked having two pairs of hands on you. You liked not knowing who was touching you.”

Julian smiles, leaning against the doorframe, loosening his tie. “Listen, I’m just here to help, Minjeong. It’s been a while since we all hung out like this. And honestly, after the way your cousin shot me down downstairs, I could use a little comforting.”

Winter blinks. “Jimin unnie rejected you?”

“Brutally,” Julian sighs, walking over to pour himself a drink. “Looked at me like I was a smudge on her glasses. Gave me some speech about boundaries and professionalism, but you could see it in her eyes. She thinks she’s above everyone.”

He takes a sip, grimacing.

“She acts like this perfect, untouchable saint,” he sneers, turning back to Winter. “But you know what I think? I think she’s broken. I think underneath that act, she’s hollow. Empty. Not like you, Minjeong.”

Winter’s expression shifts. She’s listening now.

“You’re real,” he says, stepping closer. “Yoo Jimin is just a mannequin. A perfect little doll for the shareholders to look at. But you? You’re a woman.”

Winter looks between them. The frustration is there, but so is something else—a twisted curiosity, a lingering exhaustion, and an undeniable spark of competitiveness.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “If anyone finds out…”

“No one will know,” her ex says, guiding her hands to his waist. “Just us. Just for an hour. Minjeong—look at me. You’re vibrating. You’re going to snap down there if you don’t let go.”

He leans in, whispering directly into her ear. “Aren’t you tired? Tired of your father comparing you and Jimin to Jang Wonyoung and An Yujin? Tired of being asked why Aespa Group continues to fall short to IVE Corp?”

Winter’s eyes squeeze shut. Her resistance is visibly crumbling before them.

“You don’t have to be the perfect daughter in here,” he continues. “You don’t have to be the future CEO of anyone’s legacy. You can just be… a body. A toy. No decisions. No responsibilities.”

She shudders. You see the fight drain out of her shoulders through the slats of the closet door. She lets out a long, shaky breath that sounds like a surrender.

“Admit it,” he murmurs triumphantly. “You need this. You need to stop thinking tonight.”

“I just…” She swallows hard, voice trembling. “I just want it to be quiet. I want my brain to stop.”

“We can make you forget about everything,” Julian says softly, moving closer to circle her like a shark. “We can make everything else disappear.”

“That’s right.” Her ex kisses her forehead. “Just be a good girl and let us take care of you.”

He slides his hands down her body, cupping her ass through the fabric, squeezing it firmly.

Winter gasps loudly, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs against her ear. “You like how good it feels when you stop fighting.”

He spins her around before she can answer, pushing her right into his friend. He catches her easily, one hand on her waist, the other coming up to cup her jaw.

“It’s been years,” Julian says, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Do you remember how I taste, Minjeong?”

Winter looks up at him, her eyes hazy. The fight is gone. “Yes,” she whispers. “I remember.”

“Prove it,” he growls.

He crashes his mouth onto hers. It’s not a gentle kiss. Winter makes a small, desperate sound in her throat and grabs his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a hunger that surprises even him.

Her ex laughs, a low, satisfied sound, and kisses down the side of her neck while she’s occupied. “There she is,” he purrs. “The real Kim Minjeong.”

When Julian finally pulls back, Winter is breathless. She looks defeated already, and they haven’t even taken her clothes off.

“Please,” she begs, looking between them. “Do it. Use me.”

“Are you sure?” he asks condescendingly.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she breathes. “Please.”

Her ex smiles and reaches for the zipper of her dress. She doesn’t even flinch now. She leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut, surrendering completely.

In the closet, you lunge forward. You can’t help it. The sight of them touching her—after what he just did to Giselle, after everything. Ningning immediately slams her body weight against you, pinning you to the back wall and clamps her hand over your mouth, her nails digging into your cheek.

“Don’t,” she mouths, shaking her head. “You can’t.”

Outside, the white dress is already on the floor. Winter stands in just her lingerie, completely exposed.

“Beautiful,” Julian murmurs, eyeing her like a product at the market. “Just so fucking beautiful.”

“She loves being looked at,” the ex says, guiding her toward the bed. “Don’t you, Minjeong? You’ve missed this.”

“Can’t you at least turn off the lights?” Winter swallows, looking away. “It’s too bright in here. ”

“I have an even better idea,” her ex says smoothly.

He reaches into his pocket—or maybe he grabs a tie from the dresser, you can’t tell from the angle—and produces a strip of black silk.

“Let’s turn everything off Minjeongie, including your eyes.”

He ties the blindfold around her head, securing it tight. The moment her vision is gone, her posture changes. The tension in her shoulders drops. She lets out a long exhale, finally surrendering to the dark.

“Better?” he asks, running his hands down her bare arms.

“Yes,” she says, tilting her head back against his chest. “Much better.”

“Good,” he grins at Julian over her shoulder. “Now… let’s see if we can make you forget your name.”

“Kneel,” the other commands softly.

Winter sinks to the plush carpet, her knees hitting the floor with a soft thud.

She tilts her head up, seeking them out, her lips parted. “Where are you?” she whispers.

You hear the sound of zippers. Two of them.

“Right here,” her ex says, stepping in front of her.

He doesn’t wait. He presses the head of his cock against her lips, and she opens instantly, taking him in with a desperate obedience.

“God,” he groans, his hand tangling in her hair. “You’re so eager tonight.”

She takes him all the way in, wrapping her lips around his flesh as if she’d been waiting all night.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Such a good girl.”

She pulls off with a wet pop, gasping for air. “Both,” she demands. “I want both.”

“What a greedy girl,” Julian laughs. “Turn your head.”

She obeys blindly, turning her face to the side. He steps in, guiding himself into her mouth while her ex moves to her other side.

“Look at her,” the ex says, running his hand down her throat, tracing the movement as she swallows Julian down. “Look how perfectly she takes it. You’d never know she was the Chairman’s daughter right now, would you?”

“She’s a natural,” Julian agrees, thrusting into her mouth. “You like this, Minjeong? You like being used like this?”

“Mmph,” she moans, her hand coming up to stroke her ex’s length since her mouth is occupied.

“Use your words later,” he says, guiding his cock to her lips as Julian pulls back for a breath. “Right now, just keep your mouth open.”

She switches back and forth between them—licking, sucking, bobbing her head. The sounds of their pleasure and her wet, needy noises fill the room, suffocating you and Ningning in their intensity.

“That’s it,” Julian teases, slapping her cheek lightly. “Make me forget about your cousin.”

At the mere mention of Karina, Winter seems to work harder. Her throat tightens, her pace increasing as if she’s trying to suck the very thought of her perfect cousin out of him.

“On the bed now,” her ex commands. “On your knees.”

Winter lets go of their throbbing shafts and obediently climbs onto the mattress like a starved puppy. The white sheets nearly blend in with her skin as she positions herself exactly as told—head bowed, back arched, legs spread, ass up.

The ex grabs Winter’s hair, pulling her head back. “Tell him what you are.”

“I-I’m a toy,” she says, voice trembling.

“And?”

“And I want you to use me,” she chokes out. “Please. Both of you. Do whatever you want to me. I’m yours. All yours.”

The sounds that follow are gut wrenching. The rustle of clothes, the heavy breathing of the two men, and Winter’s soft, broken gasps as they use her, passing her between them like she’s something they bought together.

In the closet, you’re vibrating with anger and violence. You are going to kill them. You are going to tear the door off its hinges and—

Ningning kisses you.

It’s not romantic. At all. It’s a distraction, and fortunately, it’s a really good one.

She crushes her mouth against yours, biting your lip hard, grabbing your hand and forcing it between her legs before grinding against you with a desperation that mirrors the chaos outside.

“Focus on me,” she whispers against your mouth, eyes wild. “Hate-fuck me if you have to. But do not open that door or we’re both screwed.”

You try to obey, but the sounds from the bedroom aren’t just audible—they’re overwhelming.

“That’s it,” Julian’s voice drifts in, low and encouraging. “Take it all, Minjeong. Show me how good you can be.”

“She’s such a good whore,” the ex laughs. “Aren’t you, babe? This is what you were made for. Not spreadsheets. Not meetings. Just this.”

You press your eye to the gap in the closet door. You shouldn’t, but your body moves on its own.

Winter is on all fours on the bed, completely stripped of her lingerie, with Julian’s cock buried in her mouth while the ex kneels behind her, running his hands over her body as she’s leaning into them, desperate for more.

“Look at her,” the ex says, squeezing her ass firmly. “The Chairman’s precious daughter. On her knees where she belongs. Completely dripping wet while two men have their way with her.”

“Deeper,” Julian commands gently but firmly, hand in her hair. “I know you can take more. You’re doing so well.”

Ningning yanks your face back to hers, her nails biting into your jaw.

“Eyes on me,” she hisses. “Don’t watch or else—”

She doesn’t even finish the threat. She shoves her panties down and hikes her dress up, backing you against the hanging suits.

“Fuck me,” she orders. “Right now.”

You fumble with your zipper, hands shaking not from fear, but from fury. Outside, the bedsprings start their rhythmic creak.

“God, she’s so fucking tight. There’s really nobody like you, Minjeong.”

“You miss taking two cocks at once, don’t you? You wanted this.”

“Yes,” Winter moans, the word muffled. “Please—”

“Please what? Tell us what you want.”

“Please keep using my pussy,” she sobs. “I need it. I need you to use me.”

You slam into Ningning—hard. She almost cries out, her back hitting the wall of suits with a light thud, but she clamps a hand over her own mouth just in time.

“Just like that,” Ningning breathes against her palm, her eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t think about her. Focus on me.”

You grab her hips, digging your fingers in, and thrust into her with a force that shakes the rack of clothes.

But you still look back at the slats. You don’t even know why. You’re not hers, and she’s certainly not yours—you’re just the intern she tolerates at best. But watching her surrender like this, dismantling herself piece by piece just to escape her own head, breaks something inside you. It’s a frustrating, irrational pull—a sudden, desperate need to step in and shield her from the very thing she’s begging for.

The ex has Winter bent over now, face pressed into the mattress. He’s pounding into her from behind while his friend feeds her his cock from the front, both of them using her like she’s nothing but holes.

“You love being spit-roasted, huh?” the ex asks, leaning down to bite her shoulder. “Tell him, Minjeong. Tell him how much you love having both ends filled.”

“I love it,” Winter chokes out around Julian’s length. “I love being your fucktoy.”

“That’s right, babe. No thinking. Just feeling. Just a pretty little toy for us to play with until we’re satisfied. That’s all you’re good for.”

“Please,” she wails. “Please, I’m close—I can’t—I’m gonna come—”

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” Julian commands, thrusting deeper into her mouth. “Not until we say so.”

“Aah—no—I’m sorry—I’m coming—”

There’s laughter. “I wonder what would daddy think if he saw his little princess like this? Getting used like a whore in a hotel room while the board drinks champagne downstairs?”

Winter screams around Julian’s cock, her body convulsing violently, thighs trembling uncontrollably against the ex’s hips as she screams and sobs through the orgasm.

Rage boils over you. You grab Ningning’s hair, pulling her head back just like the ex is doing to Winter.

“Is this what you want?” you growl into her ear. “To be used like her?”

“Yes,” Ningning whimpers, biting her lip. “Ruin me. Pretend you’re hate-fucking her. I know you’re so mad right now.”

She kisses you, roughly and desperately, her tongue shoving into your mouth. Her walls clench hard around your cock, every part of her body demanding your attention.

You bury your face in her neck and thrust harder, faster, trying to drown out the nightmare happening ten feet away.

“Switch,” Julian commands outside. “I want her pussy now.”

There’s a shuffle, the creak of the mattress shifting, and Winter gasps as she moves. You look through the slats.

She’s straddling Julian now, bouncing up and down on him in a frantic rhythm, her head thrown back, breasts bouncing freely. But she’s not just riding him. She’s leaning forward, wrapping her lips around the ex’s cock as he sits on the edge of the bed, her hand stroking him in time with her hips.

“God, she’s completely soaking wet,” he laughs, sounding delighted. “You really are desperate cumslut, aren’t you, Minjeong?”

“Yes,” she wails. “I am. I’m a worthless little fucktoy. Please don’t stop. I want to come again and again and again. Please.”

“Good girl,” the ex demands. “Keep begging. Beg for my cock while he ruins your pussy.”

You look again. Winter’s face is a ruin of smeared makeup, tears, and lust as she’s licking his cock like it’s keeping her alive.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl. Finally letting go. Finally honest about what you are.”

“Yes, I’m a whore,” Winter gasps between licks. “I’m really just a whore. I can’t believe it.”

She’s sprawled across the sheets, legs pried apart as Julian drives into her, the mattress shaking with every thrust. But she’s not even looking at him.

Her head is dipped back, trapped in her ex’s grip as he holds her jaw steady, stroking himself while she frantically licks him from below.

“Whose whore?” he asks, rubbing his balls against her tongue.

“Yours. Both of yours.”

“Where do you want us to finish?” Julian demands.

“On my face,” Winter cries. “Cover me. Please cover me with cum.”

Ningning drops to her knees in the cramped space. Without any warning, she just takes you into her mouth. You can barely see her. Instead, all you see is Winter on the other side of those doors, begging them for their cum.

“Our little cum dumpster. Take it all. Every last drop.”

Winter screams—a shattered, euphoric sound—as he slams into her repeatedly.

“Oh my god—please—don’t stop—” she sobs, her hands scrabbling uselessly against the sheets. “I’m coming! I can’t stop com—”

She cuts herself off with a shattered scream, her body arching off the mattress as the pleasure rips through her again. She’s not even breathing between the cries anymore, just sobbing uncontrollably as she rides out the peak, completely undone.

It breaks you. The sound of her pleasure, directed at them, shatters your control. You look down at Ningning—at her dark hair, her desperate eyes, the way she’s slurping you in the dark while Winter gets destroyed in the light.

You grab her hair, thrusting into her mouth as she takes it deep, gagging slightly but never stopping, her throat tightening around you.

“Fuck—I’m coming, Minjeongie,” the ex moans outside.

He erupts on Winter’s face—thick waves landing on her cheek and her chin. Julian joins in, painting her chest and neck in white.

At the exact same moment, you spill down Ningning’s throat. She swallows it all silently, her eyes locked on yours as you pulse into her throat.

Winter takes it all, her tiny body trembling, her chest heaving, and a look of satisfaction and relief fills her face.

Ningning slowly pulls off of you, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stays on her knees, panting, looking just as pleased as Winter on the bed.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of soft, ragged breathing in the closet, and the hot, heavy panting from the bedroom.

“Good girl,” the ex says softly outside. “This is what you deserve, Minjeongie. Nothing more and nothing less.”

And as you look through the cracks, at the way Winter lies breathless on the bed in a hopeless daze, covered in their mess, you finally realize something.

Maybe it’s not her who needs to be saved from him.

It’s you who needs to be saved from her.

--

The ballroom is now a blur of noise and light that hurts your ears and stings your eyes. You’re standing near the entrance, leaning against a marble pillar because your legs are still too traumatized to function.

It took nearly thirty minutes. Thirty minutes trapped in a closet, crouching in the dark while Ningning forces your head between her legs, silently begging you to pleasure her while waiting for the three of them to clean up their crime scene and leave the suite.

“God,” Ningning sighs, adjusting her dress as she scans the crowd. She looks irritatingly fresh, her lipstick reapplied, hair perfect—as if she feels more rejuvenated now instead of hollow inside like you. “Suddenly it feels like heaven out here.”

“I want to go home,” you mutter, staring at the floor. “I want to bleach my brain.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You survived. And we got the goods.” She pats her chest, where the SD cards are safely tucked away. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Live a little. The night is young and so are we.”

“The night is a nightmare and I’m leaving.”

“Not yet you’re not,” she says, nodding toward the far corner of the room. “Look.”

You follow her gaze.

Karina is there. She’s swaying slightly, clutching a wine glass with both hands. And she’s not alone. A man in a sharp tuxedo is standing close—leaning in with a rather earnest, concerned expression. He’s handsome in a wholesome, non-threatening way that instantly makes you want to jump down a flight of stairs.

“Well,” Ningning hums, patting your arm. “I’ll leave you to that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“First, I’m going to secure a midnight kiss or two. I’m thinking those VPs from IVE with the limited edition Rolexes.” She winks. “And then… Phase Three.”

You sigh. “There’s a Phase Three?”

“Of course. But don’t worry, this part’s all me. I’m gonna go pay Winter’s ex another visit and introduce him to Little Miss Yuna,” she says, her grin turning wicked. “Watching two narcissists collide sounds like great entertainment.”

You sigh. “And then what?”

“Wait and see, Batboy.” She lifts her chin in Karina’s direction. “You should go save your princess before Prince Charming over there snatches her for the night. You’ve earned the right to continue yearning.”

She vanishes into the crowd, leaving you alone with the noise, the stolen cameras, and the sudden, overwhelming need to get to Karina.

You make your way over, weaving through the crowd of drunk executives and couples awkwardly moving to the slow music. Your eyes lock onto the corner near the terrace doors where Karina is standing.

You recognize him vaguely from the seating chart you weren’t allowed to be on. Lee Heeseung from Enhypen Group—old money, a prestige family line, and probably has a wing of some hospital named after his grandfather.

You slow your pace, hesitation crawling up your spine.

Karina hasn’t texted you since you left her to deal with Winter. And now, seeing her with him—someone who belongs in this room, someone who was probably invited to sit at the Chairman’s table while you were sneaking around in a closet—it hits you.

You’re just an intern. You’re the guy who carries things and replies to emails. Heeseung is the “good match” her father was probably lecturing her about all night.

You stop ten feet away. They look comfortable. He’s smiling gently, saying something that makes her nod. Meanwhile, you look like you’ve been dragged through a war zone. Your bow tie is barely clinging on, and you realize that Winter was right—you really don’t know how to fix it.

You decide to turn away.

Because you should. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere near Karina. You don’t deserve her. You should just go home. You should just disappear before you embarrass her and yourself further.

You’re two steps from the exit when a hand grabs your arm.

It’s not a gentle touch. It’s a grip—tight, desperate, fingers digging into your bicep through the suit jacket.

You turn. Karina is there, alone. She’s looking up at you, her eyes glassy and huge, searching your face with a mix of both relief and sorrow.

“Are you leaving me again?” she says, her voice slurring from alcohol and hurt.

“I wasn’t leaving,” you lie. “I was just giving you space.”

“Liar,” she murmurs, her grip on your arm tightening rather than loosening. “You were running away. I saw you turn.”

She sways, and you instinctively reach out to steady her, your hands settling on her waist. She feels warm, like the only real thing in a night that has felt like a fever dream.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” you admit, nodding slightly toward Heeseung, who is watching from a polite distance, looking confused but not angry. “He looks… like someone your dad would approve of.”

Karina lets out a short, bitter laugh. “My dad’s been trying to marry me off to him since I was in middle school.”

“But too many golf metaphors?” you try to joke, but it doesn’t even land anymore.

She shakes her head. “No, he’s actually one of the better ones. He’s kind, honest, considerate. Pretty sure he’s liked me since high school.”

“So then why aren’t you there with him?” you ask softly.

She shrugs, a small, fragile movement. “Maybe the person he likes isn’t really me. Maybe he just likes the idea of me.”

She wobbles again, her heel slipping on the marble.

“Okay,” you say, tightening your grip. “That’s enough philosophy for one night. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m not drunk,” she protests weakly, though she doesn’t pull away.

“You can’t even stand straight.”

“Fine,” she mumbles. “Maybe a little.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You drape your jacket over her shoulders and guide her toward the elevators. The noise of the party fades behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of the elevator.

She leans against the mirrored wall, watching you. “So where’d you go tonight?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

“Somewhere I shouldn’t have been,” you admit, thinking of the closet, the cameras, the smell of sex. “I should’ve just stayed with you.”

“Was she pretty?”

Your heart skips a beat. “Who?”

“Minjeong.”

You don’t answer. You just watch the numbers climb.

“I know you went to find her,” she says, not accusingly, just stated like a fact. “You always do.”

“Maybe I should stop.”

“So did you find her? Did you save her?”

“I found her,” you whisper. “But I don’t think she wants to be saved.”

“Minjeong doesn’t need saving,” she says, softly. “She’s one of the strongest people I know.”

“I wish I knew that before I left you waiting all night.”

She smiles, but she doesn’t look happy. “The heart wants what it wants. You can’t stop it.”

You exhale.

She opens her mouth, but then stops herself. “I’m sorry that I didn’t defend you at dinner. I was a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” you say firmly. “You did defend me. You did everything you could.”

“That’s what everyone always says,” she whispers bitterly. “You did what you could, Jimin. It’s not your fault.”

The elevator dings, opening onto her floor. She stumbles out, and without thinking, you sweep her up into your arms.

“What are you doing?” she gasps, wrapping her arms around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder.

“Trying to see how heavy with guilt you are,” you joke weakly.

“You’re so brave tonight.”

“What, you think I’d drop you? I carry things for a living.”

She blinks. “Please don’t. There are other ways to make me fall for you.”

You feel a sudden heat rush to your cheeks and the urge to ask, “like what?” but you decide to keep your mouth shut and just carry her down the hall as her head rests on your shoulder.

“You never sent me any snarky commentary about the award speeches,” she mumbles into your neck.

“I actually missed the whole thing,” you say, stopping at her door. “Were they any good?”

You fish the keycard from her bag, scanning it with a soft beep. The angel keychain sways from the touch, the crystal reflecting a bit of the light from the ceiling.

“Not at all,” she says, lifting her head slightly as the door swings open. “You know, it was supposed to be our gala but for some reason Jang Wonyoung won everything. She really is the ace around here.”

“You’re the only ace in my eyes. Everyone else is just either blind or has no taste.”

She pouts. “Don’t be mean. She’s a nice girl.”

“Just calling a spade a spade.”

You step inside, and the difference hits you instantly.

The suite you were in earlier felt like a crime scene. This room is warm. The soft golden glow from the lamp sweeps over the plush furniture, and there’s a faint scent of vanilla in the air, probably from a diffuser. It feels gentle and safe. Just like her.

You set her down gently on the edge of the bed, and she kicks off her heels with a sigh, wiggling her toes.

“Water,” you say, pouring her a glass. “Drink it. All of it.”

She smiles, amused. “Someone’s bossy tonight.”

While she drinks, you wander toward the living area. On the sideboard, there’s a vintage record player spinning silently. You glance at the sleeve resting next to it—some old jazz album. You drop the needle, and a soft, relaxing rendition of Fly Me to the Moon fills the room.

You walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city actually looks peaceful from this height. It’s hard to believe that down there, people are screaming counts and setting off fireworks. Up here, it’s just quiet.

You stare at your own reflection in the glass—hair disheveled, bowtie loose, eyes tired. And yet somehow, someway, Karina still wants you near her.

“My father hates this song,” she says softly from behind you.

You turn. She’s standing in the soft glow of the lamp, barefoot now, holding her glass of water with both hands. Without her heels, she looks smaller. Less like the Yoo Jimin from the gala and more like the girl who buys you pastries when you’re tired.

“Perfect,” you joke. “Then he hates everything that’s in this room with you now.”

She steps closer, setting the glass down on a side table. “We should’ve done this hours ago.”

“What?”

“Disappeared,” she says, slowly walking toward you. “Together. Hide from the world.”

“The night isn’t over. We still can.”

“Good,” she says, looking up at you through her lashes. “Because I believe you still owe me a dance.”

“You can barely stand,” you say as your hands brush her arms.

“Then hold me up,” she says simply, wrapping her arms around your neck. “I trust you.”

The world outside those windows becomes a distant backdrop that doesn’t matter anymore. In here, the universe has shrunk down to the size of this room, filled only with the sound of the music and the warmth of her body.

You rest your hands on her waist and begin to sway, moving slowly to the relaxing jazz rhythm. It’s intimate, far more intimate than you’ve ever been with her. But after the violence of the closet, this tenderness feels both dangerous and necessary.

“Why do you even waste your time with me?” you ask, holding her close.

“You’re not a waste of time,” she whispers against your chest, her eyes closing. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to be Yoo Jimin. I can just be Karina.”

You blink. “There’s a difference?”

“Yoo Jimin is Head of Design,” she says bitterly. “FIT graduate. Eldest daughter of the Yoo family. Kim Minjeong’s older, more established cousin. She’s not allowed to make mistakes. She has to be perfect.”

“And Karina?”

“The version of me that only you know.”

“Oh, so the girl who hangs out in the break room with interns and brings them tea when they’re about to die from exhaustion? The girl who lends an ear to her employees so they can rant about work related things even though she’s an executive? The girl who goes out in the cold to buy coffee and pastries for her team so they don’t overwork and die? The girl who gifts someone a scarf because she wants them to be warm?” You pause. “Bold of you to assume that I don’t think Karina is perfect.”

She pulls back to look at you, eyes shimmering in the dim light. “I’m not perfect,” she says softly, cupping your face. “I’m so far from it.”

“You are to me.”

She shakes her head, almost fearfully. “No,” she whispers. “Trust me. I’m not who you think I am. I’ve done some really horrible things in my life.”

“I don’t believe that at all.”

“You should,” she says, her hands tightening in your hair. “Because one day when you find out, you’ll just run away again.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. You don’t say anything at first. You just reach up and brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she looks at you like she’s nervously waiting for a specific reply.

“I don’t know what ghosts you’re fighting,” you say gently, lacing your fingers through hers. “But I know that you’re gentle even when no one is watching. I know you’re kind even when you’re exhausted. I know you care about people who don’t deserve it. So I’m sorry, you can stand there and try to push me away all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, she just looks at you, as if there were a thousand words screaming in her head that couldn’t be said out loud. And in that gaze, you realize that you haven’t had another sip of alcohol, and yet the room is spinning.

Outside, the sky fractures into different fragments of light. The first firework detonates—a bloom of gold and violet light reflecting in the floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating the inches of space left between you. The boom nearly rattles the windowpane, but neither of you flinch.

“It’s midnight,” you say, eyes locked with hers.

“Yeah,” she whispers, staring right into yours.

Neither of you say another word, but the sound of fireworks and cheers from outside manage to leak into the space that only exists for you and her.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she breathes, her voice barely audible.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to kiss me.”

“Should I—”

She doesn’t wait. She kisses you first.

It’s soft, tasting of champagne and longing, a stark contrast to Ningning’s violence and Winter’s emptiness. Her lips gently tug against yours, politely squeezing in the space between them with a sweetness that robs the oxygen from the room.

She pulls back, breathless, resting her forehead against yours. “Happy New Year,” she says, smiling against your face.

“Happy New Year, Karina,” you say, rubbing your nose against hers, still chasing the taste of her lip balm.

“Are you going to disappear now?” she asks, tracing the line of your jaw.

“Do you want me to?”

She shakes her head. “No. Stay here. With me.”

You kiss her again. Slower, more tenderly, more lovingly—as if everything in the world led to this moment that you don’t want to end.

“…But if your suit still wants to vaporize,” she whispers, biting her lip. “I won’t complain.”

Who's your favorite character now?

Winter

Ningning

Karina

Giselle

Voting ended onJan 25

[mysonesecret]

3. Naughty List Ningning (The Chairman's Daughter Series)

Male Reader x Ningning, Karina, Winter | 14k words | Masterlist | Read on Fanprose

← Part 1 (Winter Is Coming) ← Part 2 (Her Cousin Karina)

Tags: smut, comedy, au, rich girl, brat, brat-taming, switch

--

The lobby shouldn’t be this quiet—not with the cheery Christmas playlist that’s been waterboarding everyone since December started.

That guy—Winter’s ex? Unlike you, he doesn’t look like a mistake. We’re talking perfect coat, perfect hair, perfect face—the kind of man who looks like he’s never had to search “how to sincerely apologize to a girl you care about” at 2am.

“Minjeong-ah,” he says gently, using her name like a deactivated keycard that still works. “I know I’m the last person you wanted to see, but I couldn’t let the year end like this.”

Winter doesn’t move.

She stands there in her coat with her arms folded, posture so straight that it looks forced, even for her. The mask is up, but you can see the little seams where it’s been glued together from when it once cracked. Because of him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.

“I know.” He takes one careful step closer, stopping at the exact distance where ‘respectful’ borders ‘too close’. “I just want to apologize to you. For everything. I’ve… changed.”

Sure he has. Everyone changes. That’s what they call it when the consequences come knocking.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he continues, voice loud enough for the receptionists to hear, but soft enough to cosplay sincerity. “Just five minutes. To say I’m sorry. Properly.”

The entire lobby becomes an audience. Keyboards are clicking in a robotic rhythm from people pretending they’re not actively listening to the most expensive gossip in Seoul. A security guard suddenly finds a very interesting spot on the second floor that conveniently has the best view of the scene, and even the Christmas playlist seems to drop in volume, like Mariah herself wants in on the tea.

Beside you, Karina is as stiff as a whiteboard. “There’s no way she’s going to fall for that, right?” she whispers, though it’s unclear whether she’s talking to Winter or the universe.

To nobody’s surprise, Ningning materializes next to you out of nowhere and lowers her sunglasses. You don’t even question why she has them on to begin with.

“Wow,” she breathes. “He’s good. If I didn’t hate men, I’d almost believe him.”

“You don’t hate men, Ning,” you mutter without even looking over. “You hate men who can’t do anything for you.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” she hums. “I wonder which category this guy belongs to.”

Winter stares at him. You wait for the explosion—for her to call security, for her to annihilate him with one sentence the way she does to you when you format a slide wrong.

But instead, she looks around—at all the wandering eyes, at the reception staff pretending to type, and of course, at you holding a box of Christmas desserts like a rejected butler.

“Not here,” she says quietly.

His face brightens with relief so immediate it’s actually insulting. “Okay. Anywhere you want.”

“My office,” she says, already turning.

She walks toward the elevators without looking back. He grabs his duffle bag—and yes, of course it’s designer, because guilt is nothing without expensive accessories.

The elevator doors slide shut and the numbers start to climb.

Ningning pushes her sunglasses back up and sighs happily. “Incredible,” she says, like the holiday spirit finally touched her. “That right there is going to ruin at least three people’s lives. God, I’m excited.”

The lobby collectively pretends to remember it’s employed, and you just stand there holding a ridiculous box of sweets like you and Karina were catering for a funeral.

Because honestly? Depending on how this apology of his goes, you might all be dead.

You expect the rest of the day to be a bloodbath. Surely the fallout should be somewhat immediate, so you sit at your desk, bracing for the impact. It’s so predictable: Winter’s going to demand coffee, or ice, or for you to come in and take notes while she screams at him—so you keep your email client open on one screen and Slack on the other, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

But it never comes.

Instead, there is silence. Total, unnerving silence.

Normally by 2pm, you’re drowning in emails that read like she’s personally offended you’re alive. But today? Nothing. No “where are the revisions?” No “get in here right now.” Not even a passive-aggressive smiley face following a threat.

Your inbox is empty in a way that feels like the server is broken.

At first, it’s incredible. You actually finish things. You send files without being audited like a war criminal. You drink water. You eat one of the chocolate hazelnut cookies that Karina bought and feel, briefly, like a human being with rights.

But then the silence starts to kill you from the inside, because you know deep down somewhere in your soul that silence from Winter isn’t really peace. Not the kind you want.

Her office door stays shut and the blinds stay drawn, like she’s trying to keep the sun out, or the truth in. You know because you happen to walk past her office on “accident” so many times your phone’s step counter files a complaint to Apple.

Printer, water, then printer again. Next, a fake phone call to a vendor you stopped working with three months ago. Then, another printer trip because you “forgot” you already printed.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No raised voices, no crash out, no ice-cold Winter sarcasm—just the sound of the heat blasting through the vents above you and the distinct sensation that something is happening behind that door that you’re not allowed to see.

You know he’s in there. You know she’s in there.

Are they fighting? Are they talking?

Or are they doing what you were doing with her in the executive room two nights ago?

By 4pm, you’re definitely not enjoying the quiet anymore, and Ningning catches you hovering near the hallway like a starving stray cat.

She leans on the wall by the break room, scrolling on her phone like she’s plotting her next demonic ritual on Notion. “Stop lurking,” she says without looking up. “You look like you’re having withdrawals.”

“I’m not lurking,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m passing by.”

“Passing by for the seventh time.”

You glare at her.

She finally looks up. “He’s still in there,” she says, because she can’t help herself from torturing you. “Delivery guy brought sushi.”

Your stomach drops. “Sushi?”

“Expensive sushi,” she adds dramatically. “The kind you eat when you’re forgiving someone or making the same mistake again. And something tells me this is about to be both for Winter.”

You swallow, forcing your voice to stay flat. “Good for her.”

Ningning’s smile sharpens. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you lie.

“You’re so jealous,” she repeats brightly. “Wow, it’s actually kinda cute seeing you pretend like you don’t want her attention.”

“I don’t want her attention,” you hiss. “Because it only ever means something’s wrong.”

“Right. You just want to be verbally, physically, mentally, and emotionally destroyed by your hot boss.” She pushes off the wall, pocketing her phone. “Anyway—if she doesn’t email you, it means she’s busy.”

“With what?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Oh, I don’t know. Apologies? Closure? Bad decisions?” Her grin widens like she’s been handed a microphone. “Maybe he cried. Maybe she cried. Maybe he’s on his knees. Maybe she's on hers—”

“Okay,” you snap. “Enough.”

“Ooh, sensitive,” she sings, walking away. “Well, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’d offer you tea, but I hear you prefer it prepared by a prettier richer girl with bigger tits than me.”

By the time the office lights dim, you’ve done your work and still feel like you’ve accomplished nothing.

Winter never calls you. She never emails, never opens her door—never even looks at you. She hasn’t even punished you once all day, which is arguably worse because at least punishment means you exist.

At 7pm, you pack up, on time. For the first time since starting this job, you leave the building without your phone vibrating like a shock collar.

This should feel like freedom. But instead, it feels like you’ve been discarded.

--

You’re so preoccupied with the lack of Winter that Christmas Eve shows up like a jump scare.

The office is technically on “reduced hours,” which is just another way of saying leadership will be going home early and everyone else should sprint until their shoes melt. The floors are quieter than usual, still decorated with those holiday centerpieces that look like they were assembled by someone who’s never experienced joy firsthand.

You’re halfway through pretending to be productive—staring at a spreadsheet like it owes you money because it probably does—when your phone buzzes.

Yoo Jimin: Meet me in the break room in 10 minutes? :)

You stare at it. A ten minute heads-up in this building is essentially unheard of, but then again, you’re convinced Karina is not from this world, let alone this company.

She’s already there when you push the door open, swinging her legs on the counter like always, but today there’s a fancy gift bag on the table.

“You came,” she says, smiling.

“I felt threatened,” you say, stepping closer.

She’s in a cozy cream sweater, hair neatly tucked behind her ear. As usual, she looks like she belongs in a Christmas commercial, while you look like you belong in an obituary.

“I got something for you.” She hops off and slides the bag toward you. “And before you say anything,” she warns, “it’s not a bribe.”

“It’s definitely a bribe,” you reply, cautiously pulling the tissue paper out.

A scarf. It’s thick, high quality knit, stupidly soft, and the kind of neutral color that goes with everything and makes you look like you actually have your life together. You don’t even want to imagine how expensive it was.

You blink at it. “Karina—”

“It’s getting colder these days,” she says, cutting you off. “And your coat is not doing enough.”

“My coat is doing its best,” you protest.

“You’ve been running around outside a lot,” she says, then softens as she looks at you. “I can’t fix your job, but I can at least save your neck.”

You swallow. The scarf feels weirdly heavy in your hands—like she just handed you proof that someone sees you as a human being, not just a task list.

For a second, your brain tries to joke its way out—something about bribery again, something about tax write-offs—but your throat tightens instead.

“It’s really nice,” you choke out. “Thank you, but you really didn’t have to—”

“I know. That’s why it’s a gift. Merry Christmas!”

You stare down at it, then at her. “Is this your way of saying ‘please don’t die before 2026’?”

She giggles. “Yes. But also, selfishly, I’d like someone around who can keep making me laugh in this chamber of dread they call a fashion company.”

“Ah,” you say. “So I’m the gift.”

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth now. Come on, try it on.”

You hesitate for a moment—because for some reason, it feels a little embarrassing to have to hide how much you like it. You fling it around your neck, pulling it inwards, but Karina gets up and properly wraps it around you herself.

The scarf is warm immediately, like a hug you didn’t consent to but also don’t hate. Not even a little bit.

Her eyes flick up and down once, approving. “I like this color on you. Now you look less like an overworked intern.”

“Got it, so we’re going for the false marketing thing now,” you mutter, avoiding her eyes, because they’re just so damn pretty today.

She laughs, and grabs her tote. “Okay. Now I need you to get your coat and come with me.”

“To where?” you ask, instantly alarmed.

“On a fabric run,” she says casually, as if it were a grocery store. “We need a few options for tomorrow’s pitch.”

You squint. “On Christmas Eve.”

“Exactly,” she says brightly. “The streets will be emptier, the vendors will be bored, and no one will ask us to join a surprise meeting because half the building is pretending it’s already a holiday. Plus, you get a nice little break.”

“Am I even allowed to do that?”

She pauses at the door and looks back at you. “Did you forget? I’m Head of Design.”

Karina drags you around multiple shops like she’s leading a rescue mission rather than running an errand, eventually landing at one that’s basically just an overpacked closet with a cash register.

It’s the kind of fabric store where the aisles are so narrow you have to turn sideways to pass another human. Boxes are stacked to the ceiling like the owner was playing Jenga while organizing, and it’s not even an exaggeration to say that the whole place is one accidental elbow away from becoming a colorful avalanche.

Karina’s in front of a rack near the back, flipping through hangers with her usual really-professional-and-super-attractive-focus.

“This might be the one,” she murmurs to herself. “It looks expensive without looking angry.”

“Everything in this company looks angry,” you say, shifting the bags in your arms.

She smiles without looking at you. “That’s because I wasn’t calling the shots before.”

Something on the highest shelf catches her eyes, but the owner has a ton of stacked boxes blocking access to it as if a positive customer browsing experience is anti-Christmas.

She reaches, perhaps a bit too far, while dodging all the plastic and cardboard, and her boot slips on the edge of a rolled-up mat on the floor, causing her whole body to tilt forward at a horrible angle.

“Karina—” You drop everything and lunge forward.

You catch her around the waist, dragging her back into you before she can face-plant into the shelf labeled “LUXE HOLIDAY SETS”. The force of it bumps the stack, and the boxes come down like they’ve been desperately waiting for a reason to end it all.

Two hit your shoulder. One bounces off your head with a dull thump. A fourth lands against your back and slides down between you and the shelf, trapping you in place like the universe decided this was your punishment for trying to be helpful.

“Jesus—” you grunt, keeping your arms locked around her so she doesn’t fall over.

She freezes. Then she whips around in your arms, hands flying to your shoulders, your chest, and then your face.

“Are you okay?” she blurts out, eyes wide as she looks up at you. “A-are you hurt? Oh my god—your head—did it hit your head? Tell me if you’re dizzy. Tell me right now.”

“It was just a box,” you breathe—although it really was rather painful. “I’m not dying.”

She doesn’t laugh. “You’re bleeding,” she says, panicked.

You blink. “What?”

She reaches up and touches your forehead with trembling fingers, then pulls back to look.

There’s nothing—just a faint red mark where the cardboard kissed you. Maybe a little irritation, but definitely no blood.

She stares at her fingers, then back at your face. Her shoulders drop an inch, but her expression is still fierce and protective. “I thought—” she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “I thought you got hurt because of me.”

“I’m fine,” you say, softer now. “You’re the one who almost got yourself concussed by textiles.”

Her gaze flicks down to your arm still around her waist, and only then do you realize you haven’t let go.

The space is so tight you’re basically pinned together: her chest against yours, your hip against a shelf with boxes wedged at your feet. Her scarf brushes your jaw when she breathes, and the warmth of her body seeps right through your coat like it’s the only thing about her that doesn’t respect boundaries—not that you’re complaining.

Her hands are still on you—one at your shoulder, one over your chest—holding on like she’s making sure you’re actually still in one piece.

For a second, neither of you moves. The shop noise fades. Even the dumb Christmas lights seem to blink slower.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, quieter, like she doesn’t trust the world.

You finally have the courage to meet her eyes, and something in your chest goes stupid and tender.

“No,” you say, as something warm bubbles in your stomach. “I’m okay.”

Her breath sneaks out. “Don’t do that anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Get hurt for me. Or purposely throw yourself under things.”

“It was just a box. You’re the one who tried to climb the Mt. Everest of fabrics and almost died. How about you don’t do that anymore?”

A pout sneaks onto her face. “I just tripped,” she protests weakly.

“And almost died,” you agree, and your thumb shifts at her waist. It was an accident—barely a stroke—but her eyes flick down again like she felt it anyway.

Her lashes lower for a second. When she looks back up, her face is close. Close enough that you can see the tiny flecks of light in her eyes.

You don’t move. Neither does she.

It’s just a brief moment in a cramped fabric room, but for some reason, you don’t want it to end.

Then, from the front of the shop, the owner casually calls out, “Everything okay back there?”

Karina flinches like she’s been caught doing something worse than almost falling. She steps back, finally, untangling herself—hands dropping, scarf readjusted, composure snapped back into place.

“Yes,” she calls, voice perfectly normal. “Sorry—just a small accident.”

You clear your throat, bending to pick up one of the boxes like you didn’t just almost imprint her warmth into your skin.

Karina shoots you a look that should be a warning but sounds more like a plea. “Let me carry some of the boxes,” she says, even softer now. “Please.”

You want to argue on reflex, but her eyes are so gentle that you fold immediately.

So you hand her the lightest one and keep the rest, because compromise is the only thing keeping you both from doing something you can’t take back in a room that small.

And as you squeeze out of the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder, you realize you’re not thinking about Winter anymore. Not when Karina’s scarf keeps brushing your cheek, reminding you that a person can be in plenty of trouble without ever being yelled at.

--

On the walk back, Karina stops dead in front of a French bakery, eyes lighting up at the display of holiday tarts in the window.

“We need coffee,” she decides, shifting her box to her hip. “And I should get pastries for the design team. They’ve been pulling all-nighters all week.”

“You’re enabling their caffeine addiction,” you add.

“I’m fueling creative genius,” she corrects, gently dropping her box into your arms before you can protest. “Hold these. I’ll be two minutes. Do you want anything?”

“Paid time off,” you say, balancing the stack.

“Again, I'm not a magician,” she teases, and disappears into the warmth of the bakery, the bell chiming brightly above her.

Left alone on the sidewalk, you shift your weight, trying to keep the blood moving in your toes. That’s when you spot it—a cramped, cluttered gift shop right next door. The kind of place that smells like cinnamon brooms and sells ornaments year-round.

You look at the bakery, then at the shop. You have maybe three minutes. Five max, if the barista hits on her—which he will.

On impulse, you shove the boxes onto a dry patch of a bench and duck inside. It’s warm, suffocatingly so.

You scan the spinning racks near the register, bypassing the “World’s Best Boss” mugs and the generic snow globes. You’re not looking for something expensive—you can’t compete with her bank account anyway—but you need something right.

You keep searching, skipping all the porcelain dolls that look haunted, all the heavy brass compasses, and all the rows of leather-bound books. Then you wander toward a glass cabinet near the back.

And that’s when you see it sitting in a small ceramic dish filled with vintage keys and loose buttons.

A keychain. But it’s not some mass-produced piece of junk. It’s vintage silver, tarnished just enough to show its age but still polished. The figure is an angel, but not a cherub or a cartoon. Her face is serene and her hands are clasped over a small, clouded quartz crystal set into her chest.

You ask the elderly woman behind the counter to see it. When she drops it into your palm, the metal is cool and surprisingly heavy.

The Guardian.

It’s beautiful. It fits Karina perfectly—terrifyingly flawless on the surface, but protecting something fragile right in the center where most people forget to look.

“How much is it?” you ask, thumb brushing the smooth curve of the wing.

The woman adjusts her glasses. “Ah, this one. It's been sitting there since October like it’s waiting for the right owner… It’s vintage so it’s quite pricy, but I have a feeling in my gut that it’s finally found its home. You can have it for 50,000 won.”

It’s a week’s worth of your lunch money, sure, but it’s also a steal. You slap the remaining bills from your wallet on the counter before she can change her mind.

“Can I have it in a gift bag, please?” you say, checking your watch.

She slips it into a small, purple velvet pouch, pulling the drawstrings tight. “Merry Christmas,” she says, with a bow. “May The Guardian protect you, always.”

You shove it deep into your coat pocket and quickly step back out into the cold, just as the bakery door kicks open.

Karina emerges, juggling a cardboard tray of coffees and a white pastry box, looking adorably triumphant. “I got you a croissant,” she says over the steam rising from the cups. “Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you say, taking the tray from her so she can reclaim her box of fabric.

You start walking again, until you stop at the corner light. The velvet pouch feels heavier in your pocket than when you held the angel itself.

“Hey, Karina,” you say, although it comes out a little clumsier than intended.

She looks at you, nose red from the cold. “Yeah?”

You shift the coffees to one hand and fish the small pouch out. “I, um, saw this,” you say, looking at the traffic light, praying for it to change so you don’t have to meet her eyes. “It reminded me of you.”

She blinks, surprised, then sets the fabric box down on the pavement, ignoring the snow, and takes the pouch.

“What is it?” she asks, undoing the strings carefully, then slides the keychain into her gloved palm.

The silver angel catches the weak winter sunlight, the small quartz crystal gleaming like a captured star.

She freezes, staring at it for a long moment as she runs her thumb over the swept-back wings. “An angel?” she says, quietly.

“She’s your sidekick,” you shrug, still looking at the traffic lights. “You’re always saving everyone yourself. Figured you needed some backup.”

She looks up at you—the polished mask she wears for the board meetings and the interviews is completely gone. “I love it,” she whispers.

She unclips it immediately, bypassing her keys and attaching it directly to the zipper of her Chanel handbag. The vintage silver clashes with the modern gold hardware, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“It’s perfect,” she says, looking at it with adoring eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” you mutter, looking away.

She smiles to herself. “Too late.”

You and Karina come back into the lobby looking like a Hallmark ad for what Christmas is supposed to look like when everyone’s happy, but the second the revolving door spits you out, your stomach drops.

Winter is by the elevators. But she’s not alone.

He’s beside her, expensive coat still on, hair still perfect, posture too relaxed like he hasn’t been banished from this building yet by some divine miracle. He’s laughing at something she said—which actually infuriates you because she’s never once said something that made you feel anything besides dread.

To make matters worse, even Winter is smiling. And it’s not the fake professional smile, or the “good job” smile she gives to absolutely no one. It’s a small, rather genuine one that you’ve never seen before.

You don’t know why, but it hits you like a bullet right to the chest.

Winter suddenly looks at you, as if your body sent out a silent scream that only she could hear. Her gaze flicks over the scene in one smooth sweep—Karina’s scarf, the bags, the desserts.

Her ex follows her eyes and then looks at you—quick, dismissive—like you’re staff and therefore scenery.

Winter turns to him and says something low you can’t hear. He nods, slips his phone out, starts tapping at it like he’s giving you guys privacy as charity.

She walks straight toward you. “Where have you been?”

You lift the boxes a fraction. “Buying more sugar so the team doesn’t riot, as usual.”

Karina starts to speak—probably to say it was her idea—then stops when Winter’s eyes flick to her and away again almost immediately.

Winter ignores the desserts like they’re irrelevant; her gaze lands on the swatch bags instead. “And that?”

“Swatches,” you say nonchalantly. “For the board meeting.”

Her eyes narrow. “Since when do you work in Design?”

You blink. “I work wherever my help is needed.”

“You’re an intern. Assigned to me.” Her eyes flash to the scarf, then to you. “And yet you’ve been spending your work hours running errands with Head of Design.”

Karina shifts subtly at your side—like she’s stepped closer, ready to defend you if something goes wrong.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” you say, shielding her with your body. “Half the building is gone. The other half is catching up on unfinished business, apparently.”

“Don’t get smart.” Winter’s brows twitch, right before her eyes involuntarily shift over to him out of guilt.

He’s still by the elevator, still tapping on his phone, still standing there like he belongs.

Your grip tightens on the pastry box. “So,” you say, voice dropping. “He’s back.”

Her expression hardens immediately, like the word flipped a switch. “Yes.”

“And you forgave him,” you add.

Winter’s chin lifts ever so slightly. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“He’s a cheater,” you try to whisper, but the words come out sharper than you intend. “And a liar. And you know it.”

She steps closer, close enough that Karina can’t pretend this is just workplace chatter anymore. “You don’t get to talk about my relationship.”

“I’m not talking about your relationship,” you snap back. “I’m talking about the person you’re in one with.”

Her eyes flash like lightning. “And now you’re overstepping again.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Suddenly you care about boundaries.”

Karina’s hand touches your sleeve, warning you to stop, and Winter notices.

Her gaze cuts to Karina. “You should go upstairs first, unnie,” she says to her, tone polite in a way that’s almost insulting. “We’re just having our weekly one-on-one.”

Karina doesn’t move. “We’re—”

Winter turns her eyes back to you, as if Karina isn’t worth the breath. This actually pisses you off even more than that idiot standing by the elevator.

“You are supposed to be working. Not playing assistant to my cousin.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you say, clenching your teeth. “I’m doing my job. The job you would’ve dumped on me anyway at 11pm. with ‘URGENT’ in the subject line.”

Winter’s mouth tightens. “Watch your tone when you talk to me.”

“Or what?” you scoff. “You’ll punish me? Do you even have time for that these days?”

For a split second, something flickers in her eyes—but then it’s gone before you can even decipher it. “This is not your business,” she whispers aggressively. “He is my choice.”

“Your choice is self-destruction,” you say, throat tightening.

Her face goes colder. “Stay out of my personal life,” she says, quiet enough that only you can hear. “You don’t get a vote. You don’t get an opinion. You’re an intern. Remember that.”

Behind her, her ex looks up from his phone, sensing the temperature shift like an animal, but she doesn’t look back at him. “Go upstairs,” she orders, keeping her eyes locked on you. “Now.”

Karina’s fingers tighten on her bag strap. You can feel her fuming—ready to step in, so close to saying something that will make this worse.

So you do what you always do. You swallow it. “Yes, Ms. Kim.”

You turn toward the elevators with your arms full of sugar and your throat full of things you’re not allowed to say, while Karina falls in beside you silently.

The worst part isn’t that Winter told you to stay out of her business—it’s that you can no longer hide that you’re upset by who she chose to do business with.

--

In case anyone wants to know, Christmas at AESPA is not a holiday. It’s an apocalypse.

Half the office comes in wearing new coats, and the other half comes in wearing the same clothes as yesterday because no one slept. As if Satan took over this year, there’s an emergency board meeting, and Production is on fire in three different time zones, while Marketing is “just circling back” so often that the system might flag it as spam.

Winter’s floor hums with that holiday panic energy—too few people, too many deliveries, and too many last-minute miracles being demanded for even God to handle. In other words, your inbox is a snowstorm and your desk is a landfill.

Winter is present, technically. Physically in the building, emotionally somewhere else, drifting in and out of rooms with her phone glued to her hand, jaw tight, eyes skimming past you like you’re part of the drywall.

Which should be a relief—but it isn’t. Not today. Not in this shitstorm.

You’re trying to reorganize a set of print approvals without making a single wrong click when Ningning appears like a glitter bomb with legs. Really long, nicely shaped legs that double as both stress relief and a panic attacking ready to happen.

She drops into the chair across from your desk, spins once dramatically, and says, “Okay. Heads up, I’m going to ruin your day.”

“Nothing new there,” you mutter, still typing.

She ignores you and slides her tablet onto your desk like she’s serving a court summons. On the screen is a campaign from another company.

A model everyone knows named Yuna stares down the lens like she’s daring the world to blink first. She’s wrapped in lingerie that looks like it was engineered by angels, not designed. Clean lines, perfect fit, lighting that makes her skin literally glow.

At the corner of the screen: ITZY.

Ningning taps the image with a fingernail. “Do you see this?”

“Yes,” you say flatly. “I see capitalism working overtime.”

“No,” she says, offended. “You see theft.”

You finally look up at her. She’s not doing her usual seductive-playful-bored thing. This is personal. She’s already decided the story and now she’s just looking for supporting evidence.

“They stole our moment. They stole my moment.”

“It’s one campaign,” you say.

“It’s not one campaign. It’s a declaration of war,” she says, then starts swiping through slides with escalating fury. “Look at the styling. Look at the tone. Look at the way she’s positioned! Untouchable, effortless, ‘I don’t chase, I get chased.’ That’s supposed to be me and Winter’s schtick.”

She flicks to a behind-the-scenes clip: Yuna laughing, hair tossed, a robe slipping off one shoulder.

“That—you see that?” she says, pointing. “That little laugh? That’s my laugh. That’s my job. That’s my brand.”

You stare at the screen. It’s good. Yuna is drop-dead gorgeous, so of course it’s good. In fact, it’s the kind of good that makes shareholders compare decks and start asking the wrong questions.

Ningning watches your face and misreads it immediately. “Oh,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you’re impressed.”

“It’s pretty good,” you say, choosing your words like you’re disarming a bomb.

“Pretty good?” she repeats, like you called her ugly. “She’s making us look like we shoot lingerie in a basement with a ring light.”

You sigh. “Ning—”

“And don’t act like you don’t care,” she cuts in. “I know you’re also in a bad mood today.”

“I’m in a bad mood because I’m drowning. We’re all drowning.”

She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s sharing gossip now and not outputting rage. “No. You’re in a bad mood because Winter’s been busy.”

Your stomach drops, but you keep your face neutral with the kind of control you only recently developed from working with Winter. “Busy with what?”

Her grin widens. “Oh my god,” she snickers. “You are jealous.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she insists. “You have a thing for her. That’s why you’re all uptight and twitchy. That’s why you keep pretending you’re fine when your eyes look like you’ve been punched every time you see them together.”

You laugh once, dryly. “That’s a reach.”

“It’s not a reach,” she says, still smirking. “It’s so obvious. You look at her like she’s your religion. Like you want to kneel even when she doesn’t tell you to.”

Your pulse stutters—part embarrassment, part anger. “Even if I did,” you say, “what would that have to do with ITZY?”

Ningning sits back, pleased with herself. “Everything. Because Winter’s attention is a finite resource. And right now, it’s not on me. And if it’s not on me, then it’s also not on you.”

She taps the tablet again, pulling up a side-by-side comparison of ITZY’s campaign frames next to AESPA’s older imagery.

“Do you know what happens when the board sees this? They don’t say, ‘Oh, the competitor is doing well.’ They say, ‘Why aren’t we doing that?’ They say, ‘Do we even need Ning if Yuna exists?’” She looks up at you, eyes suddenly shifting back to rage. “And I am not getting replaced by a girl whose only talent is having longer legs and wider hips.”

You swallow. “So what—you’re mad at her?”

“I’m mad at the universe,” she snaps. “I’m mad at Winter for letting our strategy drift right when we were on top of the world. I’m mad at the creative team for playing safe and not letting me take it one step further. I’m mad at Yuna for existing in my lane and getting applause for it.”

She leans in again, voice dropping into something terribly venomous.

“And I’m mad because Winter is distracted by her stupid fuckboy ex,” she hisses. “Which means I have to work twice as hard to keep my face in front of the cameras while she gets a few months worth of make-up sex squeezed in during work hours just before he cheats on her again.”

You try to keep your voice steady. “Okay, fine. But what do you want from me?”

Her smile returns. “I want you to help me make this personal,” she says, leaning closer. “Not just ‘we need a better campaign, guys.’ I want ITZY to regret ever learning the word ‘lingerie’.”

Your stomach turns. “That sounds like corporate sabotage.”

She shrugs. “Call it competition.”

“And what do I get?” you ask, before your better judgment can stop you.

“You get Winter back,” she says confidently. “Because I know that no matter how much time you spend with her cousin, it’s Winter you really want.”

You stare at her silently, but she only smiles wider, as if she’d just been validated.

“Help me take down Yuna,” she says, her voice as sweet as poisoned frosting, “and I’ll help you get Winter’s attention back where you want it. I’ll make sure it’s you in that office when the lights are suddenly shut off at 3pm.”

You tell yourself Ningning is, as per usual, just bored, dramatic, and allergic to consequences. You also tell yourself ITZY’s campaign is just a good campaign and the world is not a fair place, and this company is not your responsibility, and also, you are not a person who makes burner accounts like a divorced dad stalking his ex’s Facebook—all while your cursor hovers over a blank note titled:

ITZY Takedown Strategy

You say that it’s research, that you’re just a journalist. That you’re not about to become a villain with Wi‑Fi.

Then you decide that you’ve gone crazy, so you shut your laptop, stand up, and decide to get water.

You make it exactly twelve feet before the elevator dings.

Winter steps out first, coat on, hair perfect, expression composed the way it always is. She’s even prettier than usual.

Her ex follows her. He’s smiling, talking low, leaning in just enough to be intimate without actually touching her—because he knows cameras exist, and he knows Winter cares about her image even when she’s self-destructing.

She doesn’t correct him or flinch away. Instead, she tilts her head slightly toward him, listening, like he matters. This, of course, is completely foreign to you.

Your stomach does that ugly, sinking thing again. Jealousy isn’t even the right word—it’s not romantic. You don’t think you actually have feelings for Winter; it’s more like watching someone hand their wallet back to the guy who mugged them.

Winter’s eyes flick up and catch yours.

Then she looks away and keeps walking, the ex at her side like a shadow she chose over you. They pass you without slowing, and he doesn’t even glance at you once. Winter doesn’t either.

And something in you, the part that has been trying very hard to be good, to be professional, to be rational—snaps cleanly in half.

Fine.

If Winter wants to be stupid, then you can be worse.

That night, you don’t make one fake account—you make a small army.

You do it with the efficiency of a person building their own meltdown brick by brick. Different emails, different handles, different profile pictures pulled from public-domain image sites and AI-generated faces.

It’s unethical, sure, but the silver lining here is that you learn a lot about your own capacity for pettiness in the span of two hours.

By midnight, you’ve got one “fashion stan” account that posts in all caps, one “industry insider” account that pretends to have sources, one “disappointed customer” account with a profile bio that says “just here for the truth.”, and one “concerned feminist” account, because shame is more viral when it comes dressed as morality.

You don’t even need to invent much. That’s the sick part. You take real facts and twist them.

You frame Yuna’s campaign as derivative—as “pick-me”, as “catering to the male gaze”, as “trying too hard.” You seed comments under popular replies, not on the main posts—where it’s harder to moderate and easier to multiply.

You don’t go for “she’s ugly” because you’re not stupid.

You opt for:

“Why does it look AI?”

“This feels like a rip-off of last year’s campaign.”

“ITZY always over-edits their girls.”

“Not her fault but the styling is… cheap?”

“Does anyone else get escort-core vibes or is it just me”

You read that last one three times before you hit post, debating if it’s crossing the line or not. Your finger hesitates, but then your mind decides to replay the scene of Winter and her ex walking right past you like you didn’t exist.

And your finger accidentally taps ‘post’.

The next day, Ningning comes into the office like she’s a headline.

Red lips, tighter skirt, hair done like she’s walking into a shoot, not a meeting. She’s even louder than usual, and starts this new thing where she swings her hips when she walks like the air itself owes her attention.

“So?” she says, planting herself on the edge of your desk.

You keep your face blank. “What?”

Her smile spreads. “Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

Her eyes narrow with satisfaction. “You’re not even good at lying. You have guilt face.”

“I have resting regret,” you correct.

She laughs and slides her phone toward you. The ITZY hashtag feed has changed drastically since yesterday. Comment threads derailing, people are arguing back and forth. The vibe completely soured, like someone poured vinegar into champagne. Someone being you.

Ningning’s grin is brighter now. “See? It doesn’t take much. You just have to nudge the story.”

You swallow, realizing what you’ve done. “This is insane.”

“This is marketing,” she replies.

--

Over the next week, Ningning gets worse.

Not in performance—she’s always excellent when she wants to be—but in presence. She’s constantly “accidentally” bending over someone’s desk. Constantly “fixing” her neckline. Constantly laughing too loud when men look at her.

It isn’t subtle; it’s desperate—and you realize that it’s not even about Yuna anymore. It’s about the fact that Winter’s attention has shifted. After that one successful campaign, Ningning can’t stand not being the brightest thing in the room anymore, and now Winter has reintroduced an entire person who can eclipse her without even trying.

So she turns herself into her own kind of star.

And it works.

People look, people whisper, people “need her for a quick photo” in the studio hallway more than usual.

One afternoon, you go down to the photo studio to drop off a garment bag. The schedule says the shoot wrapped twenty minutes ago, and the corridor is mostly empty besides you, the hum of the lights, and the faint sound of someone laughing behind the partially closed studio door.

Studio B is still marked SHOOT IN PROGRESS, even though the call sheet said it wrapped twenty minutes ago.

You’re about to knock when you hear a man laugh.

Then Ningning’s voice slides through the gap under the door. “Don’t act shy,” she says smoothly. “You’re the professional.”

Your hand tightens around the garment bag strap. You already know how this goes. It’s not the first time, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.

You should keep walking. But once again, you don’t.

The door isn’t fully shut. The crack is small but enough. Inside, the set is half-packed—backdrop rolled up, C-stands shoved aside, makeup kits open like somebody ran away and left everything behind. The monitor glows in the dark, paused on a frame of Ning from earlier—perfect face, bored eyes, sex appeal cranked up to maximum settings.

The photographer stands by the monitor in a black turtleneck, camera harness slung low, hands half-raised like he’s talking to someone holding a gun.

Ningning is in front of him, robe loose and sliding off her shoulders. The lingerie underneath might as well not be there.

She’s smiling, but not for the camera.

“I told you,” the photographer says, backing away. “We’re done. The shoot wrapped.”

She steps closer, slow. “Then why are you still here?”

He swallows. “Because—”

“You said we’re done,” she cuts him off. “But you haven’t finished.”

“What are you—”

She reaches out and hooks a finger under his lanyard, tugging him a half-step forward. “You have what I want,” she murmurs. “And I have what you want.”

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes flicking down her body and snapping back up like he’s trying to prove he’s not staring. It’s counterproductive.

“Look,” she says softly, “you’ve worked with ITZY. I know you have.”

He laughs once, clearly two minutes from a panic attack. “Everyone’s worked with everyone.”

“Not like you have. I want names.”

He hesitates.

Her smile fades into something colder. “I’m not asking twice.”

“Why do you care? Your brand is fine.”

“My brand is me,” she snaps. “And right now, a girl named Yuna is ruining everything for me.”

The photographer’s gaze tightens. “You mean that campaign.”

She steps around him so he has to turn to keep facing her, then backs toward the center of the set, right where the camera would be, like she’s placing herself in frame on purpose.

“I want to know everything about the next one,” she says, almost posing. “The lighting. The angles. The schedule. All of it.”

She reaches behind her and tugs the robe fully off her shoulders. It slides down her arms and puddles at her feet.

The photographer freezes.

But Ningning doesn’t. She walks closer again until she’s right in his space, and then she puts his hands on her waist. “If you want to stand here and lie to yourself that you have morals, go ahead,” she whispers, “but don’t insult me by pretending you don’t want it.”

His fingers flex on her without meaning to.

She smiles. “There it is.”

He exhales loudly. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, dropping to her knees without looking away from him.

His breath hitches. “Ning—”

“Shh,” she says, and reaches for his belt.

He grabs her wrist. “I’m not paying you for this.”

She breaks into laughter. “You couldn’t afford me.”

“What do you want from me then? I know this isn’t free.”

“I want you to be… a little more motivated.”

“God damn it—”

She pulls his belt free, unbuttons him, and drags his zipper down, eyes never leaving his.

“You can stop me,” she says, her voice soft as velvet. “Or you can be useful to me.”

His grip loosens.

She takes him out and strokes him once slowly, just to feel him jump, while watching his face like she’s analyzing consumer data. “Tell me,” she murmurs. “Who booked Yuna’s location?”

He swallows. “I don’t—”

She leans forward and licks the head of his cock slowly, then wraps her lips around him just enough to make him shudder.

“Oh, fuck—” he moans, fisting in her hair.

She pulls back immediately. “Hands off.”

He releases her like a child touching a boiling pot.

“Good boy,” she says, pleased at how quickly he listened. “Now. Names.”

He breathes in, tries to steady himself. “Their producer—”

She smiles and takes him into her mouth, deeper this time, making him choke on his own moans.

“Who retouches their edits?” she asks, pulling back just enough to speak. “The team.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “A freelancer. They outsource—fuck—some of it. There’s a girl—”

She takes him all the way in again, harder and harder, making him give everything up piece by piece.

It becomes a rhythm. She asks, he hesitates, then she punishes the hesitation with her mouth until he stops thinking.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she says, hand sliding down between her thighs, fingers slipping under her panties.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he groans as her tongue continues swirling across his balls while she spreads her knees wider on the studio floor shamelessly, eyes still locked on his like she wants him to watch her.

She rubs herself slowly while she sucks him. “Yuna would never… help you like this, now would she?”

The photographer makes a choked, strangled sound. “I’m gonna lose my job because of you.”

She pulls off him, breath hot, lips swollen. “Don’t be dramatic,” she says, turning on all fours.

The set lights catch the curve of her ass, the glossy straps of her lingerie, and the wet shine at her thighs. She arches her back seductively, looking over her shoulder at him like she’s daring him to deny her.

“You want the rest?” she asks, parting her lips in a way that makes your own body tingle.

He stares at her like a lost puppy. “Yes.”

“Then be good,” she purrs, and reaches one hand back to spread herself. “And I’ll reward you.”

She guides him closer with her other hand, dragging him by his loosened belt like it’s a leash. He steps behind her, breath shaking.

Ning presses her face to the studio floor, cheek turned so she can still watch him in the reflection of the monitor.

“Last question,” she says, voice steady. “Who’s feeding those fan accounts’ early edits?”

He hesitates—just a second, but that was already too long for her.

“Wrong answer.” She shifts her hips back into him, forcing him to choose: talk, or lose.

He’s practically salivating at this point, but you can’t even blame him. “A staffer. On their marketing side. He—he has access to the folder—”

She smiles triumphantly. “Good boy.”

Then she pushes back and takes him inside her in one slow slide.

He groans loudly. “Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

Her eyes flutter, but she doesn’t moan for him. She breathes, and then starts to move—a steady rocking motion that turns into harder thrusts when she feels him start to lose it.

“Tell me,” she says, voice turning cruelly sweet. “His name.”

He chokes out the name, and she repeats it under her breath like she’s locking it into memory.

Then she fucks him harder, using the set like a stage. The monitor’s glow paints her skin in blue light, and the straps of her lingerie bite into her hips as she moves.

The photographer’s hands hover, unsure where he’s allowed to touch.

She glances back sharply. “Don’t touch me.”

He obeys instantly, dropping his hands to his sides. “Fuck—Ning, I’m—”

She stops moving abruptly, forcing him to make a frustrated sound as his hips continues twitching.

“Not yet,” she says, smiling over her shoulder. “You’re going to finish when I say you can.”

Then she leans forward, reaches down between her legs, and rubs herself faster, breathing a little harder now—finally letting it show how much she’s enjoying herself.

“Say it again,” she orders. “The name.”

He repeats it.

“And the assistant producer?”

He repeats that too.

Her mouth parts, seemingly involuntarily, and she rocks back into him once, twice—then arches her back with a sharp, broken gasp.

“Fuck—” The photographer breaks with a choked groan, knees shaking as he spills everything inside her.

Ningning dips her head, letting his lust fill her completely while savoring her victory. “It was nice working with you,” she says, like she just finished a meeting.

She stands, ignoring the cum freely dripping out of her, adjusts her lingerie straps, and picks up her robe as if she didn’t just turn the studio into a porn set.

The photographer is still trying to catch his breath, staring at her like he’s terrified and obsessed at the same time.

She leans in. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say it was you who coerced me. And trust me, they’re gonna believe me over you.”

His face drains.

She giggles, blowing him a kiss. “Happy New Year.”

--

The next day, you’re trying to be a normal person who drinks coffee and files expense reports for the executives, but your nervous system feels like it’s vibrating, as if your phone notifications merged with your soul.

Of course, Ningning finds you totally-not-hiding in an empty conference room, where you’re pretending to reorganize sample folders so you don’t have to think about what you witnessed.

She locks the door behind her. The click is loud.

“Don’t freak out,” she says, which is usually code for you should absolutely freak out.

“I’m busy,” you lie, not looking up.

“You’re hiding,” she corrects. “And it’s cute, but you can stop now. Because I won.”

You finally look at her, fighting the urge to tell her that she’s the one you’re hiding from. She drops her phone onto the table like she’s laying down a royal flush.

You sigh. “What did you do now?”

“I got proof,” she says.

“Proof of what?”

“That Winter is sloppy,” she says, grinning. “And that her boyfriend is exactly what we thought he was.”

She taps the screen. A video file loads. It’s a wide-angle fisheye shot with a timestamp ticking away in the corner. The perspective is from the ceiling mount, capturing the entire room in the way only security feeds do. You recognize the glass walls and the long mahogany table immediately: Conference Room A on the 5th floor.

You recognize the stupid coat first, and then the hair. It’s him, for sure.

The audio picks up the hum of the office ventilation, but their voices cut through clearly enough.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Winter says, standing by the window, arms crossed.

“Minjeong-ah,” the ex says. “Stop pretending already. You didn’t lock the door on purpose.”

“This is a workplace,” she snaps.

He laughs, then walks toward her. “That’s not what you said last night.”

Winter freezes. “Last night was—”

“Last night was loud,” he interrupts, stopping inches from her. “You didn’t seem too worried about professionalism when you were screaming my name at the hotel.”

She flushes; it’s visible even in the low quality footage. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why?” he asks, stepping right into her space. “Afraid your little employees will find out their ice-queen boss is actually a screamer?”

“I am not—”

She stops speaking mid-sentence as he reaches out and brushes a thumb over her lower lip.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Is it because you’re mad? Or because you know exactly what happens next?”

Your stomach drops through the floor.

“You put a hidden camera in a meeting room,” you say, unsure of what you’re more shocked about.

“I didn’t put anything anywhere,” Ningning says, watching the footage like it’s a nature documentary. “I just accessed the security cameras before the daily wipe. It’s a public workspace, remember? There are cameras everywhere. I just happen to be the only one checking the footage.”

“This is illegal, Ning,” you say, shaking your head. “This is insanely illegal.”

“It’s leverage,” she corrects. “Remember how I told you rich people love it? Look at them. Does that look like a professional meeting to you? Does that look like ‘just catching up’?”

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Winter whispers, although the camera picks it right up. It sounds like a plea, but not for him to leave.

“That’s plenty of time,” he says, smirking, “to remind you who you belong to.”

He kisses her. It’s not gentle; he grabs the back of her neck and devours her. Winter stands stiff for exactly one second before she breaks. She makes a low sound in her throat and grabs his jaw, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a hunger that makes you sick to your stomach.

“Get off me,” she murmurs against his mouth, even as she presses closer and closer.

He lifts her onto the edge of the desk, and a stack of papers fly away. “Make me, babe.”

“Oppa, seriously,” she gasps as his hands find the hem of her skirt. “The door isn’t even locked.”

“Let them,” he says, lifting the fabric up to her waist. “Let them see how desperate you are for this.”

“I’m not desperate,” she breathes.

“No? So then why are you completely drenched already?” he counters, sliding a hand between her thighs.

Her head falls back. “Fuck…”

“See?” he teases. “You can’t help yourself. You talk all big about boundaries and professionalism, but the second I touch you, you fold like a cheap chair.”

“I’m not folding,” she pants.

He pulls her panties aside with one rough tug. “You’re folding right now. Look at you. Legs wide open on a shared meeting table. So slutty. I thought you’d be raised better than this, Princess Aespa.”

He doesn’t wait even wait for her to answer. He unzips, and pushes into her so fast that the cheap camera quality doesn’t even catch it happening.

Winter cries out, hand clamping over her own mouth. Her legs wrap around his waist instantly, pulling him deeper.

“Oh god,” she groans. “You’re—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he grunts, pushing urgently into her. “I know you love my cock.”

“I don’t—aah—I hate you, you bastard.”

“Say it,” he demands, thrusting harder. “Tell me you missed this.”

“I didn’t miss anything,” she gasps, but she doesn’t shake her head.

He stops moving abruptly, leaving her hanging on the edge.

Winter makes a frustrated, needy whine. “Oppa, don’t—”

“Say it,” he repeats. “Say you missed my cock.”

Winter shudders, eyes squeezing shut. “I missed it,” she whimpers. “I missed your cock so much. Please—just keep fucking me.”

He slams back into her. “Good girl.”

“God, it feels so good...”

“Remember when you tried to date that investment banker in London?” he asks, driving deeper into her. “How long did that last? Two weeks? Because he didn’t know how to fuck the attitude out of you.”

“Shut up,” Winter hisses, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Only I know how to fuck you properly.” He grabs her hips, angling her upwards. “Tell me the truth. Does anyone else make you feel like this? Does anyone else even try?”

Winter sobs out a breath, matching his rhythm. “No.”

“No what?”

“No one else,” she cries out. “Just you. Only you can make me come over and over.”

“That’s right,” he growls. “You’re still in love with me, aren’t you? Even after everything.”

Winter shakes her head frantically, but her body betrays her, arching into him.

“Admit it,” he orders. “Tell me you love me while I’m deep inside you.”

“I love you,” she breaks, the words tearing out of her. “I still love you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“And you’re mine,” he says. “Say it. You’ll always be mine.”

“I’m yours,” she sobs. “I’m yours, oppa. Please, keep fucking me like you own me.”

He picks up the pace, slamming into her until she’s shaking.

“Come for me,” he orders, pushing her down onto the table while he spreads her legs far apart. “Right now. Show me how much you love me.”

The next few minutes are filled with raw, carnal sounds. Winter finally breaks with a ragged cry, her body practically going limp as the orgasm hits. He follows her a second later with a loud groan, collapsing forward to bury his face in her neck.

For a long moment, the only sound that remains is their heavy breathing and wet kisses.

Ningning pauses the video with a satisfied smirk.

The freeze-frame catches Winter disheveled, vulnerable, wrecked—confessing love to the man who doesn’t deserve her one bit.

The silence in the conference room is deafening.

You’re hard. Painfully hard. The jealousy is there, but it’s tangled up with the raw, carnal heat of what you just watched.

Ningning shifts closer, her thigh pressing against yours. “You liked watching that,” she says, amused. “Didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” you say, heart still racing.

“It’s okay,” she purrs. “I liked it too.”

She climbs into your lap, and you have nothing left in you to protest.

“Look at you.” Her fingers trace your jaw before drifting down the front of your shirt, resting heavily over your belt. “So worked up over someone who treats you like dirt.”

You grit your teeth, your hands gripping her waist instinctively. “I’m not worked up.”

“Liar,” she whispers, leaning in until her breath tickles your ear. “I can feel you twitching against me. You’re furious.”

She presses her hips down in a slow grind that robs a sharp breath from you.

“You’re furious that she’s letting him do that to her,” she continues, dissecting every part of you. “You hate that she’s weak for him. You wish it were you making her scream like that, don’t you? You wish you were the one breaking her.”

She pulls back to look you in the eye, a predatory smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes are dark, seductive, and completely blown wide with her own arousal.

“But it’s not you,” she says softly. “It’s never going to be you. You heard her, she’s still in love with him. Meanwhile, you’re just an intern she fucked as a rebound. He’s the one who owns her.”

“Shut up, Ning,” you growl.

She tilts her head. “Why? Does the truth hurt?”

Your grip on her hips tightens, but she doesn’t flinch. She leans closer, as if her eyes were searching for what remains of your self-respect.

“I see the way you look at Karina, too,” she says, dropping the name like a bomb.

You freeze.

“Don’t bring her into this.” you warn.

“Oh, is she your weakness after all?” she asks, amused.

“I mean it.”

“Am I wrong?” She reaches down, instinctively undoing your belt. “You follow her around like a puppy. Like you’re waiting for permission. Waiting for her to notice you’re actually a man. You’re practically in love with her, but you treat her like she’s some fragile porcelain doll you’re terrified to touch.”

She unzips you, her movements incredibly efficient like she’d done it a hundred times to other men. Then she frees you, wrapping her hand around your rage-filled shaft with a firmness that makes your hips twitch involuntarily.

“You put them on pedestals. Winter, the ice queen. Karina, the saint. You think they’re so special.”

“I don’t.”

“But they aren’t special,” she says, stroking you. “They’re weak. Winter is crying over a toxic ex. And Karina?” She chuckles condescendingly. “Karina wouldn’t know what to even do with this.”

Ningning lunges forward, crashing her lips against yours in a fierce, demanding kiss. Her tongue invades your mouth while her hand keeps pumping your cock steadily.

“Tell me, have you ever even kissed them before?” she asks, biting your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp from you.

“Ning—what are you doing—”

Her eyes lock onto yours as she sinks to her knees without breaking eye contact. “I’m doing what those rich brats would never do.”

She leans in, her breath hot against your throbbing length, and then takes you into her mouth in one swift motion. Her lips seal around your shaft, sucking deep and hard, tongue swirling all over your skin as she bobs her head. The wet heat of her mouth envelops you completely while her hand twists at the base to match the rhythm.

She pulls off briefly. “Winter would never suck your dick like this. She probably thinks she’s above it. Or she’s too busy sucking his while pretending she doesn’t like it.”

“Just shut up already,” you growl, your hand fisting in her hair—not pulling her away yet but holding her there while your anger fuses with the pleasure.

“God, why are you so defensive over some stuck-up bitch who doesn’t even see you as human?” She laughs softly, the sound muffled as she dives back down, taking you deeper.

“Say what you want about Winter,” you warn, but your words come out entirely non-threatening, “but leave Karina out of this.”

Saliva drips down her chin, and she looks up at you with eyes full of challenge. “Karina’s a prude. She’d probably faint if you even asked for a blowjob. Probably ask for your consent a million times before she even licks you once.”

Your jaw clenches, a surge of protectiveness flaring up despite everything. “Shut up. Karina’s not a prude. You don’t know anything about her.”

But your words lack conviction; your hips keep jerking as she sucks harder, her head moving in a frantic rhythm that has your fingers tightening in her hair. The jealousy, the humiliation of the video, the frustration of your own shame—it all boils over into a singular, aggressive need. And she was ready to fulfill it.

“I know for sure that she’ll never suck your dick the way I do,” she said, slapping your length on her face while spit drips down her cheeks and jaw. “And you know it, too.”

You can’t take the slander anymore.

Grabbing her by the hair, you yank her off your shaft and haul her up. “You think you’re better than her just because you have no morals and a polished dick-sucking resume?” you growl, as you spin her around and bend her over the desk.

“Oh, so insulting Karina is the secret—aah!”

Her body folds over the edge, skirt pulled up, panties shoved aside to reveal her dripping pussy. You drop to your knees behind her, spreading her cheeks wide, and bury your face between her thighs.

Your tongue lashes out, slurping on her folds hungrily, tasting her arousal as it coats your chin. “You even smell and taste like a slut,” you say, smacking her cheeks.

She moans loudly, pushing back against your mouth, and you suck on her clit, flicking it with the tip of your tongue while your fingers dig into her hips.

“Karina would never let you eat her out,” she gasps, her body trembling as you devour her from behind, your nose grinding against her holes. “She’d think it’s unladylike to let someone bury their face in her ass like this.”

“I said, shut up!” You swirl your tongue inside her harder, thrusting it deep before pulling back to circle her clit again, making her thighs quiver.

The anger fuels your intensity, and you slap her ass sharply, the sound cracking through the quiet room, before sucking harder until she’s grinding against your face, her taunts turning into broken moans.

“You’re so mad,” she pants, her voice breaking as waves of pleasure make her words stutter. “But you know I’m right. She has that killer body, but you’ll never be able to access it. That pisses you off, doesn’t it? She buys you coffee and pastries, but she’d never let you touch her. And don’t even think about dating someone from that kind of family.”

That snaps the last thread of your restraint. You rise up, aligning your cock with her soaked pussy. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t speak anymore, you annoying little brat.”

“Oh, fuck!” Ningning cries out, her hands scrambling for support on the desk as you start pounding into her from behind, each slap of your hips against her ass echoing in the room.

You grip her waist, pulling her back onto you deeper. “You have so much to say about Karina, yet you’re just a dirty office whore who uses her pussy instead of her brains.”

“At least you can fuck this dirty office whore,” she moans, her head falling forward as you hit that spot that makes her toes curl. “Come on, use me more, since Winter’s too busy letting her dumbass ex rearrange her guts instead of you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grunt, slamming into her harder, your hand coming down on her ass again.

“How does it feel?” she taunts, moaning loudly. “Knowing that some brainless idiot has his hand around your boss’ neck while she couldn’t care less if you’re dead or alive?”

But the words only make you thrust deeper and fuck her harder, letting your anger channeling into every movement.

She pushes back against you, but her voice wavers. “Come on, fuck me like I’m one of those rich Aespa girls, since you can’t have the real—”

“Enough!” you bark, leaning over her to grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back firmly. “How about I just fuck you like the stupid slut that you are, Ning?”

“So mad,” she snickers, but her voice is already betraying her. “Over absolutely fucking nothing!”

“You’re just jealous,” you say, as the room fills with the wet sounds of your cock slamming into her while her arousal drips down her thighs. “Jealous that the world drops to their knees for them, while you’re the one on your knees for any man with any sort of power.”

“Oh, you got me.” Her eyes flutter with every thrust. “I’m so jealous of a girl who barks orders at people while she gets cheated on and a prude who thinks she can buy her way into being liked with overpriced brownies.”

With a growl, you pull out, and scoop her up in your arms, forcing a loud gasp to leave her mouth. You carry her to the nearby table, laying her down on her back, spreading her legs wide as you climb over her, sliding back into her pussy from above.

You pin her wrists above her head, grinding your fingers against her clit. “Say you’re sorry,” you demand.

She bites her lip, eyes locking on yours,. “For what—aah—for telling you that you worship dumb rich cunts?” she asks, hips rising to match your pace. “For pointing out the obvious that Karina uses daddy’s money to trick her employees into forgetting that her own family exploits them?”

You stop abruptly, making her whine in protest. “Apologize!” you repeat, letting go completely.

“No—don’t stop—please—don’t be so mean,” she cries, pulling you back inside herself. “That’s not fair…”

“Are you going to listen now?” You grind into her, your free hand squeezing her tits, thumb flicking her nipple as she arches beneath you.

Her breaths come in soft whimpers now, eyes locked on yours with a submission that wasn't there before. “Fine, I won’t talk about them anymore,” she promises breathlessly, her pussy clenching around you tighter. “Just don’t stop fucking me, okay?”

“Stop being so naughty all the time!” you bark, ravaging her hard and rough.

She groans while rubbing her own clit frantically. “Okay—fuck—I’ll be good—aah—I’ll be good, I promise…”

You kiss her deeply, swallowing her moans as you pound into her while your fingers wrap firmly around her neck.

She clings to you, legs tightening around your waist, her body fully surrendering. “I just don’t understand why you care about them so much…” she moans, the words no longer taunting but pleading. “When I give you permission to use my pussy whenever you want…”

Her words unlock something inside of you, further fueling your frenzy. “Anytime? I can fuck you anytime I want?”

“Anytime,” she cries, her hands scrambling to grip your shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of your shirt. “Whenever, wherever. Say the word and I’m yours.”

You thrust harder, feeling her juices splash against your skin with each clap. “You’re better than them, anyways.”

Her eyes snap open. “Am I really?” she asks, as if the validation was all she wanted. “Do you really think so?”

“God, you’re so wet and tight,” you groan, ignoring her, wrapping your mouth around her nipples while her walls squeeze you harder.

“Look at me!” she gasps, even though her own eyes are rolling as you fill her completely. “We’re partners, remember? We took down Yuna together. We’re the only two people in this company who actually understand what it feels like to have to work for what we want.”

“Ning, you’re my little whore, you know that, right?” You slam into her like it would break you from the chains that Winter had over you. “You’re so fucking slutty that it drives me crazy.”

“Use me,” she begs, her voice breaking. “Fuck me like I’m the only girl you need.”

You fuck her with every ounce of energy remaining in your body, every moan a declaration of allegiance as she meets you halfway with each thrust, nails clawing into your back.

“Fuck—I’m gonna come—I’m gonna come—you’re fucking me so hard—” she cries loudly, her voice echoing through the empty meeting room like a speaker.

When you finally spill into her, it’s violent. You roar her name, gripping her waist until she yelps as you empty yourself completely into her. She clamps down around you, shuddering through her own release while her fingers press on the bruise you got from the boxes that almost fell over Karina.

You both stay that way for a while, breathing against each other’s sweaty faces.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus. Ningning lifts her head slowly, her hair is a complete disaster, sticking to her damp forehead and her lips are swollen and bruised from your kisses.

She looks utterly wrecked, and yet at the same time, triumphant.

“Okay, you do have to admit,” she whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw. “Karina really would not fuck you like this.”

--

It’s late—past 8pm on December 30th—and the executive floor has been transformed into a staging ground for the company’s New Year’s Eve gala.

You’re currently balanced on a step stool, trying to string a heavy banner of silver fairy lights across the main reception archway.

“A little to the left,” Karina says from below, holding the other end of the lights, looking critically at your alignment.

She’s wearing a sleek black turtleneck and wide-leg trousers, sleeves pushed up to her elbows—expensive, effortless, and breathtakingly perfect even while doing manual labor.

“My left or your left?” you ask, sweat prickling at your temples.

“My left,” she says, squinting. “It’s crooked. If my father sees a crooked banner, he’ll think the stock price is crashing.”

You adjust it, glancing down at her. “How’s this?”

She meets your eyes, and for a split second, smiles. “Better.”

“Question,” a voice cuts in from the hallway.

Ningning walks out from the conference room, carrying an iPad in her arm like it’s a self-care book that she desperately needs.

“Why are the Head of Design and our star Permanent Intern hanging fairy lights at 8pm?” She sets it down on a side table, looking between the two of you with genuine confusion. “Doesn’t this company have, like, a budget for decorators?”

Karina chuckles. “We do. But I heard the last time we hired a ‘visionary’ decorator, they tried to fill the lobby with live peacocks. It was a disaster.” She walks over to the banner, adjusting a wire you missed. “Sometimes, if you want something done right, you just have to do it yourself. Besides,” she glances at you, “it’s kind of nice and quiet at this hour.”

“Fair enough,” Ningning says, shrugging. “Just don’t expect me to climb any ladders in these heels.”

“Don’t worry,” Karina hums. “We need your legs intact—they’re saving our sales reports.”

She turns back to you as you climb down the ladder. “So,” she says, light-heartedly. “Are you ready for the madness tomorrow night?”

“As ready as I can be for a room full of people who make more in a minute than I do in a year,” you say, dusting off your hands.

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Tell me about it. My father is already threatening to seat me next to the eldest son of Enhypen Group. I think he’s trying to merge our families like a corporate acquisition.” She pauses, looking up at you through her lashes. “Unless... you wanna save me?”

Your heart stops beating for a second, and then goes on overdrive. “A-are you asking me to be your date to the gala?” you stumble.

“I’m asking for a human shield,” she teases, stepping closer. “But if you—”

The elevator chime shatters the moment like glass.

The doors slide open, and the woman that steps out clearly doesn’t belong here—that’s the first thing you notice. In a sea of business casual and muted corporate tones, she’s the complete opposite. She’s wearing a tweed jacket that came right out of a Gangnam lookbook, a skirt short enough to give even Ningning a run for her money, and oversized sunglasses that she doesn’t bother to remove indoors at 8pm.

She walks with a lazy, cat-like confidence, her heels clicking against the tile with a rhythm that sounds like a countdown—but not to New Year’s.

Karina stops dead in her tracks, her playful smile vanishing. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she inspects the newcomer’s outfit with the critical gaze of someone who grew up in the front row of New York Fashion Week.

“Who is that?” she asks, her voice a mix of curiosity and judgment. “I haven’t seen that coat since the 2018 fall collection.”

“That, my beautiful boss-girl who won the genetic lottery,” Ningning answers smoothly, stepping up beside you, “is the wicked stepmother.”

Karina blinks. “Stepmother?”

“Her name is Giselle,” Ningning explains. “Or, as she’ll be known in three months, the new Mrs. Aespa. Your uncle’s fiancée.”

Karina’s eyebrows shoot up. "That’s her? Uncle’s mystery woman?" She looks back at Giselle, who is currently ignoring the receptionist and checking her long, overly bright nails. “I knew she was young, but she looks my age. Minjeong is going to have an aneurysm.”

“I believe the aneurysm has already occurred,” Ningning says, folding her arms. “Winter hates her guts. Thinks she’s a gold digger trying to erase her late mother’s memory.”

“You can’t exactly blame her for jumping to that conclusion,” you say, finding yourself siding with Winter for once in your life.

Giselle finally gets waved through and struts past the three of you, leaving a trail of heavy, expensive perfume behind. She doesn’t even look at you. At any of you. To her, you’re just the help hanging the lights.

“Well,” Karina sighs, smoothing her trousers. “Family dinners just got a lot more interesting. I should go inside and make sure Minjeong doesn’t throw a stapler at her.”

You watch her go, and as soon as she’s out of range, Ningning steps next to you. “She looks confident, doesn’t she?” she whispers, nodding toward Giselle’s shrinking figure. “But look at her hands. She was shaking.”

You turn. “Why? Is she scared of Winter?”

“No. She’s scared because she saw the guest list for the party. And she saw his name.”

“Whose name?”

“Winter’s ex,” she whispers, the name sliding off her tongue like poison. “I did some digging. Before she met Winter’s dad... Giselle was the ‘late nights at the office’ he was always telling Winter about.”

You stare at her. “She’s the one he’s been cheating with?”

“Well, one of many.” Ningning grins, and it’s a little terrifying. “She’s marrying the father, but she used to fuck the daughter’s boyfriend behind her back. Do you get it now? If Winter finds out, the wedding is off. If the dad finds out, Giselle is out on the street.”

“This is insane,” you say, trying to untangle the mess in your head.

“It’s messy, but delicious.” She pats your chest gently. “And most importantly, it works in our favor. Mr. Cheater probably thinks he can keep Giselle quiet at the gala. But we’re going to get to her first. We’re going to use her to burn him to the ground.”

“How?” you ask, but you’re not even sure if you want to know.

“I have a plan in mind.” She smiles and whispers in your ear, “So... are you in or not, partner?”

Who's your favorite character now?

Winter

Ningning

Karina

Voting ended onJan 8

[mysonesecret]

2. Her Cousin Karina (The Chairman's Daughter Series)

Winter x Male Reader ft. Ningning & Karina | 15k words | Masterlist | Read on Fanprose

← Part 1 (Winter Is Coming) Part 3 (Naughty List Ningning) →

Tags: smut, comedy, au, rich girl, brat, brat-taming, switch

--

The elevator doors are almost shut when you jam your hand between them like the male lead in a K-drama. Except you’re not chasing after your one true love. You’re chasing after a girl you want to throw into a swimming pool filled with holy water.

The doors part. Ningning is the only one inside, lounging against the mirrored wall, scrolling on her phone like she’s checking the status of the souls she’s already collected today—including yours, most likely.

“Brave,” she says, not even looking up. “Most people don’t risk amputation just to avoid waiting another thirty seconds for the next one.”

You step in and immediately smack the emergency stop. The elevator halts with a loud buzz.

That gets her attention.

“Whoa,” she says, clutching her phone. “How’d you know about my secret fantasy of being kidnapped by a coworker?”

“Delete it,” you say firmly.

She tilts her head. “Delete what? I have a lot of bad decisions on here.”

“You recorded us without consent. That’s illegal.”

“So is half the shit this company does,” she says lightly. “Relax. I’m not posting it on TikTok. I’m just holding on to it.”

“In case?”

She nods like you finally get it. “Exactly. In case. It’s called leverage. Rich people love it.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re not using me as leverage.”

She pushes off the wall. “Did you think there weren’t going to be any consequences when you went down on the CEO’s daughter with the door unlocked?”

You step closer before you can talk yourself out of it, closing the distance until her scent hits you—studio makeup with something fruity underneath.

The elevator suddenly feels like it’s shrinking.

“Delete it,” you repeat, quieter.

She looks up at you, eyes bright and filled with mischief. “I’ve never seen you mad before. It’s kind of hot.”

“I’m not mad,” you say, even though your pulse is slamming in your neck. “Not yet.”

“Mm-hm.” She taps her screen once, nails clacking. “That’s why you’re breathing like you sprinted up twelve flights.”

Your hand shoots out before you can think, palm smacking the wall beside her head hard enough to echo. She flinches—just for a second—then grins, laughter slipping out like this is all just entertainment to her.

“Not gonna lie, I’m like half scared and half turned on,” she says mockingly.

“You think you’re the only one with dirt?” you say, leaning in just enough to make her blink. “You really believe that?”

She lifts her chin. “Enlighten me,” she says. “I love story time.”

“I saw you. Downstairs. In the storage room with the Director.”

Her smile widens, not even a hint of shame. “Nothing gets past you, huh? You’re a little too good at your job for someone who’s so criminally underpaid.”

“And your job isn’t to blow your boss in a closet.”

“Oh, please.” She waves her phone like a fan. “Your job isn’t to get face-fucked by the ice princess either, but here we are.”

Heat spikes under your skin. “You have no morals, Ning.”

She rolls her eyes. “Spare me the righteousness. You literally just fucked the CEO’s daughter on her own desk. We’re two sides of the same coin. Don’t climb up on the moral high ground now, the air’s too thin for you up there.”

You lean in on instinct, crowding her back against the mirror. Her shoulder blades thump softly against glass.

Your body hovers over hers, and you become intensely aware of two things. The first is that you’ve never once noticed a camera in this elevator. And the second is that this is a terrible, terrible idea, and still, you won’t change your mind.

“You smell like sex,” you say. The words come out low, almost a growl.

Her lips curve. “And you don’t? I can practically taste Winter by just sniffing your face. Bet it was yummy, huh?”

You look down. Her skirt is short enough that when you’ve got her pinned like this, the hem rides up, revealing most of her smooth, luscious thighs and the obvious absence of anything underneath.

You shift your weight, thigh nudging between hers, and she sucks in a tiny breath she probably didn’t mean to let out.

“No underwear?” you ask, lifting her skirt up enough to confirm. “You just wander around the office like this after-hours?”

“They got soiled,” she says, simply. “I assume you don’t need to ask why.”

“It must be extremely difficult to find another pair here in a lingerie store.”

“We’re a production house, not a department store.” She clicks her tongue. “That’s next door.”

“Did the white panties you wore before changing into the lingerie mysteriously disappear?”

She beams. “My god, you pay attention to my underwear? Are you sure you’re not in love with me?”

You let out a loud scoff. “How does it feel going through life thinking everyone’s in love with you?”

“It feels great, actually.” Her knee brushes yours. “So? Now what?”

“Now you delete the video.”

She pulls her phone out again, twirling it between her fingers. “I told you. I need it. Just in case it comes in handy one day. Don’t worry, it’s for her, not you.”

You grab her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to still her hand. “My face is in it. You’re not keeping that.”

She studies you, eyes flicking over your expression like she’s flipping through channels, picking the one that turns her on the most. Then she smiles.

“I’ll make you a deal.” She taps her phone to your chest. “I’ll delete it… if you admit you’re attracted to me.”

You stare at her. “Are you twelve?”

“And,” she continues, as if you hadn’t spoken, “that I looked good during the shoot.”

“So you want a compliment? That’s your price? More validation?”

“I want honesty.” Her grip on your forearm tightens, pulling you half an inch closer. “I know you were drooling behind the monitor like everyone else. Own it.”

You open your mouth to argue. Nothing comes out.

She smirks. “Thought so.”

It’s insane how badly you want to wipe that smile off her face. It’s worse how close you are to kissing it off instead—if not for the fact she was just sucking off your boss no more than an hour ago.

You swallow, contemplating every decision that led to negotiating with this so-hot-but-so-slutty menace to society.

“Fine,” you finally cave in. “You’re attractive.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

“There. You got what you wanted. Now delete it.”

“Say it properly,” she says, biting her lip. “You wanted me.”

Your jaw clenches. She just looks at you, waiting like she has all night.

“You looked good on set. You were really hot,” you force out. “I wanted you. Happy?”

“Getting there,” she says, biting a finger. “Now the fun part.”

Of course there’s a fun part.

“I want you to say”—she taps the finger against your chest, slow, taunting—“that when you were watching me get fucked… you wished it was you in that closet instead of him.”

A sharp laugh breaks out of you. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Maybe,” she says, smiling like it’s a compliment.

You step in even closer, chest pressing to hers now, your breaths mixing. “You want me to say I fantasize about fucking you? That’s what gets you off?”

Her pupils blow wide. “Yeah,” she whispers.

Something in your brain snaps like an overstretched rubber band.

You drop her wrist, and grab her hips instead. Her back hits the mirror with a soft thud, then you turn her around, pressing her into the cold metal, forcing her palms flat against it for balance.

She lets out a startled little sound that dissolves into a shaky laugh. “Oh. We’re really doing this.”

You lift her skirt, and bring your hand down on her ass, hard enough to make the smack echo off the cramped walls. She jerks, a gasp escaping her lips.

“You’re such an entitled brat,” you say, watching your hand print bloom pink on her skin. “You think playing with people’s lives is a game.”

“I mean, it is kinda fun—”

You spank her again, palm stinging from the impact. She bites her lip, shoulders tensing.

“You think that just because you’re hot, you can get away with everything?” you say, watching her cheeks start to flush in the mirror.

“Yes,” she says, looking back at you.

“You don’t need to answer everything.”

“Don’t ask then.”

You slide your hand under her skirt to find her already soaked.

“What’s this all about?” you ask, collecting her juices on your fingers. “You’re dripping on my hand in an elevator.”

“Now you know the reason I didn’t bother putting any panties back on.” Her head tips forward, forehead pressing to the steel as your fingers slip between her thighs.

“So you expected this to happen?” you murmur, rubbing slow circles over her clit.

She whines, hips pushing back against you. “Not really, but I’m not regretting it even a little bit.”

You increase the pressure just a bit, and she moans into the air, the sound catching and breaking like she forgot how to breathe properly.

“Now about that video,” you say, voice low in her ear. “You’re going to take your phone out. You’re going to scroll to it. And you’re going to delete it. In front of me.”

“You’re very demanding for someone with no leverage,” she breathes, fingers slipping off the glass.

You curl your fingers inside her. Her knees wobble. “No leverage? Not even a little bit?”

She lets out something that’s between a laugh and a moan. “Okay—okay, fine. But I can’t do anything like this.”

You pull back a fraction. “Take it out.”

She reaches blindly into her pocket, dragging her phone out with unsteady fingers. You keep your hand between her legs, barely moving now, just enough pressure to keep her trembling.

“Don’t look at my passcode.” She unlocks the screen with her face and scrolls.

You lean over her shoulder, ready for the worst—some grainy thumbnail of Winter’s office door half-cracked, your own stupid head clearly visible where it shouldn’t be.

Instead, you get Ningning. A lot of Ningning.

Photos of her in the studio mirror, leaning in to fix her lipstick and very obviously documenting her cleavage. Another set of photos of her sprawled on a hotel bed in matching lace, one strap deliberately slipped. And then another of her hand sliding under the waistband of her panties, cut off just before anything explicit.

She scrolls past another nude—bathroom mirror, towel around her hair, absolutely nothing else.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“What?” she says, thumb flicking again. “I’m very photogenic without clothes on.”

She swipes. There’s a video thumbnail of her in bed, covers around her waist, tits out, hand sliding between her legs.

“Skipping this one,” she says automatically.

More pictures: her standing in the bathroom, completely naked, one leg up on the counter; a shot from behind, ass in the mirror, looking over her shoulder with a wicked smile. A short clip of her grinding on someone’s lap in a dark room, his face out of frame.

There is absolutely nothing of Winter’s office. Nothing of you.

Your stomach drops, then flips into something hotter and uglier. “Where is it?” you demand.

“Where is what?” she asks, pausing on a shot of her ass in the very skirt she’s wearing right now. “Wow, I kinda ate with this one—”

“The video!” you snap. “Of Winter and me. The one you ‘need for leverage’.”

She squints theatrically at the screen, scrolls a bit more, revealing yet another thirst trap—this time her licking whipped cream off her own finger. Still no office.

“Oh… yeah, that doesn’t exist,” she says, nonchalantly.

Your brain hiccups. “What?”

She locks the phone and lets her hand drop, smirking at your reflection in the mirror.

“I never said I recorded you. You came storming in like, ‘delete the video, you villain,’ and I thought, ‘wow, this is entertaining, you’re telling on yourself’.”

You stare at her. Your hand is still between her thighs. You briefly consider using it to strangle her instead.

“So you lied,” you say, jaw clenching.

“No,” she hums. “You assumed. Difference.”

You stare at her. At the smug little tilt of her mouth. At the way her thighs are still parted, your hand still between them, fingers coated with her warmth.

“You think this is funny?” You reach up and catch her chin, forcing her to turn her head just enough to meet your eyes in the reflection.

She looks at you, chest heaving, mascara smudged from earlier. “Maybe a little. I mean, your fingers are still inside of me while your mouth is pretending you hate me. It’s breaking my brain.”

You should pull back. Walk away. Reset the elevator and pretend this never happened. Instead, you curl your fingers again, harder and further this time. She gasps into a silent moan, her whole body jolting.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“For what?” she says, but her voice is weak now. “Bringing some excitement into your life?”

You drag your hand free, and spin her. Her back hits the elevator wall with a soft thud. Before she can catch her balance, you’re crowding in, one hand at her throat, the other already pushing her skirt up again.

“For playing with something you didn’t have,” you say. “For making me beg over nothing.”

Her fingers curl in your shirt. “I’m not Winter, I can’t make you do anything,” she says, but it’s even weaker now. “And for the record, you didn’t even beg. You threatened and demanded.”

You get your belt open with one hand, yanking the zipper down. Your cock springs free, painfully hard again.

She looks down, pupils blowing out. “Didn’t you just come inside of the Chairman’s only daughter?”

You hook one of her legs up, pressing her knee toward her chest. The head of your cock slides through her wetness, and she sucks in a breath like you’ve punched the air out of her.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty left for you, too,” you say, rubbing your cock against her dripping folds.

“Lucky me,” she says, moaning softly. “I didn’t get to come earlier.”

You look at her—smudged makeup, messy hair, still a liar, still a menace. You want to shake her. You want to fuck her until she forgets everyone else’s name.

“You will now,” you say, feeling yourself sink into her.

She lets out a soft, involuntary moan. “Are you punishing me or rewarding me? I can’t tell at this point.”

Then you thrust.

She cries out, loud enough that you slap a hand over her mouth on instinct. She’s so hot and tight around you in this position that it’s almost painful. Her walls clench down, taking you in inch by inch until your hips are flush with hers.

The elevator shudders with the force of it. She clings to you, one leg hooked around your hip, the other foot scrambling for balance on the floor.

“God, you’re so mad,” she gasps when you ease your hand off her mouth. “Was it really that serious?”

“You lied,” you remind her, punctuating each word with a thrust. “And for what? A fake compliment?”

“Now you’re the one lying,” she moans, eyes fluttering. “You think I’m hot and you wanted to fuck me. That wasn’t a fake compliment, it was a confession.”

You angle your hips, chasing the spot that made her squirm on your fingers earlier. When you find it, she nearly sobs, nails digging into your shoulders through your shirt.

“When you say ‘fuck me’,” you say, hitting it again with the tip of your cock. “Is this what you mean?”

She nods frantically, forehead dropping to your collarbone. “Yes—fuck—that feels so good.”

“Then yes,” you growl into her hair. “I did want to fuck you.”

You grab her ass with both hands, lifting her properly now, letting her weight rest against the wall and your body. You start to really move, setting a heavy rhythm, every thrust making her bounce slightly in your grip.

Her voice pitches higher, words breaking apart. “Oh my—fuck—yes—you’re fucking me so hard—what the hell—”

“This is what you wanted?” you bark. “This is why you prance around without any panties? Hoping someone would come along and fuck your brains out, you little slut?”

“Not anyone, I still have standards, you know,” she whines, but her hips are chasing you, grinding down to meet every thrust. “Keep going, just like this, don’t stop—”

You don’t. You fuck her harder, anger and arousal tangling until you can’t tell them apart, every slam of your hips a punishment and a promise.

Her pussy clenches around your cock, the walls fluttering as she falls toward the edge. You drive into her relentlessly, your fingers digging into the flesh of her ass, holding her up against the elevator wall. The metal panel vibrates with each impact, her back sliding up and down as you pound her harder.

“Fuck—I’m—already—” she chokes out, her body seizing.

Her thighs tremble around you, pussy squeezing tight in rhythmic pulses. She cries out, head thrown back, nails raking down your arms as she comes undone on your cock.

“Fuuuuck!” she screams until her voice breaks.

You don’t let up, thrusting through her spasms, feeling her juices completely coat your shaft.

But you’re not done—not yet. With a grunt, you lower her legs to the floor, watching her knees buckle. She slumps against the wall, panting, eyes glazed with aftershocks.

“Turn around,” you order.

She hesitates for a split second, but you grab her hips and aggressively spin her yourself. She braces her hands on the wall, ass presented to you, still quivering from her release.

You kick her feet apart wider, lining up your cock at her dripping entrance. One hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back as you slam back inside her pussy from behind. She yelps, the sound turning into a loud moan as you set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward with brutal force.

“Apologize,” you growl, pulling her hair tighter to arch her back. “Say sorry for being such an annoying little cunt all the time.”

“Oh my god…” she shudders through your anger. “You’re gonna mess me up like this…”

Her ass jiggles with each thrust, the mere sight pushing you closer to the edge.

“Say it!”

“Say what?” she asks, eyes rolling back like she can’t process anything anymore.

You release her hair to slap her cheek hard, the crack echoing in the confined space. “Say you’re sorry! Now!”

She gasps, pushing back against you, meeting your aggression with her own desperate grind. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m sorry for messing with you, I thought it was funny—I’ll apologize as much as you want, just keep fucking me—please—”

You oblige, gripping her hips firmly, pulling her onto your cock over and over.

You feel it coming.

“I’m coming,” you say, fucking her as hard as you can.

“Give it to me! Hurry! I deserve it—”

With a final, deep thrust, you pull out, fisting your wet, throbbing cock. You aim for her ass, stroking fast as bursts of cum shoot out, splattering hot across her cheeks and down the crack. She moans loudly at the sensation, wiggling slightly as you paint her ass white.

“Wow… it’s so hot…” she breathes as your cum slowly drifts down the beautiful curve of her ass.

Still breathing heavy, you scoop up the mess with your fingers—thick strands of your cum mixed with her wetness. “This is what you deserve,” you say, turning her head roughly by the chin.

She gasps, and opens her mouth without protest, tongue willingly out and eager.

You push two fingers inside to coat her tongue. She sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours, swirling her tongue around you. Then you scoop up the rest, and drag your hand over her cheek, painting her face with the sticky fluid, from jaw to temple.

“I really need to piss you off more often,” she says, lips parting as she pants loudly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, hand still rubbing gentle circles around her clit.

--

The next week feels like karma clocked in early just to bully you.

Winter doesn’t mention the office. Or the kneeling. Or the fact that you left a crime scene’s worth of DNA inside her and then went home looking like you’d been hit by a car. A car with Ningning in the driver’s seat, of course.

Instead, Winter actually does something worse—she acts like you’re just her intern again.

Your inbox reproduces overnight like horny rabbits. You start the week with seven flagged tasks; by lunch there are twenty-three, all labeled “URGENT” with that cheery passive-aggressive exclamation point. Things you’re pretty sure used to belong to three different roles all migrate to you: sample pulls, model call sheets, presentation decks, fixing someone else’s typo-riddled brief “before the board sees it.”

In meetings, Winter is in full assassin mode—calm, crisp, and frighteningly efficient—like she has ice water for blood and a stopwatch for a soul. Except, she doesn’t seem to acknowledge you as a human being anymore. She critiques your slides while staring at the screen, asks you for numbers while looking at the table, and dismisses you with a flick of her hand like you’re a literal bug.

You know better. That it shouldn’t matter, that it shouldn’t hurt. Still, it lands like a door in your face.

Ningning, meanwhile, is living her best life.

For some reason, she doesn’t bring up what happened either. She doesn’t smirk and say “remember when you railed me in the east wing elevator?” Instead, she just swans through the office in tiny skirts as usual, leaving a trail of perfume and ruined concentration behind her.

And every time you catch a glimpse of her, you remember how hot her skin was under your hands and how she whimpered when you promised you’d make her finish.

--

Winter’s lingerie campaign drops on Wednesday and the office goes feral.

Every screen in the lobby is Ningning walking toward the camera in slow motion, garter straps biting into her thighs, lips parted on a breath you know the exact sound of.

The email blasts hit every five minutes:

“Incredible early engagement!” “Record-breaking click-through!” “Customers are eating it up!”

By noon, a company-wide message goes out:

“Congratulations to Creative Director Kim Minjeong and to our new luminous muse, Ning Yizhuo, on a successful launch. Effective immediately, Ning will be the official face of our lingerie division…”

By the will of the gods, you run into her later by the makeup stations. She’s in a silk robe and red stockings, surrounded by stylists like a very slutty planet with its own orbit.

When she sees you, her smile curves slow and pleased. “Hey, intern,” she calls, loud enough that two others turn. “Did you like the video?”

“For the record, you’re an intern too,” you say, but you’re not even sure if it’s true or not.

You suddenly think about the way her nails raked your shoulders in the elevator, the way her voice broke when you told her you weren’t letting her leave without coming her brains out.

“Are you not going to answer my question?”

“The video is very you,” you say, turning just enough to get another glimpse of her tits spilling out the holiday push-up bra. “Great job, I’m sure the shareholders are thrilled your cleavage is saving Q4.”

She laughs, throwing her head back. The robe gapes, and three people in the vicinity forget how to breathe. “You say that like you didn’t field-test the product in-house.”

But instead of firing back on her complete lack of subtlety, you keep walking before your body remembers what her voice sounded like when she begged you not to stop.

--

The universe, displeased with your recent life choices, decides you deserve smiting.

The flu hits Saturday night.

By Sunday you’re sweating through sheets and hallucinating design briefs on your ceiling. You pray that your immune system works as hard as you do, but come Monday morning, you email HR from inside a blanket burrito apologizing for not coming in to cough on the entire creative department.

You sleep. Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. Your phone buzzes again. And again. By the fifth buzz, your survival instinct kicks in: either it’s the company or your mother, and both will kill you if you don’t respond.

You squint at the screen. A stack of unread emails waits. You open the top one.

Subject: Head of Design We are pleased to welcome Yoo Jimin as our new Head of Design. Ms. Yoo joins us with extensive experience at global luxury houses such as Chanel and Hermès, and will be working closely with Creative Director Minjeong Kim on several key initiatives…

You stare at “working closely” until the words blur. Your fevered brain conjures an image of Winter glaring at a woman in a Chanel suit across a conference table. Before figuring out what to do with that visualization, you groan, drop the phone on your own face, and pass out again.

--

When you finally drag yourself back into the office three days later, the building has leveled up from buzzing to mildly hysterical.

People are doing that fake-casual fast-walk even though they’re just going to get a fourth coffee in the break room. Two other interns are re-wiping already clean glass doors, and someone has replaced the dead plant in reception, which is frankly the most shocking development of the quarter.

You shuffle into the cafeteria, still a little floaty from cold meds, and stare at the “breakfast” options like they personally wronged you. The scrambled eggs are the color of some kind of legal liability, for sure.

“You look like shit,” someone announces cheerfully.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s Ningning, but you do anyway because your recovering brain decides that a glimpse of her waist could potentially make everything a tad bit better.

She’s leaning against the doorframe in a satin cami that’s one strategic breeze away from causing a lawsuit if not for the blazer above it pretending to be responsible—plus a skirt so short it should come with a content warning. Her hair’s in a messy bun that’s not actually messy, just weaponized.

“And you look like what the HR handbook uses an example for inappropriate office attire,” you mutter. “How’s fame?”

She grins, grabbing a tray. “Oh, you know, full of old men in suits saying ‘empowerment’ while staring at my chest.”

“So exactly like before,” you say. “But now with better lighting and a little extra pay.”

“Exactly.” She reaches for a yogurt she’s absolutely not going to eat. “You picked the worst time to get sick, though. So much drama.”

“Yeah? What’d I miss?” you ask, eyeing the bacon like it might fight back. “Other than you terrorizing the entire office with your legs, digitally now.”

She nudges your tray forward, then leans in like she’s telling you state secrets. “Winter’s new playmate just arrived. And they hate each other.”

“And who might that be?”

“Her cousin,” she whispers excitedly. “Yoo Jimin. Big deal. Big résumé. Big tits, too.”

“Oh—right. The new Head of Design,” you say slowly, memory finally digging itself out of the NyQuil fog. “FIT grad, Chanel, Hermès, blah blah blah, something pedigree.”

She nods. “That’s the one. She showed up Monday and now all the staff are in love. The board’s completely obsessed. Even the CFO smiled, and I didn’t know his face could physically do that.”

You blink. “And Winter?”

“Oh, Winter wants to die,” Ningning says, clearly savoring every syllable. “They’re supposed to be this perfect duo—daddy’s little princess and his golden niece, taking over the world together. But they’re not getting along at all.”

You picture Winter being asked to “collaborate” with someone just as glamorous, just as competent, but actually liked by others. God, how entertaining.

“What’s wrong with her?” you ask. “The cousin, I mean.”

“Wrong?” she snorts. “Nothing. That’s the issue. She’s disgustingly nice.”

You wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.

“Define nice,” you say slowly. “Because I’ve heard people here call you nice before.”

“Let’s see—she smiles at interns,” she says, counting on her fingers. “She thanked the lighting team by name. She brought coffee and donuts to a meeting she wasn’t even late to.”

You stare blankly. “So she’s like… the anti-Winter.”

“Pretty much. Same bloodline, different factory settings.”

You can’t help it; you laugh. It comes out as a cough halfway through. “And they expect them to work together.”

“Oh, they insist,” she corrects. “All the big projects now say ‘Creative Director Minjeong Kim & Head of Design Yoo Jimin’ in the header. You should see her when someone compliments Jimin. It’s like watching a cat being forced to share a window.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can’t believe I missed all of this while fighting for my life.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, playfully patting your shoulder. “You’ll make up for lost time. We both know Winter only knows how to process feelings in two ways: cold contempt and using you as a stress ball.”

You swallow, and it still hurts.

--

The coffee machine makes a wet, terminal death rattle and spits a last, sad dribble into your mug before its light flips from orange to accusing red.

“Same,” you tell it with a sigh.

You’re alone on the floor. It’s past nine. Most sane people went home hours ago; the only other signs of life are a vacuum cleaner whining somewhere down the hall and the quiet fizzing of your remaining brain cells.

“Rough night?” a soft voice says behind you.

You turn.

There’s a woman in the doorway who absolutely does not belong to this hour of the night. Cream sweater, black trousers, white sneakers that somehow still look clean. Her hair’s in a loose ponytail with a few strands framing her face in that infuriating, “I didn’t even try” way that takes normal humans a ring light and at least two YouTube tutorials. No heavy makeup—just gloss, lashes, and skin that glows under fluorescent lights, the same lights that make everyone else look like they died before lunchtime.

Most offensively of all, she looks awake and functional. You find this hostile, personally.

“I didn’t think anyone else would still be here at this cursed hour,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Machine’s dead,” you say, gesturing toward it like a fallen soldier. “We’re gathering to mourn. Want to join?”

She steps in, eyeing the blinking red light with mild pity. “I’ve heard it clanking all day. I think it’s been trying to file a complaint.”

“That makes perfect sense. It’s overworked, underpaid, and everyone yells at it when it breaks. It’s basically an intern.”

She laughs—quick, a little surprised. “You must be one of them,” she says, a hand coming up to push a loose strand behind her ear. “The interns, not the coffee machines.”

“I’m both, actually,” you say, lifting your empty cup. “But my official title is Guy Who Carries Things Until He Expires.”

She smiles, then moves to the counter like she’s been here a thousand times, reaching for the electric kettle in the corner while setting down a reusable tumbler from a brand you cannot afford.

“How about some tea?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “Since the coffee machine’s clearly filed for divorce with us.”

You blink. “Tea? As in a hot beverage that won’t destroy my organs?”

“As in hot water plus leaves,” she says, tapping the kettle with a finger. “Very advanced technology. Take a seat. I’ll give you a demonstration.”

“Sounds like sorcery to me,” you say, but you sit on one of the plastic chairs anyway. Your legs are grateful for the excuse.

She fills the kettle, then pulls a small metal tin out of her bag like some kind of prepared adult.

“Relax, you don’t have to look so carefully, I’m not poisoning you,” she says, glancing back. “I’m new, I don’t know who’s important yet.”

“Spoiler alert. It’s definitely not me.”

She laughs again, warmer this time. “What’s your name, definitely-not-important?”

“Intern.”

Her eyes shrink a little. “That’s a role, not a name.”

“Feels like a full identity at this point,” you say with a shrug.

You tell her your name, and she repeats it back, as if she actually cares to get it right, which is confusing because no one here remembers interns unless they need free labor.

“I’m Karina,” she says, with a quick, almost shy smile. “I just started this week. New designer.”

You squint. “Like… graphic designer? Or ‘I yell at seamstresses’ designer?”

She shrugs, pouring water into a company mug and her fancy tumbler once the kettle clicks. “Somewhere in the middle, probably. They said there would be fabrics, colors, and crying. I felt qualified.”

“That’s the whole company. You just described our brand values.”

She brings a mug over to you and slides it across the table. “Here. They say hot tea helps with colds a tiny bit more than spite.”

You wrap your hands around the mug. Your fingers actually shake a little, from caffeine, from exhaustion, and from the fact that someone voluntarily gave you a hot drink without also giving you twenty emails.

“Careful,” you warn. “If you’re nice to me, they’ll revoke your badge. It’s against culture guidelines.”

She lifts a shoulder, hopping up onto the counter with the ease of someone who hasn’t yet been spiritually crushed by this building.

“Try not to rat me out then,” she says, swinging one foot absently. “So. How late do you usually stay? I left at eight yesterday and saw someone still at the intern corner.”

“I was naming the delivery boxes,” you say, mildly shocked she even looked that way. “There’s a stack in the hallway that’s haunted. One of them is called Regret.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I’ll say hello to Regret on my way out.”

“Please don’t, he’s shy and emotionally fragile.”

You take a cautious sip. The tea is minty with something floral underneath, warm without being harsh. Your shoulders loosen; you hadn’t even realized they were locked.

“How about tonight?” she asks, raising her wrist. “It’s already… 9:28.”

“Tonight might be an early one,” you say, stretching your back until it makes a sound that should concern a medical professional. “Hoping to leave before midnight. Really pamper myself.”

“Luxury,” she says dryly. “Do you at least get to eat?”

“I inhaled a granola bar at my desk around four, if that counts. I think it was from the last administration.”

She chuckles again. “Who owns you, anyways? Department-wise.”

“Officially, logistics,” you say, and then shudder a bit. “But lately, Ms. Kim in Creative.”

Her brows tick up a millimeter. “Min—” she starts, then catches herself so fast you almost miss it. “Ms. Kim Minjeong,” she corrects, smoothing it out with a sip of tea. “Right.”

You snort. “Look at you, almost dropping a first name. You really are new.”

“Still getting used to everything,” she says, swirling her tumbler.

“Don’t worry,” you say, raising your mug. “This place is a testament that negative reinforcement works well.”

She studies you for a second, and you realize she’s actually looking—at the dark circles, the slumped posture, the way you keep kneading your thumb into the same spot on your wrist like you’re trying to keep yourself present.

“If she’s ever too much,” she says, her voice gentler now, “you can vent to someone, you know.”

“To who?” you ask, taking another sip. “My landlord? The ghost in the stairwell?”

“Me,” she says, then immediately softens it with a little shrug. “Or, you know, whoever you want to talk to. I’ll be around.”

You simply look at her. “You’ve known me for nine minutes.”

“Yeah. And in nine minutes I’ve learned that you’re tired, underfed, and making jokes to keep from collapsing.”

You stare down at the half-finished tea. It feels weird, having someone notice that much that fast without using it against you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “For even saying that. And for the fancy tea.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, lifting her tumbler like she’s toasting your impending breakdown. “Literally. Do not tell anyone I was nice. I have a reputation to fake.”

You smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Footsteps echo faintly in the hall. The spell breaks a little. You drain the rest of your tea and push yourself to your feet. Your body complains.

“I should get back,” you say, giving it a quick rinse. “If I’m away from my inbox longer than seven minutes, Ms. Kim’s sixth sense activates.”

“Go,” Karina says, still swinging her feet off the counter. “Before she materializes in the doorway and demotes us both.”

“Pretty sure there’s nothing lower than intern.”

--

Look, you don’t mean to make the break room a habit. It just becomes one.

Three nights in a row, your day ends the same way: inbox screaming, eyes burning, body running on whatever’s left of borrowed energy and resentment.

Three nights in a row, you drag yourself toward the elevators, see the glow from the break room, and turn right instead of going down.

And three nights in a row, Karina’s already there.

The first time after that initial tea session, she’s sitting on the counter again, sketchbook open, legs swinging against the cabinet.

She looks up as you walk in, clocking the slouch in your shoulders and the way you’re pinching the bridge of your nose like you’re trying to erase the day.

“Did the other machine finally unionize?” she asks, checking her watch.

“They’re on strike,” you reply, rubbing your eyes. “Demanding better beans and fewer breakdowns. I’m considering joining.”

She hops down from the counter in one smooth motion, landing lightly. “I can’t help with the beans,” she says, already going through her bag. “But I brought snacks.”

She triumphantly pulls out a packet of almond cookies like a magician revealing her final trick. Your stomach growls so loudly it’s embarrassing.

“You really need to stop doing this,” you say, taking one anyway because pride is for the well-fed. “People will start rumors.”

“About me feeding a starving intern?” she says, tearing the packet open for you like she knows you’re on energy welfare. “Scandalous.”

“About you being nice,” you say, breaking the cookie in half to offer one to her, to which she declines. You suddenly wonder if it’s poison, but stuff it in your mouth regardless. “Truly unheard of in these parts.”

“I could’ve sworn you promised to keep it a secret,” she says, jumping back on the counter.

The night after that, you walk in to find her with her hair down—soft waves spilling over her shoulders—and a pair of thin, round glasses sliding halfway down her nose. Her laptop is open on the table, screen glowing with silhouettes, color swatches, and chaotic-looking notes made by someone who clearly knows what they’re doing.

“You’re not allowed to look,” she says, closing it half-shut when you glance at the screen.

“Trade secret?” you ask, still peeking.

She turns it further away. “Hideous placeholder fonts. I have an image to maintain.”

“Too late,” you say, dropping your bag onto the floor. “I’ve seen you with a reusable mug and paper straws. Your illusion is shattered. I know what you are.”

She wrinkles her nose at you then tilts her head, really focusing on you. “Another bad day?” she asks.

“Define ‘day,’” you say, rubbing your temples. “It started last month and hasn’t stopped yet.”

She nudges your mug toward the kettle. “Sit,” she orders gently. “Tell me how many emails Ms. Kim sent you with ‘URGENT’ in the subject line.”

You flop into the chair like gravity doubled just for you. “If I say the number out loud, I’ll start crying,” you say, tipping your head back. “And then she’ll sense weakness and appear.”

Karina smiles, but there’s an edge of concern in it. She doesn’t push, still. Instead, she talks about fabrics and trends and how weird it is to be “the new girl” again after years of being the expert somewhere else. Her hands move as she speaks—animated, expressive, painting shapes in the air. You sip your tea, interrupt occasionally with deadpan commentary, and somehow the tight coil in your chest loosens another fraction. For a few minutes, your brain stops screaming. For a few minutes, the world feels survivable.

By the end of the week, it’s a clear pattern: you drag yourself toward the exit like a zombie with overdue credit card bills, but some gravitational force nudges you sideways into the break room. Karina’s always there—legs crossed on the counter, hair falling out of its ponytail, waiting with a mug already steeping, a snack opened like she predicted your blood sugar crash, and a dry joke ready to go.

You trade war stories—hers about past campaigns and eccentric European clients who insisted everything be “more beige,” yours about this company’s unique brand of psychological warfare disguised as workflow.

Some nights, you talk. Some nights, you sit in mostly comfortable silence, her sketching while you stare at your phone pretending your eyes aren’t crossing. Either way, she always notices when you’re more wrecked than usual—the way you wince when you stretch your neck, or the slight tremor in your hands when you reach for your mug.

One night she even slides a little bottle of ibuprofen across the table without comment. Another, she wordlessly swaps your coffee for decaf tea mid-sentence when your leg won’t stop bouncing under the table.

At some point, you find yourself pretending you’re “just wrapping up” in the break room, even though you finished your work twenty minutes ago.

You don’t say anything about it, but the truth is simple—the days feel less brutal knowing Karina will be the last person you see before you leave.

And maybe that’s a little scarier than anything Winter’s ever done.

--

The meeting invite hits your inbox at 9 a.m. like a threat: “ALL-HANDS: Q4 RECAP & FORWARD VISION.”

Even the title feels hostile.

You show up five minutes early with a laptop, a notebook, and the kind of hollowed stare that makes other interns avoid making eye contact. The conference room is already filling—board members settling into leather chairs, department heads whispering, senior designers comparing tablets—while you’re pressed against the wall with the rest of the disposable employees, clutching your laptop to your chest like a flotation device.

Winter sits at the head of the table like she’s on a throne—perfectly crisp blazer, every word clipped clean enough to cut through skin. You keep your head down, take notes, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding from too much coffee and lack of sleep.

The meeting starts.

Numbers. Charts. People saying “synergy” unironically.

Then the Q&A slides appear, and the temperature in the room drops.

Winter is in her element: sharp questions, sharper rebuttals. Someone stumbles over a metric; she corrects them before the CFO can blink. A murmur ripples across the table—impressed, fearful, or both. Winter doesn’t notice. Or she does and finds it boring.

Until she turns on you.

“Next deck,” she says, without looking. “Let’s see the updated mock-ups for the holiday capsule.”

The slide doesn’t change.

You freeze. You sent those mock-ups at 1:47 a.m. last night. You distinctly remember naming the file “Holiday_FINAL_v3_actually_final_THIS_ONE.”

Winter’s gaze flicks to the screen, then to the empty spot where your work should be. Slowly, it turns toward the wall of support staff. Toward you.

“Intern,” she says, her voice cold enough to flash-kill bacteria. “Where are they?”

Heat crawls up your neck. “They should be in the shared drive. I finished them last night and—”

“Well, they’re not.” She turns back to the screen. “If they were, we’d be looking at them instead of a blank slide.”

A few people shift in their seats. You feel the room pivot, like you’ve just become the designated pre-lunch entertainment.

“I can pull them now,” you say, quickly. “It’ll take thirty seconds to—”

“Did you or did you not complete the assignment?” Winter cuts in. Her eyes lock onto yours.

“Yes,” you stumble. “I completed it. I emailed you and the team, and I put it in the drive.”

“So you half-finished your job and assumed someone else would do the rest. And now you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Your stomach drops through the floor. You’ve been holding this department together with caffeine, fear, and the last five neurons you haven’t killed. And now she’s rewriting it as laziness.

You open your mouth, something between apology and protest on your tongue—

“Kim Minjeong-sshi,” another voice says.

Heads turn down the table. Winter’s jaw tics once. “Yes?”

The woman speaking sits three seats from the CEO—grey sweater under a blazer, hair pulled back. You know that ponytail, that little mole near her lip, that brand-name tumbler she set down by her notebook.

Karina.

Except the placard in front of her reads:

HEAD OF DESIGN – YOO JIMIN

Your brain stops for a full second.

She doesn’t look at you. She keeps her gaze on Winter, polite but absolutely unflinching.

“He did complete them,” she says calmly. “I saw the email. They’re in the Holiday folder.”

Winter’s eyes narrow. “They’re not in the deck. Which means they weren’t where they were supposed to be.”

“That’s on me. I pulled from the wrong subfolder when I was finalizing the presentation.” She taps her laptop once, and brings up a file tree on the shared screen. “Here they are.”

Your mock-ups pop up on the big display, huge and glossy and undeniably there.

A ripple goes through the room. You see the CEO’s brows lift, just slightly. Someone down the table exhales.

Winter’s expression doesn’t move much, but you’ve been watching her too long not to notice the tension ratcheting up around her eyes. “Regardless, he’s responsible for ensuring—”

“He’s responsible for doing his assigned work,” Karina cuts her off, still maddeningly composed. “Which he did. And let’s call our employees by their names. They have them for a reason.”

The room goes very quiet.

You feel every heartbeat in your throat. You also feel about three inches tall, because now you’re not just “intern”—you’re the example in a power struggle you didn’t know you were sitting through.

Winter’s gaze slices your way, then snaps back to Karina. The air between them is suddenly sharp enough to cut the room in half.

The CEO clears his throat, clearly ready to move on. “Well, since we have the mock-ups—”

“Yes,” Karina says smoothly, switching the screen to a clean view of your work. “As we were saying, the holiday capsule is in good shape…”

No one looks at you again.

Your stomach flips as your designs dominate the screen—huge, professional, seen. Humiliation and pride collide so hard in your chest you genuinely don’t know which wins.

Winter says nothing. But her jaw is clenched so tight you can practically hear her teeth grind.

The meeting rolls forward. Numbers. Goals. Action items.

You don’t hear most of it. Your brain keeps circling the same three facts:

Karina is not just “Karina,” the nice designer with expensive tea and emergency cookies.

She’s Yoo Jimin, the Head of Design, the famous cousin that Winter is supposed to “work closely” with.

And she just stepped between you and Winter’s line of fire in front of the entire top floor.

--

The company throws itself a party when the numbers hit “historic,” and this campaign apparently qualifies.

The bar’s free, the DJ’s too loud, and every executive in the building is suddenly pretending they know how to smile. Branded lights wash the walls in soft pink and champagne gold, as if Marketing got drunk and decided to decorate. There’s a giant looping projection of Ningning from the campaign—slow-motion hair flip, garter straps, a wink that probably boosted Q4 by three percentage points. Screens along the bar alternate between sales graphs and behind-the-scenes footage, as if the company’s trying to prove that capitalism and thirst traps can, in fact, coexist.

Everywhere you look, people are congratulating themselves.

“Historic numbers.”

“Unprecedented engagement.”

“Great work, team.”

Which is hilarious, because as far as you can tell, 90% of the lift came from Ningning’s surprisingly photogenic butt cheeks and Winter’s willingness to weaponize lingerie.

Speaking of Ningning, she’s the center of gravity, obviously.

She’s wearing a navy bodycon lounge dress from the new line—a soft-looking knit that has absolutely zero interest in subtlety. It clings to her like it has a personal vendetta against modesty, the neckline dipping low enough that several shareholders have forgotten their own names.

She’s everywhere—laughing with the CEO, letting a senior partner kiss her on both cheeks, draping herself against the photo wall with her leg popped for the cameras. Every time you glance up, it’s her on the screens and her in the room. It’s like being trapped inside an ad campaign and a slow-motion car crash at once.

Winter is the other star of the night, even if no one says it to her face.

She’s in a long white dress with a slit that communicates “I will literally destroy you” more than “cocktail attire.” People approach her cautiously, like she might revoke their health insurance if they mispronounce her title.

“The creative direction was genius.”

“You really elevated the brand.”

“You must be so proud.”

She nods, smiles just enough, eyes already scanning for the next threat. She’s the architect of the whole circus and also the one person who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

You’re somewhere in the middle of this ecosystem, technically “on duty” but with nothing to do once the speeches end, so you hover by the second bar, where the bartenders don’t care who you are and the expectations are non-existent.

“Are you hiding from me?” Ningning asks, suddenly materializing at your elbow like she teleports when attention is low.

You look over. Up close, the dress is even more ridiculous. The soft navy knit clings to her like it was steamed onto her body.

“Where can I even hide?” you say, quickly looking up. “You’re on every single screen here.”

She beams, tossing her hair. The knit of the dress shifts with the movement in a way that ought to be illegal.

“What can I say?” She exhales. “I’m the people’s lingerie.”

“That’s… not how that phrase works.”

“Sure it is,” she hums. “The shareholders were just telling me how ‘empowered’ they feel when I bend over.”

You make a face. “Gross.”

She seems completely unbothered. “They signed the bonus checks while staring at my chest, so I’m willing to call it a fair exchange.”

Speaking of chest, your eyes are dragged down again before you can stop them. The fabric is pulled tight over a frankly impressive curve, and at this distance, the outlines of her nipples beneath the fabric are impossible to unsee.

“You keep looking,” she says, smirking. “Miss me that much? Do we need a round two?”

“I’m just doing quality control,” you say, clearing your throat. “For the brand.”

“And how does the brand score?”

“Indecent.”

Two men in suits you recognize from the quarterly shareholder Zoom drift over, drinks in hand, faces already flushed. Ningning’s radar goes off instantly.

“Mr. Han, Mr. Lee,” she sings, turning toward them with a smile that could melt steel. “You made it!”

Behind them, a small cluster forms around another woman.

Karina.

You don’t see her right away because she doesn’t shout for attention the way Ningning does. But once you do, it’s impossible to stop seeing her.

She’s in a black dress—not flashy, not overly tight, but cut to flatter in all the exact ways that make people look twice. The neckline is a little higher than Ningning’s, but the fabric molds over her chest in a way that makes you understand what Ningning meant when she called her “stacked” the other day. The blazer she usually hides behind is gone; there’s no sweater, no slouch, just curves and clean lines and a quiet confidence that pulls people in.

Two shareholders break away from their group and beeline toward her like metal filings to a magnet. They hover for half a second—waiting, positioning—then dive in with their pre-approved compliments.

“Jimin-ssi, your work with the silhouettes is incredible.”

“The cuts were so fresh, really elevated the whole line.”

She smiles, genuinely pleased. “Thank you,” she says. “The team did a lot of the heavy lifting. I just pointed at things.”

“You’re underselling yourself,” one of the men says, leaning in. “This company’s future is very bright now that you’re here.”

Karina laughs politely, eyes crinkling at the corners. Expressions and professionalism you’ve never seen in the break room. She’s good at this, you realize. No seduction. No innuendos. Just charm—clean, effortless charm, the kind that makes people behave better around her without knowing why.

“You see what I mean?” Ningning murmurs, suddenly back at your side. “She’s stupid hot.”

“Who?”

She gives you a look. “Who?” she repeats. “The human hourglass in the Celine dress, that’s who. Look at her.”

You do. And yeah. Up here, with the blazer off and the neckline doing God’s work, it’s harder to pretend you didn’t notice.

“She’s really pretty, isn’t she?” you say, unable to tear your eyes away from her smile.

“She’s gorgeous,” Ningning says with a mournful sigh. “Unfortunately, God gave her personality and tits. Completely unfair. You really didn’t clock the boobs? Even a little?”

You look again. At the way the dress dips, at the way the fabric stretches, at the way one of the shareholders keeps accidentally dropping his gaze.

“She’s been wearing sweaters the whole time,” you mutter. “How was I supposed to know what was going on under there?”

Ningning shakes her head. “You’re so unobservant. You stare at my ass like it’s going to vanish, but you missed that?”

You turn to her quicker than lightning. “First of all, I don’t stare at your ass,” you say, lying through your teeth. “Second, I was too busy dying. And she was giving me tea, not HR violations.”

“Well, that body is also giving ‘tea’.”

Before you can retort, Karina breaks away from her cluster and heads your direction. You look at her—at the steady way she meets your eyes, even in a room full of people who technically matter more, while the shareholders watch her go like they just saw their stock dip.

“There you are,” she says, taking the spot at your elbow so seamlessly you feel the warmth of her shoulder before you process her voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She slides a champagne flute into your hand. It’s heavier than the ones at the regular bar—real glass, not whatever the interns get.

“This is contraband,” you say in a hush. “The good stuff is supposed to be for executives only.”

“Perks of sitting at the big boys’ table,” she says, clinking her glass against yours. “I stole one for you.”

“Criminal. I’m telling Finance.”

“Go ahead,” she says. “They were already staring at me for grabbing two.”

You take a sip. It’s dangerously smooth. Worlds away from the fizzy sugar you had before.

You take a deep breath after savoring it. “If you keep giving me things above my pay grade, I’m going to start asking for health insurance and fair working conditions.”

“I’m not a magician,” she says, holding back a laugh. “Just a designer.”

“You know,” you say, eyeing her over the rim as you sip. “I really thought ‘new designer’ meant someone who would be asking me where the bathrooms are. Not someone who can bully my boss’ boss in public.”

“I didn’t bully her,” she says, raising a brow. “I just reminded everyone that shared folders exist.”

“You also said ‘let’s call our employees by their names.’ I’m pretty sure I saw three executives spontaneously grow consciences.”

She almost chokes. “Was that too much?”

“It was so incredibly hot,” you say before your brain can stop you.

Her eyes widen. You feel your face heat.

“I-I mean,” you backpedal, “professionally. Ethically hot. HR-safe hot.”

“Right,” she says, eyes darting away for a second. “Well, don’t get used to it. I might yell at you someday over a hemline or something.”

“I’ve never looked forward to being yelled at so much before.”

Across the room, Winter laughs at something someone says. When her gaze swings your way, it lingers a fraction too long. On you. On Karina. On the comfortable angle of your bodies at the bar.

You pretend you don’t notice. You’re not sure you succeed.

“So.” You lean against the bar, turning back to Karina. “Most people lead with the ‘I’m senior leadership’ thing. Why didn’t you?”

She swirls her champagne, watching the bubbles climb. “Would you have talked to me the same way if I did?”

You think about that. The first night with tea. The jokes. The way you told her Winter chews interns for brunch without realizing she’d be in the room for the next feeding.

“Yeah, probably not,” you admit.

“Exactly,” she says triumphantly. “I liked that you thought I was just another tired designer.”

“You are another tired designer. The title just means you get nicer snacks.”

“Joke’s on you,” she says, taking one last sip. “I have the same vending machines you do.”

You let yourself enjoy it for a moment—the music thrumming through the floor, the champagne warming your throat, the surreal fact that someone with Head of Design on her badge is standing beside you like you belong in the same zip code.

You’re mid-sip when Ningning bumps your shoulder with hers and nods toward the far side of the room. “She’s coming,” she murmurs.

You don’t need to ask who. Winter moves through the crowd in that way she has—parting people without touching them, every line of her body screaming “I hate you all” even when she’s smiling.

Karina exhales. Ningning’s grin widens. You resist the urge to hide behind the bar.

Winter stops in front of your little cluster, eyes sweeping once, taking everything in: Ningning in the company dress, hip cocked against the bar; Karina close enough that your sleeves are almost touching; you with a glass of the good champagne you definitely didn’t pour yourself.

“Congratulations,” Karina says first, because she’s either brave or suicidal. “The numbers were incredible. You really outdid yourself.”

Winter’s mouth curves, barely. “The work was adequate. The results were better.”

It almost sounds like praise, if you squint.

“And Ning,” Karina adds, nodding toward her. “You carried the whole campaign on your shoulders.”

“And other parts,” Ningning says, looking down at her own chest. “But thank you.”

Winter doesn’t dignify that with a response. Her eyes land on you instead.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks, glancing down at your almost-empty glass. “You seem pretty relaxed considering how far behind you were this morning.”

You consider your options. You could lie. You could make a joke. You could say “yes” and see what happens.

“I didn’t realize off-hours counted as performance reviews now,” you say before your brain can stop you.

Karina shifts subtly, sensing the edge in Winter’s face. “He’s been running non-stop all week,” she says lightly. “We can spare him one decent drink.”

Winter’s gaze slices into her. “Head of Design has thoughts on resource allocation now?” she asks, coldly.

“I have thoughts on not treating human beings like workhorses,” Karina fires back.

Ningning lets out a low, delighted sound. “God, I love this show,” she murmurs.

You should probably shut up. You don’t.

“To clarify, does standing by the bar during a party violate some kind of department policy?” you add, trying to break the tension, but possibly adding more instead.

Winter’s eyes narrow. You continue like a moron.

“Should I cc you on my drink choices too, or just send a weekly summary? Actually, let me go back to my desk so you can grade my breathing—”

“Enough,” she says, silencing you without even raising her voice.

She turns fully to you. Up close, you can see the faint smudges under her eyes, the tightness at the corners of her mouth. She looks like she’s held together by willpower and caffeine and the thin thread of control she refuses to drop.

“Come with me,” she says.

You don’t know if Karina put something in the drink, but your brain refuses to function.

“Why?” you ask with the defiance of every previously fallen intern’s spite. “We’re having fun here. Well—we were, before you came along.”

“If you have enough energy to stand here and mouth off,” she says softly, “you have enough energy to have a real conversation in private.”

You know that tone. It’s not the one she uses in meetings. It’s the one from her office, right before she tells you to kneel.

A weak laugh squeezes itself out of your mouth. “Why don’t you just ask me to kneel in front of everyone? Bet you’re dying to.”

Ningning chokes on a bubble. Karina’s eyes widen.

Winter’s expression doesn’t move, but something flares in her gaze. “Do you think this is a joke?”

You’re tired. You’re annoyed. You’re buoyed by champagne and the memory of Karina saying your work was “solid” in front of people who actually matter.

“Do you?” you counter. “You’ve been pretending I don’t exist all week unless it’s to remind me I’m replaceable.”

Karina shifts, clearly about to step in again. “Okay,” she says quickly. “Maybe we can not do this here—”

“No,” Winter says, cutting her off without looking. “He wants to talk. Let him.”

Her eyes are on you, sharp and dangerous. The party buzzes around you, unfazed.

“I don’t want to say anything,” you say, almost slurring from either the alcohol or subconscious fear. “I want to not get my head bitten off in front of the entire company for doing my job.”

There it is. Out loud. You feel Ningning go very still beside you, like a cat scenting blood.

For a split second, Winter looks like you slapped her. Then it’s gone, replaced by that cold, polished mask.

“Come with me,” she says again, quieter this time.

You open your mouth. “Hey, I’m technically still—”

“Now!” she growls.

You glance at Karina. Her fingers are tight on her glass. Ningning’s eyes are bright, hungry, already replaying this scene in her head for later. You’re surprised she’s not recording it.

You set your flute down on the bar.

“Yes, Ms. Kim,” you say, clenching your jaw.

Winter turns and walks toward the elevators without checking if you follow. You follow anyway, leaving behind the branded lights, the champagne, and the only two women who have a chance of saving you from getting devoured—walking instead after the one who’s made a habit of it.

Winter doesn’t speak in the elevator.

She just jabs the button, taps her keycard, and stares at the closed doors like she’s considering prying them open with her bare hands. The muffled bass from the party fades as you climb, leaving only the cable hum and the quiet, controlled sound of her breathing.

You don’t have a single clue where she’s taking you, but you keep your mouth shut. It’s just survival instinct at this point.

The doors slide open onto the executive floor—somewhere you’ve never been before because it was at least ten leagues above your pay grade. She walks down the hall without looking back once.

But she doesn’t need to. You follow.

The door unlocks with a soft beep. Warm light spills out over polished wood, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows with the city glittering beneath like a screensaver. She steps inside. You do the same. The door closes behind you with a click that feels a lot like “no witnesses this time.”

“Do you think you’re funny?” she asks, turning around.

You shrug. “Sometimes, but I guess not tonight and not to you.”

Her expression doesn’t move. “You sure had a lot to say downstairs. In front of my staff. In front of Jimin.”

There it is. The real crime.

“Ah,” you say, folding your arms. “So this is really about Yoo Jimin.”

Her eyes flash. “You embarrassed me in that meeting. And then you let her turn it into a stage.”

You huff a laugh. “For the record, you tried to throw me under the bus for something that wasn’t my fault. She just told you that you were wrong.”

She steps in, close enough that you can smell both the alcohol and her expensive perfume that you’ve almost forgotten. “You think she did that for you? Because she cares about your little feelings? Guess what, she doesn’t. She just likes having something to save.”

“And you like having something to break. So I guess everybody wins.”

Her eyes flare. For a second you think she’s going to slap you, or fire you, or both.

“You think I don’t see it?” she says, exhaling sharply. “Her bringing you tea. Laughing at your jokes. She uses you to make herself look better than me. She gets to be the sweet little angel, the one who ‘cares’ about the overworked intern. And I get to be the villain who chews you up.”

“You are the villain who chews me up,” you say, leaning forward. “You treat me like dirt and now you’re offended someone else noticed I exist and decided not to wipe their shoes on me. That’s not on her. That’s on you.”

Her gaze sharpens dangerously. “Watch your mouth.”

“You give me panic attacks and after-hour emails, she tells me I look tired and hands me ibuprofen. It’s a bold new concept called ‘basic human decency.’ You should try it sometime.”

She lets out a loud scoff. “So you’re upset I don’t coddle you like a child. That’s what this is?”

“I’m upset you act like I’m disposable and then lose your mind when someone treats me like I’m not. Pick a damn lane and stay in it.”

Her nostrils flare. “What on earth made you think you can talk to me like this? Did Jimin—”

“Stop blaming Jimin for everything, Minjeong.” Her name stops her like a hand to the chest and her shoulders stiffen. “Take some accountability for the way you treat others. If you’re so offended that she’s nice to me, maybe that says something about you.”

“Did you just call me by my first name?” she asks, eye twitching. “I’m still your boss no matter how many glasses of champagne she hands you.”

“It’s better than not having a name at all.”

She closes the distance further, heels silent on the carpet. “Do you think she’s pretty?” she asks, voice dropping.

You blink. “What?”

“It’s a simple question.” She tilts her chin, watching you like she’s ready to kill you for answering wrong.

You do anyway. “Of course I think she’s pretty, who doesn’t?”

Her eyes narrow. “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

“What is your problem right now? Seriously.”

Something breaks on her face. Her hand suddenly shoots out, fisting in the front of your shirt.

“You are mine!” she hisses, yanking you towards her. “You work for me. Not her. Not this company. Me.”

Your pulse spikes, hard. “So that’s what this is about? You’re jealous of your perfect cousin?”

“I’m not jealous,” she snaps, too quickly. “I hate her. There’s a difference.”

“You hate her so much you’re furious that she defended me. You hate her so much you walked across a party because we were talking. You hate her so much you dragged me up here instead of yelling at her.”

Her jaw flexes subtly. “I’m not going to yell at her. That’s exactly what she wants. To prove she can get under my skin. To show she can take my toys away when I play too rough.”

You stare. “I’m a toy now?”

She leans in, so close your noses almost brush. “Since when were you not?”

You want to argue. You really do. But your body has already decided it knows this script better—the heat whipping through you, the sharp, horrible exhilaration of being the outlet for all the things she refuses to feel anywhere else.

So you say nothing and watch as the frustration runs hot through her annoyingly pretty face.

“What the hell do you want, Winter?” you ask, breaths getting heavy.

“You don’t need to know. I’ll get it regardless. I always do.”

You know you should be annoyed, but you also wish you could kiss her again so badly. Which is insane, because five minutes ago you were composing a heartfelt resignation letter to your dignity. But something about the way her lips twitch as if she's constantly holding back emotion, or the way her eyes look like they're blocking others from seeing inside her, or even the way her tiny shoulders look like they have to carry the weight of the world, constantly draws you in.

You hate it. But deep inside your soul, you're just so attracted to her.

“You don’t get to run to her after this. You don’t get to let her pat your hand and tell you I’m unfair,” she says, breath tickling your face, leaving remnants of champagne. “You’ll walk back to that party like nothing happened and remember who you answer to.”

You scoff. “And who’s that, exactly?”

“Kneel and I’ll remind you,” she says, practically exhaling into your mouth.

Your heart is hammering, your head still full of rooftop lights and champagne and the sound of Karina saying your name in a room where you weren’t supposed to have one. The whiplash between that and this makes you feel a little sick, a little high.

Winter watches you carefully, lips slowly parting, possibly against her will. Her eyes flash down to your mouth and then back up.

“No,” you say, firmly. “I’m not kneeling to you anymore.”

Her fingers slide into your hair, tilting your face up to hers just enough to make your scalp tingle. “Are you disobeying a direct order?”

Your conviction doesn’t falter this time, even if your body is one step away from folding. “I’m not kneeling again,” you repeat.

Without warning, she kisses you.

It’s not gentle; it’s sharp, filthy, and claiming, her teeth catching your lower lip like she wants to bite the word no out of your mouth.

Her hand in your hair tightens, nails scraping over your scalp as she drags your head exactly where she wants it, angling you so she can deepen the kiss, and swallow whatever protest you had lined up.

You wrap your fingers around her waist as her tongue slides against yours—hot, possessive, tasting like alcohol and the last of her patience—and every annoyed sound she makes goes straight through your chest.

“Kneel.” It’s a growl against your lips, a command breathed right into your soul, like the word alone should be able to drop you.

But you still refuse.

Your hands drop from her waist to the backs of her thighs, fingers digging into expensive fabric and bare skin as you haul her clean off the ground. She gasps into the kiss, arms flying around your shoulders on instinct, but you don’t give her room to regroup; you keep your mouth sealed to hers, walking her blind across the room. Her legs clamp around your hips, heels biting into the backs of your thighs, dress hiking up as you carry her.

You fall onto the couch with her in your lap, her practically weightless body slamming down over your thighs. The sudden change in angle tears a rough gasp out of both of you, mouths breaking for a split second before she surges back in, chasing your lips, one hand fisting your collar to drag you up to meet her.

Her knees plant on either side of your hips, dress already rucked up to her waist from the way you carried her, and she kisses you like she’s furious you dared to move her and even more furious at how much she likes it.

That’s when she breaks the kiss, just far enough to fix the situation. She stares down at you, eyes dark, hair a little mussed, lipstick smeared at the edges, and then her hands go to her waist.

Without a word, she drags the dress up—over her hips, over the flat line of her stomach, over her ribs. The fabric snags briefly on her bra; she huffs, yanks harder, then peels it over her head and flings it blindly aside.

You forget how to breathe for a second.

She’s in the new lingerie line. Of course she is. All white, barely-there bra, high-cut panties that disappear into the curve of her hips, straps a shade lighter than her skin so it all looks like negative space and implication. The kind of set you’ve spent weeks logging, steaming, packing onto models who don’t come close to looking like this in it.

The lace lies flat and perfect over her, cups cut just low enough that your brain short-circuits trying to decide where to look.

“If you won’t get on your knees, then I guess I’ll have to,” she says, more annoyed than sexy, but for some reason it gives the same effect with her.

In one clean, controlled motion, she’s the one kneeling in front of you.

As with everything she does, her fingers are efficient and practiced: buckle, button, zipper. Cool air hits you; your body makes its usual terrible decision. She frees you with a rough sort of care, hand wrapping around you like she’s reclaiming something.

You manage one shaky inhale before she leans in and takes you into her mouth. No warning, no preamble. Just heat and wet and the sensual slide of her lips around you.

“Still care about her fucking tea?” she asks, voice low and heavy.

Yeah, fuck the tea.

You groan, hand flying to her shoulder, but she knocks it away without looking up, nails biting into your hips instead to pin you where she wants you. Her rhythm is steady, punishing, exactly how you imagined it to be.

Her mouth works you deeper, throat flexing, breath huffing hot against your skin when she pulls back for air. Spit and pre-cum cover her chin, her lipstick starting to smear at the edges. She doesn’t slow down.

The couch digs into the backs of your legs as your knees threaten to give. You brace one hand on the armrests, the other fisting uselessly at your side while she sets the pace, all control and no mercy. Her name practically gets strangled out of you, hips jerking despite the way her fingers dig in to keep you still.

You can’t take it anymore.

Your hands go to her hips before you’ve even decided to move. You spin her, push, and she hits the couch, and you drop to your knees between hers.

“Oh, now you want to kneel,” she pants, grabbing your hair.

“I don’t understand you why you’re like this,” you say, breath hot against the inside of her thigh. “You literally drive me insane.”

“The feeling is mutual. Stupid intern.”

Then you drag her panties aside and put your mouth on her like you’ve been thinking about since the first time she sat on the edge of that office desk and yanked your hair—ready to remind her exactly what you bring to the table when you’re not on your knees for her, but making her come apart on the couch instead.

“I missed this,” you say, letting her hot, familiar scent fill you up.

“I don’t need your commentary,” she growls, fisting your hair harder, pushing it down into her. “Apologize with your mouth for being such a nuisance in my life.”

It isn’t until your tongue is on her that she stops trying to talk.

She tastes exactly how you remember, which is so satisfying that it fries your brain for a second. You hook your hands under her thighs and drag her closer to the edge of the couch until her knees are bracketing your shoulders, her heels digging into your back.

“You’re mine—” she starts, breath catching as you flatten your tongue and drag it slow from bottom to top. “Don’t ever think about doing this to her. Do you understand? You’re mine! All mine!”

“Still a jealous little brat, even when your legs are wrapped around my neck.” You laugh into her, then seal your mouth around her clit and suck.

Her hand slams into the back of your head like she can take it back. “Shut up,” she hisses. “Just stop fucking talking and do the one thing that you’re decent at.”

So you do.

You work her with the same ugly determination she brought to her knees, teasing circles and quick flicks until her hips are grinding up against your face, the careful control gone from her voice.

“You always have to have the last word,” you murmur against her, slipping two fingers inside, crooking just right. “Nice to finally have you speechless.”

“Who says I’m speechless,” she gasps, even as her thighs tremble. “You’re just—ah—”

You curl your fingers inside her, drag your tongue in tight, focused patterns, and she breaks that sentence in half with a helpless, bitten-off sound that absolutely wasn’t meant to escape. Her hand tightens in your hair, and she pushes your head back, causing you to fall onto the rug behind you.

You barely have time to think before she’s climbing into your lap, swinging a leg over, settling down on you with zero hesitation.

“So impatient,” you manage, hands gripping her hips.

“You’re slow,” she says, rolling her hips to get you where she wants you. “As usual.”

You guide yourself to her entrance, and she sinks down in one smooth glide, taking you all the way in. Her mouth drops open for a second, eyes fluttering, then she collects herself, fingers digging into your shoulders for balance.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“I know,” she cuts in, and starts to move.

It’s not graceful. It’s better than that. She rides you like she has something to prove—short, sharp motions at first, testing the angle, then longer, deeper grinds as she finds the spot that makes both of you see static. You let her set the pace as your hands roam over her tiny, fierce waist, the strap of her bra sliding all the way down now.

Your thumbs brush her ribs, then higher, over the line of her sides, up to her breasts. She tenses, then shudders when you roll your thumbs over her nipples.

“You look so good in our stuff,” you say, voice rough. “Should’ve put yourself in the campaign instead of Ning.”

“I said shut up,” she says, breathless now, rhythm stuttering as the angle hits her just right. “Just shut up and keep fucking me. You literally have one job.”

You oblige.

You plant your feet, grip her ass, and start driving up into her, meeting every downward thrust with your own. The couch complains; you don’t care. Her hands scramble for something to hold, one landing on the back of the couch, the other clutching at your shirt, riding you hard enough that you know you’ll feel it in your knees tomorrow.

It’s still not enough.

On one particularly sharp drop, you stand.

She yelps, arms flying around your neck on instinct as you pick her up, keep her wrapped around you, stay buried in her. Her legs clamp around your waist. You get your balance, then slam her back against the wall.

“I can’t believe you called her perfect,” she said, burying her face onto your neck. “How dare you.”

“Why are you so jealous? It’s so off-brand.” You adjust your grip, and she makes a small, indignant noise that has nothing to do with anger.

“Because you’ve never called me that, ever.”

You slowly rock her small body, letting gravity do the work for you as she sinks over your cock. “And you’ve never called me by my name unless you’re about to come.”

Her eyes flutter, lips parting in a way that makes you want to scream. “Then you know what to do if you want to hear it again.”

“Okay. Scream it this time.”

She loses whatever comeback she had. The rhythm is messy now—more about impact than precision—but the way she tightens around you with every push is enough. Her nails rake the back of your neck, her breath hot against your ear, little broken sounds slipping out no matter how hard she tries to swallow them.

When your arms start to tremble, you drag her back to the couch, half-dropping, half-laying her down. She lands on her back, legs still around you, hair a halo of chaos on the cushion.

You don’t give her time to regroup. You hook her knees up, plant them by your hips, and slide back in, pressing her down into the couch, pinning her there.

Missionary is supposed to be sweet. This isn’t. It’s leverage and eye contact and the obscene sound of skin on skin as you fuck her, deep and relentless, watching every flicker cross her face.

“Admit it,” you murmur, because you can’t help it. “You’re jealous that Jimin got close to me.”

She glares, which would probably work better if her voice didn’t catch when you angle your hips. “Shut up,” she says, fingers digging into your shoulders. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, which is saying a lot.”

“How about this,” you say, thrusting harder. “If you come in the next thirty seconds, you admit that I’m right.”

“There’s no wa—aah!”

Her moans fill the room as you ravage her roughly, angling her legs so that you thrust right into her spot over and over while saliva drips down the side of her lips.

“I’m still not—jea—”

She lets out a loud cry, sharper this time, almost choking on it—arms flying around your neck, back arching, walls clenching around you hard enough that it drags you right to the edge with her.

You ride it out, teeth gritted, every clench of her around you yanking you closer until there’s no room left for words, just the sound of her gasping against your ear.

At the last second you drag yourself out of her, the loss of her heat almost painful, hand wrapping around your cock as you stroke once, twice, and come hard over her.

She moans as it hits the flat of her stomach first, then higher—messy streaks across her ribs, beading on the delicate white lace of the bra where it crosses her skin. Some of it catches the edge of the panties, the thin ivory straps now vanishing into the wet shine of her arousal-soaked crotch.

You watch, dazed, as it starts to smear with every shaky breath she takes, glistening faintly where it blends into her skin and the once pristine white fabric. It’s so beautiful. It’s so hot. It’s so filthy. And entire your doing.

Her eyes flick down, taking in the mess, then back up at you—cheeks flushed, hair ruined, chest still heaving.

She looks offended by how much she clearly likes the sight of herself being completely covered in sweat and cum.

“I’m not jealous of her,” she pants.

--

They start paying attention to her the second you walk in.

The bakery’s done up like a Christmas movie set—gold ribbon on the tree, fairy lights in the windows, All I Want for Christmas at an abnormally dangerous volume—and Karina walks through it in a navy coat and a cream scarf like central casting finally nailed “dream girl.” Her nose is pink from the cold, hair tucked into the collar, cheeks flushed.

The guy at the espresso machine visibly forgets how to function.

“What are we thinking?” she asks, palms pressed to the glass case like a kid. “Cakes? Tarts? Full-scale sugar coma?”

“It’s a prep session, not a wake,” you remind her.

“Give it time,” she says, examining all her options behind the glass. “If we’re going to watch Minjeong juggle three decks and six executives, everyone deserves last-meal rights.”

She rattles off an order that sounds less like dessert and more like supply-chain abuse.

“Hi! We’ll take six of the chocolate hazelnut cakes, four of the strawberry shortcakes, two of those ridiculously cute mini yule logs, all the brownies, and ooh—” she squints “—those Santa things.”

The cashier blinks, then rings it up. When he reads the total, a small, quiet part of your soul ascends.

Karina just taps her card. “Company morale. Maybe I’ll expense it under ‘preventing arson.’”

“You know there are only like twelve people on our floor. This is enough to feed Legal and half of Sales.”

“Good,” she says, smiling. “Legal’s depressed. They deserve frosting.”

The barista hands over your coffees and, with way more focus than he ever gives you, leans on the counter toward her.

“E-excuse,” he says, cheeks going pink, “do you—um—have Instagram? I’d love to, like, tag you?”

Karina blinks, surprised, then laughs. “Sure,” she says, reciting her handle while he types it into his phone like it’s a password to a better life.

The cashier slides you six boxes, as if “pack mule” really was written on your forehead, along with the receipt. There’s a phone number scrawled at the bottom and a little smiley face.

You stare. “Wow. Must be nice being the main character.”

“What?” she asks, genuinely confused.

You flip the receipt so she can see. “You just pulled two phone numbers with a pastry order,” you say, pointing at it. “I don’t even get my name spelled right.”

She makes a face and crumples the slip without looking at it. “He got my Instagram,” she says. “You got brownies. You’re clearly winning.”

“Yeah. I’ll take my consolation latte.”

Outside, the air bites. Her breath fogs white; the lights in the street trees wrap everything in that fake warm glow that doesn’t actually do anything about the temperature.

She tucks the scarf closer around her throat. It frames her face in a way that makes it impossible not to stare for a second too long.

“You’re doing it again,” she says through the wool.

“Doing what?” you ask, shifting the giant cake box in your arms.

“Staring like you’re deciding which pastry I am.” She kicks a bit of snow to you. “For the record, I refuse to be the Santa tart.”

“And you’re buying this much sugar for people who are going to forget to say thank you,” you say, trying your best not to slip and die. “So we’re both a little weird.”

She shrugs, boots crunching over ice. “That’s not the point. They’ve been working nonstop. Sugar helps. If they remember I brought it, great. If not, they’re still less likely to cry in the bathroom.”

You watch her for a second as she talks—how she keeps mental track of who’s burnt out, whose kid was sick this week, who hasn’t left their desk since Monday. The way she spends her own goodwill like it’s inexhaustible, on coffee runs and late-night tea and buying half a bakery because the employees looked pale.

“You really like taking care of people,” you say. It slips out before you can edit it, even though there isn’t really another way to say it.

She glances over, surprised, then a little self-conscious. “I like when people don’t implode. It’s selfish, actually. Implosions are messy.”

“Sure. That’s why you remembered the copywriter’s dairy allergy and ordered a separate cake she can eat.”

She scrunches her face. “Don’t analyze me. You’re supposed to be my sarcastic sidekick, not my therapist.”

“I can multitask,” you say. “Sarcasm and observation. Very high skill set.”

“You’re in a better mood today. Did something explode in Production? Did someone finally punch the printer?”

“Maybe I’m just high on cake fumes.”

“Or maybe,” she says, eyeing you, “someone let you sleep for more than four hours.”

“Don’t spread rumors. People will expect this level of charm and I cannot deliver.”

“You underestimate yourself,” she says lightly. “You’re very charming when you’re not actively dying.”

“Wow,” you say. “Write that in my performance review.”

“I would if Minjeong would let me fill out your review.” She pretends to think. “Pros: actually reads briefs, shockingly competent, above-average sarcasm, good taste in cake, doesn’t run away when I ramble about color theory,” she says, pretending to count on her fingers. “Cons: tends to martyr himself, says ‘it’s fine’ when it’s very much not, refuses to tell me when his boss abuses him, underestimates how likable he is.”

You open your mouth, ready to joke it off again, but the look she gives you—bright, earnest, a little fluttery—makes the joke die in your throat.

You push through the revolving doors back into the lobby on a wave of warm, perfumed air and corporate Christmas.

The giant tree dominates the space—silver ornaments, white lights, brand logo glowing where the star should be. It would be pretty if it didn’t feel like an ad.

You’re halfway through composing a complaint about it when your brain catches up to what your eyes are seeing.

Winter, dead center of the marble floor.

Facing her: a man with perfectly styled hair and a smile that you hate already.

“What are you doing here?” Winter asks, her voice bouncing softly off the stone.

You and Karina slow automatically, the box suddenly very, very heavy in your hands.

“I came to see you,” he says, simply. “Like you wanted.”

Your stomach sours. Winter doesn’t move, face blank in that way you now know means she’s feeling too much. The tacky tree sparkles behind her, logo burning above her head like some sick halo.

“Why?” she asks, eyes trembling like the heat beneath her skin was melting her mask.

You stand there in the lobby with a ridiculous amount of Christmas sweets, next to the one person who keeps you sane, watching the man who taught Winter how to weaponize everything step neatly back into her life.

He smiles again. “Because I love you, Minjeongie.”

Who's your favorite character so far?

Winter

Ningning

Karina

Voting ended onDec 15, 2025

[mysonesecret]

1. Winter Is Coming (The Chairman's Daughter Series)

Winter x Male Reader ft. Ningning | 15k words | Masterlist | Read on Fanprose

Part 2 (Her Cousin Karina) →

Part 3 (Naughty List Ningning) →

Part 4 (Giselle's Jealousy) →

Tags: smut, comedy, au, rich girl, brat, brat-taming, switch

--

It’s Monday, the best day of the week, and you start the morning with three garment bags, four coffees, and absolutely no will to live.

The building’s decked out like a luxury Christmas ad—fancy gold bows, tacky fake snow, and designer branded ornaments that likely cost more than your rent. Is it pretty? Sure, maybe in that soulless rich-people-love-red-velvet kind of way. You’d probably appreciate it more if your fingers weren’t going numb around a cardboard drink tray and your shoulder wasn’t about to dislocate from hauling couture like a pack mule.

And surprising to approximately zero people, your boss has already texted you.

Director Lee: Where are you?

You check the time. 8:12am. Work starts at 9:00am. That’s so adorable. Apparently contracts are more of a fun suggestion when you’re at the bottom of the food chain.

You: Just got in, on my way up! 😊

You stare at the smiley face for three seconds before deleting it. He doesn’t deserve emojis.

The elevator walls are mirrored, which feels rude this early in the morning. You catch a glimpse of yourself: shirt wrinkled from your coat, collar slightly crooked, tie hanging on for dear life, hair doing that ‘I tried, then gave up’ thing that seems to be your new do. You look like the Before picture in a men’s skincare ad, and the dark circles definitely don’t match the brand mood boards.

The doors slide with a hum and reveal the un-magical top floor: open concept, glass walls, icy stares, and the giant lit-up company logo AESPA GROUP glaring down at you like God—if God only cared about profit margins and engagement metrics.

You shoulder the door to your boss’s office open. He doesn’t even look up.

“Took you long enough,” he says, still typing. “Is that my Americano?”

You set the tray down with the restraint of a man choosing not to commit homicide.

“Yes. Americano, no sugar,” you say, handing it to him. “Just like you.”

“What was that?” He finally glances at you, eyes flicking over your face, then your shirt, quickly enough that it feels like judgment.

“Just like you ordered.” You smile back—the kind you reserve for people who can fire you.

He takes a sip. “Too much foam. Tell them to fix it next time.”

You make a mental note to throw yourself into traffic. “Yes sir.”

“Hey, and try to look less tired,” he adds, waving a hand at you. “We’re one of the biggest fashion houses in Seoul, not an accounting firm. Iron that shirt next time.”

“Sure thing, boss,” you say. “I’ll just stop sleeping and start photosynthesizing.”

But he’s already typing again, so technically you could have just insulted his entire bloodline and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Outside, the office hums with the chaos of fake productivity converged with real deadlines. People actually say things like “brand synergy” or “content pillars” with straight faces.

You head to the intern corner—a tragic little island made of two mismatched desks, one sad plant surviving purely out of spite, and a shit-ton of unspoken trauma.

Ningning is already there, legs crossed, lipstick perfect, scrolling on her phone like she owns the Wi-Fi. Today she’s in a cream knit, white stockings, and a skirt short enough to be illegal in three countries.

She spots you and lights up. “My coffee hero!”

You set her cup down by her laptop. “One latte, minimal foam. Crafted with love and mild resentment, Your Majesty.”

“You’re the best,” she says, taking a sip. Her eyes flutter as she lets out an actual moan that draws a few looks from nearby desks. “God, marry me.”

“Tempting,” you say, taking a seat. “But I’m not sure I want to be your caffeine dealer for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, head tipping back, hair falling over her shoulders in perfect waves (you’re pretty sure her hair has a higher paying contract than you do). “Oh please, you love me. You’d last two weeks tops here without me. I make this place bearable.”

“You make this place an HR hazard.”

She leans forward, perhaps a little too far. “So, did he bite your head off again?”

“You mean metaphorically or literally? Because at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.”

Ningning chokes on her drink, giggling. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“God, I’m underpaid.”

“He really hates you, huh?”

“He hates the foam, my shirt, and my face.”

She gives you a once-over, not subtly at all. “Your face is fine. You could be someone’s office crush if you tried.”

“And yet, tragically, my main office role is ‘guy who carries things and gets blamed for the weather.’”

“Hot guy who carries things,” she corrects. “Be specific.”

“Thanks, I’ll put it on my resume,” you say, letting yourself look at her properly.

Ning Yizhuo, your fellow intern who started the same week as you. Perfect hair, glowing skin, a perfume cloud worth half your paycheck. She’s the kind of girl the whole office notices—the kind that makes whispered excuses for why she’s allowed to leave early. And somehow, she gets away with everything.

You? You’re just The Intern. The one with the dark circles and the good emails.

Across the room, some guy from merch swings past and calls her name. She lifts a hand in acknowledgment without taking her eyes off you.

“You stayed late again, right?” she asks. “I saw your light on when I was leaving.”

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “Slides. Samples. Whatever else he remembered at 8:59 p.m.”

“Cute. He asked me to stay late too.”

You keep typing, pretending to care. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm.” She hums, smugly. “Team bonding.”

You look at her, raising a brow. “Pretty sure teams usually have more than two people.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. The movement shifts her sweater, gives you a quick flash of lace strap. “This was a very… focused meeting.”

“Focused on what?”

She just smiles. “Do you really want to know?”

No. You absolutely do not.

“You realize he’s married, right?” you say, leaning back. “And also your boss.”

She shrugs. “I realize I like nice things. And men in power like pretty things that laugh at their jokes.”

You drag a hand over your face. “You’re going to get promoted and leave me here, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she says with a smirk. “But I’ll remember you fondly when I’m rich.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember you when I’m haunting this office after I die from being overworked.”

Across the room, someone calls her name again, more insistently this time. She stands, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs, tugging the hem in a way that just makes it ride higher when she walks.

“Meeting or something?” you ask.

She winks. “Apparently, the execs like my energy. Wish me luck.”

“Luck. And maybe a moral compass.”

She laughs. “Oh honey, that won’t pay the rent. Gotta go now, try and hold the fort for an hour or so, pretty boy. And don’t miss me too much.”

She walks away like the hallway is a runway and she’s getting paid, and you absolutely do not watch. For more than three seconds.

Your phone buzzes again on the desk.

Director Lee: Reminder—meeting later about Winter.

You stare at it, each word capitalized and ominous. Winter. The Chairman’s daughter. The company princess. The allegedly terrifying, scary-smart, ice-cold heiress everyone likes to whisper about when they think nobody important is listening. Beautiful, brutal, and probably allergic to interns.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow flurries drift past the glass like someone shook a globe. But inside, the air suddenly feels a couple degrees colder.

Winter’s coming.

And something deep in your gut says she’s going to hate you on sight.

You make it to lunch without dying or crying, which honestly qualifies as a win.

People are traveling in packs, clutching salads and tablets, talking about metrics like they personally invented capitalism. You and your sad convenience-store kimbap end up at the far end of the break room, wedged between a plant and a recycling bin that probably sees more action than you do.

Ningning slides into the seat across from you without asking, tray loaded with something colorful and overpriced.

“You look like you just saw your paycheck,” she says, unwrapping her chopsticks.

“I did. It waved at me and vanished into my bills.” You stuff a piece into your mouth. “How was your Very Important Executive Meeting?”

She chews slowly, eyes sparkling. “They love me.”

“Shocking,” you mumble while chewing.

“Apparently I ‘bring warmth to the room,’” she says, dramatically covering her mouth. “Can you imagine? Me. Warm.”

“Of course,” you say sarcastically. “You’re like a space heater with legs.”

Really nice legs, unfortunately. Or fortunately. It really gets confusing how you feel about her.

“Exactly,” she says smugly. “Which is why I got personally invited to the big meeting next week.”

You pause mid-bite. “What big meeting?”

She blinks. “You didn’t hear?”

“No,” you say. “No one tells me anything unless it involves coffee or Excel.”

Ningning leans in, lowering her voice even though the room is too loud for anyone to care. “Winter’s coming. You know, the daughter of the Chairman who always has a stick up her ass.”

You chew slowly. “Are you speaking from experience or gossip?”

“Gossip, obviously,” she says, but she’s clearly enjoying this. “Apparently she used to secretly intern here before she left to study abroad. People still twitch when they talk about it. Said she made a senior designer cry once.”

“Okay, but to be fair,” you say with a hand over your mouth, “this place would’ve made the senior designer cry even if she didn’t.”

“True. But she did it as an intern. That’s talent.”

Talent of being someone’s daughter. Cute.

You set your kimbap down, appetite fading a bit. “So she’s coming back for what, exactly?”

“She finished her studies. Just in time for the busiest time of the year. Big holiday campaigns, end-of-year sales, strategic whatever—I stopped listening after ‘mandatory overtime.’ She’s coming in as some fancy ‘creative director for special projects’ or whatever title rich kids get when they’re born with a last name instead of a personality.”

You wince. “Can’t wait to disappoint yet another person.”

Ningning grins. “Oh, you’re definitely getting yelled at.”

“Why am I getting yelled at?”

“Because you’re in logistics,” she says, counting off on her fingers. “You organize samples, shoots, deliveries, and make sure everything appears magically where it needs to be. And she’s taking over ‘special projects.’ What do you think that means?”

You look down at your food that no longer looks edible. “It means I’m going to die in the storage room under a pile of clothes.”

“Honestly?” Ningning whispers. “She sounds kinda hot, so if you’re lucky it’ll be a pile of our new holiday thongs that she’s tried on.”

You stare at her. “You think everyone who could ruin your life is hot.”

“That’s my type,” she says cheerfully. “Dangerous and emotionally unavailable.”

“Therapy is right there,” you say, gesturing vaguely at nowhere.

“The only therapy I care for is shopping therapy,” she says, winking. “Look, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just pretend to be a cute, boring intern and she won’t even notice you.”

“I don’t exactly need to pretend.”

The word “Winter” continues circling your brain like a glitching notification as you finish your lunch.

You tell yourself it’s just another rich girl with too much power and not enough hobbies. That it probably won’t even matter—you’ll fetch some samples, send some emails, get yelled at maybe twice, and that’ll be it.

You’re wrong, obviously.

--

Winter arrives on a Wednesday.

The office has been buzzing since Monday, but Wednesday is when the anxiety graduates to full-blown performative. The place looks sharper somehow—less messy piles of fabric, more strategically placed lookbooks. People are suddenly ironing things again. Someone cleaned the microwave. There are actual fresh flowers at reception, which feels truly apocalyptic.

You start your day the usual way: sweating under coat and garment bags, juggling coffees, convincing yourself this is just paying your dues and not being emotionally waterboarded for a single line on your resume.

You dump caffeine on the right desks, take a quick detour to the sample room to double-check a delivery, then speed-walk toward the elevator with your head buried in your phone, trying to respond to three emails at once, hitting send just as you step out into the ground-floor lobby.

Which is exactly when someone says, sharply, “Watch where you’re going.”

You look up, briefly, enough to register a group of suits near the entrance—some familiar from the upper floors, some not. A cluster of reception staff and a man you’ve only ever seen in framed photos—Chairman, CEO, god of your employee handbook—standing beside a younger woman in a long, brown wool coat.

You register the coat first because it’s perfect. Then the boots—sharp, high heeled, expensive. Then the line of her slender legs, the straightness of her posture, dark brown hair tucked behind one ear in a way that looks effortlessly feminine and elegant.

You don’t register who she is right away; too busy holding garment bags in one hand, a half-empty coffee in the other, and moving too fast across the lobby as you angle toward the turnstiles.

There’s a subtle ripple—people turning, straightening, bowing slightly as they pass.

You don’t bow.

You’re mid-step, mid-sip, mid-“oh shit I forgot to reply all,” and your brain does that thing where it decides “continue walking” is more important than “corporate social etiquette.”

You walk right past the group—close, but not close enough to say you were acknowledging anyone—and head straight toward the elevator.

You’re a few meters away when the air behind you turns to ice.

“Stop.”

It’s one word. Calm. Flat. Not loud, but it lands like someone dropped a weight on the floor.

You freeze.

The lobby goes quiet in that particular way where everyone is absolutely listening while pretending not to.

Your hand tightens around the garment bags. You turn.

It’s her. She’s looking at you.

Up close, Winter is… for lack of better words, a lot. Pretty feels like a cheap word for it. She’s breathtaking. The coat sits perfectly on her shoulders, not a speck of lint in sight. Her gaze is cool, steady, and absolutely unimpressed.

Beside her, your boss looks like he’s trying not to sweat through his shirt.

“Come here,” she says, looking right at you.

Your feet move before your brain can even attempt to protest. You step closer, aware of every eye in the lobby on your back.

She looks you up and down once. Not in a checking-you-out way. In an evaluating a piece of furniture way. Evaluating if it’s time to replace it, that is.

“You work here,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” you say, then remember where you are. “Yes, I—yes, I’m an intern.”

“Yes, Ms. Kim, this is one of our interns,” your boss cuts in quickly, voice way too bright. “He’s new, still learning—”

“I didn’t ask you,” she says without looking at him.

He shuts up immediately.

She steps closer, heels clicking once on the marble. The top of her head reaches your mouth at best, but she feels much taller. Maybe it’s the shoes. Maybe it’s the confidence. Maybe it’s the fact that she could probably have you banned from the building with a single text.

“You saw a group of executives and staff bowing,” she says, studying your face. “You walked past without acknowledging any of them.”

Your stomach drops. Slowly.

You open your mouth, then close it again. You could say you were distracted. You could say you didn’t realize. You could say you were carrying half a closet and had a mild panic attack.

“I—sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t think—”

“Clearly,” she says, coldly.

Okay. There’s a lot you could say back, but you like being able to pay rent, so you swallow it.

You bow. A quick, sharp angle. “I sincerely apologize for my disrespect, Ms. Kim. It was careless and unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”

She watches you. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

The silence stretches.

Your boss laughs too loudly. “He’s—ah—little rough around the edges, but he works hard. We’ll make sure he’s properly trained, won’t we?”

You stay bent for a half-second longer than necessary, then straighten slowly when it becomes clear she’s not dismissing you yet.

Her eyes flick to your boss, then back to you. “We better,” she says.

Winter gives you one last look before turning away, coat sweeping behind her as she glides toward the private elevator, your boss and the others scurrying in her wake.

The moment the doors close, sound slams back into the lobby like someone un-muted the world.

You stand there, heart pounding, fingers cramped around the garment bags, coffee now cold.

Ningning appears at your elbow like she teleported. “Oh my god,” she whispers, eyes wide and delighted. “You just got main-character bullied.”

You drag a hand down your face. “God, I hate this place.”

--

Hell, as it turns out, is measured in business days. Winter doesn’t just vanish into some glass office and become a rumor again. She’s everywhere. The first week is a montage of you discovering new and exciting ways one person can ruin your day without technically doing anything you can complain to HR about. Not that they’d even take your side.

On Monday, she sends an email at 9:01 a.m. to your boss and three other executives, cc’ing you as an afterthought.

Subject: Current intern utilization Please send through a detailed breakdown of intern responsibilities, logged hours, and current project allocations by EOD. I’d like to assess whether we’re getting appropriate value from them.

By noon, your boss drops a spreadsheet on your desk and tells you to “clean it up” so Winter can “review your contribution,” so you spend the entire afternoon turning your own exploitation into a color-coded chart.

On Tuesday, she doesn’t email—you wish she emailed. Instead, she leaves a single-line comment in the spreadsheet at 7:14 a.m., visible to the entire leadership team:

“Some of these cells seem quite aspirational. Please revise.”

No explanation. No guidance. Just a digital eyebrow raise that somehow ruins your whole morning. You spend the next six hours re-verifying every number like you’re preparing evidence for a federal trial, only for her to leave another note at 3:02 p.m.:

“Better.”

Which, from her, somehow feels like a threat.

Come Wednesday, she actually summons you.

It’s a one-line message from her assistant, which is apparently a person who exists purely to deliver dread: “Ms. Kim would like to see you in her office. 3:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”

You spend the next three hours alternating between fixing a lookbook and planning your own funeral.

At 2:55, you stand outside her door, trying to look like a functional adult and not someone whose heart is pounding so hard it’s probably shaking the glass.

Her office is twice the size of your boss’s and somehow feels colder. White walls, a glass desk, a few carefully chosen campaign photos framed perfectly straight. There’s a single plant in the corner that looks like it has a trust fund of its own.

Winter sits behind the desk, laptop open. Of course she wears glasses. Thin frames—unforgiving, sophisticated, and so, so hot.

“Come in,” she says without looking up.

You do. You don’t trip, which you choose to take as a good omen.

“Sit,” she adds, gesturing at the chair before you.

You sit. Your palms are damp. You have never been more aware of your own knees.

She finishes typing, hits a key, then finally looks at you. Her gaze is clinical, the way a doctor might look at an x-ray.

“You’re the intern from the lobby,” she says, again not as a question.

Why does she always talk like that? It’s so condescending, rude, and… hot as hell.

“Yes,” you say, then clear your throat. “I mean—yes, Ms. Kim.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months.”

“Department?”

You swallow. “Officially logistics and production support. Unofficially… coffee and PowerPoint.”

Her eyebrow lifts by a barely perceptible millimeter. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

“Honestly, not really,” you say before your brain can stop your mouth. “It’s sad, if anything.”

There’s a tiny pause. For a horrifying second, you think you’ve just signed your termination papers.

Then, very faintly, the corner of her mouth moves. But it wasn’t a smile.

“You’ve been handling sample flow and shoot logistics,” she says, like she already knows and is just testing you.

“Yes, Ms. Kim.”

“And you’re responsible for the current tracking system for the lingerie capsule.”

You hesitate. “I… built the sheet, yes. But it’s based on—”

“It’s inefficient,” she cuts in. “It doesn’t account for real-time changes or returns. It’s fine for basic catalog work, but not for what we need.”

Your spine stiffens a little. “With respect, I’m working with what we had—”

“With respect,” she says, and somehow makes the phrase sound like a knife, “you’re not listening.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You shut your mouth.

She taps a key on her laptop, spins it slightly so the screen faces you. It’s your spreadsheet, rearranged and ripped apart. Columns moved, formulas rewritten, conditional formatting doing things you didn’t know Excel could do.

“I redid it,” she says, simply. “This is the minimum standard I expect for the holiday campaign. You’ll use this version from now on.”

You stare. It’s… actually good. It anticipates things you’ve been dealing with manually—last-minute changes, missing sizes, delayed shipments. It’s cleaner, faster, smarter.

You hate that it’s smarter. You hate that she’s smart. And rich. And mean. And hot. So damn hot. Like, insanely hot.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I can work with this.”

She nods like you’ve answered a math question correctly. “Good. Because you’re going to be the point person for one of my Christmas projects.”

Your brain bluescreens. “I—what?”

“I need someone to coordinate models and logistics for a limited-run lingerie shoot,” she says. “Scheduling, fittings, contracts, set prep. Production is overloaded. Your boss says you’re reliable.”

You think about the lobby. You think about your inbox. You think about all the ways this could go wrong.

Your brain malfunctions, but you bite down on your first three responses.

“What exactly would I be responsible for?” you ask, unsure of what you’re hoping to hear.

“Everything that doesn’t require my physical presence. You will liaise with agencies, confirm models, ensure sample availability, coordinate with the photographer, and be on set. You will send me daily updates. I don’t like surprises.”

You nod, mind already racing. “Okay. I can—yeah. I can do that.”

“Can you?” she asks, folding her arms. “Because if you can’t, tell me now. I don’t have time to babysit.”

You sit up a little straighter. Somewhere under the humiliation and the nerves, something stubborn bristles.

“I can do it,” you say, confidently.

She watches you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if you’re lying.

“The shoot is in two weeks,” she says. “Find me three solid options for the lead model by Friday. Not influencers. Not whoever your friends follow on social media. Models. Professionals. Women who can sell the brand and the price point.”

“Any specific look?” you ask. “Body type, vibe, restrictions?”

“We’re selling luxury, not cheap sex.” Her nose wrinkles slightly at the last two words. “I don’t want anyone who looks like they’re here for a paycheck and an afterparty.”

You think automatically of Ningning, then shove that thought into a mental closet.

“Got it,” you say, nodding. “I’ll pull options and vet them before I send you anything.”

“Good. And try not to embarrass me again in the lobby.”

You flinch. “Y-yes, Ms. Kim.”

She looks back at her screen, effectively dismissing you.

You stand, heart pounding, brain buzzing with logistics and the cold, sharp reality that you’ve just been handed a live grenade with a silk bow on it.

As you reach the door, she speaks again.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

You turn. “Yes?”

“If you’re going to joke with me,” she adds, without looking up, “at least be funny.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing intelligent comes out. You settle for, “I’ll… work on that.”

“Do,” she says.

You escape into the hallway, adrenaline still snapping under your skin, and head straight for the only person who finds your impending doom entertaining.

Ningning listens to your recount with her chin in her hand, eyes bright.

“She gave you her project?” she says when you’re done. “Personally?”

“She gave me a bomb,” you correct her. “Personally. And set a timer.”

“That’s huge. You’re basically her guy now.”

“I don’t want to be her guy,” you say, sighing. “I want to be alive.”

“She trusts you,” she insists.

“She literally said she doesn’t want to babysit me.”

“In rich-girl speak, that means she thinks you might be useful,” Ningning says, putting a hand over your shoulder. “Congrats. You’re a tool. Her tool.”

You drag a hand through your hair. “If this goes wrong, I’m dead.”

“If this goes right,” she counters, “she’ll remember your name.”

You think of Winter’s mesmerizing eyes, the way she’d watched you bow in the lobby, the way she’d dismantled your spreadsheet and rebuilt it better in an afternoon.

You’re not sure which outcome is scarier.

--

By Thursday, your email outbox looks like you’re speed-dating the entire modeling industry. You send briefs, chase comp cards, haggle over rates you’re pretty sure are technically illegal. You put together a shortlist, then a shorter shortlist, then a Winter-proof shortlist.

By Friday, your days now become:

Mornings: inbox triage, contract language you’re technically not qualified to understand, calendar coordination with people who treat time like a rumor.

Afternoons: scramble to keep samples moving, confirm sizes, track down a missing box of embroidered bras that went on a scenic detour to the wrong warehouse.

Evenings: updates to Winter, who responds with timestamps that prove she never sleeps.

You think you’re being proactive by confirming a time with the studio before the photographer, and send a smug little “All set, just waiting on your final confirmation :)” email to Winter before you leave one night, then crawl home and face-plant into bed.

The next morning, there’s a reply waiting.

No studio is ‘all set’ until you have a signed booking and a backup. Do not declare things done just because you’re tired.

You stare at the screen, heat prickling your neck. Then you scroll down.

Attached are two options for alternate studios she found herself, with their availabilities, rates, and lighting specs highlighted.

You hate how competent she is. You also hate that some twisted part of you finds that so damn attractive.

--

By the time the shoot week rolls around, you’re held together by caffeine, spreadsheets, and the fear of disappointing a woman whose shoe collection costs more than what you’ll ever make in your lifetime.

The morning of the shoot hits like a truck.

You’re at the studio before the sun is awake, hauling garment bags, checking hangers, arranging racks of silk and lace into something organized.

You’ve confirmed:

Lead model: booked, signed, confirmed twice.

Photographer: on board, annoyingly smug, claims he “works best with chaos,” which you take as a personal threat.

Makeup and hair: two artists who speak fluent eyeliner and disdain.

Catering: fancy pastries you can’t pronounce.

You’re standing in the middle of it all, checking the time for the fifth time, when your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Kim Chaewon’s agent,” a voice says too cheerily. “I just wanted to let you know she won’t be able to make it today. Something came up.”

Your stomach drops. “Something… like what?”

“Another campaign got confirmed last minute,” the agent says. “Bigger brand, bigger fee. You understand.”

You do understand. You also understand the part where your life flashes before your eyes and ends with Winter staring down at your grave and calling you inefficient.

“We have a signed contract,” you say, clinging to sanity. “Usage, day rate, all agreed. She can’t just not show.”

“She’s very sorry,” the agent says, in a tone that suggests she isn’t. “But this is non-negotiable. We’ll, of course, waive—”

You hang up.

Sure, it’s not professional. It’s not mature. But if you stay on the line, you’re going to say something you can’t afford.

You stand there in the half-lit studio, phone still in your hand, listening to the hum of the lights and the slow, approaching footsteps of your doom.

“Everything okay?” the photographer calls from across the room, fiddling with his camera.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… checking on something.”

Your brain goes into overdrive. Backup model. You have one. You have her number.

You call. It goes to voicemail.

You text. No read receipts.

You send three more messages in the span of five minutes, all increasingly less dignified. Nothing.

You can feel the panic starting to crawl up your throat.

Winter is going to kill you.

You’re halfway through drafting a desperate email to every agency contact you have when Ningning slips into the studio, waving at someone behind you.

“Wow,” she says, looking around. “Fancy. This is where the magic happens, huh?”

“Ning,” you say, throat tight. “The lead model just bailed.”

She blinks. “What?”

“She went for another job last minute with a bigger fee. Backup’s not picking up. The shoot starts in—” you check the clock, “—forty minutes.”

She whistles low. “Yikes.”

You swallow. “Winter is going to actually skin me alive.”

“Okay, relax,” Ningning says, leaning against a clothing rack like this is a casual chat and not the moment your career bursts into flames. “You have, what, photographers, makeup, studio, clothes? You’re just missing one hot person.”

“Really? Yes, thank you, so helpful.”

“Look,” she says, holding your shoulders a bit too long. “You can find someone. Call the agency again. Beg. Bribe. Offer your firstborn.”

“I can’t even afford a plant,” you say, turning away.

You’re in the middle of dialing the agent back when the air in the studio shifts, the way it does when someone important walks in.

Winter steps through the doorway like she’s arriving on set for a Vogue shoot about capitalism. Dark coat over a slate gray blouse, hair tucked neatly, expression already in that focused, clipped mode that makes your spine itch.

She takes in the room in one sweep: lights, backdrop, racks, crew, you.

“How are we?” she asks.

You want to die.

“There’s a… small issue,” you say, heart ready to stop beating.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “Define ‘small.’”

“Our lead model,” you say, forcing the words out, “took another job. She’s not coming.”

The silence that hits is deafening.

The photographer stops adjusting his lens. Makeup pauses with a brush mid-air. Somewhere, a hanger squeaks traitorously on a rack.

Winter looks at you.

It’s not even anger at first. It’s assessment and calculation. You almost wish she’d just start yelling.

“Explain,” she says, folding her arms.

You walk her through it as fast as you can: the call, the agent, the signed contract, the sudden bail. You mention the backup you can’t reach, and that you’re trying to get someone—anyone—on short notice.

Her jaw ticks once. “So,” she says slowly, “after I specifically told you I don’t like surprises, you’ve given me the worst kind of surprise.”

Your throat goes dry. “I—tried to—”

“You tried,” she cuts in, voice sliced clean. “You also failed.”

“I’m sorry. This is on me. I should’ve had—”

“Better backups. Better contracts. Better judgment.”

Your vision tightens at the edges. For a second, you genuinely think you might throw up. Not because she’s wrong—she isn’t—but because the truth hits hard when it’s delivered in public, in front of a whole crew.

“We’re here,” the photographer says weakly, trying to be helpful. “We can… shoot something. Details. Product. Mood stuff.”

Winter doesn’t take her eyes off you. “I didn’t line up talent, staff, studio, and product to shoot ‘mood stuff’. We are not an amateur brand scrambling for content. We’re supposed to look like we know what we’re doing.”

Ningning shifts at your side, like she’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.

Then Winter does something you absolutely do not expect.

She sighs.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But it’s real—the kind of exhale you let out when you’ve already mentally moved from blame to solutions because you don’t have time to wallow.

Her gaze flicks briefly to Ningning. “What’s your name again?”

Ningning blinks like she’s just been yanked into the spotlight without warning. “Ning Yizhuo, ma’am.”

Winter’s eyes trail over her: the perfect hair, the flawless skin, the goddess-like figure. The way she’s already subconsciously posing, even just standing there.

“Do you have any on-camera experience?”

Ningning’s smile is instant. “A little. Small campaigns. Some lookbooks. I’ve modeled before.”

Of course she has.

Winter looks back at the racks of lingerie, then at the set, and then at the crew. You can practically see the math happening in her head. Limited options, limited time. Salvage the day or let it die.

“Try something on,” she says, pointing at the dressing room. “Let’s see if you can be useful.”

Ningning’s eyes go wide, then bright. “Yes, Ms. Kim!”

Ningning reappears ten minutes later in a robe and a dangerous amount of confidence.

You’re fiddling with hangers just to keep your hands busy when she steps out from behind the changing screen. Studio robe hanging off one shoulder to flash collarbone and the top of a black strap, along with long, bare legs and glossy red toes.

“Okay,” she says, pivoting in front of Winter. “What’s my poison?”

“We start with the black mesh set,” Winter says, pointing. “Underwire bra, high-cut thong, and garter belt. Let’s go for the full look.”

Ningning hums, grabs the hanger, and disappears. You catch flashes in the mirror—bare skin, straps sliding over shoulders, a glimpse of white panties being peeled off and kicked aside—before you force your eyes back to your clipboard and pretend “SHOT LIST” is fascinating.

When she steps out, the room actually inhales.

Sheer black mesh bra, embroidery barely shadowing her nipples. A tiny matching thong, high-cut to bare hipbone and the dip of her waist. Garter belt cinched tight, suspenders clipped to stockings that run all the way up her thighs. Thin black heels to finish it, making her legs look endless.

“God damn,” the photographer mutters. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

Winter steps in, all business. She adjusts a strap, straightens the garter belt, tugs the bra a fraction higher.

“Stop fidgeting,” she scolds. “You’re not nervous. You’re in control.”

Ningning’s smile sharpens. “Yes, Ms. Kim.”

They move her onto the set—a low velvet chaise in front of fairy lights and shadow. First: simple poses, hand on hip, weight in one leg. Then Winter starts tuning her like an instrument.

“Sit. Lean back on your hands. Curve your spine. Chest forward, not your shoulders.”

Ningning arches, throat bared, hair spilling over one shoulder, lips parted on a faint breath.

“Look at the camera like it’s yours. Not like you want something from it.”

Next frame, Ningning’s eyes go heavy and lazy, one corner of her mouth tilting like trouble. Heat crawls under your collar.

They put her on her knees on the chaise, back arched, ass up, hands braced. The thong disappears between her cheeks, suspenders tight, stocking bands biting into her soft thighs.

“Chin over your shoulder,” Winter says. “You’re not apologizing for being seen.”

Ningning glances back, hair falling, eyes glinting. The camera fires in rapid bursts.

The second set is crimson: push-up bra, tiny thong with a gold ring at the hip, suspender belt framing her stomach like an invitation, and a fur-trimmed Santa coat worn open. In one shot she’s got one hand on the coat, the other hooked in her thong, like she might drag it lower if you behave.

And you are not behaving, internally.

Her lips are a deeper red now, glossed and slick. At one point she bites the tip of a gloved finger, eyes on the lens in a way that makes you twitch in your pants.

“Slide the strap down,” Winter says. “More. Stop right before it looks like an accident.”

Ningning eases it down, robe hanging from her elbow. From where you stand, you can see her pulse jumping in her throat.

“Hand to your thigh. Higher. Curl your fingers into the stocking.”

Her fingers trail up, stretching the sheer fabric and digging into skin. The motion drags the thong just enough to hint at more. Everyone is looking. You can’t not.

Winter never flusters. She stays behind the monitor, voice cool and precise, every tiny correction turning Ningning into something sharper, sexier, and a little more dangerous.

“Stop trying to be pretty,” she says once. “Be expensive.”

The next shot, Ningning nails it. Her whole body language shifts—slower, lazier, like you’re lucky she let you into the room. Her hand slides up her stomach, fingers settling under the band of her bra, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. The camera eats it alive.

By the time Winter calls, “That’s enough,” your nerves are wrecked and your cock is very aware of gravity. You’re half in love, half pissed, and fully aware your whole career just depended on a girl who can turn into sin itself in just three outfits.

Winter shuts her laptop. “We have what we need. Contact sheets by morning.”

You nod automatically.

She gives Ningning one last look. “You did better than I expected.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kim,” Ningning says, still a little breathless.

Then just like that, she’s gone, heels fading down the hallway.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Did you hear her compliment me?” Ningning whispers excitedly. “That was foreplay.”

You rub your temples. “Ning, I’m begging you to speak to a professional.”

Crew starts breaking down and you dive into clean-up: counting pieces, logging SKUs, making sure that everything that touched skin gets tagged for dry cleaning.

Eventually Ningning emerges in her own clothes again; makeup still intense, hair mussed.

“Okay,” she says, dusting her hands. “I’m going to hit the bathroom and take, like, forty selfies before this makeup dies.”

She flashes you a peace sign and vanishes down the hallway.

The studio empties out in slow waves. By the time the last light is powered down, it’s just you, a bored studio tech in the office down the hall, and racks of very expensive, very intimate fabric.

As you finish your last sweep, you spot something on a side table: a keycard with a sleek black leather holder.

You pick it up.

KIM MINJEONG, it says on the tiny embossed tag.

Of course she has a designer keycard.

You sigh and slip it into your pocket. You’ll have to run it up to her office before you leave or security will have an aneurysm.

That’s when you hear it. A soft, wet sound. A muffled, breathy whine. The faint rhythmic creak of something hitting something else.

You freeze.

The sound’s coming from further down the hall, near the storage rooms. You move without consciously deciding to, steps quiet on the cement floor, heart picking up with every little gasp that echoes.

It takes about two seconds to put the voice together with the picture you do not want but absolutely have in your head.

You stop in front of a slightly open door. Light spills out in a narrow strip across the floor.

You should turn around. You know you should. You should walk away and mind your business.

Instead, you look.

The room is a small storage space lined with metal shelves, boxes stacked in neat rows. In the middle of it, half-pinned against a stack of prop crates, Ningning is very much not in the bathroom.

She’s still in the black stockings from earlier, garter straps clipped and stretched. Her skirt is shoved up around her waist, blouse wide open, bra hanging loose around her ribs. Her hair is a mess, lipstick smeared, mascara a little smudged at the corners of her eyes.

Your boss has his pants around his thighs, shirt untucked, tie loosened and hanging crooked. One hand is braced on the shelf above her head; the other is on her hip as he drives into her from behind.

You see it all in one hot, paralyzed second: her cheek pressed to the cool metal, lips parted on a moan. Her ass slams back against him in short, needy pushes, stockings biting into the soft flesh of her thighs with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice ragged. “You perfect little whore. Your pussy is just phenomenal.”

Ningning laughs breathlessly, turning her head just enough that you see the lazy, satisfied curve of her mouth. “I thought you had dinner with your wife,” she teases, words breaking on a sharp inhale as he snaps his hips harder.

“I moved it,” he pants. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you on that set.”

Her nails scrape down the metal shelf to keep balance. “You liked it?”

“You were made for this,” he says, fingers sliding from her hip up to grab her shoulder, pulling her back onto him. “Our little secret weapon.”

Your heart is pounding. Your cock jerks against your zipper. You know you should turn around, walk away, and pretend you never saw this.

And yet, you don’t move.

He pulls out suddenly, hand on her hip to turn her around. She lets him spin her, back pressing into the crates now, skirt still bunched, thighs parted. His cock juts out, flushed and wet.

Ningning looks down at him and grins. “You’re really worked up today.”

“You did that,” he says.

“Mm.” She loops her arms around his neck, pulling him in. “Then I should fix it, right?”

She lifts one leg, hooking it over his hip. He grabs under her thigh, hefts her up against the boxes, and she wraps her other leg around him, caging his waist. For a heartbeat, they’re eye to eye, breath mingling, her chest pressed to his.

He thrusts back into her in one sharp push, and she gasps, head tipping back to thump softly against a crate.

“Oh god,” she breathes. “You’re so nice and big, Director-nim.”

He fucks her like he’s been thinking about it all day—rough, hurried, desperate. Every thrust rocks her up the crates a little as they creak in protest. Her skirt rides higher, flashing the tops of her stockings and the band of her panties dragged to one side, while his cock slides in and out of her in long, obscene strokes.

You can hear everything: the slap of skin, the wet drag, and the breathy little sounds she makes every time he buries himself all the way in.

“Say my name,” he groans.

She obliges, moaning it into his neck, biting at his collar. “Harder,” she whispers. “Come on, you can fuck me better than your wife, can’t you?”

He groans, almost collapses into her for a second. “You’re trouble. You’re fucking trouble.”

“And you love trouble,” she says, laughing, then gasps again as he changes angle and hits something that makes her whole body jerk.

Her hand slides between them, fingers finding her clit as she works herself in fast, tight circles, matching his pace.

“Look at you,” he says, watching her hand move. “Can’t even wait for me to finish before you start touching yourself.”

“Gotta help you along,” she pants. “You’re getting old.”

He hauls her down on him harder in retaliation. She squeals, then laughs again, breathless.

“You know Winter liked me too,” she sings. “She said I did better than she expected.”

Jealousy spikes in you at those words, but you’re not entirely sure which part.

“Of course she did,” he says. “You saved her ass. She should be thanking you on her knees.”

Ningning’s eyes glitter. “Well,” she purrs, legs tightening around his waist, “I’m more than happy to be the one on my knees for now.”

She squeezes him once more with her body, then pushes at his chest lightly. “Put me down.”

He lowers her, hands lingering on her hips as her feet touch the floor. She smooths her skirt down halfway, then drops to her knees in front of him.

“Does your wife suck your dick like me?” she asks, fingers curling around his shaft. “I bet she doesn’t even bother.”

“Ning—” he starts, already breathing hard.

She leans in and shuts him up with her mouth.

Her tongue flicks over the head first, tasting both of them, then she takes him in, lips sealing around him, hand stroking the base in time with her bobbing head. His head tips back, a low, broken sound tearing out of him.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so good at this.”

Her eyes flick up, lashes wet at the corners. Saliva glistens at the seam of her mouth, a thin strand stretching when she pulls back to lick along the underside of his shaft, slow and lazy, like she has all the time in the world.

You can’t breathe.

He pushes her back down, guiding her with a fist in her hair. She lets him, taking him deeper this time, until her nose almost brushes his stomach. The garter straps flex against her thighs as she steadies herself, fingers curling into his hips.

She gags softly, then breathes out through her nose and settles, throat flexing as she swallows around him.

“That’s it,” he pants, staring down at her. “Such a good girl. Serving your boss so well.”

The word lands like a slap. Your grip on the doorframe tightens until your fingers ache.

She leans in to lick a drop of pre-cum off the tip, then pulls back just enough to murmur, “Look at me.”

He does, eyes wide and shaking.

She opens her mouth, tongue out just a little, and starts stroking him fast. Her wrist snaps, and the wet slides of her hand and his low curses fills the tiny room.

“Fuck, Ning… I’m close,” he grunts, hand tightening in her hair.

She makes an encouraging noise, then wraps her lips around the head and bobs faster, taking him as deep as she can with each stroke. Her free hand sneaks back between her own thighs again, fingers pressing into the soaked crotch of her panties.

“Come for me, Director-nim,” she mumbles around his cock, words muffled, eyes locked on his.

That does it.

He groans, a broken, primal sound, hips jerking. Thick white spurts paint her tongue, her lips, the corner of her mouth. She lets it hit her, some of it dripping down her chin, onto her fingers where she’s still stroking him through the aftershocks.

You feel your own cock throb in your pants, shame and arousal twisted together so tight you couldn’t pull them apart if you tried.

She milks the last drops out of him with slow, lazy strokes, then closes her lips, swallowing it all.

“So yummy,” she says softly, licking a streak from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue.

He laughs weakly, sagging back against the shelves, breathing hard.

You step back from the door, finally, pulse punching in your ears.

This is crazy. You shouldn’t have seen any of it.

You move as quietly as you can down the hallway, back toward the main space, every breath loud in your own head. You don’t hear the door open behind you. You don’t hear your name. They’re too wrapped up, too busy smoothing clothes and straightening ties and returning to the world like nothing happened.

By the time you hit the elevator, your face is hot, your palms are sweaty, and Winter’s keycard feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in your pocket.

You jab the button for the executive floor, chest tight with about six different kinds of anger and something that feels suspiciously like heartbreak.

For yourself. For every late night you spent proving yourself while she proved something very different against a storage room wall.

You tell yourself you’re just here to return a key.

You tell yourself you’re not going to walk into Winter’s office with all this buzzing under your skin and do something stupid.

You’re wrong on at least one count.

Winter’s keycard burns a hole in your pocket the whole way.

You don’t let yourself think about what you just saw. About the way your boss’s hands looked on Ningning’s skin. About her loud, needy moans. About the way she didn’t push him away. About how, for all your late nights and extra hours and desperate attempts to be useful, that’s still the oldest promotion track in the book.

You focus on the one concrete task in front of you: return the key, leave, go home, and pretend your brain isn’t a blender.

You stop outside Winter’s office, straighten your shirt, and lift your hand to knock—and then freeze when you hear her voice through the door.

Not cold, this time. Not stern. More… frayed.

“…Not this again,” she’s saying. “You said you’d try. You always say you’ll try.”

A muffled male voice replies, too faint to make out the words. You catch the tone: defensive and desperate.

Winter laughs, but it’s a sharp, humorless sound.

“Busy,” she says. “You’re always busy. Do you know how many flights I’ve taken for you? How many times I’ve moved my entire week because you said you’d ‘see what you could do’?”

You stare at the wood grain of the door like it might offer answers.

You should go. You know you should go. Give the key to her assistant. Come back later. Set yourself on fire in the stairwell. Anything but stand here and listen.

Once again, you don’t move.

The guy says something again, and Winter’s voice spikes.

“No. Don’t you dare,” she snaps. “Don’t make this about how ‘hard’ you’re working. You think I’m not? You think I’m on vacation here while you’re fucking around?”

Your breath catches.

There’s a beat of shocked silence on his end, then more muffled words, faster now. Excuses. Denials. You can’t make them out, but you know the rhythm.

“Oh, please,” Winter says, voice shaking. “Do you think I’m stupid? You fly to Berlin and suddenly you’re ‘too tired’ to talk, but she’s in your stories. Did you forget we have mutual friends?”

Your chest tightens.

“I ignored it,” she goes on, voice climbing. “I swallowed it when you said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ When you said it was just one time. Then two. Then ‘you were drunk.’ I let it go because you said you’d try.”

Her breathing’s audible now, quick and uneven, like she’s pacing.

“And what do I get for that? For pretending not to see you flirting with her in your own comments? For pretending not to care that everyone else did?”

More faint protest from the phone. You catch “overreacting” and “nothing’s happening now” in the blur.

“Overreacting,” she repeats, flatly. “Right. I ask you to come home for Christmas, for once, and I’m overreacting. I ask you not to fuck other people while you tell me you love me, and I’m overreacting.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t want another video call,” she says, softer now but somehow worse. “I don’t want ‘maybe next year’ while you’re in someone else’s bed. I wanted you here. Just you. And you can’t even give me that.”

There’s a long pause this time. You hear her inhale, shaky. When she speaks again, her voice has gone oddly flat.

“Right,” she says. “Of course. Work comes first. She comes first. It always does.”

More muffled words, an attempted soothe, something that sounds like “you know I love you.”

“Don’t,” she cuts in quietly. “Don’t say you love me if you’re not willing to show up. If you’re not willing to stop cheating on me and pretending it’s a scheduling issue.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

Then, very clearly: “No. We’re not doing this anymore.”

Your hand tightens around the keycard.

“We’re done,” she says, firmly. “I’m done.”

There’s a burst of frantic noise from the speaker you can’t make out—your brain fills it in with apologies and promises you’ve heard in other people’s mouths. She ends it with two clean sentences.

“Goodbye. Don’t ever call me again.”

Silence. Then the sharp crack of something hard hitting a desk.

You flinch.

You wait. One second. Two. Ten.

Then, very quietly, you knock.

There’s a pause. Then Winter’s voice, calmer but still rough around the edges. “Come in.”

You open the door just enough to slip inside, closing it quietly behind you.

Winter is behind her desk, phone facedown, jaw tight. Her eyes are a little red at the corners, but her makeup is still perfect, which somehow makes it worse.

She looks up. Whatever you overheard gets buried under ice in half a second.

“What do you want?” she says, pretending to inhale instead of sniffling.

You hold up the keycard holder like a peace offering. “You left this at the studio.”

Her gaze drops to it, then back to your face. The tiniest muscle in her cheek twitches. “You came all the way up here just to play courier?”

“Figured security would tase me if I kept it,” you say, pressing your lips together cautiously. “And your assistant’s gone.”

“How long were you outside my office?”

Your stomach drops. “I—just now?”

“You were eavesdropping.” Her voice goes flat again, back to the tone from the lobby. “On a private conversation.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you say quickly. “I came to return your key, and you were already on the phone. I was going to leave, but then you were—” you stop yourself before you say ‘crying’, “—upset. I didn’t want to just barge in.”

“So you decided to stand there and listen instead,” she scoffs. “How thoughtful.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “That’s not—I’m sorry. I should’ve gone.”

“Yes. You should have.”

The silence stretches, tight and thin, like a rubber band ready to snap.

You move forward, set the keycard gently on the corner of her desk. “Here. I’ll get out of your way.”

You turn to leave.

“Stop.” she says, sharply.

Your shoulders tense. You face her again.

“Did I say you could go?” she asks.

Something in her tone makes your pulse jump. She’s sitting still, back straight, hands folded on the desk, but there’s a wound under the smoothness now, and it’s fresh and exposed. The emotional equivalent of a cracked screen under a perfect case.

“It was a mistake,” you say carefully. “It won’t happen again.”

“You keep saying that. In the lobby. In the emails. On set. You’re constantly sorry. It’s exhausting.”

You bite down. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

She stands. The movement’s unhurried, but it still makes the hair on your arms rise. She circles the desk, heels soft on the carpet, and stops in front of you, just close enough that you can smell her perfume—cool, sharp, something floral over something darker.

“You embarrassed me in the lobby,” she says. “You nearly wrecked my campaign today. And now you’ve completely invaded my privacy.”

You flinch. “I said I’m sorry.”

“Words are cheap. Show me you’re sorry instead.”

You blink. “How am I supposed to—”

“Kneel.”

The word hits like a slap.

You stare at her. “What?”

Her eyes narrow. “You heard me. You were so eager to bow in the lobby when there was an audience. Do it properly now.”

Your heart thumps once, heavily. Humiliation and anger spike together.

“That was—” you start, then stop, because arguing with your boss’s boss’s daughter is a terrible idea when you are on a six-month contract. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t have time for jokes,” she says, folding her arms. “Get on your knees.”

For a second, you consider telling her to fuck off. Walking out and letting the internship burn. But your legs move before your pride can veto it.

You sink down, knees hitting the plush carpet, thighs brushing the edge of her desk.

The angle puts your face level with her ridiculously tiny waist. From here, you can see the fine stitching on her blouse and the subtle curve of her hips under the pencil skirt.

“Now apologize,” she says, leaning against the desk.

You grit your teeth. “I’m sorry for listening when I shouldn’t have. I should’ve knocked and left instead of standing there.”

“Louder,” she sneers.

Your ears burn. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, voice rougher. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have.”

She steps closer. One heel slides between your knees, nudging them apart a little. Your breath stutters.

“All you do is make mistakes around me,” she says condescendingly. “It’s almost impressive how incompetent you are.”

You look up at her. From this angle, the light hits her hair, throwing a faint halo around her head.

“Look, I’m sorry you had a bad day,” you say quietly. “That doesn’t mean you get to—”

Her hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge hard enough to make your teeth click.

“Careful,” she warns.

The grip isn’t brutal, but it’s firm. Possessive. It sends a jolt of something hot straight down your spine.

“For someone in your position,” she murmurs, “you’re very comfortable telling me what I do and do not ‘get’ to do.”

Your pulse hammers as your hands flex uselessly on your thighs.

“I’m trying to apologize,” you mutter through her grip.

“And you’re not even good at that.”

She holds your face there for another few seconds, studying you. You don’t look away. You can’t. Her pupils are blown a little, whether from anger or something else, you don’t know.

Her gaze flicks down your body, slow enough that you feel it. You suddenly become hyper-aware of your position: on your knees, head tilted back, your cock half-hard from the mess of adrenaline, humiliation, and the lingering images of Ningning on her knees a floor below.

Winter notices. Of course she does.

She scoffs. “You’re hard?”

Your face goes hot. “That’s—no, that’s not—”

“You’re all the same,” she says in disgust. “My father, his partners, the men in London, my ex. You see pretty things and you think wanting them entitles you to something.”

“That’s not what this is. I’m not entitled to anything.”

“You’re not?” she asks, tilting her head. “You eavesdrop on people’s private conversations, you argue with your superiors, you accept projects you know you aren’t qualified for, and now you’re kneeling on my floor, looking at me like you’re holding back drool.”

“Who says I’m drooling?”

“Your eyes.”

Your jaw clenches. “Nothing I do is good enough for you. Honestly, what do you want from me?”

She looks down at you, eyes gleaming, lips pressed together like she’s holding something back. Then she exhales, a sharp little huff through her nose.

“I want,” she says slowly, “for you to stop being so useless when I’m having the worst week of my year.”

She reaches down, curls her fingers into your hair, and tugs your head toward her.

Your face is inches from the front of her skirt now. You can smell her heat under the faint perfume, something warm and incredibly alluring that cuts through the cold aesthetic of the office.

“I’m so tired of everything. Make yourself useful. If you’re going to be here, at least serve a purpose for once in your life. ”

Your brain blanks for a second. “You want me to—”

“Yes,” she says, pushing even closer. “Unless you’re too incompetent for that as well.”

The insult hits like a match thrown on gasoline. Humiliation twists with anger, and underneath both is a thick, throbbing thread of arousal that makes your voice come out low.

“You’re seriously asking your intern to go down on you. Do you know how insane that is?”

She tightens her grip in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sting. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Last chance to say no.”

You should say no. You know you should. This is every rule broken at once. HR would set the building on fire.

Instead, your hands move to her hips, fingers brushing the smooth fabric of her skirt.

“I’m not saying no,” you hear yourself say.

Something flashes across her face—triumph, maybe, or relief—before her expression smooths out again.

“Good,” she murmurs. “I wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer anyways.”

She releases your hair long enough to gather her skirt in both hands and drag it up. The fabric slides over your fingers, revealing sheer black stockings clipped to a garter belt you didn’t know she was wearing. The straps disappear up under the hem of her blouse, into the shadow of the skirt bunched around her waist.

Her panties are simple, black, and very, very damp.

Heat surges through you as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband and pulls them aside, baring herself in the soft office light. Her folds are completely smooth, soft, and shockingly wet already.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she says quietly.

You swallow, lean in, and breathe her in, starting with a kiss just above her inner thigh, lips pressing into her warm skin.

She makes a soft, impatient noise, fingers sliding back into your hair. “Don’t tease. It’s unnecessary.”

“Have some patience for once in your life,” you murmur against her.

Then you move where she wants you.

Your tongue drags up the length of her slit, slowly, from her dripping entrance to her adorable clit. She’s impossibly delicious, like a forbidden fruit you never knew could exist.

She shudders, hand clenching in your hair. “Again.”

You obey.

You trace her, learning her rhythm, the places her breath catches. You circle her clit with the tip of your tongue, light at first, then firmer when she groans under her breath. Then you open your mouth wider, flatten your tongue against her, licking slow, steady stripes.

“Don’t stop to savor it,” she says, voice thinner now. “This isn’t for you.”

“Of course not, everything is about you, Kim Minjeong.”

Her hips jerk. “Shut up,” she says, but it comes out breathy.

She lets out a quiet yelp as you lift her up onto her desk in one smooth motion, spreading her legs wide apart. You suck gently, then harder, tongue flicking back and forth, pressure building in careful increments. Her breathing hitches, and her other hand finds your shoulder, nails scraping lightly through your shirt.

“Right there—” she bites off a sound, exhale turning into a low, involuntary moan. “Don’t stop.”

So you don’t. Why would you, anyway?

You add a finger, sliding it slowly into her. She’s dangerously tight and hot around you, walls clenching as she takes you in. Then a second finger, working them in a steady rhythm that matches your mouth.

She breaks. Not all at once. Little noises at first, trapped between her teeth, then larger, less contained. Your name twists through her teeth like she doesn’t want to even say it.

“Fuck,” she gasps quietly.

You grin against her. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse.”

She swears again, hips pushing against your face while her thighs tremble under your hands. “H-harder—faster—” she snaps. “Keep going—”

She cuts off on a sharp cry as you suck her clit just right, fingers curling inside her.

She goes rigid, then shudders. Her hand yanks hard at your hair, forcing you tighter against her, grinding her beautiful pussy against your mouth like she’s trying to fuse you there. You keep going, slower now, riding it out, licking her through it until she flinches away.

“Stop,” she pants. “That’s enough.”

You ease back, lips and chin still wet, breathing hard. Your jaw aches. Your cock is straining painfully against your zipper.

She stands up, skirt still bunched around her waist, thighs parted, chest heaving. For a moment, the mask is completely gone. She looks defeated, flushed, and human, finally.

But the cold comes back like thunder after a strike of lightning.

She drops her skirt, smoothing it down with shaking hands, and looks at you like you’re back to being a problem.

“Stand up,” she demands.

You push yourself to your feet, blood rushing from your head straight to your cock. From this angle, you tower completely over her, which you’re suddenly extremely aware of. She’s so small that you could toss her around the room if you wanted to.

Her gaze flicks down, lingers, comes back up. “You’re still hard?”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, turns out I wasn’t the one who just came on someone’s face.”

Color hits on her cheekbones. “Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, grabbing your crotch.

Something in you finally snaps.

Maybe it’s the whole day. The studio chaos. The cheap satisfaction in your boss’s voice in the storage room as he finished in Ningning’s mouth. The way everyone gets to use everyone else, and you’re always the one on the ground.

Maybe it’s her letting a cheating boyfriend string her along for God knows how long and still acting like she’s above wanting anything.

Whatever it is, it breaks the last fine thread of your patience.

“No,” you say to her for the first time.

Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

You step in, crowding her back until her hips hit the desk. Your hand finds her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her blouse.

“You don’t get to treat me like trash after using me for your own pleasure,” you say, voice low.

She scoffs. “Pleasure is a stretch.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“I don’t need to answer your questions. Who are you, again?”

“I’m not a dog you can order around and then just walk away from.”

“That is exactly what you are. A dumb, worthless intern.”

“Then fire me,” you dare. “Replace me with someone more competent, but don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend you’re okay letting some guy cheat on you over and over while you only know how to grow a backbone with me.”

You grab her wrist as she moves to push you away, pinning it gently but firmly to the desk behind her.

“Let go,” she warns. “Don’t touch me without my permission.”

“Make me leave, then. Tell me to walk out the door and I’ll go right away. But don’t stand here acting like I’m the only bad decision you made this month.”

She glares up at you, fury and something darker warring. “You’re out of line. You don’t get to have opinions about my relationship that you eavesdropped on.”

“Your ex fucks other girls behind your back, but you’re still defending your relationship,” you say, pressing your bulge in between her thighs. “You’re allowed to let him walk all over you, but I’m not allowed to say you liked how I ate you out? Come on.”

Her lips part, then snap shut. You can see the battle happening on her face: the instinct to reassert control, to shut down, to freeze you out.

You ease your grip on her wrist a little to give her air. “Go ahead and tell me to walk out,” you murmur, “Hell, fire me if you want to. I already crossed the line of no return when I got on my knees for you. Just say the word and I’m gone.”

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t even seem to consider it.

Instead, after a long, tense moment, she exhales. “I hate you.”

You smirk. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“Have I not?”

You pull her in for a kiss that she isn’t ready for. It’s messy, rough—everything a first kiss probably shouldn’t be. Your teeth click, your nose bumps hers, and for a split second she’s frozen under you.

“God, I can’t stand you,” she whispers between breaths. “You’re the worst person I ever met.”

Then she grabs your shirt in both fists and hauls you closer, kissing back like she wants to bite through you. She tastes like expensive lipstick and herself. Her mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss from you.

You release her wrist and immediately put your hand on her hip, then her ass, dragging her flush against you. She gasps into your mouth when she feels your erection press into her through your slacks.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “You’re—”

“Let me guess—so hard?” you say, lips against her jaw as you trail kisses down to her neck. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you press your pretty little pussy against my face for half an hour.”

Your hands move on their own, tugging her blouse out of her skirt, fingers spreading over the bare skin of her waist. She shivers, arching into your touch.

“You know what I don’t understand?” she asks, but her voice is losing its edge. “What on earth gives you enough audacity to think for even a second that you deserve this? I can’t tell if I should be offended right now.”

“How ironic,” you murmur into her skin. “For someone with enough audacity to think the whole world should bow down to her for being born rich.”

“You might be the most annoying person I’ve ever met in my entire life.” She tries to hit you, but it ends up more of a shove that just rocks you both against the desk.

You slide a hand up, cupping her breast through her bra, thumb sweeping over her nipple. She inhales sharply, head tipping back.

“Take this off,” you mutter, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.

“You can’t even undress me properly?” She pushes your hands away impatiently and undoes them herself. The blouse falls open, revealing a black bra that matches the stockings and garters—simple, smooth, and expensive. You reach behind her, find the clasp, and pop it open.

The bra slides down, and her tits spill into your hands. Gorgeous isn’t even the right word to describe them. Her chest is soft, warm, for some reason, her skin just smells incredibly enticing. You close your mouth around one nipple and suck, teeth grazing lightly. Her hand flies to the back of your head, nails digging into your scalp, dragging you closer.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “That actually feels good.”

You lavish attention on both, licking, sucking, squeezing just enough to make her whine. Your other hand finds the hem of her skirt, shoving it back up around her hips again, fingers skimming the garter straps, then the band of her panties.

She feels you there and tenses. “Did you lock the door?” she says, breathless. “Or were you too stupid?”

“Was I supposed to know this would happen when I went to return your keys?”

“Right, how could I forget?” she mutters. “You don’t know anything. Dumb as bricks.”

“Don’t worry, no one’s here,” you say, though you’re not actually entirely sure. “Everyone went home to avoid you because you’re such a bitch.”

She lets out a sharp, surprised laugh that melts into a moan when you suck harder. “I really hate you,” she says in between breaths. “You’re such a—ohh—”

You slide your hand between her thighs, pressing your fingers against the damp heat of her panties. “You hate me so much that you’re dripping wet. I guess dumb guys turn you on, that’s why you tolerate being cheated on.”

Her nails dig deeper. “You’re going to get fired after this.”

“Oh, is that a threat?” you ask, rubbing slow circles over her clit through the fabric.

“No, it’s a promise.” She bites her lip, hips grinding down on your hand despite her words.

You can’t take it anymore.

You step back just enough to fumble with your belt, ripping it open, yanking your zipper down. Your cock springs free, actual painful with how long you’ve been hard. You catch her staring, eyes widening as she catches her breath.

You take her hand and wrap it around you. Her fingers tighten on instinct, stroking once, and you have to bite back a groan.

“Show me how much you hate me,” you say, voice rough. “If I’m getting fired, I better get a severance package.”

Her hand squeezes, thumb smearing pre-cum along your length. “Interns don’t get severance, idiot,” she says, but there’s no bite left in it. “Clearly we need an IQ test for new hires.”

“Start with yourself. You’re fucking your intern in your own office.”

“Who says I’ll fuck you?”

“Me.” You pull back just enough. “Turn around.”

She hesitates, then does it—slowly and cautiously. She plants her hands on the desk, shoulder blades shifting under the half-open blouse, skirt hitched up enough to show the curve of her ass.

You step in behind her, one hand on her hip, the other dragging her panties aside again. She’s soaked, hot, and somehow so ready it makes your head spin.

“Last chance to say no,” you say, last shred of sanity clinging.

She glances over her shoulder. “Just shut up and fuck me.”

You line yourself up and enter her. She’s tight—so much tighter than you expected. But the resistance gives up slowly, her body stretching around you, taking you in inch by inch. You groan, gripping her hip harder, and she lets out a strangled sound, fingers digging into the desk.

“How does it feel, Ms. Kim?” you murmur, bending over her, mouth by her ear. “Your intern’s inside you.”

“Shut up—” she hisses, breath shaking. “I’m being generous because it’s about to be Christmas—”

You slide in the rest of the way, burying yourself all the way, and her sentence dissolves into a broken gasp.

For a moment, you both just stay there, breathing hard, bodies locked. She’s so tight you have to grit your teeth not to come embarrassingly fast. Her muscles flutter around you, adjusting and accommodating to your throbbing length.

“F-fuck,” you groan. “You feel so—”

“Move!” she cries. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it right for God’s sake!”

You pull back, slow, savoring the drag, then thrust in again, setting a rhythm that’s steady at first, then harder as she starts to push back into you.

The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room—wet, wild, and punctuated by her quiet curses and your low groans. The desk creaks under the shared weight and papers crumple under her hands.

“Is this what you wanted?” you mutter into her neck, thrusting deeper. “Someone to fuck you after all those months of being neglected by your ex?”

She moans, head dropping forward, strands of hair falling over her face. “Shut up…”

“You like it,” you say, grabbing her hips with both hands now, slamming her back onto you with each stroke. The impact makes her cute little ass slap against your skin. “You like being fucked like you’re not perfect all the time. Like you’re a person and not a press release.”

She makes a sound that’s almost a sob as her shoulders shake. “You don’t know a single thing about me or my life,” she gasps, words hitching on your rhythm. “So stop acting like you do.”

“I know you’re just a spoiled rich brat who thinks everyone should worship the ground she walks on.”

“No, not everyone, just you—aah!” Her voice breaks as you hit deeper, nails scraping the desk.

“You got off on making me kneel for you,” you say, breath hot against her ear. “Just how much do you love yourself?”

“Oh god. Just stop talking and keep fucking me like this.” Her hand flies back, groping blindly until she catches your wrist, nails digging in. It doesn’t stop you; it just anchors you.

You adjust your angle, aiming for the spot that made her clench around your fingers earlier. The next thrust hits it dead-on and she cries out, the sound strangled and desperate.

“Say it,” you demand, speeding up. “Say it or I stop.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” she spits. “I’ll kill you if you stop now.”

You change to a tormentingly slow grind, dragging out of her almost all the way before pushing back in. “Say it,” you murmur, lips brushing her neck. “Say you like it. Say you want more.”

Her pride hangs on by a whisper. You feel it in the way she trembles, in the way her fingers claw at the desk, in the way her hips still, instinct fighting need.

Then it breaks. Finally.

“I like it,” she chokes out, voice cracking. “I—fuck—I love it. There, are you happy? Just don’t stop. Keep fucking me.”

You slam back into her, hard, then again, picking the pace back up. Your hand slides around her front, fingers slipping between her thighs to find her clit, working it in tight, fast circles that make her knees buckle.

“Say please,” you growl, wrapping your fingers around her tiny neck. “Beg for the first time in your life.”

“No—I’ll never—aaah—” Her protest melts into a moan as you rub harder and squeeze slightly tighter, thrusts driving her into the desk.

“Beg for me to keep fucking you.”

There’s a tiny, broken noise, then she cracks completely.

“Please… please fuck me…” she gasps. “It feels so good, please, please, please!”

“Look at you,” you say, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Always pretending to be high and mighty. Hey, Kim Minjeong, does aespa group know their heiress is just a dirty little slut?”

“Fuck you—aaah—don’t talk—fuck—harder—harder, harder, harder!” Her voice pitches up with each word, strangled and desperate.

She falls apart.

You give her what she begs for, driving into her with everything you have, the slap of your flesh echoing off the glass. Her moans bounce off the walls, nails digging helplessly into the glass as you hammer her through it.

“I’m coming—I’m gonna come!” she cries. “God, this stupid fucking intern is making me come again—”

She arches off the desk, back bowing, a raw sound ripping out of her throat before she bites it into a rough, strangled cry against her own arm. Her walls clamps down around you hard, pulsing in tight, relentless waves that drag you straight to the edge with her.

“Fuuck!” you cry, forcing a few more thrusts to chase the edge—before it slams into you.

You spill inside her with a loud groan, fingers clenching her hips, forehead dropping to the back of her neck. Hot, pulsing release floods out of you in waves, each contraction wringing another unintelligible sound from your chest.

For a while, there’s nothing but the harsh sound of your breathing and the faint tick of the clock while the both of you tremble quietly, still joined.

Eventually you manage to ease out of her. She sways, catching herself on the desk as your cum slowly leaks out of her pussy and trails in cloudy streaks down the backs of her thighs.

Winter came. And so did you.

The air shifts as the reality of what you’ve just done settles between you.

Winter re-buttons her blouse slowly, not looking at you. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smeared at the corners, and a faint flush still lingers on her throat. She keeps her eyes on the buttons, like if she doesn’t look at you, none of it counts.

“You should go home,” she says finally, voice shifting back to something more neutral, but still much softer than before any of this happened. “It’s really late.”

Your stomach tightens. You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “So am I really getting fired?”

She scoffs, reaching for her blazer. “No. But if you tell anyone about this, your life is over.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not exactly dying to brag about being the Chairman’s daughter’s rebound for her asshole ex.”

“Rebound? This doesn’t even qualify.”

“What is it then? A moment of weakness?”

She glares at you, then exhales, long and annoyed. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you say, bending to grab your belt. “Seems like you really needed that.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” she asks, smoothing her skirt down, trying to tame the chaos you just brought to it.

“Sometimes,” you say, and pause, debating if you should say anything more. “Also, don’t call him back. You deserve better than that.”

Her jaw flexes. “Go home, intern. Give that rock you call a brain some rest.”

“Just intern, still? Not even a tiny bump to ‘stress relief’ in the org chart?”

“More like liability.” She flicks a glance at your face and wrinkles her nose. “And can you wipe your mouth? You look like evidence.”

You lick your lips, her sweet aftertaste still lingering like it was branded to your face. “You taste really good, in case you didn’t know.”

“Get out,” she says, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they came back down.

You give a small, mock salute before turning toward the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your hand’s on the doorknob when she speaks again. “Don’t be late tomorrow. We still have a campaign to finish.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Kim. Wouldn’t want your sales to suffer just because your personal life exploded.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says dryly. “Sarcasm instead of some online courses and brain nourishment supplements.”

“You don’t pay me enough for any of that,” you say, cracking the door open.

You step out into the hallway, closing the door behind you with a soft click as you lean against it for half a second with your eyes closed, lungs still burning from her lingering scent still reminding you of what just happened.

Then you hear it.

The faintest scrape of shoe leather on polished floor.

You look up.

Further down the hall, half-turned like she just happened to be on her way to the elevator, Ningning stands with her phone in her hand.

Her makeup is mostly wiped off now, hair pulled into a messy knot, stockings long gone, bare legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looks smaller without the studio lights on her—but her eyes are bright, and there’s a tight little smile on her mouth that has nothing to do with joy.

“Hey,” she says lightly, as if you didn’t just drag your CEO’s daughter over her own desk. “Busy up here?”

Your blood runs cold. “How long have you been standing there?”

She tilts her head. “Long enough.”

“Why?” you ask, heart pounding against your chest.

She wiggles her phone between two fingers. The screen is dark, but you don’t need to see the gallery to know what’s in it.

“You know,” she says, voice sweet as poison, “for a place that spends this much on marble, you’d think they could invest in better soundproofing.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry as a dessert. “Ning.”

She just smiles wider. “Don’t worry,” she says, slipping the phone into her pocket like it’s nothing. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She steps past you, brushing against your shoulder as she walks away.

“For now.”

[mysonesecret]

You went dead silent after the asks. No updates whatsoever on anything. People were right, you should've removed the schedule tab to be honest.

I'm genuinely confused why you want me to update a story when you're incapable of reading at all, because if you had actually read a single word of the post then you'd already know why I went silent. But alas, the revelation of the year for you appears to be that being rude to authors might not be the best strategy if you want them to continue writing.

Feel free to ChatGPT the ending to TCD. I have no intention in completing it for you. <3 mwah xoxo

PS: I took off the link to the schedule, but please don't refer to just yourself as "people", it's really strange. :/

Hi! Updates every 1-2 weeks were never sustainable, but I forced myself to do it because I really cared about my readers. I still do, but the loud minority has made it extremely difficult to want to sacrifice so much out of my personal life and continue those sleepless nights just to reinforce the entitlement. I hate that the rest of my followers have to wait because a few people ruined it for everyone, but I'm unfortunately not immune to toxicity. That being said, I also don't think a month is even a long time for an update for the majority of writers.

I don't expect to change any of your minds, but please treat fanfic authors as real people. Before guilt-tripping or demanding things, ask yourself if you could deliver all that you expect from them.

Hiii <3 I miss you guys too and I'm sorry for the lack of updates, I've just had a really bad series of unfortunate events back to back. After getting sick, a lot of personal things happened, and then last week I had a freak accident where the tip of one of my fingers was sliced off and I wound up in the ER so now I can't even type properly and things have been really difficult. 😭 I'm recovering, but forcing myself to write has been a bit of a challenge~ But I'll try my best to make it up to you once I'm better!!

[mysonesecret]

Hey I think previous comment is kinda harsh. Yes, I do understand the disappointment since everyone (including me tbf) is waiting for TCD next chapter but saying it out loud is a no no for me.

Mind you that you're writing the story/fic for free, yet people still have the audacity to "complain". Just, whatever you do, hope you dont rush anything and make a sloppy chapter, that's all I'm hoping. Do what you do best, as the old man in Toy Story 2 said, "art can't be rush".

Hope you're doing well in your life! Don't be bummed about that comment, you are better. Plus, you are genuinely one of the greatest (if not the best) writer out there, even it's just smut or fluff LOL, but I do appreciate what you've done.

Either way, looking forward to your next writing!

Hi everyone~ Thank you for checking in! I was pretty sick, but I'm doing better these days. So don't worry! I'm still alive—just trying to slowly get back into the groove of things <3

Honestly, I think removing the dates from the schedule page took a lot of pressure off of me, so I feel less rushed to write now that I know no one is waiting for a specific date. This is ultimately better for my mental health, but not that great for you guys as readers, so I'm sorry about that. 😞 I'll try to get the next update out soon!

Hey! Don't say that D: You'll be okay T_T

Hi! Thank you so much for checking up on me. I apologize for the lack of updates, I was really sick and went through some personal issues I had to deal with afterwards. I know you don't care didn't ask, but I wanted to put it out there just in case you were worried that anything else that is very much in the realm of possibility could've happened to me (such as being hospitalized, having a death in the family, falling into depression, having writer's block, and/or just dying in general).

As per your previous request, the dates were already removed from the Schedule and only the release order remains. This order reflects the remaining chapters of the stories and will not change whether or not the page exists, so if the lack of dates don't help with your disappointment, the next step would be to simply stop looking at the schedule~

That being said, Tumblr is a great community filled with many talented writers, ranging from those who update every once in a blue moon to those who update every week or less. I happen to be somewhere in the middle of that, and the Schedule page was meant to help communicate it in real-ish time. Unfortunately, I don't think my other readers will like it very much if I took your advice and just stopped writing completely—however, if you decide that waiting a few weeks for updates to free content is too much of a burden and no longer wish to read anything I write, you have my full support to unfollow! There are actually even some buttons that I can press on my side to help even further, so if you'd like my assistance, please message me since I can't do it now to anon asks <3

[bunnsfw]

What You're Worth

MALE READER x GOWON | ~11,700 WORDS | MASTERLIST →

SYNOPSIS: A chaebol heir with crippling social anxiety and a former idol desperate for cash walk into an arrangement neither of them is ready for—what starts as one awkward evening spirals into something far darker than either expected.

TW: dubious consent, alcohol use, power imbalance, coercion through financial dependence.

A/N: Thank you so much @ducktoo for beta reading this. I don't know why I invited a fluff writer to beta read a smut fic but here we are.

The meds aren't doing shit.

You've taken the prescribed dose. Maybe a little more. Doesn't matter—you're still pacing your penthouse like something caged, wearing grooves into hardwood that cost more than most people make in a year.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights blinking on below. Can't appreciate any of it.

Your parents arranged this.

Arranged. Like you're some kind of package that needs handling. Which—let's be honest—you probably are. Twenty-five years old, heir to a fortune you didn't earn, and you can't even look a woman in the eye without your throat closing up.

They've tried everything. Therapy. Three different therapists, actually, each more expensive than the last. Social coaches. Those networking events where eligible women just happened to be seated next to you.

Nothing worked.

You're still the same anxious virgin you were at sixteen. Just with more money and nicer apartments.

So they found another solution.

Park Chaewon. Stage name: Gowon. You've done your homework—spent the last three days deep-diving into her history. Former member of LOONA and LOOSSEMBLE, both disbanded after their company went bankrupt. She's been freelancing since then: brand partnerships, YouTube collabs, Instagram sponsorships.

The kind of desperate hustle that tells you everything about her financial situation.

Perfect for your parents' purposes. Low-risk. Not famous enough to create a scandal. No agency to navigate, no company to negotiate with.

Just her. Freelance and available.

The whiskey's already out on your bar cart. Macallan M—a six-liter decanter that cost more than most people's cars. The kind of bottle you buy when money means nothing and everything. You pour yourself a glass and down it, feeling the burn.

It doesn't help. 7PM. The doorbell rings and you nearly drop your glass.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She's not what you expected. Or maybe exactly what you expected. Which is worse.

Gowon stands in your doorway dressed in what you can only describe as calculated casual. Designer white sneakers that probably cost more than most people's rent. White ankle socks. Distressed light-wash jeans with strategic rips at the thighs, held up by a purple belt with a silver ring buckle. A tight white crop top showing a sliver of toned midriff. Over it, an oversized pink and green plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A crossbody bag—also designer.

Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with a scrunchie, face carefully made up but not overdone.

Pretty. Delicate features, small frame. Exactly the kind of girl who would've never looked at you twice in any normal circumstance.

She's looking at your apartment. Not at you.

Eyes scanning the space with the calculating assessment of someone pricing everything in sight. The minimalist furniture, the modern art your decorator chose, the view.

You can practically hear the math running in her head.

"Nice place," she says flatly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her tone suggests it's anything but nice to her—or rather, that she's not impressed by your money.

"Thanks," you manage. "Can I get you—"

"I'm fine."

She walks past you to your couch and sits down like she owns it, pulling out her phone immediately. The screen lights up her face as she starts scrolling, thumbs moving rapidly.

Not even pretending to be interested in you.

You close the door and stand there awkwardly. This is already going exactly as you feared. Worse, even. At least in your nightmares of this moment, the woman pretended to be interested for the first few minutes.

"So," you try again, walking toward the seating area. "My parents said—"

"That they hired me to babysit their awkward son?" She doesn't look up from her phone. "Yeah. I got the brief."

Your face burns.

The humiliation is immediate. Total.

"I wouldn't put it like that—"

"How would you put it?" Now she looks up, eyebrow raised. Expression polite in that way that's actually worse than open contempt. "They're paying me to spend time with you. To help you get 'comfortable around women.' That's babysitting."

You want to argue.

But she's not wrong. That's exactly what this is.

You sit down in the chair across from her, trying to salvage some dignity. "Look, I know this is weird—"

"It's fine." She's already looking at her phone again, scrolling through what looks like Instagram. "It's a job. Easy money, honestly. Just sit here for an hour, make small talk, collect the check. I've done worse gigs."

The casual dismissal stings more than direct insult would.

You're not even worth her full attention. Just another appearance fee, probably on the lower end of her rate card.

"Do you want something to drink?" you try. "I have—"

"I'm fine," she repeats, not looking up. Her thumb pauses on her screen and she smiles slightly at something, then starts tapping rapidly.

You catch a glimpse. Cookie Run, of all things.

She's playing a fucking mobile game while supposedly on a date with you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You sit there in silence, watching her ignore you.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. She shifts on your couch, crossing her legs, completely absorbed in the game. At one point she actually laughs at something—probably cleared a level—a genuine sound that makes you realize you haven't heard her real voice yet.

Everything she's said to you has been in that flat, professional tone.

Fifteen minutes in, she checks the time on her phone and sighs.

"Look, no offense, but can we speed this up? I have another thing later and traffic's gonna be hell."

"Another... thing?"

"An event. Actual work." She finally looks at you properly. "Your parents paid for an hour. We've done fifteen minutes. That leaves forty-five, but I think we can both agree this counts as meeting you, right? I showed up, we talked, it didn't work out. I'll tell them you were nice but we didn't click."

She's already standing up. Adjusting her flannel. Reaching for her bag.

Ready to leave. To add you to the list of failed gigs and move on with her evening.

You'll be a story she tells someone later. The pathetic rich kid whose parents had to pay for a date.

Something snaps inside you.

Maybe it's the medication mixing with the whiskey. Maybe it's years of accumulated humiliation reaching a breaking point. Maybe you're just tired of being treated like you're invisible.

"Wait."

Your voice comes out harder than you expected.

She pauses, hand on her bag, looking at you with barely concealed impatience. "What?"

"Let's make this interesting."

Her eyebrow raises. "Interesting how?"

You stand up, walk to the bar cart, and grab the whiskey. The expensive bottle feels heavy in your hand—appropriate, since it's been your only reliable companion for years.

"Drinking game."

She actually laughs. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." You grab two glasses, pour generous amounts in each. "Every glass I finish, you take something off."

Gowon stares at you. Then at the glasses. Then back at you.

Her expression shifts from dismissive to amused.

"You think you can handle your liquor? Really? You?"

The contempt in her voice should hurt.

Instead it fuels something dark in your chest.

"Scared?"

"Of what? Watching you get drunk after one glass?" She sits back down on the couch, crossing her arms. That calculating look is back—you can see her doing math again, counting her layers of clothing, figuring she'll barely have to strip before you're incoherent. "Fine. Easy money. Pour it heavy. Let's get this over with."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You pour the first glass right to the rim.

She watches you with that same amused expression, clearly expecting a show. You lift your own glass, meet her eyes, and down it in three smooth swallows.

The whiskey burns. But it's a familiar burn.

You've been drinking alone in this apartment for years—drinking away the anxiety, the loneliness, the endless empty nights. Your tolerance isn't something you're proud of.

Right now it's useful.

You set the empty glass down. "Your turn."

Her amused expression falters slightly. She was expecting you to choke, to cough, to tap out immediately.

Instead you're standing there. Steady. Waiting.

"Rules are rules," you say. "Take something off."

She stares at you for a moment longer. Then shrugs and kicks off her designer sneakers.

"Lucky start."

"Pour the next one," you tell her.

She does, still looking confident, and watches as you down the second glass just as smoothly as the first. The alcohol is warming your blood now, that familiar buzz starting, but you're nowhere near drunk.

Not even close.

"What the hell?" she mutters, reaching down to pull off her white ankle socks. "How are you doing this?"

"I told you. I drink alone a lot."

Third glass.

Goes down easier than the first two. You're finding your rhythm now, and you can see her calculation changing in real time. She's realizing this isn't going to go how she expected.

Her hand moves to her crossbody bag, pulling it over her head, then reaches up to yank the scrunchie from her hair. It tumbles down around her shoulders, dark and straight, catching the light.

Idol hair. Silky and well-maintained.

"Two items," she says. "That's fair for one drink."

"If you say so."

Fourth glass.

You're properly buzzed now, that warm loose feeling spreading through your limbs, but your mind is still clear. Crystal clear, actually. Clearer than it's been in months. Maybe years.

You watch Gowon's face as she processes what's happening. The shift from smug confidence to uncertainty.

She stands up and shrugs off the pink and green plaid flannel, tossing it onto the couch beside her. The white crop top underneath hugs her frame, showing the toned flatness of her stomach, the slight definition of her abs.

Dance training.

She's trying to maintain that casual attitude, but you can see the cracks forming.

"You know," she says, "most guys tap out by now."

"I'm not most guys."

Fifth glass.

This one you savor slightly, letting it roll over your tongue before swallowing. The whiskey is good—you've always bought the good stuff, even if you were usually drinking it alone and depressed.

Might as well enjoy it now.

Gowon reaches for the hem of her white crop top and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. Underneath is a white lace bralette, delicate and feminine.

The contrast between the casual jeans and the expensive lingerie tells you everything—she dressed assuming she'd never have to reveal this layer.

Her arms cross over her chest reflexively before she forces them down to her sides.

"Happy?" Her voice has an edge now.

"Keep going."

Sixth glass.

You're definitely drunk now by any normal standard. But "normal" for you is different. Years of self-medication have built up a tolerance you're not proud of but are grateful for right now.

The room has a pleasant soft-focus quality, but you're still in control. Still standing steady.

Gowon hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. She's looking at you differently now—not dismissive anymore, but calculating in a new way. Trying to figure out what kind of person you actually are.

She unbuttons them slowly. Unzips them. Peels the distressed denim down her legs, stepping out of them one foot at a time.

The purple belt clatters to the floor.

White lace panties match the bralette. Of course they do. She's a professional, even if this wasn't the kind of professionalism she anticipated needing tonight.

Her legs are athletic, toned from years of dance training, skin smooth and perfect.

She's standing in your living room in her underwear.

And you can see the exact moment when fear enters her expression.

"Okay," she says, voice less steady now. "I think we should stop here—"

"You set the rules, Gowon." You use her stage name deliberately, keeping that distance. "Keep going."

"Seriously, you win, this is enough—"

Seventh glass.

You down it without breaking eye contact with her.

"Pour the next one."

"How the fuck are you not drunk yet?" Real fear in her voice now. She's doing the math again, but this time the equation isn't working in her favor. She's in her underwear and you're still standing, still coherent, still watching her with that new cold clarity.

"I told you. I drink alone." You gesture to the bottle. "A lot."

Her hands shake slightly as she pours the eighth glass.

You can see her trying to decide. Should she run? Grab her clothes and leave?

But something keeps her there. Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's the money she's already counting on. Maybe it's something else entirely.

You drink the eighth glass.

Goes down smooth as water now.

Gowon's hands move to the clasp of her bralette. Her fingers fumble with it—whether from nerves or because she's been matching you drink for drink, you're not sure.

The bralette falls away and she stands there with her arms crossed over her small breasts, trying to maintain some dignity.

They're perfect. Small, perky, pale. Exactly the kind of breasts that look delicate in clothing but devastating without it.

"Game over," she says firmly. "That's enough."

"One more." You're already pouring the ninth glass.

"No. Fuck this. I'm getting dressed—"

"What happened to 'easy money'?" The words come out cruel, and you feel a savage satisfaction at the way she flinches. "What happened to this just being another gig?"

She stares at you.

And you can see the moment when she realizes she's trapped.

Not physically—she could leave anytime. But trapped by her own pride, her own need for the money, her own calculation that she's already come this far.

Her hands move to her panties.

She slides them down slowly. Stepping out of them.

And then she's standing in your living room completely naked.

Small breasts. Athletic body. Expression equal parts fear and anger.

You can see everything now—the slight curve of her hips, the smooth flesh between her legs, the way her thighs press together as she tries to hide herself.

"There," she says, voice shaking. "Happy now? You win. Game over."

You set your glass down and drink the ninth one yourself, not breaking eye contact.

"Your turn."

"What? No, that's not how—"

"You drank eight. I drank nine. Seems fair for you to match me." You pour another glass and hold it out to her. "Unless you want to forfeit?"

She takes the glass with trembling hands.

You watch her face as she forces it down, grimacing at the taste. She's definitely drunk now—you can see it in the way she sways slightly, the way her eyes aren't quite focused.

"How are you still standing?" she whispers.

You don't answer.

Instead, you walk toward her slowly. She backs up instinctively until she hits the wall. You stop a few feet away, giving her space but making it clear you're in control now.

"Dance for me."

"What?"

"You're an idol. You know how to perform. Perform."

"No. I'm getting dressed—"

"Dance. Like you used to on stage."

There's a long moment where you think she might actually refuse. Might grab her clothes and run.

But then something in her shifts—maybe muscle memory, maybe professional pride, maybe just the alcohol overwhelming her judgment.

Her body starts to move.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It's awkward at first.

She's naked, drunk, clearly terrified. But her training takes over. The movements become more fluid, more controlled. Idol choreography stripped of its context, performed in your living room with nothing but skin and fear.

It's the most erotic thing you've ever seen.

The way her small breasts move with each motion. The flex of her thighs. The unconscious grace that years of training built into her muscle memory.

"Closer," you tell her.

She moves closer, still dancing, her body swaying in ways that were probably meant to be innocent in the original choreography but are anything but right now.

"On my lap."

You sit on the couch and she hesitates. Then climbs onto your lap.

She's straddling you now, and you can feel the heat of her through your clothes. Her skin is warm, smooth, and you can smell her now—some expensive floral perfume mixed with the whiskey on her breath and underneath it something else.

Something distinctly her.

Your hands find her waist—small, delicate, your fingers nearly meeting when you grip—and guide her into a grinding motion.

She gasps softly.

You feel yourself hardening beneath her.

"Feel that?" you ask.

She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Good."

You pull her down into a kiss.

She tastes like whiskey and something else, something sweet beneath the alcohol—maybe lip gloss, maybe just her. She kisses back after a moment's hesitation, and you don't know if it's the alcohol or genuine response or just more professional performance.

You don't care.

Your hands are everywhere—her small breasts, her waist, sliding down between her legs.

She's wet.

That's not performance. That's real. The slickness surprises you, the heat of it. You've imagined what a woman feels like a thousand times but the reality is different.

Better.

"Bedroom," you say against her mouth.

"Wait, we shouldn't—"

But you're already standing, and she's wrapping her legs around your waist instinctively. You carry her toward your bedroom, her lightweight body easy to manage even with the alcohol in your system.

She can't weigh more than a hundred pounds.

She's making small protesting sounds, but she's not fighting you.

You drop her on the bed and she bounces, looking small and vulnerable against your expensive sheets. Her hair is fanned out around her head, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

You stand there for a moment. Just looking at her. Memorizing this.

The way her pale skin contrasts with your dark sheets. The vulnerability in her eyes. The slight tremble in her limbs.

Then you start undressing.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your shirt comes off first. Then your pants.

You're moving with the efficiency of someone who's thought about this moment a thousand times, even if the circumstances are nothing like you imagined.

When you push your boxers down, her eyes widen.

You're hard, have been since she started grinding on you, and there's something gratifying about the way she's looking at you now.

Not dismissive anymore.

Actually seeing you.

"Wait," she says, her voice small. "Don't you need—"

"No."

"What? You have to use protection—"

You're already climbing onto the bed, positioning yourself between her legs. She tries to close them but you push them apart easily.

She's still weak from the alcohol. Still processing what's happening.

You can see her pussy clearly now—neat, pink, glistening with wetness.

The sight sends a jolt of pure need through you.

"Wait, seriously, you need a condom—"

You position yourself at her entrance, feeling her wetness against your tip.

This is really happening.

After years of isolation, of loneliness, of being invisible—this is really happening. The heat of her against you is incredible. Overwhelming.

"Oh god, you can't just—"

You push inside.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sensation is overwhelming.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Every cliché you've ever heard about sex and none of them do it justice. Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The way her body grips you. The slick heat. The resistance and then give as you push deeper.

It's like pushing into warm silk, wet and clinging to every inch of you. You can feel her pussy stretching around you, the entrance gripping your shaft, then the deeper you go the more she envelops you.

There's texture inside her—ridges and smoothness, the way her walls flutter and clench involuntarily. It's not uniform, not like your hand, not like anything you've ever felt.

It's alive. Responsive. Gripping you tighter with each inch.

She cries out beneath you, her hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to hurt.

The pain barely registers.

You're too focused on the sensation of being inside her for the first time.

The heat is incredible—she's so much hotter inside than you expected, like a furnace. And wet. So wet you can feel it coating you, making everything slick and smooth.

"Oh fuck—" She's gasping, her eyes wide. "You can't—you're not—"

But you're already moving, pushing deeper until you're fully seated inside her. Your hips are flush against hers, your cock buried to the hilt.

Her body is clenching around you. Adjusting to the intrusion.

You stay still for a moment. Overwhelmed by the sensation. By the reality of finally being inside another person.

She's so tight it almost hurts, her walls fluttering around you like they're trying to push you out while simultaneously pulling you deeper. You can feel everything—every clench, every ripple, every subtle movement of her inner muscles.

The wet heat of her surrounding you completely. The pressure. The way she throbs around you.

You can feel her heartbeat through her pussy. The rhythmic pulse, fast and frantic. Or maybe that's your own heartbeat. You can't tell. Everything is a new sensation.

"Oh god," she whimpers.

You experimentally pull back an inch and the sensation of her sliding along your shaft makes you gasp. Then you push back in, feeling her part around you, accept you.

The drag is incredible—her pussy clinging to you, not wanting to let go, then yielding as you push forward again.

"Fuck," you breathe.

You've never felt anything like this. Your hand was nothing compared to this. This is wet heat and pressure and texture and life. This is another person, wrapped around you, connected to you.

You start to move.

The first few thrusts are clumsy—you're a virgin, after all, drunk and operating on instinct rather than experience. You pull out too far and almost slip out completely, then slam back in too hard making her cry out.

But you find a rhythm quickly.

Learning the angle. Learning how deep to go, how fast to move.

Soon you're fucking her with hard, fast strokes that make her small body rock against the mattress. The sensation is incredible—the slide of her around you, the wet sounds as you push in and pull out, the way she feels different with each thrust.

Sometimes you hit something inside her that makes her gasp and clench even tighter around you. Sometimes the angle is just right and you can feel every ridge inside her.

Each thrust teaches you something new about how a woman feels.

The wet sounds are obscene—squelching, slapping, the sound of your bodies joining over and over.

Her breasts bounce with each thrust. Small and perfect.

Her face is flushed, expression caught between shock and reluctant pleasure. She's making sounds she probably can't control—gasps and whimpers and something that might be words but comes out incoherent.

You lean down and taste her neck. Her skin salty with sweat and sweet with that perfume.

"Slower," she manages. "Please, you need to—"

But you can't slow down.

Won't slow down.

Years of frustration, of humiliation, of being invisible and pathetic are pouring out of you into her. Every thrust is a fuck you to every woman who never looked at you twice, every therapy session that didn't work, every pitying look from your parents.

You change angles and she cries out louder.

"Oh fuck, oh god—"

Her body is responding despite everything, getting wetter, clenching around you in ways that feel incredible.

You lean down and capture one of her small nipples in your mouth, sucking hard. She tastes clean, slightly salty, and she arches beneath you with a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

"Too much, it's too much—"

You release her nipple and capture her mouth instead, swallowing her protests in a kiss. She kisses back desperately, her hands moving from your shoulders to your hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

You can taste the whiskey in her mouth. Feel her tongue against yours. Wet and desperate.

Time loses meaning.

You're lost in the sensation, in the heat and friction and the sounds she's making. At some point you flip her over, taking her from behind.

This angle is deeper and she buries her face in your pillows, muffling her cries.

You can see everything from here—the curve of her spine, her small ass, the way her body stretches to take you. Every time you thrust in, you watch yourself disappear inside her, and the visual combined with the sensation nearly makes you come right there.

Your hands grip her hips—you're definitely going to leave marks—and you fuck her harder.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills your bedroom, along with her muffled cries and your own heavy breathing.

"Oh fuck, oh god, I'm—"

Her whole body tenses suddenly, clenching around you so hard it's almost painful.

She's cumming.

You realize it with savage satisfaction. Her whole body shakes with it, her pussy spasming around you in rhythmic pulses.

You can feel every contraction, and the sensation pushes you right to the edge.

You pull out at the last second. Barely.

Come across her lower back and ass. Thick ropes of cum painting her skin, marking her.

You're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of. Something between a groan and a roar.

The orgasm seems to go on forever, pleasure radiating out from your core.

When it's over, you collapse beside her, both of you gasping for air.

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might explode.

You just lost your virginity. Raw, unprotected, intense sex with someone who was a complete stranger an hour ago.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Gowon is still face-down in your pillows.

Not moving.

Your cum is cooling on her skin, stark white against her pale back. After a long moment, she speaks, her voice muffled by the fabric.

"You didn't use protection."

It's not a question. Just a statement of fact. She sounds scared.

"I know."

She finally lifts her head, turning to look at you.

Her makeup is completely destroyed—mascara smudged in dark tracks down her cheeks, lipstick gone. She looks wrecked. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with styling or professional polish.

This is what she looks like after being thoroughly fucked.

The thought sends a fresh spike of arousal through you.

"That wasn't..." She trails off, seeming unable to find words.

"Go clean up," you tell her, suddenly exhausted. "Bathroom's through there."

She climbs off the bed slowly, moving like everything hurts. Your cum is still on her skin, and you watch it slide down her back as she moves.

She stumbles slightly—drunk and bow-legged—and catches herself on the doorframe. She looks back at you once, expression unreadable, then disappears into the bathroom.

The shower starts. It runs for a long time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You lie there staring at the ceiling.

Feeling different.

The scared virgin who opened that door an hour ago is gone. Someone else is lying here now. Someone colder. Harder.

Someone who just took what he wanted and doesn't feel bad about it.

You can still smell her on your skin—perfume mixed with sweat and sex. Bring your hand to your face and inhale. Her scent is there too, on your fingers that touched her, that felt her wetness.

You can still feel the ghost of her around your cock. The memory of that tight heat.

Your first time.

You'll never forget a single detail.

The way she felt—that initial resistance, then the give. The heat. The wetness. The way she gripped you like her body was trying to hold on.

And the power.

That's what you hadn't expected.

Not just the physical sensation—though that was incredible—but the power. She had dismissed you, treated you like nothing, played games on her phone while you tried to talk to her.

And then she was naked beneath you. Crying out. Taking your cock raw. Marking your shoulders with her nails.

You made her come.

You. The virgin. The anxious mess. The guy who couldn't even maintain eye contact with women.

You made her come so hard she shook.

Her body betrayed her mind. Whatever she thought of you, her pussy knew better.

You look down at your cock. It's softening now, covered in the evidence of what you did—her arousal, your cum, all mixed together.

You've had it for twenty-five years and never really knew what it was for.

Now you do.

This is power.

This is control.

You should feel guilty, probably. Should be panicking about the lack of protection, about the way it happened, about everything.

The responsible thing would be to feel remorse.

But you don't.

You feel satisfied. Powerful. In control for the first time in your life.

Maybe that makes you a bad person.

Probably does.

But you don't care. For the first time in your life, you don't care what you're supposed to feel. You care what you do feel.

And what you feel is alive.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The shower finally turns off.

When Gowon emerges, she's in her underwear—the white lace pieces she wore under her clothes. She's walking carefully, still bow-legged, holding herself like she's sore.

You can see the evidence of what you did to her in every careful step.

She's been fucked. Thoroughly.

And her body shows it.

She gathers the rest of her clothes silently. Pulls on the jeans—carefully, wincing slightly as the denim slides over her skin. The white crop top. The pink and green plaid flannel.

Each piece of armor going back on, hiding what you've seen and touched and been inside of.

Transforming her back into the dismissive girl who walked through your door.

But you know better now.

She's not looking at you, focused entirely on getting dressed. Avoiding your eyes.

There's shame in her movements, in the way she won't meet your gaze.

Good. Let her feel it. Let her remember what happened here.

You watch her, propped up on your pillows, making no move to cover yourself.

Let her see you. Let her remember what you look like, what you did to her, what you made her feel.

You're not hiding anymore. Not ashamed. Not invisible.

When she's fully dressed again, she finally looks at you.

"I should go."

There's something in her eyes. Not just shame. Something else.

Fear, maybe. Or confusion.

She's looking at you like she doesn't understand what just happened. How the nervous virgin became this. How the night went so wrong—or right, depending on perspective.

"Wait."

She freezes, hand reaching for her crossbody bag. Fear in her expression—wondering what else you might demand.

But that's not what you want.

"How much did my parents pay you?" you ask. "For tonight. For the date. How much?"

She names a figure. It's substantial but not outrageous. About what you'd expect for an appearance fee from a former idol.

"I'll pay you double that. Come back tonight."

She stares at you. "What?"

"You heard me. Come back. Tonight. 8 PM."

"Tonight?" She looks toward your windows where early morning light is filtering in. "You mean today? Like, twelve hours from now?"

"Yes. Tonight. 8 PM."

"No." The word comes out firm, but you can hear the uncertainty beneath it. "Absolutely not. That was... that was a mistake—"

"Triple."

Her mouth opens. Then closes.

You can see the war happening in her expression—pride fighting with need, dignity wrestling with desperation.

You know which will win.

"What exactly do you want?" she asks carefully.

You're already reaching for your nightstand, pulling out your checkbook. You write a number that makes her previous payment look small, rip it out, and hold it up.

The paper flutters slightly in the air between you.

"I'm going to text you an address. A boutique. Buy something." You pause, considering. "Something white. Delicate. You'll know what I mean."

She's staring at the check like it might bite her.

"This is insane—"

"Down payment. Be here at 8 PM tonight."

The check hangs in the air between you.

You watch her face. Watch the moment when need overcomes every other consideration.

Her hand reaches out slowly and takes the check. Her fingers are trembling as she reads the amount again, as if making sure it's real.

"Just tonight," she says quietly, more to herself than to you. "That's it. Just tonight."

"Of course." You smile slightly. "Just tonight."

She stares at you for a long moment. Really seeing you for the first time.

Not the awkward virgin who opened the door.

Someone else entirely.

Someone who scares her. Someone who just fucked her raw and is already planning to do it again.

"I'll be here," she whispers.

"I know."

She leaves, clutching the check, still walking carefully. You hear the front door open and close.

Then you're alone in your penthouse again.

But it's different now.

You're different now.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get up and walk to your bathroom.

The mirror shows you a stranger—same face, same body, but something fundamental has changed in your eyes.

That scared, anxious virgin is gone.

In his place is someone who knows what he wants and how to get it. Someone who knows what a woman feels like now, what she tastes like, how she sounds when she cums.

You shower, washing her scent off you, though part of you wants to keep it. The hot water feels good on your muscles, and you find yourself remembering every detail.

The tightness of her. The sounds she made. The way she looked with your cum on her back.

Your cock stirs at the memories. It's been less than an hour and you already want her again.

You should probably feel bad about what just happened.

But you don't.

Powerful. In control. Alive for the first time in years.

And hungry.

Hungry for more. One taste wasn't enough. Now that you know what it's like, you need it again.

Need her again.

Your phone buzzes with a message. You don't need to check it to know it's from your parents, asking how the meeting went.

You ignore it.

Deal with them later. Right now, you have more important things to think about.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You spend the day preparing.

But it's different from yesterday's anxious waiting. Yesterday you were terrified.

Today you're planning.

First, you clean. Put on fresh clothes—nothing too formal, but nicer than usual. A fitted black t-shirt that actually shows off your frame instead of hiding it. Dark jeans.

You look at yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.

Same face. Different eyes.

Confident eyes.

You clean up the living room methodically, throwing away the empty glasses, putting the whiskey bottle away. Evidence of the game that changed everything.

Then the bedroom.

Strip the bed completely, examining the sheets. There's a wet spot where she was, where her pussy leaked as you fucked her. Another spot where your cum landed on her back and eventually transferred to the fabric.

Evidence of what you did.

You want to keep these sheets, never wash them. But that's crazy.

Instead, you bundle them up and throw them in the laundry.

Fresh sheets. High thread count, crisp and cool. You make the bed carefully, hospital corners, everything perfect.

You want her to feel the luxury when you push her down onto it tonight.

Check your nightstand.

Condoms? No. You're not using those.

But lube—yes. You'll need lube.

She needs to learn to take you everywhere.

Around noon, you're thinking about what you want her to wear. Something innocent. Something that makes the corruption even sweeter.

You text her the address of a boutique that specializes in delicate, feminine clothing. Just "Something white. Something innocent. You know what I mean."

She'll figure it out.

And the not-knowing will make her anxious all day. Trying to guess what you want. What you'll do to her.

The afternoon crawls by.

You're not nervous anymore, not the way you were before she arrived the first time. That anxiety is gone, replaced with anticipation.

Dark anticipation.

You catch yourself imagining scenarios. What positions you'll try. Whether you'll be rough or slow. Whether you'll make her beg.

At six you shower again, wanting to be fresh. Put on cologne—something expensive your parents bought you that you've never worn.

Look at yourself in the mirror again.

The stranger looks back.

Confident. Predatory. Ready.

Seven PM comes. Then seven-thirty.

You pour yourself a drink—whiskey again, but just one. You want to be mostly sober for this. Want to remember everything clearly. Want to be in complete control.

Last night was raw need and alcohol.

Tonight will be calculated.

Deliberate.

At eight PM exactly, your doorbell rings.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your cock is already hard.

Has been since seven-thirty, just anticipating this moment.

You take a breath before answering. Letting the anticipation build. Savoring this feeling of power.

Then you open the door.

Chaewon has transformed herself.

Gone is the athletic casual wear from before. She's wearing a white sundress that hits just above her knees, delicate lace details along the neckline and hem. A soft white cardigan over it.

Her hair is down in loose curls that frame her face perfectly. Her makeup is soft and natural, pink lips, doe eyes enhanced with subtle shadow.

White mary-jane style shoes with a small heel. A delicate white purse in her hands.

She looks innocent.

Pure.

Like a princess at a garden party.

The contrast between this image and what you did to her hours ago makes you instantly harder.

You know what's under that dress now. Know what she looks like naked, what she sounds like, what she feels like.

"You look good," you say, stepping aside to let her in.

"You said white." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. Nothing like the dismissive tone from yesterday. "I wasn't sure exactly what you wanted."

"This is perfect."

She steps inside and you close the door behind her. She's standing in your living room, hands clasped in front of her, the picture of nervous femininity.

No phone this time. No defensive attitude.

Just quiet awareness of why she's here.

She knows what's going to happen.

"Come here," you say.

She walks toward you slowly, and you reach out to touch her face. She flinches slightly but doesn't pull away.

Her skin is soft, makeup smooth under your fingers. You can feel her pulse racing in her neck.

She smells different today—a lighter perfume, something floral and sweet.

"You're nervous," you observe.

"Yes."

"Good."

Your hands move to her waist, feeling the fabric of the dress, the body underneath. She's rigid under your touch, every muscle tense.

You pull her closer and she comes reluctantly, letting you position her against you.

You can feel her trembling.

You kiss her neck, just below her ear, and feel her sharp intake of breath. Your hands slide down to her hips, gripping through the dress.

She's shaking slightly.

You kiss down her neck slowly, tasting her skin—clean, slightly sweet from whatever lotion she used. There's something floral underneath, jasmine maybe.

"You smell different today," you murmur against her throat. "What is it?"

"J-just perfume. From the boutique." Her voice trembles.

You inhale deeply against her neck, dragging your nose along her skin.

"It's lighter than last night. Sweeter." Your teeth graze her collarbone and she gasps, hands coming up to grip your shoulders. "I like it."

Your hands roam over the dress, feeling her body beneath the fabric. The dress is thin, and you can feel the heat of her skin through it.

Her breathing is quickening, her chest rising and falling rapidly under your palms.

One hand slides up to cup her breast through the dress, thumb finding her nipple through the layers of fabric.

It's already hard. A small point beneath the material.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat.

"Already hard," you observe, circling your thumb over it, feeling it stiffen further. "Are you scared, Chaewon? Or excited?"

"I don't know," she whispers honestly, her breath hitching as you pinch lightly through the fabric.

"Maybe both," you suggest, bringing your other hand up to her other breast, cupping them both now. They're small enough that they fit perfectly in your palms.

You squeeze gently. Then harder. Watching her face.

Her eyes flutter closed.

You kiss her then. Properly. Deeply.

She tastes like mint again—she's been preparing, freshening up for you—and underneath something slightly sweet, artificial. Like she's been nervous-eating candy.

Her lips are soft, pliant, and after a moment's hesitation she kisses back. Your tongue slides against hers and she whimpers into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Your hands continue their exploration while you kiss her. Down her sides, feeling her waist, the curve of her hips through the dress.

You grab her ass, pulling her flush against you, and she can feel how hard you are through your pants.

She makes another sound. Something between fear and arousal.

When you pull back, her lips are slightly swollen, pink and wet. Her lipstick is smudged at the corners.

"Tell me what you're wearing under this," you murmur against her skin, kissing along her jaw.

"I..." She swallows hard. "White. Everything's white."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me. Slowly."

She pulls back slightly to look at you. There's fear in her eyes but something else too—resignation, maybe. Or acceptance.

She knows why she's here. She took the money.

But you shake your head.

"No. I'll do it." Your hands move to her face, cupping her cheeks. "You just stand there and let me unwrap you. Like a present."

Her breath catches.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your hands find the buttons on her cardigan.

You start undoing them one by one, deliberately slow. She stands still, letting you, barely breathing.

The cardigan falls open and you slide it off her shoulders. It drops to the floor in a soft heap.

The sundress has thin straps.

You trace them with your fingers, feeling her shiver under your touch. Your hands move to the zipper on the side, hidden cleverly in the seam.

You pull it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet of your apartment.

The dress loosens. You push it down over her hips and it pools at her feet.

She steps out of it carefully, still in her white shoes.

You take a step back to look at her.

Underneath is a matching white lace lingerie set. Bra, panties, and—your breath catches—a garter belt holding up white stockings.

It's elaborate. Expensive. Perfectly coordinated.

She dressed for this. Spent time choosing this, putting it on, knowing you'd be the one taking it off.

The thought sends a thrill through you.

"Turn around," you tell her.

She turns slowly, showing you everything.

The lace is delicate, barely covering anything. You can see the curve of her small breasts through the bra, the shape of her ass through the panties.

The garter belt and stockings make her legs look impossibly long for her small frame.

She's like a present wrapped up for you.

"The shoes stay," you decide. "The stockings too. Everything else comes off."

Your hands move to her bra clasp. You undo it slowly, letting the anticipation build.

The bra falls away and her breasts are exposed—small, perky, nipples already hard from nerves or arousal or cold.

You cup them in your hands, feeling their weight, and she makes a soft sound.

They're soft. Warm. Perfect in your palms.

"Please," she whispers.

"Please what?"

She doesn't answer.

Doesn't know what she's asking for—for you to stop, or to continue, or something else entirely.

Your hands move to her panties. You hook your thumbs in the waistband and drag them down slowly, kneeling as you do.

She lifts one foot, then the other, stepping out of them.

You're eye-level with her pussy now, can see that she's already wet.

The sight makes your mouth water.

You lean forward and breathe in her scent—musky, intoxicating, pure arousal.

The garter belt is next. You undo the clasps carefully, letting the stockings fall loose, then unfasten the belt itself.

Now she's standing in just white stockings and mary-jane shoes, otherwise completely naked.

The corruption of the innocent image is perfect.

"On your knees," you say, standing.

She sinks down slowly, her stockinged knees hitting your floor.

She's looking up at you, and there's something in her expression that makes you feel powerful in a way you've never experienced.

She's on her knees in front of you. Waiting for instruction. Submissive.

Yours.

You unbuckle your belt, unzip your pants, free yourself.

You're already hard, have been since you opened the door and saw her in that dress.

Her eyes widen slightly seeing you again, and you wonder if she thought about this all day. About your cock, about what you did to her.

"Open your mouth."

"I don't usually—"

"I don't care what you usually do. Open."

She opens her mouth and you guide yourself inside.

Her lips close around you and the sensation is incredible—wet, warm, soft.

Even better than you imagined.

She tries to pull back after a moment but your hand is in her hair, holding her in place. Her curls are soft between your fingers.

"Deeper."

She tries, but gags almost immediately. Her eyes water, hands coming up to push against your thighs.

You ease back slightly, letting her catch her breath, then push forward again.

"I said deeper."

You're controlling the rhythm now, pushing into her mouth, feeling her throat constrict around your tip.

She's struggling, gagging, mascara running as her eyes water. Saliva is dripping down her chin, making a mess of that perfect makeup.

The image of the perfect princess is destroyed completely—she's a mess, barely able to breathe, completely at your mercy.

It's the most erotic thing you've ever seen.

You can feel her tongue against your shaft, the back of her throat resisting then giving way. She's making muffled sounds around your cock, desperate and overwhelmed.

You hold her there. Watching tears stream down her face.

Then pull out.

She gasps desperately, coughing. Strings of saliva connect her lips to your cock.

You give her a moment to recover, watching her gasp for air.

"Bedroom. Now."

She climbs to her feet unsteadily and walks toward your bedroom.

You follow, watching her ass move, the white stockings contrasting with her skin.

She climbs onto the bed and turns to face you, waiting.

She knows what's coming.

You strip efficiently—shirt, pants, everything.

When you're naked, you climb onto the bed and position yourself between her legs.

She's watching you with wide eyes, anticipation and fear mixing together.

"Please use protection—"

"No."

"You have to—"

You line yourself up with her entrance, feeling her wetness against your tip.

She's soaked already, her body betraying her.

"Feel how wet you are? Your body wants this."

"That doesn't mean—"

You push inside in one smooth motion.

She cries out, hands flying to grip your shoulders.

You're buried fully inside her, raw and unprotected, and it feels even better than the first time. Every sensation is clearer, more intense.

She's just as tight as before, her walls gripping you perfectly.

"Oh god, you're not—"

You start moving immediately. No gentle build-up.

Hard, fast thrusts that make her small body rock against the mattress.

She's gasping, nails digging into your shoulders, trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion.

"Feel that?" you grunt. "Nothing between us. Just you and me."

Her face is flushed, expression caught between shock and unwilling pleasure.

You lean down and capture one of her nipples in your mouth, sucking hard.

The taste of her skin floods your senses—clean, slightly sweet.

She arches beneath you, a small cry escaping her lips.

"Oh fuck—"

You release her nipple and capture her mouth instead, kissing her deeply while you continue to fuck her.

She kisses back desperately, her tongue meeting yours.

You can taste her—mint toothpaste, something sweet, and underneath it all just her.

Her body is responding despite any reservations her mind might have. She's getting wetter, her pussy clenching around you in that involuntary way that signals building arousal.

"You feel so good," you tell her truthfully. "So tight. So wet."

"Oh god, oh god—" Her words are barely coherent. "I can't, it's too—"

But her body is saying otherwise.

Her hips are starting to move with yours, meeting your thrusts. Her breathing is getting faster, more desperate.

You can feel her building toward something, her inner walls starting to flutter.

You reach between your bodies and find her clit, rubbing it in time with your thrusts.

She practically screams, her whole body going rigid.

"Oh fuck, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Cum for me," you order.

She does.

Her whole body convulses, clenching around you so tightly it almost hurts. She's making sounds that are barely human, completely lost to the sensation.

Her pussy spasms around you in rhythmic waves and you can feel every single contraction.

You fuck her through it, prolonging her orgasm, watching her face contort with pleasure.

When she finally comes down, she's gasping. Looking dazed.

You're close too. But you're not done yet.

You pull out and she whimpers at the loss.

"Turn over. Hands and knees."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She moves slowly, like she's in a dream, positioning herself on all fours.

You grab the lube from your nightstand and she tenses when she hears the bottle open.

"What are you—"

"You know what."

"No. I've never done that—"

"I know." You spread lube on your fingers, watching it glisten. "That's the point."

You press one finger against her ass and she jerks forward instinctively.

The tight ring of muscle resists immediately.

"It won't fit—"

"It will. Relax."

You work the finger in slowly, feeling incredible resistance.

She's whimpering into the pillows, her whole body tense.

The heat of her ass around just your finger is intense. You give her time to adjust, then start moving the finger, working her open.

Her body fights you every inch.

"It's too much—"

"Breathe. Just breathe through it."

You add a second finger and she cries out, louder this time.

You're stretching her carefully, adding more lube, preparing her. She's shaking, overwhelmed, gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles are white.

"Please—"

"Almost ready."

You scissor your fingers, stretching her wider, then add more lube and position yourself.

The head of your cock presses against her ass and she goes completely rigid.

"Wait, please, I need—"

You push forward slowly but steadily. There's intense resistance, her body fighting the intrusion, then suddenly the head pops through.

She screams into the pillow, a full-throated sound of shock and pain.

She's sobbing now, crying into your expensive sheets, her whole body trembling.

You stay still, letting her adjust to the intrusion, feeling her ass clench around you.

The tightness is incredible. Almost overwhelming.

You stay still, letting her adjust, then start pushing in slowly.

Inch by inch. Agonizingly slow. Until you're fully seated inside her ass.

"Good girl," you say, genuinely impressed. "You took all of it."

She's making continuous whimpering sounds, overwhelmed and unable to form words.

You start moving—slow, shallow thrusts at first, then gradually deeper, faster.

The sensation is incredible. Tighter than her pussy, more intense. Every nerve ending is firing.

Her sounds are changing, pain mixing with something else.

Confusion, maybe. Or unwilling pleasure.

Her body is adjusting, the resistance fading, accepting the intrusion.

"That's it," you encourage, picking up speed. "You're doing so well."

You're building toward climax quickly—the visual of taking her ass, the sounds she's making, the sheer tightness of it.

When you finally cum, it's explosive.

You bury yourself as deep as possible and let go, feeling pulse after pulse of cum flooding her ass.

The orgasm seems to last forever, your vision whiting out.

When you pull out, she collapses onto her stomach, completely spent.

You lie beside her, catching your breath, feeling satisfied in a profound way.

You can see your cum leaking from her ass.

The sight sends a fresh spike of arousal through you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After a few minutes of silence, you're already feeling the stirrings of arousal again.

The refractory period is shorter than you expected.

You roll her onto her back and she looks at you with exhausted, tear-stained eyes.

"I can't," she whispers. "I need to rest—"

You spread her legs and position yourself at her pussy again.

"We're not done."

"Please—"

You push inside her, and the slide is easy now. She's still wet, still open from before.

She's exhausted, pliant, just letting you use her. You fuck her with steady, deliberate strokes, chasing your second orgasm of the night.

Her pussy feels different now—more tender, swollen from use.

Every thrust makes her whimper.

You watch her face. See the exhaustion there. The resignation.

She's given up fighting.

This time when you come, you don't pull out.

You bury yourself deep and let go, feeling your cum flood her pussy.

It's a different kind of satisfaction—raw, primal, possessive.

Marking her from the inside.

"What if I get pregnant—" Her voice is scared, small.

"I'll pay for whatever happens." You mean it. "Pills, abortion, a child. Whatever. I'll cover it."

Her eyes are wide with shock, processing what you just said.

But you're already pulling out, your cum leaking out of her. White against pink.

You watch it drip down to the sheets.

You roll off the bed and she just lies there, staring at the ceiling, processing what just happened.

But you're still not satisfied.

Your cock is already stirring again, and she's right there, available, paid for.

You flip her onto her stomach and she doesn't even protest, too exhausted to fight.

She just lies there, face-down, waiting.

"Again?" Her voice is muffled by the pillow, disbelieving.

You spread her ass cheeks and push into her pussy from behind.

This angle is different, deeper.

You can see everything—the curve of her spine, the redness around her holes from use, the way her body yields to you now.

You fuck her with hard, fast strokes, completely focused on your own pleasure now.

She's just taking it, body limp, letting you use her however you want.

The sounds are obscene—wet slapping, her quiet whimpers, your grunts of effort.

You can smell the sex in the room, thick and heavy. Sweat and cum and her arousal.

When you cum this time, it's quick and intense.

You empty yourself inside her again, adding to the cum already there.

When you pull out, it's leaking steadily down her thighs.

The visual is incredible—her pussy is red, swollen, leaking your cum.

"Don't move," you tell her.

You climb off the bed and grab your phone from the nightstand.

You need to document this. The way she looks right now, thoroughly used, your cum leaking from her.

You take a photo—just her lower body, her pussy and thighs, the evidence of what you did.

She doesn't even notice, too exhausted to care.

You set the phone down but you're not done. Not even close.

Looking at her like this—used, marked, leaking your cum—is already making you hard again.

You climb back onto the bed.

"Turn over. On your back."

She moves slowly, wincing.

When she's on her back, you can see everything. Her face is flushed, sweaty, makeup completely destroyed. Her small breasts are marked with red spots where you sucked too hard. Her thighs are smeared with cum and her own arousal.

You spread her legs and look at your handiwork.

Her pussy is swollen, reddened, your cum still leaking from her.

The sight makes you throb.

"Please," she whispers. "I need to rest—"

"No. Not yet."

You push back inside her pussy.

She's so wet now—a mix of her arousal and your previous loads—that you slide in easily despite the swelling.

She cries out, a broken sound.

"Too much, please, it's too much—"

But you're already moving, fucking into her with steady strokes.

This time you're slower, more deliberate. You want to feel everything.

The way she clenches around you even when exhausted. The wet sounds as you fuck your own cum deeper into her. The way her body yields completely now, no resistance left.

You lean down and kiss her.

She kisses back weakly, her tongue moving against yours without enthusiasm.

Just accepting it.

You can taste the salt of her tears.

"You feel incredible," you tell her honestly. "So fucking wet. So warm."

She makes a sound that might be a whimper or a sob.

You don't care which.

You fuck her for longer this time, building slowly.

Your hands roam her body—squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding down to feel where you're joined.

Everything is slick. Messy. Perfect.

When you finally cum, it's deep inside her again. Another load pumped into her pussy.

You stay buried inside her as you finish, feeling every pulse, making sure she takes all of it.

When you pull out this time, even more cum leaks from her.

It's obscene, the amount. You've filled her multiple times and it's all coming out now, pooling on your sheets beneath her.

"Roll over," you say. "Hands and knees."

"I can't—" Her voice breaks.

"You can. Do it."

She moves so slowly it's almost painful to watch.

Gets onto her hands and knees, trembling with effort. Her arms are shaking, barely able to hold herself up.

You move behind her and spread her ass cheeks.

Her asshole is still slightly gaped from earlier, reddened from use. Your cum is still inside, you can see traces of it.

"Not there again," she pleads. "Please not there—"

But that's not what you want.

You push back into her pussy from behind, and the angle makes her cry out.

You're so deep like this, hitting spots that make her whole body jerk.

You fuck her like an animal now. Hard, fast, brutal.

Your hands grip her hips so hard you're definitely leaving bruises.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoes through the room.

She's making continuous sounds now—cries, whimpers, broken pleas that you ignore.

She collapses forward onto her face, ass still in the air, and you follow her down.

Covering her body with yours, pinning her to the mattress, still fucking into her.

She's trapped beneath you, taking everything you give her.

"Whose are you?" you grunt into her ear.

She doesn't answer.

You thrust particularly hard and she cries out.

"Whose are you, Chaewon?"

"Yours," she finally gasps. "Yours."

"That's right." You bite her shoulder, hard enough to leave marks. "Mine."

The dirty talk pushes you over the edge.

You come inside her again, grinding deep, making sure she feels every second of it.

When you pull out, you're finally starting to soften.

You roll off her and she stays face-down, not moving.

You think she might have passed out until you hear her breathing—ragged, hitching with quiet sobs.

"One more," you say.

"Please no—"

But you're already moving.

Your cock is softening but you stroke it, looking at her used body, and it starts to respond again. The refractory period is nothing now. You're running on pure adrenaline and power.

You flip her onto her back again.

She doesn't resist, just lies there like a doll.

You spread her legs and they fall open easily, no strength left to close them.

This time you enter her slowly. Savoring it.

She's so swollen now that even though she's loose from use, she still grips you.

Her pussy is hot, probably irritated, definitely sore.

But it feels incredible.

You fuck her slowly this time. Long, deep strokes.

Watching her face. Seeing the exhaustion there. The defeat.

She's not even making sounds anymore, just breathing hard, taking it.

"Look at me," you command.

Her eyes open, glassy and unfocused.

"You're going to do this every week," you tell her, still fucking into her slowly. "Every week you're going to come here. And I'm going to use you however I want. Understand?"

She doesn't respond.

You stop moving, buried deep inside her.

"Understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good girl."

You resume fucking her, building toward your final climax of the night.

Your hands find her breasts again, squeezing, pinching her nipples. She winces but doesn't complain.

When you come this time, it's almost painful.

Your balls are empty, you've cum so many times, but you still manage one more load. It's not as much as the others, but you pump it into her anyway.

Marking her one more time.

When you pull out, you collapse beside her, genuinely exhausted now.

Your heart is pounding, your muscles are sore, but you feel incredible. Satisfied in a way you've never felt before.

Chaewon is lying there like a broken doll.

Not moving, barely breathing.

Cum is leaking from both her holes, pooling beneath her. Her thighs are streaked with it. Her body is covered in marks—bite marks, bruises, scratches.

She's been thoroughly, completely used.

"Now you can rest," you tell her.

She doesn't respond.

Might actually be unconscious now.

You lie there beside her, staring at the ceiling.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Hours pass.

You doze. She doesn't move.

When you wake, early morning light is filtering through your windows. You're hard again—morning wood plus the memory of everything that happened.

You roll her onto her back and her eyes flutter open, confusion giving way to understanding.

"Wha—"

You spread her legs and push inside her while she's still waking up.

She gasps, hands coming up weakly to push at your chest, but there's no strength behind it.

She's too exhausted, too sore.

"Oh god—"

You fuck her efficiently, chasing your release.

Her pussy is tender now, swollen from overuse, but that just makes it tighter.

Doesn't take long—you're already so worked up from the night before.

You come inside her again, another load added to the collection already inside her.

When you pull out, you roll off and immediately get up.

"Clean yourself up. I have things to do today."

She just lies there for a long moment.

Staring at the ceiling.

Processing everything—the soreness, the cum leaking from her, what she's become.

Then slowly. Painfully. She climbs out of bed.

She's walking bow-legged again, worse than before. Cum is literally dripping down her thighs, leaving a trail on your floor.

She limps to the bathroom and closes the door.

The shower runs for a long time again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get dressed while she's in there—nice casual clothes, like you're going out for brunch. Which you might.

You feel good.

Better than you've felt in years. Maybe ever.

Powerful. Confident.

Like a different person entirely.

When she finally emerges, she's putting the sundress back on over her damp skin. She couldn't clean herself properly—there's still that freshly-fucked look about her, slightly damp hair, careful movements.

She gathers her things silently, not looking at you.

The stockings and garter belt go into her purse. Too ruined to wear again.

You walk to the kitchen and grab an envelope you prepared earlier.

It's thick with cash—triple what you promised, plus extra.

You set it on the counter and she stares at it.

"Triple, like I promised. Plus extra for... everything."

She walks over slowly and picks it up.

Her hands are shaking as she opens it, sees how much is inside.

You watch her face. See the exact moment when the money becomes real. When she understands exactly what she just did and what she was paid for it.

"What am I doing?" she whispers, more to herself than you.

"Getting paid. That's what you wanted, right?"

She closes the envelope but doesn't put it down.

Stands there holding it, looking lost.

Like she doesn't recognize herself anymore.

"Same time next week?" you ask casually.

Long silence.

She's staring at the money in her hands. Trying to calculate if she can afford to say no. Trying to tell herself this was a one-time thing, that she's not what this looks like, that she has other options.

But you both know she doesn't.

"What do you want me to wear?" she asks quietly.

Victory.

You pretend to think about it, drawing out the moment.

"Something special. Really special this time."

"Like what?"

"A wedding dress."

Her head snaps up, eyes wide.

"What?"

"White, formal, expensive. The full thing. Veil, train, everything."

"Why would I—"

"Because I'm going to tell my parents we're getting married."

She stares at you like you've lost your mind.

"Married? We barely know each other—"

"It's an arrangement. Like this. Like everything else."

"You can't be serious."

You walk closer, backing her against the counter.

She's trapped between you and the kitchen island, clutching the envelope of money.

You can smell yourself on her still—sex and sweat and possession.

"They wanted me to date someone. Get comfortable with women. Maybe find a wife." You smile slightly. "You need money. I need a wife for appearances. It's perfect."

"That's insane—"

"Is it? You're already taking my money. Already letting me fuck you however I want. This is just the next step."

"That's different—"

"Is it?"

She's looking at you with growing horror.

Understanding finally dawning.

She's trapped.

She took the money. She came back. She let you use every hole in her body.

She's already compromised every boundary she had.

What's one more?

"This isn't how it's supposed to work," she whispers.

"But it works. You can't deny that."

"What happens after? After the wedding dress?"

"We'll see." You shrug. "Maybe I actually propose. Maybe I don't. Maybe I just like seeing you in white while I ruin you."

"This is fucked up."

"Yes." You don't deny it. "But you'll be here next week anyway."

Long silence.

She's holding the envelope so tight it's crumpling.

Looking at you. Seeing what you've become. Seeing what she's become by accepting this.

Seeing the monster she helped create.

"The dress needs to be perfect," you tell her. "Expensive. Traditional. I'll send you the budget."

She nods slowly.

Mechanical. Defeated.

"Good girl."

She walks to the door like she's moving through water.

Every step looks painful—from the sex, from the shame, from the weight of what she just agreed to.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she pauses.

"My name is Chaewon," she says quietly, not looking back. "Not Gowon."

"I know your name, Chaewon."

"Then use it."

"I will." You lean against the kitchen counter, completely relaxed. "When you're wearing white at the altar."

She makes a small sound—something between a sob and a laugh.

Then she opens the door and leaves, still limping slightly, clutching the envelope of money like a lifeline.

The door closes and you're alone again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You walk to the window and look out at the city below.

The morning sun is painting everything gold.

People are starting their days, going to work, living their normal lives.

None of them know what just happened in this apartment. None of them know what you've become.

Your reflection in the window shows you clearly.

Same face. Same body.

But everything else is different.

Twenty-four hours ago, you couldn't look a woman in the eye.

Now you've fucked one raw in every hole.

Twenty-four hours ago, you were invisible, pathetic, anxious.

Now you're in control. Powerful. Feared.

And it feels incredible.

You think about the old you—the anxious virgin who answered that door yesterday evening. The one who was afraid Gowon would reject him, humiliate him, confirm every fear he had about himself.

That person is gone.

Dead.

Buried under layers of confidence and power and the memory of Chaewon's body yielding to yours.

You killed him.

With whiskey and will and raw hunger, you killed the old you.

And you don't regret it for a second.

Your phone is already out. You open a text to your parents.

The arrangement is working well. We're seeing each other again. I'll keep you updated.

Their response comes quickly.

Relief and joy bleeding through the text. Their son is finally making progress. Finally becoming normal. Finally finding someone.

They have no idea.

They think you're dating a nice girl, maybe falling in love, maybe on the path to the marriage and grandchildren they've always wanted.

They don't know you're paying her. They don't know you fucked her unconscious. They don't know about the wedding dress order, the twisted arrangement, the transaction disguised as romance.

And you'll never tell them.

You'll let them think their awkward son finally found confidence through love.

Meanwhile, you'll be here, in your penthouse, fucking a woman you're paying to pretend. Using her body however you want. Corrupting her a little more each week until she doesn't even recognize herself.

It's perfect.

Poetic, almost.

You pocket your phone and look around your penthouse.

It's not empty anymore. Not really.

Chaewon's presence lingers—her scent on your sheets, the memory of her sounds, the image of her in white.

And next week she'll be back.

In a wedding dress.

Playing bride to your groom in this twisted arrangement you've created.

You think about that. About her in a wedding dress. White and pure.

You'll know exactly what's under that dress. You'll know how she feels when you push inside her. You'll know how she sounds when she comes.

You'll know she's wearing that dress because you paid her to, not because she loves you.

The corruption of it thrills you.

Your parents wanted you to gain confidence, to become comfortable around women, to maybe even find a wife.

You're giving them exactly what they wanted.

Just not the way they imagined.

The scared virgin they worried about?

Gone.

The confident son they always wanted?

Here.

Just not the person they thought they were creating.

The arrangement is perfect.

You've won.

She's lost.

And next week she'll be back in white, playing her part, taking your money, letting you corrupt her further.

Transaction complete.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

End | For More of My Work ≡ | Tip Me?

[autumnyacorn]

Fate's Collar

BLACKHOLE: Path of Control

Loneliness / Silence / Control / Chaos / Doubt / Youth

Male Reader x IVE's Naoi Rei

~16k words

A/N: Here's the 2nd path into the blackhole! I don't know what I wrote. It's just smut and BFH lmao. Enjoy~

“You smell of need.”

You can do nothing but grunt at the dull, suffocating pressure as she rubs her nose on your bulge.

“And you smell of… The Empress. Something that I need.”

She takes a deep whiff of your intoxicating musk, sticking her tongue out to taste the damp spot of arousal on your pants.

“When are you ever going to get rid of that hobby?” you exhale with a breathy sigh, reaching out to brush her glossy brown hair to the side.

“Doesn't matter. I don't see you asking me to stop. Or should I stop? We aren't supposed to be doing this anyway.”

“Just get on with it.”

“Figured~ C'mon, take it out,” she says, lifting her head off your groin, hands flying to your buckle. Metal clinks and fabric flies away in mere seconds.

Your legs are exposed bare, but that isn't the main point. Your exposed cock is. Your exposed hard, throbbing, swollen, leaking, veiny, desperate, needy, engorged, twitching, you hope that is enough descriptive terms to satisfy the interpretation of The Empress as Miss Naoi Rei, the oh-so-authentic-believer-of-tarot has pulled from the deck.

“I never get tired of seeing my nice, beautiful cock,” Rei says, eyes locked on your length the whole time. “Can't believe I took three fucking years before asking to suck your cock.”

She leans in, hot breath ghosting over the tip. “Hands behind your back. Let me enjoy what's mine.”

“Fine. I’ll play along.” You let out a low grumble, half-exasperated, half-amused, and not because you're truly submitting, but because the game is too delicious to interrupt. You slide your hands behind the armrests, leaning onto the backrest.

“Good boy,* Rei purrs, eyes glittering with triumph. She drags her tongue slowly across her lower lip as she looks into your eyes, like she's tasting victory already. “See? Was that so hard?” Her fingers wrap around your shaft, drawing warmth from your cock as you shudder at the sudden temperature loss.

“God, I can barely wrap my fingers around it,” Rei murmurs with anticipation, giving a few slow, exploratory strokes. You revel in the light gentle pressure as she pulls her hand up, fingers sliding across every ridge of your cock. She watches your face the whole time: the way your jaw tightens, the quick hitch in your breath when her thumb swipes over the leaking slit. She squeezes just under the head on the upstroke, testing you, teasing you.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “Already leaking for me. How pathetic.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll remind you who’s usually begging by the end,” you snort, even as your hips twitch forward.

“Too bad you're the one melting in my hands now,” she laughs and leans in, spitting a thick, glistening wad of saliva right onto the swollen tip. The wet sound is loud in the quiet office. She smears it down your length with her palm, making everything slick and obscene.

“Big talk for a man who's about to feed me his load.”

“Just shut up and suck me alread—fuck”

She takes you in.

Hot. Wet. Tight.

Exactly how The Empress’s lips would feel, you assume. Rei’s lips seal around you and she sinks down in one smooth glide until her nose brushes your pelvis. You feel the spasming of her throat as she swallows you whole, keeping you there as she lets her throat mould into the shape of your cock.

A “Fuck—” slips out of you before you can catch it. She hums in approval, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. Smirking onto your cock, she pulls back just enough to swirl her tongue around the head like she's savoring an expensive dessert.

“Gosh, you're such a weirdo, but fuck your lips, they're made for sucking cocks,” you groan in satisfaction.

Rei slides back down, taking you in again. Then she's bobbing on it slowly, dragging her plump lips up and down your cock, hollowing her cheeks every time she pulls up, stuffing her mouth full of you when she slides down. Every few pumps she pulls off completely, only to drag her tongue up the thick underside of your cock from base to tip slowly, tracing every vein like she's mapping you. Her eyes don't leave yours.

When she reaches the head she flicks the slit with her soft tongue before dipping lower to suck one of your balls into her mouth, rolling it gently with her tongue while her hand keeps strokes the shaft in lazy twists.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” she mumbles against your skin. “All salty and desperate. Bet you've been thinking hard about this since Friday.”

You grit your teeth. “And you've been wet since the meeting started, haven't you? Don't lie.”

She releases your ball with a wet pop, grinning up at you with spit-slick lips. “Maybe. But I'm the one with your cock in my mouth right now, aren't I?” She strokes you faster, giving firm, twisting upstrokes that make your thighs tremble. “Look how hard you get when I talk dirty. You love it when I own you like this.”

Before you can say anything, she dives back down, taking you deeper this time, nose buried against your groin as she swallows around you. Her throat works rhythmically around you as she shakes her head on your cock, dragging your sensitive tip against her throat walls. She squeezes and releases her throat with precision and technique over and over again, until you're seeing stars. Then she pulls off again, gasping, strings of saliva connecting her tips to your tip.

“Fuck, you're thick today,” she pants, stroking you with both hands now, twisting in opposite directions like she's wringing every drop of pre-cum out of you. “I can feel you throbbing. You wanna cum already, don't you? Poor thing.”

She keeps one hand pumping steadily while the other cups your balls, rolling them, tugging gently. Then she changes tactics, jerking you rapidly with short, tight strokes while keeping just the head in her mouth. Her tongue swirls relentlessly around the crown, flicking the slit on every pass, dipping into it like she's trying to drink you from the source.

Your breathing turns ragged. Your hips jerk forward involuntarily. The pressure builds, white-hot and unstoppable.

“Rei—fuck—I'm—”

Unstoppable my ass.

She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. “Not yet. Don't you dare cum without my permission.” She slows her strokes to a torturous crawl, thumb circling the head lazily. “You always think you're in control with those quick little orders of yours. But look at you~ Leaking like a faucet because I decided to play with you.”

She spits again right onto the head, taking you back in, bobbing shallowly while her hand keeps that agonizingly slow twist. Every time you get close she eases off, letting the edge fade just enough to drive you insane.

“Beg me,” she whispers, popping off to drag her tongue along the underside again. “Tell me how bad you want to fill my mouth. Go on. Use that bossy voice I hate so much.”

“You're such a fucking brat,” you growl, staring at her.

“And you're hard as steel because of it.” She grins wickedly. “Now, show me how you like it. Grab my hands. Use them like they're your personal little toy. Fuck them until you can't hold back anymore.”

She guides your hands from behind the chair, first one, then the other, until both your palms are wrapped around hers on your cock. Her fingers are small inside yours; together they make a perfect, tight tunnel.

“Like this,” she breathes, voice suddenly sweeter, almost as if she's coaxing you. “Guide me. Use me like a hand-pussy. Fuck it until you flood my throat.”

You don't hesitate at all.

Your grip tightens around hers, starting with slow, long strokes from base to tip. What she couldn't provide to you earlier, you control it now. Faster. Tighter. Harder. It's like fucking a custom-made sleeve, her skin against yours, your strength controlling the rhythm she started. She spits more over your hands, the saliva seeping in through your fingers as the slick sounds grow louder with each pump. Her tongue never stops swirling the head, and every time your slit bumps her lips she moans like she's the one getting off.

“That's it,” she gasps between licks. “Harder. Use me. Fuck my hands like you’re fucking my cunt. Come on, give it to me. I want every thick, hot drop. Paint my tongue. Mark me.”

Every upstroke makes her fingers curl tighter around you, every downstroke smears fresh pre-cum and saliva over her knuckles. The wet, filthy schlick-schlick fills the room, disgustingly filthy in the quiet office.

“Harder,” she demands, pulling her tongue off just long enough to speak before diving back down to lap at the slit. “Don’t be gentle. I want to feel how bad you need this.”

You obey — because right now, obedience feels like power.

Your hips rock forward in shallow thrusts, fucking the tight tunnel of her wrapped hands. She matches your pace, twisting her wrists in counter-rhythm so every stroke feels like a spiral. Her thumbs press into the underside of the head on every pass, rubbing that sensitive ridge until your thighs shake.

“Fuck—Rei—”

“Tell me,” she gasps between licks, tongue flicking the frenulum in quick, cruel little darts. “Tell me how good my hands feel wrapped around your cock. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this all morning while I was pretending to care about deadlines.”

You growl, hands twisting and pumping harder. “Been hard since you walked into that meeting in that skirt. Watching you lean over the table like you weren’t soaked thinking about my dick.”

She laughs breathlessly and delighted. You squeeze her hands around your cock tighter. “Good. Keep going. Fuck them faster. Pretend it’s my cunt. Pretend you’re splitting me open right here on my desk.”

The image hits like a punch. You speed up, using her hands like a toy. She moans louder at your sloppy and shameless state, her spit dripping down both your wrists.

“Look at you,” she taunts. “So desperate. So fucking needy. You act all composed in meetings but the second I get my hands on you, you turn into this leaking mess. Say it. Say you love being used by me.”

You lean forward, forehead almost touching hers. “I love it. Love how wet you get pretending you’re in charge. Love how your pussy clenches every time I growl at you. But we both know who’s really running this show, don’t we?”

Her eyes flash with defiance, warring with something darker and hungrier. “Shut up and cum,” she snaps. “Fill my mouth. Mark me. Make me swallow every drop like the good little slut I pretend I’m not.”

That does it.

You piston faster, fucking her fist with short, savage strokes. Her hands are trapped in yours, tongue lashing the head on every upthrust. The pressure coils like a spring.

“Rei—fuck—gonna—”

“Do it,” she hisses, lips sealing around the crown. “Cum. Give it to me. All of it.”

You bury yourself in the tight channel of her hands one last time and erupt.

Thick, heavy pulses shoot across her tongue. She swallows convulsively, throat swallowing with greedy little moans vibrating around you as rope after rope floods her mouth. You keep pumping her hands throughout, milking the last shudders until your balls are empty and your cock twitches weakly in her grip.

She stays latched on until you're completely spent, then pulls back inch by inch, tongue dragging along the underside one final time. A thin string of cum and saliva connects her lower lip to your tip before it snaps.

Rei licks her lips slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Mmm.” She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then sucks the finger clean. “Tastes like surrender.”

You exhale with a shaky laugh, still catching your breath, cock softening against your thigh.

“Yeah?” you rasp. “And what does fate say about round two?”

She stands gracefully, smoothing her skirt like nothing happened, but her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are blown wide.

“Fate says…” She leans in, lips brushing your ear. “…we have a project deadline to work on. But after hours? I might let you think you're in charge.” She turns toward the door, hips swaying, leaving you half-dressed and still reeling.

You tuck yourself away, pulse hammering, already counting the hours until you can wipe that smug little smirk off her face.

The door to Rei's office clicks shut behind you. You adjust your tie in one motion, smoothing the front of your shirt where her nails had left faint crescent indents through the fabric minutes earlier. Rei is already three steps ahead, hips swaying with that deliberate nonchalance she wears like armor. Her lipstick is somehow still perfect and the flush on her cheeks could pass for excitement about the upcoming meeting rather than the fact that she just swallowed your load while kneeling on the office carpet.

You fall into step beside her. Neither of you speaks. The hallway is quiet except for the clicking of her heels and the low hum of the air-conditioning.

By the time you reach the glass-walled conference room, the rest of both your teams are already seated. Laptops open, coffee mugs steaming, a faint buzz of pre-meeting chatter. Rei strides in first, all easy confidence, and takes her place at the head of the table. You slide into the chair directly opposite her — close enough to see the tiny smudge of gloss at the corner of her mouth that she hasn't noticed yet.

She taps her pen once against the table, silencing the room without raising her voice. "Good afternoon, everyone." Her tone is bright with that same almost musical whim. "Thanks for dragging yourselves in after lunch’s food coma. Let's dive straight in."

She clicks the remote. The projector hums to life. Slide one: bold title in her signature pastel palette — Project Horizon: Creative Kickoff.

"I'll start with the big-picture vision," she says, gesturing at the mood-board collage dominating the screen: dreamy color palettes, handwritten notes, abstract shapes. "This upcoming campaign needs to feel abundant, alive and indulgent. Not corporate-stiff, not data-dry. We want the audience to feel desire before they even know what they're buying."

There's that stupid Empress card again, you think, jaw tightening slightly. Lush. Sensual. Wanting something without apology. She read that exact spread from tarot this morning, using that stupid justification to taste your cum on her tongue, and now she's serving it up like it's her original inspiration.

A couple of her team members nod enthusiastically. One of yours raises an eyebrow at the “insult”. Rei paces a slow half-circle at the front, marker in hand. "I did some reflection this morning, nothing formal, just letting the energy guide me,” she says with a light and conspiratorial smile. "It came through very clearly: lush, sensual, 'yes, take what you want' vibes. So that's our emotional north star. We lean into indulgence, into wanting without apology."

Mark, your analytics lead, shifts in his seat, brow wrinkling a little. You keep your expression neutral, but your fingers tap once against the edge of your notebook, your private tell for when she's skating too close to the edge.

She either doesn't see it or maybe she pretends not to. Tilting her head towards the screen, she clicks to the next slide: timeline overview. "We'll prototype fast, iterate faster. Sometimes the best ideas come when you let things flow instead of forcing them."

That last sentence lands like a soft challenge. You exhale through your nose, slow and controlled. Across the table, Rei's eyes flick to yours for half a second, looking at you with an amused expression before she continues.

"And now I'll hand over to my favourite structured counterpart, who will undoubtedly tell us exactly how many milliseconds we have before the budget implodes,” she says whimsically, lilting on the last words.

Light laughter ripples through the room. She drops into her chair with exaggerated grace, crossing her fingers underneath her chin, reminding you whose fingers were wrapped around your cock twenty minutes ago.

You stand.

No theatrics. No flourish. You swap the connection to your laptop, sharing your screen as you click to your deck. Clean lines, dark background, precise Gantt charts and KPI waterfalls instantly flood the screen.

"Thank you, Rei," you say with an authoritative tone, voice never raised. There's no need to be agitated. Rei is Rei and you are you. "While I appreciate the creative north star, we need to ground it in reality."

You gesture at the screen. "Critical path. Deliverable deadlines are non-negotiable. Creative freedom exists between these dates—", you point at two vertical red lines on the screen with your laser pointer, "—and nowhere else. We miss them, the client pulls funding. Simple."

A few heads nod. Mark relaxes visibly. You click to the next slide.

"Resource allocation. Rei's team owns ideation and mood. Mine owns execution, testing, and metrics. No crossover is needed unless explicitly agreed in writing." You look directly at Rei. "No last-minute pivots after sign-off."

Her lips twitch and she leans back, twirling her pen. "Noted, captain. We'll try not to scare the spreadsheets."

You ignore her jab and switch to the final slide. "Success metrics. Impressions are vanity. Conversions are truth. We measure both, but only one pays the bills."

One more click and the screen goes dark. "Questions?"

The room goes silent for two breaths. Then Rei raises a single finger, leaning forward with a smirk.

"I have two." She tilts her head. "What if fate has other plans?"

The room chuckles nervously.

You meet her gaze, unflinching. "Then fate can submit a change request with supporting data. Until then, we follow the plan."

"Understood," she says sweetly. "I do love a man who knows how to give orders."

“What's the other question, Miss Naoi?”

Her smile widens playfully. “Speaking of which… since you mentioned no crossovers, does that mean you and I don't need any private progress updates?” Under the table, her foot nudges yours.

“... "What I meant was for the team members. You and I will obviously still need to sync for upper management updates.”

“Thought so~”

The meeting moves on.

But the air between you crackles.

Time passes as both of you go over with both teams on the exact details of the customer’s request and requirements, and by the meeting room’s booked duration is almost up, everyone’s brain has already shut by more than 80%.

“With that, I’ll leave it to the team leads to summarise and allocate the respective roles. Let’s reconvene tomorrow morning at 8.30 a.m. for a progress update Miss Naoi.”

“Fine, fine~” Rei stands up, snapping her laptop shut with a gentle slap. “Although, 8:30? That's way too early. I’ll still be doing my morning reading then”

“I don't care. I'm fully booked the rest of the day. I'm sure you are too. Be in my office at 8:30 sharp. You can do your reading while we align on updates.”

“Sure, Mr Fully Booked for the Rest of the Day,” Rei smirks before walking out of the conference room with a sassy attitude. Awkward chatter fills the room as the rest scramble to escape from the electrifying tension of the room. You breathe out a sigh and walk back to your office, crashing into the chair behind your desk. You flip your laptop back on and resume work, drafting emails to your respective team members — need written proof that you tasked them with work deadlines — but your mind keeps drifting back to Rei, to that smug little smirk, to the way she pretends she's using you when you both know she's the one addicted. You like her. God help you, you actually like her.

***

You’re already at your desk at 8:20, laptop open, inbox cleared and zeroed, calendar color-coded with no inch of work-life balance. The door is ajar — your usual signal that you're available but not to be disturbed unless it's urgent. You hear the soft click of heels before you see her.

Rei slips in.

You glance to the corner of your screen: 8:25, then back up from your screen, eyebrows lifting in genuine (if slightly exaggerated) surprise.

“Eight twenty-five,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “I was expecting the usual 8:32 dramatic entrance of ‘Sorry, not sorry that I'm late for such a stupidly early meeting’. Early for once?”

She closes the door behind her with a quiet click, lips curving into that familiar half-smirk. “Miracles happen. Or maybe I just wanted to make sure I have time for my morning ritual before you start barking orders.”

She doesn’t sit. Instead she perches on the edge of your desk — right on the corner nearest you — legs crossed so the hem of her skirt rides up just enough to remind you of how thick her meaty thighs are. In her hand is the familiar deck, already shuffled, edges worn soft from daily use.

You tilt your head. “Ritual. Right. Because nothing says ‘productive work session’ like pulling cards before we discuss deliverables.”

“Exactly.” She fans the deck face-down across the desk between you and her with a smooth and deliberate arc. “Want to pick one? Or should I just read for both of us?”

You exhale through your nose, half amusement, half resignation. “Surprise me.”

She draws three cards in quick succession, sliding each one off the fanned deck, laying them in a neat row.

First: The Hanged Man, upright.

Second: The Lovers, upright.

Third: The Devil, reversed.

Rei studies them for a long moment, head tilted, lips pursed in contemplation.

“Hmm.” She taps the first card. “Hanged Man. Surrender, new perspective, letting go of control. Usually means something needs to pause… or be sacrificed for clarity.” Her eyes flick up to yours, playful. “Fitting for someone who likes to pin everything down with timelines, don’t you think?”

You lean forward slightly, and say calmly. “Or it means suspension of judgment until all data is in. A deliberate delay to gather facts before committing resources. Work-wise, it’s a reminder to avoid premature decisions.”

Rei blinks at you, surprised, then recovers with a small laugh. “Always so literal.”

Her finger traces the second card. “The Lovers. Choice. Harmony. Union. Deep attraction… or alignment of values.” Her voice drops a register. “Sometimes it’s about wanting something so badly you have to decide whether to act on it… or keep pretending you don’t.”

You don’t flinch. “In a professional context? Partnership decisions. Evaluating whether to merge teams, align on strategy, or commit to a vendor. It’s about choosing the option that creates long-term synergy, not short-term impulse.”

Her fingers pause on the card. The smile falters for a moment before she covers it with a shrug. “You’re no fun.”

“And the last?” you ask, nodding at the reversed Devil.

She turns it over slowly, savoring the reveal. “The Devil, reversed. Release from chains. Breaking addiction. Letting go of what binds you.” Her smile is wicked. “Or… finally admitting what you’ve been craving all along.”

You meet her gaze steadily. “Or it means auditing dependencies. Cutting inefficient processes, renegotiating contracts that no longer serve us, freeing up bandwidth for higher-priority deliverables. It’s about eliminating drag, not indulging in it.”

She exhales softly with an almost frustrated laugh, gathering the cards back into a stack with a practiced flick.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, but there’s a subtle flush creeping up her neck. “Every time I read something juicy, you turn it into a project management lecture.”

You stand slowly, rounding the desk until you’re standing between her knees, close, but not touching. You lean forward to her that's still seated on your desk, mouth ghosting over her ear. “Because that’s what the cards actually mean in this room,” you whisper. “Deadlines. Resources. Results. Not whatever fantasy you’re projecting onto them.”

She doesn’t deny it, eyes drifting down to your crotch.

“Eyes up.”

You tip her chin up with one finger, casting her gaze into yours. It's dripping with need and arousal, and she's just waiting for the next cue. “We have thirty-five minutes before the next call. You can keep pretending the cards are telling you to tease me… or you can admit you came early because you wanted to be in my office, under my rules, before the day even starts.”

She licks her lower lip, pupils blown. “And if I choose option one?”

“Then we work.” You shrug, stepping back to break the tension. “And you spend the rest of the day dripping, thinking about what happens when I finally stop letting you pretend.”

She exhales shakily and slides off the desk, smoothing her skirt. “Fine,” she whispers. “But only because the cards are telling us how to proceed with the project.”

She turns and walks to the door, grumbling all the way.

“And Rei?”

“What.”

“The next time you pull cards in my office,” you add without looking up, “bring the data to back up your interpretations. Otherwise, they’re just noise.”

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob, then turns back with a small, defiant tilt of her head.

“Fine. Then let’s do your favorite thing — work.” She walks back to the desk and pulls her laptop from her bag, sinking into the visitor chair opposite you instead of leaving. “We still have twenty-five minutes before the next call. Might as well allocate the first wave of tasks while we’re here.”

“Good choice.”

For the next ten minutes, the room fills with the quiet clicking of keyboards and the occasional murmur of clarification.

You start. “Ideation brief goes to your visual team — Jane and Bob. The deadline will be EOD Wednesday with a minimum of three mood variants. Please include at least one high-contrast option and one minimalist for the metrics. No exceptions.”

Rei types rapidly, then glances up. “Got it. My copy team will pair with them for tone-of-voice guidelines. I’ll own the emotional keyword list, targeting ‘indulgent,’ ‘magnetic,’ ‘irresistible.’”

You raise a brow. “Keep it measurable. ‘Irresistible’ isn’t a KPI.”

She rolls her eyes but adds a note. “Fine. Conversion-lift potential score to be recorded within the range of 1 to 5 for your analytics gremlins. Happy?”

“Thrilled.”

She leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees. “Testing timeline. Will your people handle the A/B testing setup?”

“Already queued. We’ll launch variant tracking Thursday morning. I’ll have the results by Friday EOD. If your ‘lush sensual’ direction underperforms, we pivot to data-backed option two, no debate.”

Rei’s lips twitch. “You really hate fun, don’t you?”

“I hate wasted budgets. Man-hours are also money.”

She huffs a laugh of defeat then types the final allocation summary and hits send to both teams with you CC’d.

“There. Done.” She closes her laptop with a gentle snap. “Both teams now have clear marching orders. No excuses.”

You save your own notes and meet her gaze. “Good. Now maybe you can stop pretending the cards told you to come in early just to argue with me.”

She stands slowly, bag slung over her shoulder, and leans down until her cleavage exposes right into your eyes. “Maybe the cards just wanted me in your office,” she whispers. “And maybe I wanted to see how long you’d last before you snapped and bent me over this desk.”

Your hand twitches on the mouse. You don’t move.

“But since you’re so committed to your schedule…” She straightens, smirking. “…I’ll behave. For now.” She turns toward the door, hips swaying with that same stupid nonchalance.

“See you at the 10 a.m. sync,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try not to think about me too much in the meantime.”

“We'll see how long you can last,” you retort. “Oh and leave the door open, thank you very much.”

The door halts halfway before she swings it back, giving you a sharp “Tch—” and she walks off.

You stay seated for three more seconds, breathing out slowly through your nose. The air still smells faintly of her perfume mixed with the ghost of her arousal from earlier.

You stand, collect your notes, and head out of your office. The awkward chatter from outside your office dies almost instantly when you leave.

“Mark. I believe you would have seen the email that Rei has just sent out. Please start working on it and let me know if any issue arises.” Mark gives you a quick nod and stands, gathering the rest of the team into the meeting room.

You walk back to your office, giving Rei’s closed office door a quick glance. It's filled with sticker prints of random tarot cards that you bet she doesn't even know the meaning of other than the usual few she repeats when she “draws”. It looks like an unorganised mess, enough to probably irritate your OCD ass, but you're smiling anyway.

***

Your office door is ajar as usual. You step inside, sink into your chair, exhaling as you flip your laptop open again.

Inbox: 47 unread. Most of them are follow-ups from the meeting — action items, clarifications, one passive-aggressive “can we push the mood variants to Thursday?” from Jane on Rei’s team.

You glance at the sender list, and everyone from both teams are CC’d, except for Rei herself. She's probably the one that convinced Jane to send this email, and she's probably BCC’d in. Sneaky shit. No matter, as a request is a request.

You type a simple curt reply “Reason?” and send it back to Jane, making sure to BCC Rei in it just to let her know that you know. Regardless of the reason, you're already starting to triage, assessing the risks and how the delay will affect the timeline.

Ten minutes later your laptop beeps with that familiar yet loathing chime.

Rei (Microsoft Teams, direct message):

“8:30 in your office everyday is a cute power move. But you know I’m not a morning person. Don’t expect me to always be there.”

You stare at the message for two beats, then type back.

You:

“The deck needs to be finalised by EOD tomorrow. Client sync is 9 sharp. Be here at 8:30. No excuses.”

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Rei:

“Bossy. Fine. But if I fall asleep on your desk, it’s your fault.”

You:

“Then don’t fall asleep. Do your card reading here if it keeps you awake. Finish the copy deck tonight. Send it to me before you leave.”

No reply for five minutes.

Then another ping.

Rei:

“But I’m not doing your stupid 8:30 tomorrow — tasks were laid out yesterday and we’re swamped. Anyway, ‘indulgent’ keyword stays. Fate says so.”

You don’t answer.

You know she’s baiting you. You also know she’s probably still wet from two days ago, thighs pressed together under her desk right now, trying to focus while her mind keeps drifting back to your cock in her throat.

You force your attention back to the inbox, but every time you glance at the clock, you wonder how long she can keep pretending she’s not aching for the same thing you are.

The rest of the afternoon is meetings, emails, a quick stand-up with your team. Rei’s name pops up in every other thread — her team’s mood variants are “coming along,” but she’s pushing for “more sensual language” in the copy deck. Your analytics lead flags it as “risky for conversion,” and you green-light a compromise version with A/B testing.

By 7 p.m. the floor is emptying out.

By 9 p.m. it’s just you, the cleaning crew down the hall, and the faint glow from Rei’s office across the open-plan space.

At 9:45 your Teams pings again.

Rei:

“Copy deck is 95%. Come to the lounge? Need a second pair of eyes before I send.”

You stare at the message.

You know what this is.

You also know the deck is probably already fine and she’s just looking for an excuse to be alone with you again.

But that's not going to stop you from going.

You stand, grab your tablet, and walk over. The lounge lights are dimmed to 30%, just the right amount of brightness for comfortable lights in the starry night, but you know that's not what it's for. Rei is on the far couch, legs tucked under her, laptop balanced on her thighs. Her hair is messier now, blouse untucked, top two buttons undone.

She looks up when you enter and smirks. “Took you long enough,” she says. “Thought you’d make me wait all night.”

You sit in the armchair across from her, close enough to talk, far enough to keep distance.

“Show me the deck.”

She spins her laptop so you can see. The slide is clean, copy tight, mood variants attached as appendices.

“It’s good,” you say after thirty seconds. “Send it.”

She doesn’t move.

Instead she closes the laptop slowly.

“I’m done pretending to work,” she says, voice laced with an edge. “I keep imagining how I’d fuck you right now if we weren’t stuck here.”

You lean back, legs spreading just enough to give her the illusion of space.

“Keep talking. Tell me exactly how.”

Her eyes darken. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, whispering with a low, filthy voice. “I’d straddle you first. Sink down so slow you feel every inch of me stretching around your cock. I’d ride you shallow, taking just your tip in until you're shivering. Then I’ll drop hard, taking you all the way in. I’d grind my clit against you until I’m dripping down your balls, then stop. Edge you. Make you beg.”

She licks her lower lip. “The cards were feeling very Empress tonight. Abundance. Indulgence. And so I’d take what I want. I’d take you. I’d pin your wrists above your head, ride you until you’re shaking, then pull off right when you’re about to cum. I’d make you watch me touch myself while your cock throbs in the air, leaking for me. Then I’ll slam back down, deeper this time. I’d do it over and over until you’re pleading, ‘Rei, please, let me cum inside you.’”

You exhale slowly. “And when I finally cum?”

She smiles, wicked. “Deep inside me. Filling me up. Marking me while I cum around you, screaming your name so loud the whole floor hears.”

You groan low in your throat. “Sounds good,” you say. “But the deck isn’t finished. Three more bullet points.”

Rei freezes, eyes flashing with frustration.

“You’re killing me.”

You pick up the tablet again. “Finish the copy. Then maybe we’ll see about that fantasy tomorrow.”

She huffs, thighs pressing together as she reopens her laptop.

Her typing is furious and erratic.

She’s soaked through her panties.

You both know it.

***

By late Week 2, the project has moved into high-pressure execution mode.

Monday’s client sync went smoothly — they loved the mood variants and signed off on the direction. Tuesday was spent on copy finalization and A/B test setup (your team owns metrics, Rei’s team owns tone). Wednesday morning Rei sent the “indulgent” keyword deck with a smug “Fate approved” note in the email subject line. You green-lit it with one line: “Approved. Launch tracking on Thursday 9 a.m. No changes after today.”

Thursday afternoon the first round of test data came in, and the conversion lift on Rei’s sensual copy looks promising but not definitive. You fired off a quick Teams to the joint group chat between both teams:

“Hold all creative changes. We wait for Friday EOD full results. No exceptions.”

Rei replied with a single emoji: 😏

Now it’s Friday, 5:45 p.m. The floor is emptying fast. You decide to take the stairs instead of the elevator as it's quicker with fewer people. You’re halfway down the second flight when you hear the heavy fire door open above you.

Rei steps through, heels clicking on the concrete landing. She lets the door swing shut with a thud.

“Stairs again?” she calls down, her voice echoing down to the basement floor. “Trying to avoid me?”

You pause on the step, hand on the railing, looking up at her. “It’s faster this way.”

She smirks and starts descending slowly, one step at a time, hips probably swaying more than necessary. You wait for her, trying to prove her point wrong.

“Bullshit,” she says when she reaches the landing above you. She stops, leans against the railing, skirt riding up just enough to show the lace edge of her thigh-highs. “You wanted me to follow.”

“You're probably gooned out in the head, dying to fuck me so badly.” She doesn’t come closer. Just stays one flight above, looking down at you like she owns the stairwell. “How long has it been? Two weeks? Two weeks and you haven’t unloaded your poor balls in my mouth or pussy. How pitiful~” she taunts.

You stay silent the entire time, arms crossed on your chest in nonchalance, looking at her with that faux disinterested look, trying to egg her on.

“You’ve been avoiding me ever since the customer gave the green light on my lush and sensual deck. And so, I keep imagining how I’d fuck you in here,” she says, voice echoing off the concrete. “Right on this landing. I’d make you drop to your knees first. I’d lift my skirt, push your face between my thighs, make you eat me out until I’m dripping down your chin. I’d hold your head in place, ride your tongue, make you worship me until my legs shake.”

You don’t move. “Keep going. Describe it.”

Her eyes darken, smile turning sharper as she walks down the stairs, inching closer to you.

“I’d make you lick me slow, drawing long, flat strokes from bottom to top. Then I’d grind on your face, smear myself all over you, make you taste how wet you get me. I’d tell you to suck my clit, flick it with your tongue until I’m moaning your name. I’ll ride your tongue so hard and fast until I’m cumming hard on your face. Then I’ll keep on grinding until I’m shaking and flooding your mouth, and you’d swallow every drop like a good boy.”

She licks her lower lip. “Then I’d pull you up by your tie, push you against the wall and unzip you. I’d stroke you slowly, making sure to pump so torturously slow until you beg for my mouth. I’d make you say ‘please, Rei, let me cum down your throat’. I’d tease you with just the tip of my tongue until you’re shaking, leaking, and pleading. Then I’d finally take you deep, letting you fuck my face while I moan around you. I’d make you cum so hard you see stars, and I’d swallow every drop, lick you clean, then walk away like nothing happened.”

You exhale slowly, cock straining against your slacks. “And when you finally let me cum like a good boy”

She smiles. “Down my throat. Filling my mouth. Marking me while I look up at you, eyes watering, taking every pulse like I it's all mine.”

You meet her gaze. “Tempting. But we both have the 6 p.m. status call. And the deck still needs one final proofread before tomorrow’s client sync.”

Rei’s breath hitches. She pushes off the railing, thighs visibly pressing together.

“You’re so fucking detestable” she mutters. “Fine. But don’t think I’m forgetting this. Next time I won’t be so nice.”

She turns and stomps past with a irritated gaze. You smirk and follow two steps behind, calm as ever, but you are clearly affected by her taunting.

She glances back once, smirking. “You’re gonna regret this dry spell, you know.”

***

Monday morning, 7:30 a.m. Your office door is open. The floor is quiet. Most people won’t arrive for another 45 minutes. You’re already at your desk, coffee in hand, laptop open to the shared project folder. The final deck Rei sent Friday night is loaded on screen. It’s mostly good. A few typos in the copy, one mood variant slide missing text, and the “indulgent” keyword is still overused in the emotional summary despite your numerous suggestions to remove. In any case, there's nothing you can do if she doesn't remove or change it. After all, it's a project that both of you are leading, and it will be up to the management to make the final decision.

You hear her heels before you see her.

Rei walks in without knocking, carrying her laptop under one arm and the tarot deck in the other hand. She’s in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt today — professional on the surface, but the skirt is shorter than usual, and the top button of her blouse is already undone. She closes the door behind her, locks it, and drops into the visitor chair opposite you without a word.

You don’t look up from the screen. “You’re early, Miss Not-A-Morning-Person. I said 8.30.”

“Couldn’t wait,” she mutters, already setting the deck face-down on the edge of your desk. “Figured I’d do my reading while you nitpick my work.”

You glance at her before gazing back at the screen. “Your deck’s not perfect. There's multiple things that needs correcting.”

She huffs at you, but doesn’t argue. Instead she starts shuffling slowly. You notice the familiar undercut pause, the way she cuts the deck to keep the top third intact. She’s not even trying to hide it anymore, perhaps thinking you're a dense motherfucker that hasn't caught on. No matter, you’ll play along. Act surprised. Act ignorant. Watch her perform. Whatever to see how long she can play this game.

She fans the “shuffled” deck across your desk, and draws three cards, laying them in a row.

First: The Hanged Man, upright.

Second: The Lovers, upright.

Third: The Devil, reversed.

What a surprise! It's the same three. Every time she wants something intimate, those cards magically appear. She’s not shuffling. She’s cutting straight to the stack she wants. Confirmation bias in real time.

Rei glances at the cards and starts reading aloud to herself immediately, like she’s talking to the cards instead of you.

“Wow, you're so proficient in tarot right now that you can understand your draws so quickly huh?”

“Ahem—” Rei coughs, rolling her eyes before continuing. “Hanged Man… surrender, letting go… need to pause, sacrifice control for clarity…” She glances at you, lips curving. “Sounds like someone needs to stop being so rigid.”

She taps the second card. “Lovers… choice, harmony, union… wanting something so badly you have to decide whether to act… or keep pretending you don’t.” Her voice lowers. “I know what I want.”

She flips the last one slowly. “Devil reversed… release from chains, breaking addiction… finally admitting what you’ve been craving all along.”

She looks up at you, eyes curved into exaggerated crescents. “The cards are very clear this morning.”

You keep scrolling through the deck on screen, voice even. “The cards are vague. The typos aren’t. Fix slide 7.”

She exhales with a frustrated grunt and stands, walking around your desk, perching on the edge right beside you. Her thigh presses against your arm as she leans in to whisper, “I keep imagining how I’d fuck you right now. Right here on your desk. I’d push you back in that chair, straddle you, grind on your cock until you’re leaking through your slacks. I’d unzip you slow, pull you out, stroke you with both hands while I rock against you, making you feel how wet I am without letting you in.”

You stay resolute. “Three typos in Slide 7. Fix it.”

She ignores your order, and her voice gets thicker. “I’d make you watch me touch myself, fingers sliding over my clit, dipping inside, showing you how much I want you. I’d moan your name, tell you how badly I want to sink down and ride you. But I’d make you wait. Make you beg for it. ‘Please, Rei, let me inside you.’ I’d laugh and make you wait longer, then finally let you feel how tight I am, clenching around you every time you groan.”

She shifts closer, thigh sliding over yours. She's still clothed, but her heat is unmistakable. She starts rocking with slow, subtle grinds against your leg, breath hitching with every passing second.

You ignore her and click to slide 32. “Mood variant 2 has no subtext. What's the client going to refer to?”

Your words fall on deaf ears as Rei continues grinding, her crotch getting wetter with every moment. “Then I’d ride you hard and fast, making you lose your mind with how good my pussy feels. I’d lean forward, press my tits in your face, let you suck my nipples while I bounce. I’d edge you until you’re shaking, leaking and pleading. ‘Oh Rei fuck please, please let me cum”. Then I’d let my begging boy cum deep inside me, filling me up with your thick hot cum while I cum around you, screaming your name so loud the whole floor would hear if anyone was here.”

You feel her getting close, her breathing turning shallow, hips stuttering against your thigh. She’s rubbing herself harder now, chasing it.

You reach out — not to touch her, but to scroll the deck to slide 68.

“Indulgent used here,” you say calmly. “It’s not appropriate considering the setting.”

Rei freezes mid-grind, eyes flashing with frustration. “Fuck—you’re—”

You scroll again. “And ‘indulgent’ is still repeated four times in slides 93, 126, and 135. Fix it.”

She tries to keep moving, desperate little rocks to get herself close again, but the moment she does, you break her immersion by pointing at the screen.

“Slide 153. Grammar error in the headline.”

Rei whimpers an actual whimper, hips jerking once more before she slumps forward, forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“You’re killing me,” she breathes. “Please—just let me—”

You scroll one last time. “And the conversion-lift score is missing from the appendix. Fix it.”

She snaps.

Her hand flies across your cheek, and it burns immediately. It's not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to sting.

The room goes silent except for her ragged breathing.

You don’t flinch. You don’t even blink.

You just meet her gaze with that same calm, and unflinching demeanour.

“You don’t get anything,” you say quietly, “because of all the mistakes.”

Rei’s eyes widen with shock, humiliation, and arousal all at once. Her thighs clench hard; you can see the tremor run through her.

She stares at you for a long second, then stands shakily, smoothing her skirt, grabbing her laptop.

“I’ll… fix them,” she mutters.

She walks to the door unsteadily and pauses at the threshold.

“I hate you,” she growls.

But you both know she doesn't mean it at all.

For the rest of the day Rei remains silent. Her office remains shut — you have a direct look straight from your desk since your door’s always open.

10a.m.… 12 p.m…. 3 p.m….

The seconds pass agonisingly and she hasn't pinged you on Teams once at all. Were you too much? You move your cursor over her name on the Teams application every hour or so, typing something like “I’m sorry” or “I’m sorry”. What else can you say other than “you're sorry”? It's not like she’s totally innocent, and you were just hyper fixated on the project deadline.

Anyway, you delete each instance of “I’m sorry” and continue working.

5 p.m…. 6 p.m….

The office has already mostly cleared by then.

7 p.m….

The office is completely empty except for yours and the warm glow still emanating from the frosted glass of her room.

8 p.m….

She hasn't stepped a foot out ever since morning and you're worried sick. You step up and just as you're about to walk towards her room, your laptop pings.

It's an email from her:

Subject: Your Stupid Deck, Fixed.

Dear Mr Deadlines,

Here's your stupid deck with all issues fixed.

No Regards,

Rei

You look at her words and smile. The next moment, a Teams message pops up at the corner of your screen.

Rei:

Are we done?

You:

Come to my office.

Within a few seconds, her door is open and she's clambering towards you.

“So are you going to finally lie there and let me fuck you like the toy you are?” Rei says, leaning on the frame of your door with her arms crossed.

“...”

“No.”

“Why!”

“Because the presentation’s tomorrow and I ain't gonna risk anything that's gonna land us in trouble. I wouldn't want you to walk into the board room with your legs shaking and voice wrecked, giving the presentation in a hoarse voice.”

“But—”

“You can't expect me to tell them ‘Oh Miss Rei’s throat is hoarse because she stuffed herself full of my cock’ or ‘Oh please pardon her shaky legs because she played with her toy so much last night’ right?”

“You-I-ugh. Then when. When!”

“Take out your deck and give it to me.”

“What for? You aren't even trained—”

“Just fucking give it to me.”

She grumbles and pulls the deck from her blazer’s pocket, reluctantly passing it to you. You take the deck, shuffling it with a shocking exemplary skill. The cards flutter and in your hands as you continuously peel off random packets from the middle of the deck, sliding them to the top as you rearrange the deck with the standard overhand shuffling method.

“Showoff—”

“I'm not done,” you say with a smug, splitting the deck into two almost equal stacks. Thumbs smoothing over the slightly slanted deck on both sides with a gentle tension, you support the base with your pinkies, allowing the cards to overlap with each other as you release them. The corners of the cards weave together, looking like a zipper before you push the two separated but combined decks into a single stack again.

“This is called the Riffle Shuffle.”

Rei clicks her tongue at your arrogance but you ignore her. “Come. Sit.” You say, walking to the coffee table in the center of the room. You gesture to the couch opposite you and Rei trudges along behind you unwillingly, sinking into the couch.

You fan the deck in a smooth arc across the glass table, and nudge Rei, “Go on. Pick.” She looks into your eyes, squinting in reluctant curiosity, but her index finger reaches forward regardless. She slides three cards towards herself from the arc, before flipping them face-up to reveal her insights.

First: The Star (upright).

Second: Ace of Pentacles (upright).

Third: Temperance (upright).

You look at the cards for a second, then raise an eyebrow. “Oh… it’s different. Not the Hanged Man, Lovers or Devil.”

Rei’s eyes widen slightly with surprise, a flicker of unease flashing across her face. You act as if you didn't see her discomfort, leaning forward to study the three cards she pulled.

Rei crosses her arms, trying to look bored. “What? You gonna tell me I'm reading them wrong now?”

“Yes. You are.”

She scoffs. “Oh please. I've been doing this for years.”

“Being old doesn't mean you're right. You've been doing it your way for years. There's a difference.” You tap the table lightly between the cards. “A standard three-card spread — especially for someone who claims to take this seriously — reads your Past, Present, and Future. Not whatever freeform interpretation you feel like throwing at the moment.”

Rei rolls her eyes, but she doesn't interrupt. She's listening, even if she pretends not to be.

You point to the first card: The Star (upright).

“Past: The Star. Hope after hardship. Renewal. A period of healing or inspiration that followed something difficult. Maybe after a time when you felt stuck, or lost, or like nothing was going your way.” You pause, letting it sink in. “A time when you started believing things could get better, even if you didn't fully trust it yet.”

Rei's smirk falters for half a second, shifting in her seat.

You move to the second card: Ace of Pentacles (upright).

“Present: Ace of Pentacles. New beginnings. Tangible opportunity. A solid foundation being laid right now. It represents something real, something that can grow into prosperity or satisfaction if you nurture it properly. Not fantasy. Not vague energy. Actual, grounded potential.” You look at her. “But it requires patience. Planting the seed doesn't mean you harvest tomorrow. It means you commit to the work.”

She swallows. Her arms uncross slightly.

You tap the last card: Temperance (upright).

“Future: Temperance. Balance. Moderation. Harmony through self-control. Blending opposites like creativity and structure, or impulse and restraint, until they create something stable and satisfying. It promises reward, but only if you wait for the right moment. Only if you stop forcing things and let them flow at their own pace.”

You sit back, folding your hands.

“So no, Rei. The cards aren't telling you to rush. They're not telling you to take what you want right this second. They're telling you the opposite, that you've come through hardship, you're standing at a real opportunity now, and satisfaction is coming. And it’ll only happen if you practice patience, balance, and self-control.”

She stares at the three cards on the table for a long moment. Her breathing is still, as if she's thinking at the absurdity of how her cards have personally betrayed her.

Her thighs press together tightly and she tries to laugh it off, sounding terribly awkward.

“So… what? You're the tarot master now?”

“No,” you say quietly. “I'm just reading them the way they're meant to be . Not the way you want them to read.”

She looks away, cheeks flushed, fingers twitching toward the three cards. “So… what now? I really need to play with my cock so badly.”

“You’ve waited this long. You can wait one more night,” you say. “Like I said earlier, I'm not risking anything to explain to the director why we look like we spent all night fucking.”

“But I'm so wet… I’ve been so wet for the last two weeks…”

“One evening. No work talk. No games. You pick the place. Anywhere you want,” you say, raising your finger. “But it’s going to have to be tomorrow night. After the presentation. And only if you walk into that client meeting tomorrow looking like a professional, not like someone who spent all night begging.”

“Tomorrow night. Okay. Deal.” She bites her lip, eyes flicking down to the cards for a second before looking at yours again. “My place? It’s closer. Quieter. No one to interrupt. I can… make it fun.”

“Your place. Your choice. Text me the address. 8 p.m. sharp. And Rei?”

“Yeah?”

“Just so you know, I’m disgustingly hard right now.”

***

The client sync at 9 a.m. goes smoothly. They praise the mood variants, approve the sensual tone with minor notes, and green-light production. Rei presents her part with flawless professionalism. Her voice is steady and the slides are clean. No trace of yesterday’s desperation at all. You handle metrics and timeline. No one in the room would guess she spent yesterday grinding on your thigh and slapping you across the face.

The rest of the day is wrap-up: feedback incorporation, handoff to production team, final sign-offs. 6 p.m. and the office is emptying. By 7 p.m. it’s just you and the cleaning crew.

At 7:45 your phone buzzes.

Rei (Teams):

Presentation went well and the client was satisfied. No more excuses.

My place tonight. 8 p.m. Don’t make me wait.

You type back one line:

You:

Okay.

She doesn’t reply.

You ring her doorbell at 8:02.

She opens the door to you standing in the hallway, making way for you to step inside. Rei stands in the doorway wearing a soft leopard-print onesie that's long-sleeved with a V-neck, hugging every curve from shoulders to ankles. Her hair is down, makeup still camera-ready from the presentation, but her eyes look darker and hungrier, looking like she spent the last hour deciding exactly how to look irresistible without admitting why.

She locks the door behind her, pushing you back towards the couch without any preamble. “My turn,” she says, voice thick with days of pent-up need. “You’ve been teasing me for too long. Tonight I get to use you.” She pushes you back toward the couch, hands on your chest. “Sit.”

“Rei—”

“No talking,” she snaps, voice trembling with frustration. “You made me wait fourteen fucking days. Fourteen days of me fingering myself raw in the office bathroom, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan your name during status calls. I’m done waiting.”

She shoves you back toward the couch. You fall without any resistance, sinking into the cushions. Rei climbs onto your lap immediately, straddling you as her knees brackets your hips.

She reaches down to unzip her onesie right at her crotch, exposing just her dripping wet pussy. No surprise — she's not wearing any panties at all.

She grinds down on you, dragging her bare pussy along the growing ridge of your erection. A needy whimper escapes her throat, but she masks it with a smirk.

“Feel that?” she taunts, rocking herself on you again. “That’s what you did to me. Every ‘no’, every time you pointed out another typo like I was your incompetent little intern, I got wetter. I wanted to cum so many times under my desk as I stuffed my fingers deep, imagining this cock splitting me. But you sat there pretending you didn’t want me. Pathetic how easy you are to wind up.”

You rest your hands on her thighs lazily. “You’re the one humping on my lap like a bitch in heat right now. Two weeks of playing with yourself and you still can’t control it? Needy little slut.”

Her eyes flash at you, but half of it is filled with fury, the other with lust. She laughs breathlessly. “Shut up. I’m the one using you tonight. You’re just my toy. My thick, leaking toy. I’m gonna ride you until you forget how to give orders.”

She reaches between you, fingers fumbling with your belt, rasping your zipper open. Your cock springs free and it’s just like how she described: thick and already leaking. She strokes you slowly and possessively, like you're her property and without any preamble, she lines herself up and sinks down on you in one long glide.

“Impatient are we?”

The stretch punches a raw cry from her throat. “Shut up,” Rei growls and she bottoms out hard on you, ass slapping your thighs, walls clamping down immediately, fluttering like they’re trying to pull you deeper.

“Fuck—” she gasps, head tipping back. “You feel even better than I remembered. So thick… stretching me open… god, I missed this. Bet you’ve been jerking off thinking about me too, haven’t you? Pretending you’re in control while your cock’s been begging for my pussy.”

You smirk, “I’ve been fine. You’re the one who’s been a dripping mess for two weeks. Look at you, already shaking just from sinking down. Pathetic how desperate you got.”

She glares at you with a bratty fire in her eyes, but her hips snap forward anyway. Short, aggressive thrusts, grinding her clit against your pelvis.

“Keep talking, smartass,” she hisses. “I’m the one riding you. I’m the one making you leak. You’re just my toy tonight — my thick, useless cock toy.”

She starts bouncing in earnest, lifting almost all the way off before slamming back down. The couch creaks under the force. Her breasts bounce free of the low V-neck, nipples hard and dark.

“Feel that?” she moans, voice growing hoarse with every downward thrust. “Feel how soaked I am? How tight? This pussy’s been starving for you. I’ve been a good girl, waiting, aching and dripping while you rejected me like some cold bastard. You should’ve let me have this sooner. You should’ve bent me over your desk that night where I sucked you off before the stupid meeting.”

Your eyes flick past her shoulder while she’s lost in the rhythm — too focused on the cock that she was deprived of, too focused on chasing her own edge — to notice.

You act uninterested in Rei's riding, eyes drifting around. The apartment is unmistakably hers: leopard-print blankets draped everywhere, ceramic cat figurines staring from shelves, a fluffy cat-ear headband tossed carelessly on the side table. And right beside the coffee table, half-hidden under it, a velvet pouch lies open. Scattered right at the opening is a black leather collar with a bell, a thin leash coiled beside it, a leopard-print tail plug with fluffy tail, and a thicker black dildo also with a fluffy tail. All of it spilled out like a secret she didn’t bother hiding.

You smirk inwardly.

It's a whole kit. Collar, leash, tails… she’s craving the feeling to be owned, even while pretending she’s the one doing the owning.

Rei doesn’t catch the glance. She’s too busy moaning, bouncing harder, walls clenching wildly as she climbs toward her peak.

“You’re close already,” she taunts, slowing to a torturous grind, clit rubbing frantically against you. “I can feel it. You’re throbbing so hard. Bet you’d cum inside me right now if I let you. But no. I’m gonna edge you until you’re begging. Until you admit you’ve been dying for this pussy.”

You chuckle. “You’re the one shaking like a leaf. Two weeks of playing with yourself and you’re still this close to breaking just from riding me? Cute. Keep pretending you’re in charge, brat. We both know who’s really desperate here.”

Her eyes narrow into a slit as her bratty defiance flares. She slams down harder with short, punishing bounces.

“Shut up,” she snaps. “Just fucking sit there like the useless toy you are and take it. I’ll fucking ride you until you forget your own name.”

She grinds down hard, clit rubbing frantically against you, building herself up fast. Her thighs tremble, breath coming in sharp, broken pants. She’s right there as her body tenses, walls starting to flutter wildly.

“I’m gonna cum—” she whines. “Gonna cum all over your cock—gonna soak you—gonna make you lose it—”

You let her ride the edge for three more frantic bounces.

Then your hands clamp down on her hips with an iron grip, freezing her mid-downstroke.

She freezes, eyes snapping open. “No—no—fuck—let me—”

You hold her locked in place, cock buried to the hilt but keeping her completely still.

Rei tries to rock forward. She can’t. Your fingers dig into her flesh, holding her tight.

“Rei,” you say calmly. “I’ve known you were rigging the deck since the beginning.”

“What…?” her breath stutters

“It’s the same three cards every single time. Hanged Man. Lovers. Devil reversed. You didn’t shuffle. You cut straight to the stack you wanted. I saw it the first time in my office. The undercut pause. The same section every time. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

She tries to move again — can’t. A small, panicked whimper escapes her.

“That’s… that’s not true—” her voice wavers.

You inch out slowly, pulling so slowly that she feels the drag of your cock along her walls, the emptiness starting to creep in.

She gasps, hips jerking forward instinctively. “No—don’t—please don’t pull out—”

You hold still, barely inside with only the tip nestled against her entrance. The sudden loss makes her whimper, thighs trembling violently.

“Admit it,” you say. “You rigged the deck. You drew surrender cards because you wanted my rules. You wanted me to take over. Say it. Or I pull out completely. I walk out that door. And I leave you here, aching, dripping, hanging on the edge with no release. Your choice.”

She resists for agonising seconds.

Her nails dig into your arms. Tears well in her eyes. Her breath comes in short, panicked bursts.

“I-I didn't—”

You push your tip back in. Pull it back out. Push it back in. Nothing more, nothing less. You fuck her with just your tip, over and over again.

“Please—I need—”

“Then admit it.”

She stares into your eyes as you pump her onto your tip tortuously slowly, as if the decision will cost her life.

“I”m leaving,” you say, pulling whatever miniscule amount of your cock out from her.

Then she breaks.

“Okay—okay, I rigged it,” she chokes out, trembling. “I wanted this. I’ve always wanted you to take over. I couldn’t say it. The cards were easier. Please—don’t stop—I surrender—please fuck me—please—”

You smile in satisfaction and slide back in with a deliberate slowness, filling her deep completely again.

She sobs in relief, burying her face into your neck.

“Good girl,” you murmur against her hair.

Her walls flutter around you in gratitude.

“Are you happy?”

“Y-yes.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“L-let me cum please…”

“Hmmm… That sounds nice,” you say, fingers still digging into her waist. “But I’m thinking of something different.”

The moment you say that, you pull Rei off your cock entirely, setting her down on the floor.

“No please, I admitted to you! Why did you pull out!” Rei cries, tears of panic welling in her eyes.

You stay silent, looking at her the entire time, cock still aching hard. You just raise your hand and point at the coffee table. Her head turns towards it, a shocked expression plastered across her face.

“W-wait no! I can explain!”

You just look at her panicking, giggling internally to yourself.

“I don't care. Bring it all here.”

“I—I didn’t… that’s not… those are just… old things, I swear, I never actually used them, I just… bought them once, for a laugh, It’s not what you think—”

“How do you know what I'm thinking? You didn't do any tarot reading,” you chuckle. “Bring it all here.”

“I-I—”

“I’m leaving,” you declare, placing your hands on the cushions, getting ready to push yourself up.

“Okay okay!” Rei murmurs as she clambers to the table, gathering everything before passing them all to you.

“On the floor,” you order, “Now.”

Her knees hit the rug in front of you instantly. Her legs are shaky, and her thighs are dripping with arousal and the need to cum.

You stand up, towering over her. She looks up at you with her eyes wet, lips parted, chest heaving with every quick breath. She’s completely open, completely yours.

You reach down, fingers brushing her throat. You tilt her chin up and stare into her eyes. “Tell me,” you whisper, “what do you want me to do with this.” You loosely hang the black leather collar on your finger, hovering it right above her eyes.

Rei’s eyes look to the side avoiding your gaze. “P-put it on me…” she whispers.

“What did you say? I didn't catch it.”

Her eyes dart back to you, glaring at you with a fierce stab. “P-put it on me.” Rei says, grinding her teeth with every word.

“Thought so.” You smirk and snap the black leather collar tight around her neck. The bell on the collar settles against her neck, chiming once. She shivers violently, a tiny, broken moan escaping her.

You clip the thin leash to the D-ring on the collar with a quiet snap, giving it one light tug. Her drooping head lifts slightly, the bell jingling again.

The moment the leash is on, something in her breaks cleanly. The bratty fire in her eyes gutters out. Her shoulders drop. Her breathing evens into shallow, obedient pants. She lowers her gaze, submissive, waiting for your orders. You tug once more firmly, eliciting a yelp from her.

“Good pet,” you murmur. Then, an idea strikes you. You turn and pick up the rest of the two other toys — the buttplug with a long white tail in your right, the thicker and longer black dildo with an almost similar fluffy tail in the other.

“Look at these, pet,” you say, before hurling them to different corners of the room. They land with a soft thud, rolling on the ground before coming to a stop.

“Now… go get the rest of your toys. All of them. Bring them to me. Crawl.”

Rei freezes. Her eyes flick up, wide and panicked, darting to the two corners.

She finally realises — you’ve seen through her. Through and through.

Her cheeks flame crimson and she tries to speak, desperate to deflect, to salvage some dignity.

But you tug the leash sharply, and the bell clangs loud. Her words cut off in a small yelp.

“Quiet,” you say, voice calm but unyielding. “You brought them. You wanted them used. Now crawl over there and bring them to me. One by one. Tail plug first. Then the dildo. Then the ribbons and cuffs by the shelves there. Oh and don’t forget that fluffy cat-ear headband over there. Place them at my feet like a good pet.”

Rei’s breath hitches, humiliation crashing over her in waves. She opens her mouth again, trying to protest, to bargain, but you give the leash another short, sharp tug that's enough to make her throat bob and the bell ring.

“Crawl,” you repeat. “Or I walk out right now and leave you collared, dripping, and alone with your toys.”

She whimpers in defeat, then lowers her chest to the rug. Hands and knees. Ass high. Your pet’s tail is absent for now, but her hips sway instinctively as she starts crawling.

The bell jingles rhythmically with every movement, announcing her submission as she makes her way to the plug. Her breasts hang heavy, nipples grazing the carpet. Slick trails behind her on the rug, her cum and arousal mixing in glistening streaks.

She reaches the plug and hesitates for half a second, cheeks burning. She reaches her hand out to grab it.

“No. Pets only use their mouth.” She turns her head to look back at you with pleading eyes, but you just look at her with that same stoic expression. With a small nod, she turns back and lowers her head, lips brushing the body of the plug, taking it gently between her teeth before crawling back.

The sight is erotic: collared and leashed, crawling on all fours with a plug in her mouth, bell jingling, cum still leaking down her thighs.

She stops at your feet kneeling up, offering the plug like a dog presenting a toy. Drool drips from the corners of her mouth around the base.

You take it from her lips slowly, letting her feel the humiliation of holding it in her mouth the whole way.

“Good girl,” you murmur, stroking her cheek. “Turn. Time to make you more like a pet.”

Rei’s eyes widen with fresh panic, but she obeys. You lean forward, spreading her ass cheeks apart, giving it a soft slap before spitting right into her puckered hole.

“Present.”

Rei arches higher, lifting her ass, thighs spreading wider. “Please—put it in—fill me—”

You pick up the plug and push with a slow and steady pressure. The widest part stretches her and she moans long and low, pushing back to take it. You don’t rush. You let her feel every inch, letting her whimper and shake as the base finally seats flush against her cheeks, fluffy tail draping over her ass like a claim.

She gasps, body trembling. “Full—so full—Master—”

She clamps her mouth shut right as “Master” escapes.

“Good girl. That's right, I am your Master.” You tug the leash sharply and her head snaps back, bell ringing. “Say it again. Who am I?”

“Master…” Rei whispers.

“Now go back. Tail dildo next.”

Resigned to her desired fate, she crawls to the other corner where you threw the thicker black dildo, taking it between her teeth (it’s heavier and longer, making her cheeks bulge slightly) before crawling back, placing it at your feet with a soft, wet thud.

She’s trembling harder now, humiliation sinking deeper with every trip.

“Ribbons and cuffs,” you say.

She crawls again for her third and fourth trip, picking up the black silk ribbons, small cuffs and fluffy cat-ear headband in her mouth (cheeks stuffed, drool dripping), crawls back and drops them in a neat pile at your feet.

Every moment with the butt plug in her makes her even wetter. She kneels there panting, eyes down, bell chiming softly, waiting for your next command. You take the headband and crown it on her head. Next are the small cuffs. You click the cuffs onto her wrists in front of her.

Perfect. Exactly like how a pet should be.

You stand again, grabbing on to her leash, tugging upward.

“Crawl.”

Rei drops her chest lower, forehead nearly brushing the rug and starts crawling again. All fours, ass high, tail swaying with every movement. The bell jingles rhythmically, announcing every step. It’s ringing louder now, especially since she's finding difficulty crawling with her wrists cuffed.

You guide her in a short parade around the living room — past the coffee table, past the ceramic cats, past the leopard blankets — making her feel every second of her new role.

Then you stop in front of the couch and sit down, tugging the leash upward.

“Crawl to me.”

She crawls the last few feet — bell jingling faster — until her face is between your thighs, nose brushing your still-hard cock.

“Look at you. Mouth full of toys while crawling. Now your mouth will be full of Master.”

You tug again.

“Open.”

Her mouth falls open instantly, tongue sticking out, drool pooling at the corners. You guide your cockhead past her lips, then tug the leash forward, forcing her down until her nose presses to your pubic hair.

“Suck,” you order. “Show your Master how grateful you are.”

She moans around you and starts bobbing, her sloppy and eager throat working to take you deeper. Spit drips from her lips, down her chin, onto her breasts. The bell jingles frantically with every movement.

You tug the leash rhythmically, pulling her closer and deeper, controlling the pace. She gags with wet, choking sounds but pushes forward despite her watering eyes, tears mixing with spit.

“Deeper,” you growl. “Take every inch. Choke on it like the filthy pet you are.”

She smashes her nose onto you, throat bulging, moaning around you. You tug harder, choking her lightly on every downstroke, then let her pull back just enough to gasp before forcing her down again.

“Good girl,” you murmur, stroking her hair with your free hand. “Such a good little cock-sucker. This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it? Leashed, cuffed, collared and stuffed, serving your Master.”

She whimpers affirmatively, vibrating on your cock. Her eyes are adoring now, staying locked on yours, tears smudging her mascara.

“Fuck your throat feels so fucking good.” You tug the leash tighter, holding her deep until she’s trembling, throat convulsing, bell jingling like a frantic alarm.

You loosen your grip on the leash and allow her to slide off your cock to catch her breath. You lean forward, stroking a knuckle along her jaw, tilting her chin up so she meets your gaze.

“Good girl,” you murmur. “Now… use those tits for Master. Tit-fuck me like the needy little pet you are.”

Rei’s breath hitches, fresh humiliation flashing through her eyes. But the switch is complete. She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t brat. She simply nods in a small and submissive manner.

You tug the leash upward, sharp enough to make her gasp and arch, exposing her chest to you. You grab the black silk ribbon and start tying around her tits, looping round, tying round her mounds. The silk bites gently into her skin as you wrap again beneath her mounds, pulling upwards and outwards like a simple harness, forcing her breasts to swell and lift dramatically. The result is a mini shibari chest harness that makes her tits bulge beyond the silk — fuller, rounder, nipples jutting proudly from the taut, flushed flesh, veins faintly visible under the strained surface. Every breath makes them strain against the bindings, throbbing visibly, perfectly presented as lewd offerings.

“Press them together,” you say. “Show me how badly you want to please Master.”

Rei’s cuffed hands lift shakily, but she's obedient. She cups her breasts, pushing them together around your shaft. She squeezes tight, enveloping her soft and warm flesh around you and starts rocking.

She pumps her tits slowly, letting the head of your cock peek out from her cleavage on every upstroke. Pre-cum smears across her skin and she whimpers at the sight.

You tug the leash again and the bell clangs, making her head tilt back slightly, throat exposed.

“Look at me,” you order.

Her eyes snap to yours.

“Tell your Master how much you love serving him with your tits.”

Rei whimpers as she continues rocking her tits on you. “I… I love serving you with my tits, Master. I love being your pet… your needy little tit-fuck toy…”

You smirk. “Faster,” you command. “Make it messy. Drool on it.”

She obeys instantly. She leans forward and parts her lips, letting thick strings of spit drip from her mouth onto your cock and her cleavage. The added slick makes the glide wetter, louder, and filthier. She speeds up, breasts bouncing with the motion, nipples dragging across your shaft, tail swaying behind her.

“Fuck—” you groan, hips twitching up into the tight channel. “Look at you. You’re not even pretending anymore, are you? Just a desperate little pet who needs her holes filled.”

Rei whimpers, rocking even faster. “Yes—yes, Master—I’m your desperate pet… please… use me…”

She changes the pace, dragging her tits slowly and torturously now, letting the head bump against her chin before sliding back down. She catches the tip between her lips on the next upstroke, sucking quickly, tongue swirling around it before releasing it with a wet pop, drool stringing from her mouth to your cock.

“Fuck—Rei—” you growl, voice rough. “Suck it again. Just the head. Show Master how grateful you are.”

She dips her head down, sealing her lips around the tip, tongue flicking the slit while her breasts keep sliding along the shaft. The dual sensation is brutal and your thighs tense, cock pulsing hard between her tits.

“Faster,” you snarl. “Milk me. Make me cum all over those pretty tits.”

She obeys and bounces her breasts frantically and wildly. Spit flies everywhere on her chest and her tail sways, bell jingling with no rest. Her breathing turns ragged and she’s clearly getting off on the degradation too. Her thighs clenches, pussy dripping fresh slick onto the rug.

“Tell me,” you demand, tugging the leash to make her look up. “Tell Master what you are.”

Rei’s voice cracks as she locks her eyes on yours. “I’m… I’m Master’s needy little pet… Master’s tit-fuck toy… Master’s filthy cum-dump…”

“Good girl,” you groan.

You tug the leash tighter, holding her rhythm until your thighs tense and balls tighten.

“Cum for me,” you order. “Cum with your tits wrapped around Master’s cock. Show me how much you love being used.”

She shatters, body seizing, walls clenching on nothing, slick gushing onto the rug as she cums untouched. Her scream is muffled around the head of your cock, bell clanging wildly.

The sensation of her trembling, her tits squeezing and her broken moans pushes you over.

You erupt, sending thick ropes of cum shooting across her chest, splattering across her breasts, dripping down her cleavage, coating her nipples. She moans gratefully, milking every pulse with her tits until you’re spent and shaking.

She looks down at the mess, fresh cum dripping from her chin, pooling between her breasts. “Thank you… Master…” she moans in gratitude.

You stroke her cheek.

“Good pet.”

She nuzzles into your palm still collared, leashed, tail swaying, bell chiming softly with every breath.

“Does my pet want more?”

Rei looks up at you with needy eyes, nodding desperately.

“Then purr for me.”

“N-nya~” Her first purr comes out hesitantly.

“More. Louder.”

“Nyan~ Master, please give me more-nya” Rei purrs gentler and softer, but she's not hesitant anymore.

“Up,” you order.

She rises to her knees, keeping her hands flat on her thighs like a trained pet. Eyes downcast, waiting.

You stand and tug her collar again.

“Present.”

Rei turns immediately, hands and knees on the rug, chest dropping low, ass lifting high. The leopard-print onesie is bunched at her waist and her pussy drips openly, swollen and red. The tail plug sways with the motion, fluffy tail brushing her calves.

You guide her forward a few steps, pulling the leash taut until she’s positioned directly in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the living room wall. The angle is perfect: she can see herself from the side and slightly behind — collared, leashed, tail-plugged, on all fours like a pet in heat.

You kneel behind her. Palm smoothing down her spine possessively. She trembles under your touch. “Look at yourself,” you command, tugging the leash to force her head up. “See what a pretty little pet you are for Master.”

Rei’s eyes meet her reflection, whimpering with a small, humiliated sound, but she can’t look away. The leash keeps her head lifted, staring at the mirror that shows everything: her arched back, dripping pussy, swaying tail, collared throat, bell glinting.

You line yourself up behind her with your cock that's hard again. It's glistening from her mouth and tits earlier and you thrust back into her pussy in one deep stroke.

She cries out with a high and raw mewl, body rocking forward. The mirror shows the exact moment you fill her: her mouth falling open, eyes fluttering, walls clenching visibly around you.

“Fuck—” she gasps. “So deep—Master—”

You start pounding hard and steady, hips slapping her ass with wet, erotic smacks. Every thrust makes the tail plug shift inside her, pressing against the thin wall separating her holes. The dual fullness makes her scream, the bell jingling wildly in time with your rhythm.

You tug the leash, choking her, keeping her head up so she can’t hide from the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” you growl. “Look at how pretty my pet looks getting stuffed. Collared. Leashed. Tail wagging. Dripping my cum like a desperate little bitch. Say it.”

Rei’s voice cracks, drunk eyes locked on her reflection. “I… I look pretty… getting stuffed… Master… collared… leashed… dripping your cum… like a desperate little bitch…”

You pound harder, hips snapping with bruising force. The mirror shows every detail: her breasts bouncing beneath her, nipples scraped raw, tail swaying with each thrust, slick gushing around your cock and running down her thighs.

“You love this, don’t you?” you snarl, tugging the leash to make the bell clang louder. “Being double-stuffed like a filthy pet. Watching yourself get fucked like you’ve always wanted. Admit it.”

“Yes—yes, Master—” she sobs, voice shaking. “I love it… love being double-stuffed… love watching myself get fucked… like I’ve always wanted…”

You reach back and grip the base of the tail plug, starting to fuck her ass with it in counter-rhythm to your thrusts. Pulling it out halfway and slamming it back in while your cock fills her pussy. The opposing motions stretch her impossibly, the shared wall thin and sensitive.

“Too much—too full—Master—please—”

“Please what? Please give me more?”

You tug the leash tighter, choking her lightly and rhythmically, making the bell ring in frantic bursts.

“Cum for Master,” you command. “Cum with both holes stuffed. Show me how much your greedy little body needs this.”

She shatters again, walls clamping down on your cock and the plug, body seizing, slick gushing in a messy squirt across the rug. Her scream is high and broken and the mirror shows her face contorted in pleasure-pain. Tears of pleasure stream continuously and her mouth open in a silent wail.

You don’t stop.

You keep pounding, slamming your cock in deep, thrusting the tail plug as you fuck her through the orgasm until she’s shaking, babbling incoherently.

You pull the tail plug out, watching her ass gape for a second before replacing it with the thicker black tail dildo. The new size stretches her wider and she cries out higher than you thought she couldn't. She's overwhelmed by the fullness as both lengths seat deep, fluffy tail draping over her ass again.

You pull out your cock and thrust back into her pussy again, now double-penetrating her wildly. The added girth makes her scream louder as her walls stretch to their limit, shared pressure intense.

“Look at the mirror,” you growl, tugging the leash to force her head up. “Watch yourself get double-stuffed. Watch how your holes take Master’s cock and your own filthy toy. Say it.”

Rei’s voice is wrecked, drool stringing out from her mouth to the ground “I… I’m getting double-stuffed… taking Master’s cock… and my filthy toy… in both holes… like a good pet…”

You pound faster, hips slapping her ass, “Cum again,” you snarl. “Cum for me while you watch yourself break.”

She reaches her peak impossibly quick and her body convulses, walls clamping down on both intrusions, slick gushing in another messy squirt. Her scream is raw, the mirror reflecting her face twisted in ecstasy.

You keep thrusting, fucking her through the aftershocks.

“Master—please—fill me—mark me—”

You bury yourself to the hilt and cum, sending thick, hot pulses that floods her pussy. Rei sobs through another small aftershock, triggered by the feeling of you spilling inside her.

You stay seated deep for a long moment, both of you panting. Rei is still shaking on the rug, collared, leashed, tail dildo buried deep in her ass, fluffy leopard tail swaying with every tremor, pussy dripping a messy trail of your cum and her slick.

“To the couch, pet.”

Rei’s sex-drunk eyes flick open and she immediately crawls forward on all fours. She climbs onto the couch with her knees first, then turns onto her back as you guide her, legs spreading wide on instinct. You unlock her cuffs and her bound wrists are gone now, hands free, but she doesn’t use them to resist or cover herself. She just reaches up, trembling as she clings to your shoulders while you settle between her thighs.

But you don't use your cock. You reach downwards and grip the base of the tail dildo, pulling it free with a wet pop. Her ass gapes for a second, clenching on nothing.

The mirror is now behind you and she can see herself reflected over your shoulder. Her ass is gaped, and her pussy is swollen, red and dripping.

You line up the thicker tail dildo that's slick with her arousal and thrust it into her pussy in one long, slow stroke.

Rei arches, breaking into a mewl at the new intrusion. You start thrusting, fucking her pussy with the dildo while your cock rests heavy against her thigh, still glistening from her.

“Feel that?” you growl, twisting the dildo on every upstroke so the base grinds her clit. “Your own filthy toy filling your greedy cunt now. Master’s cock gets a short break.”

She sobs, hips bucking up to meet each thrust. “Master—please—your cock—need it—”

You lean down, one hand finding her bound breast, squeezing hard, thumb flicking the scraped-raw nipple. The silk harness makes them even more sensitive and she’s keening at the touch.

You keep pumping slowly, reveling in the way she's getting lost in pleasure. Mid-way, you stop thrusting, pulling your hands off.

“Take the dildo and fuck yourself with it. Show Master how badly you need to be filled.”

You guide her trembling hand to the base of the dildo where she wraps her fingers around it immediately, thrusting it in and out of her pussy desperately. The wet squelch fills the room and her hips roll to meet every plunge.

You focus on her tits, kneading, slapping lightly, pinching nipples until she’s crying out with every twist. The harness keeps them lifted and swollen. Such perfect, obscene handfuls.

“Faster,” you snarl. “Fuck that toy like it’s Master’s cock. Don’t you dare cum without permission.”

Rei’s thrusts turn frantic, dildo slamming deep, clit grinding against her own hand. Her walls flutter wildly, clenching as she teethers right on the edge.

“I—I can’t—Master—please—”

You slap her bound tit — sharp, stinging. “No. Hold it. Bad pets get punished.”

She tries, but her body betrays her. On the next deep thrust of the dildo, she screams, walls clamping down hard, slick gushing around the toy in a messy squirt.

You pull the dildo free. “Bad pet,” you growl. “You came without permission.”

You line up with your cock and thrust into her ass, stretching her wide again. Her ring clenches around you tightly and you start pounding her ass, hips slapping her cheeks with wet smacks. One hand finds her pussy and your fingers spread her folds. The other hand raised high, you begin slapping her swollen clit.

“Count,” you order. “Every slap. Out loud. Thank me. And beg me not to let you cum.”

Rei sobs, but she obeys.

“One… thank you, Master… please don’t let me cum…”

Two. Three. Four. Each slap lands wetter, louder. Her thighs shake violently, slick spraying out with every strike. She’s counting through tears, voice breaking higher with each number.

“Five… thank you, Master… please… I’ll be good… don’t let me cum…”

Six. Her eyes roll up in euphoric pleasure.

“Seven… thank you, Master… please don’t let me cum… but I’m so close… I’ll be good… please…”

Eight. Her hips buck back greedily despite the punishment, ass clenching around your cock, pussy dripping onto your hand.

“Nine… thank you, Master… I really can't hold it anymore… don't let me cum… but I need to cum… fuck please…”

You give the last thunderous wet slap.

“Ten… thank you, Master… please—please let me cum—I can’t—I need—”

You hammer into her deeper, fingers rubbing her clit frantically now as you growl against her ear.

“Cum, pet. Cum for Master while I fill your ass.”

She shatters instantly, body convulsing, walls clamping down brutally on your cock, slick gushing in another messy squirt across your hand and the couch.

The sensation of her clenching, her squirting, and her broken scream pushes you over.

You bury yourself deep in her ass and cum, breeding her ass full of your warm seed. Her walls clench continuously, milking every drop out of you.

Her eyes slowly open and she looks at you with adoring eyes, totally wrecked.

“Thank you… Master…”

“Good pet.”

You stay buried deep in Rei’s ass for a long moment as both of you pant, bodies slick with sweat and release. The couch is a mess beneath you with cum, slick, spit on the cushions. Rei is completely limp, trembling and collared, leash draped loosely across her back. Her tail is absent now (you threw the dildo aside earlier), pussy and ass both gaping slightly, leaking your seed in slow, thick trails down her thighs. Her bound breasts heave with every ragged breath, silk harness still digging into the swollen flesh, nipples pinched raw and dark.

You gently pull out, watching your cum drip from her ass, mixing with the mess already there. She whimpers at the emptiness, hips twitching back instinctively like she’s trying to keep you inside.

You ease her down onto her side carefully and sit beside her. One arm slides under her shoulders, lifting her upper body so she can curl into your lap. Her legs tuck up and her head rests against your chest, ear over your heartbeat. The bell on her collar chimes softly with the movement, although it’s a quiet, intimate sound now.

You reach behind her, fingers working the knot of the silk harness. The ribbons loosen slowly as you unwrap them with care, massaging the red lines they left behind as the blood flows back. Her breasts settle, still flushed and sensitive and she sighs in relief, nuzzling closer.

You stroke her hair with long, soothing passes from crown to nape, then down her spine, avoiding the tender and sensitive spots.

“Breathe, pet,” you whisper against her temple. “You’re safe. You did so well for Master.”

Rei makes a small, muffled sound, half a sob, half a happy hum, pressing her face deeper into your neck. Her arms wrap loosely around your waist, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt. The collar stays on like a symbolic, soft weight against her throat.

Minutes pass in quiet. You keep petting her, letting her come down slowly. Her breathing evens out and the trembling fades to occasional twitches.

After a long stretch she speaks. “I… I rigged the deck,” she starts, words muffled against your skin. “Every time. To show you… to force it. I couldn’t just say it. I was scared. But the cards… the real ones… the ones I drew alone in the morning at home… there was no rigging… they were always the same. Hanged Man. Lovers. Devil reversed. Every single day. For weeks.”

She swallows hard.

“It wasn’t just me playing games,” she whispers. “It was… real. Fate or my stupid subconscious or whatever… it kept telling me to surrender. To let you take over. I just… couldn’t admit it. So I cheated. To make you see.”

You stay quiet for a moment, hand still stroking her hair.

Then you tilt her chin up gently so she has to look at you.

“So all those mornings,” you say softly, “when you drew alone… the cards were honest. They were screaming surrender. And you rigged them anyway… because you needed me to force you to listen.”

She nods. “I was a coward,” she chokes out. “I wanted it so bad… but I couldn’t say it. I needed you to break me. To make me admit it. I’m sorry… Master…”

You brush a tear from her cheek with your thumb.

“You’re not a coward anymore,” you tell her. “You confessed. You surrendered. You crawled. You took everything I gave you. You’re mine now. No more hiding behind cards or brattiness. Just my good girl.”

She lets out a shaky, relieved sob.

“Yes… yours… all yours…”

You wrap both arms around her, holding her close.

“There’s something else,” you say quietly.

She stills and freezes, but continues to listen.

“I like you, Rei,” you confess. “Not just the games. Not just the submission. I like you. The way you light up when you talk about tarot. The way you pretend to be tough but melt the second someone really sees you. The way you rigged the deck because you were too scared to ask for what you needed. I like all of it. All of you.”

“I’ve wanted you for longer than two weeks,” you continue. “I just… needed you to stop pretending first.”

Rei pulls back to look at you with her eyes wide, shimmering with fresh tears, but this time they’re different. Not panic. Not humiliation. Something softer. Vulnerable.

“You… like me?” she whispers, like she’s afraid the words will break if spoken too loud.

You cup her face, thumbs brushing away the last streaks of mascara.

“I like you,” you repeat. “A lot.”

She lets out a small, shaky laugh — half sob — and buries her face in your neck again, clinging tighter.

“I like you too,” she mumbles against your skin. “I’ve liked you for… a long time. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

You kiss the top of her head.

“Then we’re even,” you murmur. “No more cards. No more pretending. Just us.”

[jmuns-kpop]

A Busy Week (Cafe Cuties, Part 4)

~IVE's Liz (x Male Reader), Le Sserafim's Eunchae (x Male Reader), 9.4k words, Cafe Cuties Part 4 (previous part)

“No- it has to look natural. Just relax,” Chaewon says again, patience running thin.

“How is it supposed to look natural when I know you’re about to smush cake in my face? It doesn’t help that Eunchae can’t stop laughing!” You exclaim.

Eunchae holds a 10-inch cake, white frosting perfect, a contrast to what it’s about to be. Her mischievous smile lines her face proudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t smush it hard,” she laughs.

“I don’t understand how this is supposed to bring in more customers!”

“Just do it!” Chaewon yells back.

Yunjin— the new social media manager stands at the head of all this bickering, awkwardly recording the three of you with her phone. “We don’t have to go with this idea. There are other reels we could try— you know, if you’re not comfortable with a cake in the face.”

“No!” Eunchae yells. “I like this idea!”

“Well I don’t! And I’m the one getting a cake to the face!” You yell back.

“It’s two against one. And I’m the manager. Yunjin, start recording!” Chaewon answers back.

When you were told you were getting a social media manager, you expected to barely see them. You expected them to be a force in the background, silently swaying would-be customers to try out the cafe, only feeling their presence as the store got busier.

You did not expect to be corralled out of bed 3 hours before your shift started to film TikToks. And you especially did not expect those TikTok’s to end with your face to be covered in frosting.

“Okay then,” Yunjin says awkwardly, bringing the phone back up. “And, action,” she cues.

You do your best to ‘act natural’, or whatever Chaewon told you to do, but it’s hard, considering you know the ending. Chaewon and Eunchae do their little sequence before Yunjin pans to you. You can see her awkward smile, the knowing look that her idea has put someone she just met— you— in mortal danger, death by frosting.

And suddenly you can’t act natural. You’re on high alert. You have a whole shift to work after this, and plus—

The cake comes earlier than expected. It’s wet and cold, and you feel Eunchae’s hand on the back of your head as she pushes the cake harder into your face. You hear familiar giggles erupt around you— even hear a new laugh, loud and short as Yunjin covers her mouth in embarrassment having just laughed at someone she just met.

The cake falls to the floor, half of it still stuck to your face. You scoop out the cake covering your eyes, giving way to Eunchae, smiling proudly and Chaewon, laughing like you’ve never seen her laugh before.

You even see Yunjin biting back her laughter.

“It’s okay Yunjin, you can laugh at him,” Eunchae says as she takes a finger and traces it under your chin, scooping up extra cake before plopping her finger in her mouth.

“Yeah,” Chaewon adds as she too scrapes cake off of your cheek, “He likes to act mad all the time, but he really loves us,” she says despite your face cake in her mouth. “Want some?”

“Don’t offer the new girl my face cake!” You yell.

“I’m okay,” Yunjin says, but lets out her laughter. “Anyways, that was great! I’ll get to editing this right away.”

Chaewon and Eunchae hop over to Yunjin, phone still in hand. The three of them laugh as they watch the replay.

You decide against going to watch, not because you’re particularly mad about the cake— you sort of are, but it’s all in good fun— but because you’re not particularly close with Yunjin. She’s friendly for sure, but, things are still a bit awkward. It seems weird to feel… nervous, knowing how fast you got close to both Chaewon and Eunchae, but those were special circumstances. You were more focused on finally having a job rather than the social aspect of it.

Plus, you were constantly around them. You worked hours on end with them, and it was a good ice breaker to learn how to make drinks side by side with them. But Yunjin doesn’t work as a barista. You don’t have that common ground, don’t have the hours to spend with her during your shifts. The girls seem to be getting along with her just fine, though.

“Eunchae, go help him clean off the cake. Me and Yunjin will clean up here,” Chaewon says through fading laughter.

Eunchae’s soft hand grabs your wrist, dragging you off towards the washroom with hurried laughter.

The door clicks shut, and the temperature change is palpable. Eunchae still giggles, but she’s faced towards you— cornering you in the enclosed space.

You try to ignore it, try to remain somewhat level-headed. You are, in fact, still at work (not that it ever mattered before). You decide to keep the angry façade on. “What happened to not smashing the cake hard? You practically hydraulic pressed my skull!”

Eunchae takes two fingers, eyes locked on yours, and drags them across your cake covered lips. She takes the cake into her mouth. “You taste good y’know”.

You take a step back, back hitting the now locked door— but Eunchae tracks you like a hawk. “Eunchae, wait. I need to get cleaned up, we open soon”.

She ignores you, pressing her body onto yours. She’s still looking up to you, eyes barely blinking. “You looked so fucking hot when I caked you. I think I’ll have a slice”.

You should push her away, should play it off as a joke and get cleaned up. But her large doe eyes are too much to handle, the way her body is pushed up against yours so you can feel her— feel all of her— kills your resolve. When her tongue reaches up to lick your chin, you actually lean into it.

And then she’s licking all over, long strokes trailing up your face, on your cheeks, your jawline— everywhere. Your hands go to her waist, gripping it, claiming it.

“Eunchae— Eunchae wait,” you say without any conviction.

She responds by taking her tongue, slowly licking the cake off of your lips.

“You want to try some?” She asks, breathy and with all the conviction you were missing, frosting-lined tongue sticking out.

And without thinking your tongue is on hers— frosting be damned. You’re lapping her up like you’ve been starved for weeks. Her hands climb to your chest as yours tightened around her.

Your faces are a mix of frosting and saliva, tongues licking it up all the same. You feel her nipples harden against you as you pull her closer, your own hardening member pressing into her stomach. She pushes off of you slightly, reaching down to your waistband. She slides your pants down revealing your stiff rod with a pop.

“I want to taste more of you,” she says, scooping up some of the cake and lathering it on your cock before she drops to her knees. The sensation is almost too much to handle, her warm hand feels like heaven as she spreads the cake up and down your length. Your legs buckle as you lean on the door for support.

“Since when were you so assertive?” You ask.

“It’s your fault I’m like this,” she pouts, pointing the tip of your penis upwards. And when she sticks her tongue out, you almost grab her head, almost lose control. But it’s Eunchae, you remind yourself. The sweet girl who keeps you company, who loves chocolate and coffee and texting you way past your bed time.

So you let her go slow, let her run the tip of her tongue up the underside of your member. You groan loud, almost too loud. Eunchae smiles. She knows the effect she’s having on you, she can feel it in the way you buckle, in the way your eyes are begging for her.

So she takes her tongue, still slow, teasing, and circles it around the head, cleaning the white frosting off of it. She wraps her lips around the tip, sucking with dangerous force. You’re throbbing now, and when she pops it out of her mouth, you see her smile proudly. “I was right,” she says, “You taste so good”.

You reach for her, running your fingers through her hair before it lands on the back of her head. You softly position her mouth in front of your penis before—

A soft knock echoes throughout the washroom, and the sultry look on Eunchae’s face turns to surprise. She scrambles up as you reach for your pants.

“Hey sorry— Chaewon is calling for you guys. You almost done?” A nervous voice calls.

You both stand up straight. The mirror shows you and Eunchae’s face— a mess of frosting and saliva.

“Yeah— just a minute!” You call back.

“Sure, just meet us up front,” Yunjin says before you hear her soft footsteps retreat back.

You turn to Eunchae, who’s staring at you with a mix of horror and embarrassment. It stays that way until Eunchae’s face turns to a smile, full of relief. “That was close,” she says.

---

You’re still pent up by the time Chaewon and Eunchae head home before the store opens. It’s just you today, but Chaewon, hopeful Yunjin can turn things around, assures you things will change— that soon the store will be lined with customers.

But for now, it’s just you, leaning back on the counter as you wait for customers. Oh, and Yunjin, who sits at a table, quietly editing away on her laptop. You think of chatting with her, getting to know your new coworker better, but something is stopping you.

She seems friendly enough though. Maybe you will say something.

“Hey Yunjin?”

She looks over, smiling. “What’s up?”

“Do— do you want anything to drink? I mean you work here now so…”

She lights up. “Oh, is that really okay? I’d love a coffee. Do you have anything minty?”

“Minty? Yeah sure,” you say for some reason. In fact, you definitely don’t have any minty coffee’s on the menu.

But you already promised her a mint coffee, so you take some fresh mint leaves, muddling it before brewing a fresh shot of espresso overtop of it. With some ice and milk it’s surprisingly good— needs some work but Chaewon might even put it on the menu.

You bring it over to the busy Yunjin, who for the most part seems to enjoy it.

The ice isn’t broken, but it’s a start. The day goes by slow, though, and Yunjin seems to be busy with her work, so you decide against bothering her more. Your only customer, of course, is the pretty rich girl that always comes in.

She’s wearing a long overcoat overtop a tight cashmere sweater— designer if you had to guess. She smiles, dimple dotting her cheek.

“Another slow day?” She asks, voice soft but confident.

“Another slow day,” you repeat. “The usual?”

Liz smiles. “You remember my order? Do I really come that much?”

You’ve grown comfortable with Liz over the weeks. She was probably your only regular customer. You also appreciate the fact that she never brings up the incident— her walking in on you massaging Chaewon’s back. You used to cringe every time she walked in, embarrassed of the memory. But she never mentions it— never let Chaewon in on the fact that she caught you two.

“Of course,” you say cringing inwardly at your squeaky customer service voice.

You ring her up, silently making her order. It usually goes like this. Liz comes in, greets you amicably as you make her drink, then leaves with a wink.

But this time is evidently different. “You must be so lonely,” she teases.

You look at her confused. “Lonely?”

“You’re all alone. Usually you look so happy bickering with the cute girl with the bob— Chaewon, I think?” She says with a knowing smile.

You can tell your face goes red by the heat in your cheeks. So much for her not mentioning it. “Oh—”, you stutter. “I mean, umm, yeah I guess it can get kind of boring.”

You should laugh, brush it off, act like you don’t know what she’s talking about, but you’re at her mercy. It’s that damn dimple. It’s staring at you like it knows.

She leans forward on the counter. “You two seem close.”

Suddenly you’re very aware that Yunjin is sitting not 6 feet away, probably privy to this whole conversation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you laugh awkwardly.

Her smile curls up even further. “Oh come on. The first time I saw you you were massaging her back.”

Yeah, your cheeks are definitely burning red. “I think you must be seeing things. Here’s your drink,” you say, placing it on the counter.

She doesn’t take the hint that you want the conversation to be over, but you can’t outright say it— she’s a customer after all.

“You two would look cute together.” Something inside you jolts. Is she being serious? If only she knew what you had done with Chaewon. But you have this weird sense of pride. This girl, Liz— beautiful herself— thinks you and Chaewon would look cute together? Liz must sense the change in your body language, must know she’s struck something. “I’ll be rooting for you~,” she smiles before turning heel and leaving.

You can’t even be angry at Liz. She’s waited until you were alone, away from Chaewon before teasing you. You’re at least grateful for that. And she doesn’t know Yunjin, still sitting at her table is now apart of the team. And it’s not like she was that far off the mark. Your dynamic with Chaewon hasn’t changed— in fact it’s probably grown since Liz has walked in on you.

But you can’t help but feel… watched. As if Liz can see right through you. Where does she get off?

But you are at work. Maybe you have been acting too close to your coworkers, maybe you have been unprofessional to some degree. At least Liz is a good sport about it. Your head hurts thinking about it— you just hope Yunjin didn’t hear anything.

But nearly as soon as Liz is gone, Yunjin is at the counter.

“I finished!” She says. Good, seems she wasn’t paying attention.

“Editing?”

“Mhm. Wanna see?” She puts the laptop on the counter, screen facing you. It’s honestly funny, the Tiktok, yet you still don’t know how it’s supposed to bring in customers. The video has Chaewon and Eunchae in the frame.

Eunchae’s character supposedly has just finished baking a cake, but Chaewon, the manager, tells her it isn’t perfect. And Cozy Cafe’s customers only deserve perfection. So, because the cake isn’t perfect, Eunchae fakes her anger. The camera then pans to you, and Eunchae launches the cake into your face. Yeah, you don’t understand it.

“It’s great,” you lie to Yunjin. One, because you don’t want her to feel bad about you getting caked, and two because she’s new. The Tiktok will probably flop, anyway. No one will see it.

Yunjin smiles. “Just sent it to Chaewon. If she approves I’ll post it right away.”

“Finished for today then?”

“No, Chaewon wants some posters done. Just something to hang around the city”. She goes to sit down again.

Not an hour goes by before Yunjin screams, running to you with her phone out. You look at her inquisitively.

“Look!” She yells, showing you her phone. It’s the posted Tiktok.

“You posted it?”

“Yeah, but look!”

“Sorry, but what am I looking at?”

She pushes the phone forward. “Look!” She repeats, pointing at the small ‘4289’ in the corner.

“It has 4000 views already?” You say surprised.

“Those aren’t views. They’re likes.”

Four thousand likes. Already. Four thousand people watched you get caked in the face and thought it funny enough to like. “It has four thousand likes?”

“And I just posted it like, half an hour ago!” She says excitedly.

But you don’t know how to feel. It’s good for the store, you guess.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” you say hesitantly.

Yunjin’s smile falters a bit. “Hey— are you sure you’re okay with this being— everywhere? I know the cake thing is embarrassing, but Eunchae and Chaewon insisted on it. If you’re not comfortable with it… I can take it down.”

Wow, is this how it feels to have a supportive coworker? “No—” you say. “No, it’s okay. It’s good for the store.”

---

The effects are almost instantaneous. The next day is your off day, but the work group chat dings with Eunchae’s messages.

[Eunchae] it was kind of busy today!

[Ms. Manager (scary)] Yunjin’s Tiktok is working! Were you okay? Could you handle everything yourself?

[Eunchae] don’t underestimate me! i was fine ☕ 💇🏻

[Ms. Manager (scary)] k I can schedule two people if it gets busier But if we’re fine..

[Yunjin] i can step in! i make coffee every morning at home

[Eunchae] lol

But it was indeed not fine. The day after that, you’re swamped from the beginning. Between baking the cakes and making orders, there’s almost no time to relax (duh, you’re at work). The customers all seem a little hostile too. Weird.

It takes you twice as long to close up, and by the time you get home you’re exhausted. You plop down on your bed, work clothes and all, sending a quick message to the group chat.

[You] definitely gonna need a second person

[Eunchae] couldn’t handle it? hehe

[Ms. Manager (scary)] Weak.

[Yunjin] Hwaiting!

And another text pops up. One you know all too well. Karina decides it’s a good idea to text you. Didn’t she get the hint last time? Well, you did promise her you’d talk things out with her, but you weren’t even sure you meant it.

It’s a link to the very same Tiktok that leaves you exhausted, followed by

[💔] Saw this Lol When can we talk?

You open the message. You definitely don’t have the energy for this. And when did she think you two were on ‘lol’ terms?

You click the link anyway wanting to see how the Tiktok is doing. In just two days it’s amassed nearly 10 thousand likes and almost quadruple the views. And it has 80 comments. Your face being caked is apparently what the people want to see. Maybe Yunjin is a genius.

You open the comments.

Woah, they’re cute Who’s that shmuck. Wish I worked there 😍 😻 beautiful Cozy’s coffee and cakes? MOre like Cozy’s coffee and baddies

Jheez, That last one has like 300 likes

That guy is such a loser cake boy got what he deserves bros cooked lmao. girlies ate tho

You stare at your phone in disbelief. Of course, that’s why it’s so popular. It barely has anything to do with the content. No, people are just fawning over two beautiful girls.

But why are you getting strays? Is the internet really that hostile? Is that why every customer that walked in seemed so damn hostile? Because they were expecting the ethereal Chaewon or the adorable Eunchae? But instead they got ‘cake boy’?

Maybe this chill cafe job you got by chance wasn’t a blessing.

---

It doesn’t help that Eunchae’s little stunt last week leaves you blue balled. Your balls are practically bursting. Couple that with the exhaustion of a busy cafe, and you’re going crazy.

The good news is Chaewon decides it necessary to schedule two people to easing the load (if only she could easy another load). The bad news is you have a front seat view to everything— all the pathetic men who come in to see the two cute girls from the Tiktok.

You know they’re just being friendly, putting on their customer service smiles as they take orders. But when Eunchae smiles to the tall guy with nice hair that just ordered, you can’t help but feel jealous. Or when you see 12 pairs of gazing eyes scan Chaewon’s whole body as she bends over to wipe the table, you want to scream.

It takes you everything you have not to shout at them, tell them to keep there eyes to themselves. You want to scream, to shout that Chaewon is yours.

But she’s not. And that’s not who you are. You clench your fists and bite your tongue. It’s just the stress.

For Eunchae and Chaewon, though, their dynamic with you doesn’t change. They’re still as friendly as ever the first coupe days. They still joke with you— hitting you playfully as if every eye isn’t on you. You don’t have the heart to tell them to stop— for one it would be an awkward conversation, to tell them half of the customers you’re getting are because of their looks. Plus it’s not like you have the time anyway. By Wednesday, the store is so busy you can barely think. You’re making drinks from open until close thanks to a couple of popular cafe hoppers who go around reviewing new cafes. Yours is their latest review, and it was glowing. It has almost as great an effect as Yunjin’s Tiktok had.

By Thursday, even Chaewon is a mess. The amount of work that comes with being a manager is no easy task, especially as the store grows. She’s knee deep in the work. Her attitude never left, even when the store was slow, but now it comes with an edge. It’s just a fad, she keeps saying whenever you do attempt to ask her how she’s doing. After the Tiktok’s blow over, things won’t be as busy. That’s how these things worked, Yunjin assures. You’ll get an influx of customers as the Tiktok trends, but it’ll soon even out to a manageable flow.

You want to help Chaewon either way, soothe her like you have before. Maybe share the load with her (or on her, your blue balls remind you), but you’re just too cranky with the week you’ve had. You’re deep into Thursday’s shift having barely talked to her when Liz comes in.

She comes when there’s a slight lull in the flow of customers, a rare occurrence this week. There’s still about 8 people in the cafe, but they’ve all ordered.

Chaewon waves at Liz with a smile. The two talk for a bit while Liz places her order.

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit. I’ve been wanting to try some of your cakes,” Liz says, pointing to a slice of chocolate mousse.

“Okay~~”, Chaewon says in her best customer service voice. She’s too good at this, you think. “Have a seat anywhere, I’ll bring it over”.

She plates the cake, but another customer walks in— a guy who’s all hair and height. Probably half a foot taller than you, and you hate him already. Especially as his eyes find Chaewon as he approaches the counter, then you. Except there’s none of the charm when he looks at you, just suppressed hostility.

“Hiya miss!” He says, smile so big it looks like a snarl.

Chaewon turns to the customer, big smile matching his. She wordlessly hands you the cake. “Welcome!” Chaewon says, all cute and fake. “First time here?”

“First time,” he admits. “Looking for some new study spots. I saw you on Tiktok and knew I found the place!”

Chaewon literally fawns. You almost drop the plate when Chaewon laughs. “Thanks for coming,” she says tilting her head down with a casual bow. “What can I get you?”

“What’s your fav-“

You can’t listen to this anymore. You drag your feet over to where Liz is— hopefully far enough you’re out of earshot.

Liz is sitting all elegant, one leg draped over the other as she scrolls her phone. “Enjoy,” you drop the plate on the table with more attitude than intended.

“My my” Liz sings. “Is that how you greet your favourite customer?”

Who ever said she was your favourite. “Sorry, Liz. Enjoy,” you say, genuinely this time.

“Tough week?“

“Busy. But I’m fine,” you sigh. “Not used to all these customers”

“Seems like something else is on your mind,” she teases. “Have you been thinking about what I said?”

What is she getting at? “I don’t know what you mean”.

Liz spoons her cake, but never brings it to her mouth. In fact, her eyes haven’t left you. “You’re usually so cheerful. All these customers must be getting you down. Especially those here for… the view?”

“Still don’t know what you mean.”

“Aww, don’t get short with me,” she says, voice still teasingly playful. “Chaewon, of course.”

“Sorry Liz,” you sigh, remembering your position. You definitely shouldn’t be giving your customers attitude, especially your most loyal one. “But really, it’s not Chaewon. I’m just tired—“

“Tired? You’ve been staring at Chaewon and Mr. Hair over there. Sad because she’s still talking to the cute customer?”

Why is Liz always smiling. You can’t hide anything from that damned dimple.

“The cake is delicious by the way~”, Liz responds to your stuttering. Weird, she hasn’t even taken a bite. “He is cute. You should tell her how you feel before someone snatches her away.”

It’s not that simple— it’s never that simple. Undoubtedly the week has taught you, you probably do have feelings for Chaewon. You can’t fall asleep without thinking of how she stood up to Karina, how she seemed jealous. Or how she playfully smacks you at work, or teases you when you say something stupid, but doesn’t judge you anyway. You can’t not think of how mad she gets when you tease her back, but still talks to you anyway. You can’t go through a night without dreaming about her— all of her, every nook and cranny Mr. Hair over there will never get to see. But she’s not the only one in your dreams.

Because another girl is there too. Eunchae. How she texts you every night asking what you’re doing, how you can’t work a shift with her and not laugh so hard your stomach hurts. How you opened up to her, and she not only helped through the mess of Karina in your head but made you laugh while you did. How she opened up to you, showed you more than her goofy adorable side. How she dragged you into the bathroom last week with cake on your face—

And what about Karina? It was clear things weren’t over between you two, no matter how one sided it was. You had promised her a conversation, yet you ignored her texts. Could you keep ignoring her forever? Or would you have to face her eventually?

“It’s not that simple,” is all you say.

Finally, Liz’s smile dissipates. “Finally, something real out of you.” She takes her first bite out of the cake. “Mmmm~. It is tough, she is your manager after all. But I can’t stand to see my two favourite baristas annoyed at each other. Talk to her, won’t you?”

You look at Liz. How did she manage to pry all this out of you? You didn’t even admit anything, yet she’s giving you advice as if she knows how you feel.

“It looks like Mr. Hair sat down, go on. Chaewon might get jealous you’ve been talking to a pretty girl like me for so long too,” Liz dismisses you with a wink.

The conversation leaves you confused. Liz and her dimple are all-knowing, you conclude. Chaewon simply looks at you and nods as you return, before clearing the counter of ground coffee and cream spills.

Was what Liz said true? Were you and Chaewon annoyed at each other? Did it seem that way to others? You had just been… giving her space. It was busy after all— you assumed she was doing the same. But you hadn’t exactly realized you were giving Liz attitude until she pointed it out. Had you been doing the same to Chaewon?

“Hey”, Chaewon’s voice snaps you out of your head.

And then she’s looking at you with no sparkle in her eyes— none of the charm she displays with customers is present while she talks to you. And suddenly you don’t want to help her anymore.

And your words come out as a hiss even if you don’t mean it. “Yes?”

There’s the look on her face you’d usually find cute— half a pout and half annoyed. “I think it’s time to hire someone else,” she says, voice a sigh. “You know, give us three a break.”

“I guess.”

Chaewon’s eyes flick to your face, searching. “You guess?”

“Seems like a fine idea to me, Chaewon.”

Something on Chaewon’s face changes. “Si— since when am I just Chaewon?” She says, but it’s with none of the snark it usually has.

“It’s your name, is it not?”

“I’m just asking a question!” Chaewon says defensively.

“Yeah, well— I didn’t know it was my job to decide if we needed to hire people. I thought that was the managers job.”

Chaewon steps back as if you’ve slapped her in the face. And all you feel inside is the stress of the entire week compounded— not the girl in front of you.

She turns away, back to the coffee machine. Her body loosens up as her voice, now devoid of emotion commands you. “We close in an hour. Go clean the kitchen.”

---

You lay in bed that night with only one positive thing on your mind. Tomorrow— payday, is your day off. You have to pry your mind away from thinking of the days events, of how you gave Chaewon the cold shoulder, even if she was just asking for your advice. It doesn’t help to know that Eunchae and Chaewon are working together tomorrow. All of those customers, flocking to see them. You think about going to the cafe. Pretending to study, sit at one of the tables the whole day so you can be there in case a boy gets too friendly. But that would be creepy— and after your week you need a day off. Even if you don’t deserve it after your attitude.

Your rent is covered this month— a problem that used to fill your entire being with dread. Now your dreads are cute and snarky and smell of coffee.

You’ll have enough money after this paycheque to splurge a little. Yeah, tomorrow you’ll go out; you need a break more than anything right now.

By the time you wake up, the Sun is on it’s way back down. You’re groggy and cranky, but just a bit less irritable than yesterday— that’s a good sign. You grab your phone (which you forgot to charge, of course), and awaken to 4 missed messages.

[Eunchae] u ok? u didnt respond to my messages last night 😿 busy shift? i want some more cake lol

[You] Sorry Yeah, rough shift

The reply comes immediately.

[Eunchae] i figured chaewon is in a bad mood lol scary 😱

[You] Have a good shift

You don’t know what else to say— especially with her mentioning Chaewon. You plop your phone down, stretching. Your belly rumbles, but it’s already 3pm. And you decided to eat out tonight— somewhere fancy. Maybe even grab a drink or two, God knows you need it.

You start second guessing yourself. You’re already going to a nice restaurant by yourself. People will probably stare, and it doesn’t help that your nicest clothes are wrinkled. But you step out your door anyway— a testament to how poor your state of mind is. Your phone dings again.

[Eunchae] hey me and yunjin are gonna hang out! she wants to go bowling lol chaewon has paperwork to do 🙄 wanna come?

[You] Not today, sorry Tired

[Eunchae] :/ next time then

[You] Next time yes

[Eunchae] promise?

[You] Yeah. Promise

You slide your phone back into your pocket. You’re honestly flattered Eunchae invited you. But you need a night to yourself tonight.

The restaurant you choose— the nice Italian place with the bar— is perfect. The dim lights, the bartender that doesn’t talk much, and the mafalde ai funghi. It’s a perfect meal, you think as you sit at the nearly empty bar, slurping down your meal. Plus, the two old fashions you chugged only make the experience better.

“Another?” The bartender asks.

A short nod is all you give.

The bartender slides you your third drink. You heave a sigh before taking a sip— the harsh bitterness on your tongue just feels right in your mouth. Just bitter and silence, that’s all you want.

But of course, that is not what this night would provide.

“I’ll have, hmm— a vodka cranberry”.

Your head flicks to your left in surprise. That damn dimple is staring back at you, behind a smiling Liz of course.

“Liz!”

She’s wearing a fur coat, a divine black dress peeking out. Her entire outfit is probably worth more than your rent— her earrings alone probably double it. Glossy red lipstick lines those smiling lips.

“What are you doing here?” You ask surprised.

“I could ask the same of you. This isn’t the place I’d expect to find you in. Oh— not like that honey,” she clarifies. It’s a fair point, it’s fancy as all hell. Probably not a place one should frequent if their income relies on a small cafe. “Just doesn’t seem like your vibe.”

You’re already too buzzed to put your guard up; not that it would do you any good anyway. That dimple knows everything. “Just— needed a break.”

“Talk to Chaewon?”

“Not— not really,” you said. Guess you wouldn’t be taking your mind off things.

“Things looked a little heated yesterday. Thought you’d have heeded my advice.” Her drink arrives, and she takes a sip, slow and elegant. Her red lipstick stains the glass.

You take a sip from yours as well. “Sorry Liz, was kind of hoping to take my mind off things tonight.” You say with an air of finality. She doesn’t take the hint that you want to be alone, but she stops her questioning of the particular matter.

You both sit there for a while, sipping your drinks. It’s honestly kind of awkward. You wish so much you were alone. Your wrinkled shirt looks like a wife beater compared to her elegant outfit.

“So… what are you doing here all alone?” You finally ask.

Liz chuckles. “Oh, I’m not alone.” She waves somewhere behind her. There’s a man sitting there, quite evidently staring at you two. “But he’s all jawline and no jokes. Quite boring if you ask me.”

“You’re here on a date?” You feel even more out of place.

She looks back at him— literally makes eye contact with him. You want to shrink.

“Hardly a date. These rich guys think a nice meal is enough to pique my interest. When really I’m much like you. Just need to… let loose every once in a while. Take my mind of things, as you would say.”

“Letting loose would be nice,” you sigh. You can still feel Liz’s date’s eyes on the back of your head, but you suck your drink down and forget. “So, how do I do it?”

“How do you…?”

“Let loose. Take my mind off things. This pasta isn’t really helping.”

Liz covers her mouth, but the laugh is still as clear as the large cube of ice sitting in your cocktail. “See, you’re much more interesting. I think we can start by getting you another drink?” She calls the bartender over, getting one for herself too. “When’s the last time you, let loose as we say.”

You thought back to the night at Chaewon’s over two weeks ago. Not that long ago, you admit, but it feels like a lifetime ago. You thought of what your shared with Eunchae, both emotionally and physically— about how the next morning Chaewon in her jealousy of Karina brought you to the supply closet and—

A pang of guilt overtakes you. When she had been jealous, and you in a predicament, Chaewon only helped. Understood and helped, in her own special way. And now here you were, recognizing Chaewon’s stress as a manager, and all you had to offer her was the bitterness of your jealousy, the peak of your stresses directed at her.

“Been a while,” you said despite the recency of certain events.

“If you really want Chaewon, then you have to take care of yourself. You can’t expect to show her kindness if you can’t even do that to yourself.”

“I told you, there’s nothing going on between me and Chaewon!”

“Oh? And how about the other?”

“Eunchae?”

“Yes, yes her.”

“No, nothing.”

Liz eyes you with an even greater interest. “You insist?”

“Then maybe I can help you show yourself kindness and let loose. How about it?” She says, eyebrow raised inquiringly.

Thank God. Of course a rich girl would know how to really let loose. “Really? I don’t know if I have enough money for like… those nice massages or whatever, but if you know a way I’d love to know.”

Liz’s mouth tilts upwards. “Oh, don’t worry about money, follow me,” she says as she takes 3 1-hundred dollar bills and places it on the bar counter. You could’ve sworn your pasta was only 30 dollars, plus the drinks at 13 a piece, but, rich people, you guess.

You did not expect to find friendship in Liz this night as you walked out of the restaurant (the incredulous look of Liz’s date following you all the way out), but you welcomed it all the same.

---

Friendship is not exactly what you would describe the night to have offered. Liz’s penthouse is otherworldly. The elevator opens to a huge centrepiece— an actual statue of an angel appearing to be diving into a fountain. The marble floors and crystal chandelier are glittering like diamonds. In fact, they probably are diamonds.

“What do you do for a living?” You ask.

She just laughs as she leads you up a grand staircase to the second floor terrace.

“I didn’t know we were going to your apartment.”

“Oh don’t worry honey, make yourself at home.”

She leads you to a large drawing room. Oh to have a drawing room. Your bachelor pad isn’t even a quarter the size. She takes off her fur coat, revealing her stunning black dress. The darkness of the dress only highlights her moon pale skin, her sleek shoulders and slender arms seem to glow bright. “Sit,” she gestures to a large couch.

You do, but despite her assurance you can make yourself at home, you start to feel a little nervous— only natural given the situation.

“So… how will I let loose?” Oh how naive you are. Liz grabs something from a large chest near the balcony exit. She places them behind her back before slowly making her way towards you. Every step her body sways. It would be mesmerizing, if not for the fear overtaking your entire body. You should’ve known— she’s rich and beautiful and definitely a serial killer.

Every bone in your body is telling you to run, but for some reason you stay put. You can overpower her right? But what if she’s carrying a knife behind her back— or worse, a gun. You’re sure if it’s a knife you’d be able to grapple it out of her hands. But a gun? There’s nothing you can do against a gun. She’s close now and oh god she’s about to use whatever it is that she’s hiding.

You don’t wait to find out, you jump over the edge of the couch to the door, screaming all the while— but it’s locked, because of course it is.

Liz just eyes you, and she’s approaching you and it’s over— you’re going to die here and Liz is going to eat you. Every click of her heels on the floor like a countdown, a timer for your survival. She’s so close you just close your eyes and accept it. But you hear something next to you click— probably the gun—

“You’re free to leave if you like,” Liz says.

You open your eyes and see the open door behind you. “Sorry, doors lock automatically, but they unlock from the inside, if you’re so inclined to leave.”

“W-what?” You say through quivering lips. “Y-You’re not going to kill me?“

Liz bursts out into laughter.

“I- I can go?”

“I knew it, you are so much more interesting than my date. I’m only messing with you.”

You’re still confused and scared, but Liz seems to be genuine. It was just a prank, or a misunderstanding.

What she reveals behind her shouldn’t exactly ease your mind. It’s a lacy blindfold. Your eyes flick up to Liz, and she’s smiling— she’s always smiling.

“W-what?’

“You wanted to let loose, didn’t you?” She says, letting a strap of her dress fall off her shoulder.

Your mind is so unclear you don’t even run. She leans in close. “You’re sure there’s nothing going on with you and your coworkers?”

You swallow hard. “Y-yeah I’m sure.” You take in everything, her collarbones, her damn near perfect smile, that fucking dimple. And you know what’s coming, but that damn Eunchae has left you blue balled for over a week. So you stay put.

She leans in close, mouth nearly touching your ear. You can smell her elegant perfume, sort of citrusy. “Just say my name if you want me to stop,” she whispers.

She takes the blindfold and wraps it around your eyes, tying it tight. Just her touch is enough to leave you hard, having been so pent up. “L-Liz,” you mutter. You can’t make out the room anymore, but you can still see light, still sense movement. God you hope she doesn’t kill you.

“Want me to stop already?” You can’t muster a response. “Remember. My name, the safe word.” You nod slowly.

She takes you by the hand, leading you back to the couch. “Sit.”

And you do. You can’t even fathom what’s happening. 2 hours ago you expected to eat your dinner, come back home and wallow. Now you’re in your most loyal customers penthouse, blindfolded.

Her hands move up your body, and she’s unbuttoning your shirt. She slides it off of you, every touch of her sends shivers up your spine. You can’t see her, but the image of her is stuck in your head, her dress perfectly hugging her body in its tightness. Her slender shoulders, those hands that now move up and down your shirtless body.

You reach up to grab her, but something clicks on your wrists, locking them together. You feel soft fur. Handcuffs— the kinky kind. You shudder, trying to rip your hands apart, trying to get away. Her hand cups your face. “Remember,” she whispers. “Just say my name and I’ll stop.”

You calm down a little, and you see a shift in the light through your restrictions. You feel her climb atop of you, the pressure welcome on your throbbing cock. “My, hard already? You really haven’t let loose in a while,” she laughs.

You can feel her slow, painful grinding on you as her hands explore your body. “Neither have I,” she says. Her fingers find your nipples sending electricity through your spine. You let out a moan, and Liz’s grinds grow a little faster.

“Tell me about Chaewon,” Liz says, voice sharp and commanding— filled with desire..

“What?” You ask, but Liz pushes your hands over your head and behind your head so your elbows are bent down, and takes your lips in hers. “Tell me,” she says with excitement between her assault on your lips. Her tongue forces your way into your mouth as you struggle to breathe, to regain your composure. Her fingers are still playing with your nipples, and she breaks off of your lips and attacks your neck next.

A jolt of pleasure erupts within you, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. “Tell me,” she commands.

You grind your hips into Liz’s, your balls threatening to burst already. But your mind flicks to Chaewon, and it’s her lips that replace Liz’s, her hips on yours.

“She’s so— fuck— she’s so damn snarky,” you moan as Liz’s assault grows more vigorous. “She can’t hold her anger in for the life of her. Her attitude is oppressive— mmm, fuck—“

“Keep going,” Liz pants.

“She’s always laughing at stupid shit, always pouting, always yelling”

“Yes, yes and?” Liz says, hips growing more aggressive.

“But she’s— fuck, Chaewon— she’s so damn perfect. She cares for me in every way that it counts. The way she teases me, the way she lights up when I say I’ll help her. The way she looks when I’m fucking her, or she’s on her knees—“

“You’ve fucked her?” Liz asks, voice growing to a peak in excitement.

“Fuck Chaewon— yes, yes we’ve— mmm— we’ve fucked.”

Liz’s hips stop as she climbs off of you, and you buck your hips up at the sudden arrest in stimulation. But you feel her hands slide your trousers down your legs, and your throbbing cock springs free. You look around, trying to see where Liz is, but the blindfold is too restrictive.

And you feel her hand on your cock, and with one sense removed the sensation hits tenfold, and you almost burst right there. Her hand is slow and painful. You can feel her breath hit your neck, but you’re still unsure where she is— you can only sit there and take whatever she dishes.

“Tell me! Tell me how you fucked her!” She begs.

“I fucked her the very first week I started,” you struggle as Liz thumbs the head of your cock. “I fucked her the day I met you Li— the day I met you.”

“I knew it!” She yelps, stroking you faster. You feel her shift somewhere, feel her separate your legs as she climbs in between. “Keep going,” she orders, hand still sliding up and down your shaft.

“She dragged me into the supply closet, and she tried to have her way with me”

“Tried to?”

“Yes, but I fucked her before she could— fuck,” you buck up into her hand. “I fucked her before she could get the upper hand.”

“Did you come inside of her?” Liz asks.

“N-no, she wouldn’t let me. I c-came on her— fuck Li—“ you stop yourself knowing if you say her name, this whole thing ends. “I came on her face”

You feel wet hotness slide down to the very base of your cock, you hear Liz struggle as she pushes the entire thing down her throat. You can feel yourself throb inside of her, feel her throat enclose on you, before she slides it back out. You can feel every drop of her saliva coat your dick, feel every lick she administers to it.

“And?”

You have to take a moment to clear your head. It buzzes with pleasure, your whole body does, but Liz slows down at your lack of information.

“Tell me!”

“We’ve— nngh— we’ve fucked one more time since but— holy shit,” you say as you buck your hips back up feeling her mouth on you once again. “But still— that’s it. It’s just physical.”

Liz separates your legs further, and you feel a hand cup your balls. She massages them slowly but passionately, as she continues working her mouth. “Pretend.” She says through saliva and precum. “Pretend I’m her”

It’s all she needs to say before you’re thrusting into her throat, every buck of your hips releasing a wet gurgle from the rich girl. Her hands continue to fondle your balls, and she meets you halfway as you thrust, pushing her mouth deeper on your cock.

“Ch-Chaewon,” you yelp, as pressure consumes your entire body, and you release a week’s worth of stress and desire into her. Waves would be understating it— it comes in tsunamis. The sound Liz makes as she slurps up your cum is truly lewd. It only makes you buck harder as you release into her mouth. The feeling is even more blinding than the strap wrapped around your eyes. There’s a ringing in your ears as the pleasure peaks; your whole body is tense and Liz’s mouth continues to extend that pleasure.

Your climax finally subsides, and your body goes slack. Yeah, maybe Liz was right— you needed to let loose. But it is evidently not over as you feel Liz climb back on you. She takes your handcuffed hands and places them on her breasts.

Her voice is even more full of desire as she speaks. “And the other?”

Your hands find her ample breasts as you play with her nipples. The two orbs feel so smooth in your hands— you only wish you could see them.

“Tell me about the other— Eunchae,” she screams as she takes your hands in hers, guiding your hands on her tits. Evidently, you were not giving them enough passion, as her hands guide you to squeeze and flick her nipples even harder.

“Eunchae… Eunchae is so fucking adorable it hurts,” you say. Your penis is growing hard again, despite your recent release.

“Yes, yes!”

“She’s so sweet, and caring. She makes me laugh more than anyone else. We walk home together after every shift. She texts me every night and I respond every time. She’s— she’s perfect as well.”

Liz takes your lips again, this time her tongue invades your mouth easily. She’s licking everywhere, her tongue brushes against your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, your tongue. You continue to knead her breasts. You want to wrap your arms around her waist, pick her up and have your way with her, but the handcuffs do their job well.

“And have you?”

“Yeah— your tits feel fucking perfect. Yeah, we have.”

“How did it feel! Hurry!” You hear a squelch you can only assume is her pussy—Liz is fingering herself.

“It was different. Amazing, but different than Chaewon.“

“How so? Worse?” She pants.

“No— no not worse, just different. Slower, less… aggressive. More— fuck Eunchae— more gentle.”

You can feel her hard nipples, you want to lick them, to have them in your mouth, but you are at Liz’s mercy.

“But— nngh— but that’s changing.”

“Changing? Changing how? You’ve had sex again?”

“N-no. No not sex. But she made a move. We probably— probably would have if it wasn’t for the new girl.”

Liz plops what you assume is her pussy on your dick— hard again. You can feel her wetness, feel her slick coat you as she slides it up and down the underside of your shaft.

“What new girl?”

“We— holy shit Li—”

“Don’t say my name!”

“Sorry— we just hired a— nngh— a social media girl. You saw her, the day you first questioned me— about Chaewon.”

“Her? The redhead?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” She asks. You can feel her growing wetter, her nipples harder.

“A-and what?”

“Have you?” She asks quickly.

“No”

Liz’s hands reach to your face before she takes you in her lips once again.

“Don’t look at me in my eyes,” she pants quickly, before sliding the blindfold off of you. The light is blinding at first, but your eyes adjust. Liz is fully naked, her body divine. She’s looking everywhere, everywhere but you. Her clavicle is so divine you can’t help but take it in your mouth.

Her moans grow louder as you kiss her neck. You’re still handcuffed, and your cock is once again at full mast. The room is a haze of your heavy breaths.

Liz lifts her hips a little, positioning you at her entrance. She doesn’t ask before she slides your cock inside of her. If Chaewon is pushy and Eunchae is adorable, Liz is a monster with a perfect body. The inside of her pussy gives way to pure luxurious pleasure. You can barely catch your breath as she sits on your cock.

“Who are you thinking of?” She asks as she bounces on you. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me which one you’re thinking of!”

But your head is spinning and the sensation of her pussy proves too much. Your hands are locked in place, and when you close your eyes, you don’t know who you see. There’s someone there, but they’re blurry. You can’t make out who it is, all you know is you’re threatening to burst at any moment.

“I don’t know!” You yell.

You can feel Liz tighten on your shaft. Her hips grow rabid as she continues to buck them. You’re lost in a haze of women, Liz’s games leave you confused. You can no longer tell who you’re fucking, no longer know where you are. You close your eyes as shock goes up your spine, and you’re cumming again.

You can tell Liz is too by the way she screams— by the way her walls shudder on yours. She’s holding herself up on your shoulders, trying her hardest not to collapse on top of you. You display none of the conviction she does, and your head lolls back on the couch and your body goes limp.

“Holy shit Liz,” is all you say.

In no time, Liz’s composure is back. She climbs off of you, putting her dress back on. You’ve barely seen her while she was naked, and if it wasn’t for her disheveled hair, you would have never guessed she just had her way with you.

It’s as if nothing happened with Liz. That smile is back. “Well, that was— adequate. I expect to see you again at the cafe?” She says, her breath back to a steady pace. “You may leave now, if you wish.”

She walks to the door, leaving you sitting there, still heaving, before she turns to offer one last sentiment. “Oh, and do let me know who you choose in the end.” And she’s gone.

You sit there in disbelief. You had planned for a simple night, a nice meal and a drink. Instead you’re at Liz’s apartment, having just been… used for her entertainment.

One thing is certain though. An outstanding invitation from Eunchae to hang out and an unfinished argument with Chaewon— you have a lot to think about.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N:

Hello all! As with almost everything I put out, no idea how this piece came to be. I plan and plan and the end product is nothing like my plan.

But, a lot happened this chapter. Liz finally makes her full appearance, and conflict is starting to brew. Let me know what you all think! Honestly, I just recently got into IVE. I hope my portrayal of Liz is adequate for you all, but I do understand it won't fit everyone's idea of her. I went purely on aesthetic. She just looks so ethereal, like a rich girl.

This series is such a fever dream for me to write, but I honestly had a lot of fun with this chapter (maybe too much, if I'm honest).

Probably won't be updating CC until after It Was Only A Week finishes. This series has really popped off, and I hope these chapters live up to everyone's expectations. If not, I sincerely apologize. Please keep believing in me. All feedback is welcome!

Who do you want to see next?

Chaewon

Eunchae

Liz

Yunjin

Karina

Someone new

Voting ended onMar 7

Small picture.

[mysonesecret]

I rarely hook to any story this much but I was really really looking forward to the next part of 'The chairman's daughter' since the last update but you kept delaying it, now the excitement is gone, I'm kinda disappointed 😞

I would like to give a suggestion, You should remove the schedule cuz it just making it more worse for your followers like me, it was better without knowing when will the update hit us like rock outta nowhere but since you attached that schedule page I started looking forward to the given date but since you kept changing it, it started disappointing me more.

Should the Schedule page be removed?

Yes, remove it, since release dates are not accurate and keep being delayed

No, keep it the way it is even if the dates change

No, keep it, but push the dates out further so there are less delays

No, keep it, but remove all dates and just keep the release order

Voting ended onMar 3

Hi! I'm sorry, I've been really sick so it's hard to stay on track. I apologize for making you feel disappointed. The Schedule page was always supposed to be about estimated dates and transparency, not a promise or a strict schedule, but if this is something readers feel strongly about, I can certainly remove it. Another option is for me to change the dates to be much further apart so that there are less delays and lower expectations.

I know that you are not upset that updates take a long time, and more so the fact that the release dates keep changing, so I apologize for making you anticipate things only to delay it again. If the majority of readers choose to keep the Schedule page, I hope that you would be able to just avoid looking at it to prevent yourself from being disappointed.

That being said, I understand that you all are frustrated from waiting, but I hope that you can see it from a writer's perspective as well on why things end up being delayed. I wish there was a button I could press to release an update, but in general, it takes at least 40 hours to finish a chapter—sometimes much longer. I only have about 3-4 hours out of a day to myself, and I've been using them to solely write, every single day, to hit at least 2k to 3k words, even when I'm sick or exhausted. WPS and TCD chapters are all upward of 15k words nowadays; it takes a very long time to write that many words and then edit them, and even proofreading alone is about 3 hours on something of that length. There was a time where I rushed my updates and readers felt like things weren't complete and I had to go back and extend some scenes, which I would prefer to avoid doing again.

I know that it's easy to feel disappointed when you really enjoy and look forward to something, but please remember that even though it takes you about 30 minutes to read a fic, it took someone else weeks to write it. For example, it may be frustrating to see "WPS delayed another 3 days", but it was also 23k words which is literally 4 times longer than the chapters in the first half, so maybe you could see it as four updates instead of a single one.

I hope that in moments when you feel annoyed, you'll remember that writers are normal people just like you and are doing this out of love for the hobby and their readers. Many of us have full-time jobs, our own complicated lives with many obligations to tend to, but we are all trying our very best, I promise. I've been extremely burned out for a while, but I'm pushing through because I'm so close to the end for WPS, so I want to finish on a good note. Plus, I know if that if I go on a hiatus I probably won't come back for another 5 years again. :')

Thank you for understanding and being patient with me. <3 And sorry if I sounded mean at all, it's the flu speaking, not me!

@mhqq1234 Hi! I think when I'm done with WPS and TCD, I should be able to explore more stories. I'm expecting this to be closer to the second half of the year than sooner, though. :(

I don't think a bonus scene would work anymore, but maybe a bonus chapter showing a Clubs finale from a previous year's auction? XD

Clubs winning in the third round was already a shocker to me! Going against Spades is no small feat. :s

[mysonesecret]

Didn't know you were an OG writer and a Sone too? Migosh. I really found my fave author in you. You did great on the last update with WPS. Looking forward to TCD too as one of the next releases is on my birthday (or maybe not because timezones). Being early 30s in this fandom sometimes I feel like I do not belong but reading stories like yours makes me feel like K-Pop really don't have an age limit. The Miyeon one is my fave so far. I hope you never get bored writing and still have the inspiration to do so. If the day ever comes and you put down the pen for good, I hope it is coming from a right place. Now I'm just ranting. Sorry. And thank you really, I love how you write these stories.

P.S.: Seohyun's my ult! T.T

Hii! Yes, I published My Sone Secret to AFF in 2015! It'll be 11 years old next month :') It's bittersweet (but I also have a special anniversary spinoff planned!). I'll try my best to release TCD in time so it lands on your birthday, but I can't always promise the dates on the Schedule page are set in stone T_T

Kpop has no age! I started writing really young, and I feel like my stories matured with me now that I'm older~ I don't think I'll ever get bored of writing, but life will get in the way sooner or later, so I'm just here for a good time instead of a long time~ I took a 5 year hiatus back in 2020 but I'll try to stay a little longer this time :)

Hii, don't worry, WPS will have a proper ending! I don't want to spoil whether or not it'll be sad or happy, but it'll be wrapped up and there will be closure~

Hi! I think my favorite King is Hearts since he actually does care about his Aces a lot!

My favorite queen... oof this one is hard, I think all four of them deeply care about their Aces in their own ways, as we've seen. Yoona and IU are definitely on the softer love kind of way, while Diamonds and Suzy are more on the tough love side, but if I really had to choose... I would say IU! Since I prefer the soft kind of motherly figure, and she's had a rougher past than Yoona who has been in Hearts since being drawn as an Ace a long time ago!

My favorite Ace of course is Wonyoung, since she is the main character of the story~ But I definitely love all the Spade girlies, they are the main House after all! I think Karina is a close second because like Wonyoung, she's been through a lot of similar pain (I wonder if there's room to explore all their backstories in bonus chapters or spinoffs :O). I love Yuna, but she's definitely been given princess treatment from the King of Spades since being drawn.

My favorite scene in the auction or the entire story? I still think Yujin and Wonbin's pre-auction scene is still my favorite smut scene because of the immense tension from their relationship quickly turning from friends with benefits to realizing they have feelings for each other despite feeling guilty about it! My favorite Auction scene might be Tzuyu's shattering diamonds. I think it's because I've been planning that twist for so long that I felt very satisfied writing it. But Karina and Yuna's scene are a close second for me, as well as Yujin's halftime scene!

Buttt my favorite scene in the entire story (so far) is Wonyoung and Wonbin's in Ch10 where he carries her back home and kisses her scars! I loved writing that part so much, even though it was juxtaposed with some really brutal smut sigh..

The next asks contain spoilers for WPS16, please don't open if you haven't read the latest chapter!

Hi again! <3 @seorreality

The Houses were definitely influenced a lot by polls, and I spent a ton of time sorting all of them based on popularity, the narrative (Sakura being chosen over Chaewon because Hearts is a Japanese House, for example). I knew for sure that Wonyoung, Karina, and Yuna had to be Spades because they're the it-girls in Korea, and by that same narrative, it's actually more fitting for Sullyoon to have been Pink, but I did lean into the polls for Minju there! Again, I think Sullyoon and Minju could've been swapped and the story would've still made sense, but I don't mind the way it is now too much~

As for the timeline, yes, this is all happening in a single night! The first round was four houses happening simultaneously, and then the second round was two, so the first half went by pretty quickly. The IVE girls are probably just asleep HAHAH. But you'll see them again before the story ends, of course!

I can't answer where John and them went without spoiling :O They didn't storm out in anger, but they also can't stay with Sora being removed (plus, there's no point in watching the rest of the show now that they're powerless) but Wonbin and Yujin are both stripped of their belongings, so neither of them are still wearing the AI devices~

Oh, there's a small detail in Wonyoung's ending round: Team 10 threw two Jokers in because that was their remaining cards (James and Jake) in a futile attempt to do something! But obviously, two Jokers won't do anything for Wonyoung.

:') If only Wonbin and Yujin never watched those videos together that night, they wouldn't be there now...

I think at this point, if I do anything to Yujin, you will all take my head. 😂

Hii! I definitely understand the reaction towards the absence of the other Clubs in the finale! I think there were a few things that went through my head while writing it and hopefully it makes sense:

I felt like the House of Clubs peaked last chapter with IU and Miyeon, and I wasn't sure what else I could've done to top that. I didn't feel like bringing back 3 more Aces into Jennie's round would actually compete with Hearts and Diamonds for the finale because of how powerful Clubs' previous rounds were already! It's kind of a 'power creep' problem. This could just be a result of bad writing on my part, but I didn't want to dilute the impression of Miyeon and IU's scene, so in other words, their finale already happened last chapter, kickstarting the climax of the story (this round).

I didn't intend to nerf Clubs this round; I saw it more of a buff towards Hearts and Diamonds who were disproportionately underwhelming in their previous rounds relative to Spades and Clubs. I think that partially helps their finale, because their other rounds weren't as exciting, so it feels more like a "twist".

From a narrative standpoint, the Clubs girls definitely worked harder than the other Houses in their previous rounds (I honestly can't see how Miyeon would've been able to go back on that stage the way Arin and Hanni did), so Jennie wanting to give them a break felt appropriate to me and fitting towards the "High Aces wanting to protect their girls" theme, and also show how powerful she was towards the crowd for them to actually listen to her.

I think this is a result of the other Houses outshining them because how can a 6-person gangbang be underwhelming in any other context? XD Did I just write it poorly or something D: (that's entirely possible because I was getting smut fatigue during this chapter...)

I love that you guys caught that theme! :) Yes, this story is told from Wonbin's POV who tries to play the hero, but even he has admitted that he can't save the princess in this story. I also don't mean to make it seem like there are no victims in this system (because in a way, they are all victims even though they consented to it all), but I don't think it's up to Wonbin to save any of them!

LOL I can't actually answer this of course, but it made me chuckle 😂 I can't wait to write her chapter 🫣

[mysonesecret]

NOOOOO THE DARKNESS DOESN’T ALWAYS WIN🥹🥹🥹. CHOI MINGYU GTFO OUT OF THERE IM GONNA BEAT YOU UP MYSELF. PLEASEEEE NOT WONYYY😭😭😭.

HOW IS THIS SO FUCKING GOODDDD. YOU’RE A LEGEND AUTHOR!! DON’T LET OTHERS TELL YOU OTHERWISE. CAN’T WAIT FOR THE ENDING🥹

Thank you for reading 😂 and screaming! It's almost over! But it's time to switch back to TCD for a couple chapters (and for my brain to fry from context swapping).

Hi! I feel really attached to both stories, but I think WPS is the more serious of the two, connects to a universe that I spent years writing, and has a much more complex plot, so I lean towards WPS in terms of which one I "like" more. I think TCD is certainly more fun to write and a lot easier, but WPS feels more representative of me as an author (if that makes any sense)? The only issue is that it's extremely draining emotionally for me to write, so I need a lot of breaks in between chapters to recharge.

I think TCD is more light-hearted and kind of for 'everyone' while WPS is a lot more niche and not everyone's cup of tea, hence the popularity difference. I also think the two different POVs (1st person vs 2nd person) affect how both stories are told, and therefore one feels more emotional. (IMO, if WPS was written in 2nd person I don't think it would have as much emotional weight, and likewise, if TCD was written in 1st person, it wouldn't be as chaotic and fun).

Aw don't worry, we'll have lots of Karina smluff soon enough to make up for it. :)

Hi! Thank you for reading (and rereading :O)! And yes! The colors do mean different things for different Houses~ and you're right, it's based on the color of the suits :) If you look at the charts on the WPS blog, you can see the order of the color ranks based on each house!

Aw I'm sorry 😞 I hope it doesn't make you too depressed, please don't torture yourself if it doesn't feel good! There are other stories out there that are more lighthearted, like TCD! :D

Thank you for reading <3 I hope it hurts in a sorta good way and not a bad way T_T

A lot of people sent the Minnie performance (link redacted due to your share ID, don't dox yourself!) to me in regards to WPS and now I'm worried what my story did to all of you guys!

Hiii! Thank you for giving it a shot! The story is written non-linearly in the first half and the timelines converge towards the end! They're not too far from each other, but it was a style I wanted to try in order to jump right into the action at the beginning! I know it's a little confusing, but I think after you realize there's only three different timelines (one flashback of when they were children, one "present" timeline, and one "slightly ahead" timeline, it gets easier to follow!

The next asks contain spoilers for WPS16, please don't read it if you haven't read the newest chapter!

The Jiheon scene was one of my favorites to write and I'm glad it has some effect on readers XD <3

I told you guys not to sleep on Diamonds! >:) Jk~ but I did plan it for aw hile! I knew that they were less popular in their other rounds, so I had this planned to make up for it! I'm guessing it worked because a lot of you guys are talking about it~

Hi @autumnyacorn~ Thank you for reading even though you hate WPS :) I think that's the beauty of a really long series! Every chapter builds into the next one, and you can pull from previous smut scenes to enhance the future ones! The finale wouldn't have been what it was without the other rounds~ But thank you for worrying about me! It is pretty dreadful, but thankfully I have TCD to recover <3

Hiii, yes the aces were always in their decks and I was waiting for the final round to utilize them! It's the finale, so we have to go out with a bang, don't we? :3

This is a pretty controversial opinion I think XD letting Mingyu?! But we'll see how the last round goes :)

The Clubs scene probably felt weaker than the others because of the build up! Club rounds have been really intense so far so the finale suffers from "power creep" I think? It's probably quite hard to top the IU Miyeon round in terms of intensity, even though it was a 6 person gangbang it probably felt vanilla XD

[mysonesecret]

hello! i just saw your latest asks and the two readers-turned-writers' messages were so touching! :') i am also one of those readers who got inspired by you and decided to try my hand at writing as well ^-^

you said that you struggled in writing oneshots because you found it hard to do a proper ending in one chapter, so i'm curious: when you plan for your long series like mss and wps, do you plan the plot in detail all the way to the end, or do you just have a rough idea and refine it as you write? i remember you were saying the JJJ easter egg was what kickstarted the whole bidding system, so did that idea happen even before you started writing wps?

i am so in love with your stories (and you <3) and i'm looking forward to the endings of wps and tcd, even though i know i'd feel bittersweet and empty after that bc there'd be nothing more in the near future to look forward to.

i know i've said this many times, but thank you for deciding to come back to writing and to bless us with so many wonderful stories <3

Hiii <333 It's so funny to see you in my tumblr asks instead of AFF XD but welcome~

I'm glad you started writing! I especially love your poetry snippets! I started my own poetry blog because of you HEHE :3

For plotting, I generally have an overall idea of how the story is going to go, but it definitely gets refined as the story goes! MSS was more of a 'gardener' style where the plot evolved as the characters grew, but WPS had very strict 'architect' plotting (because it was following their discography), but also because the plot was more important in this story! So I did plan it prettyyy precisely, but a lot of things changed along the way as well! You're right that the JJJ easter egg inspired the entire auction betting system (not the auction itself)! And in the original plot line, there actually was no card system, it was just a massive sex party with billionaires. The idea of an Ace-King system came much later! And in the original system, there were only three Aces per House, until that poll happened, and the black collar became the High Ace collar for Spades, etc. So yes, basically, lotssss of things changed along the way XD

Thank you so much for reading and inspiring me to continue! I definitely owe it to you and the rest of the OG AFF readers to have made it this far! I honestly would not have been able to keep writing during those early chapters without all your love and support on AFF! You guys 100% carried WPS through its life. <3

Aw thank you so much! I'm really glad that you like it! I try to make my prose as subtle(?) as possible so that the characters tell the story instead, so I guess it comes off as being easy to read as a result and more movie-like instead of book-like? I'm not sure either! Sometimes I read other people's work and I think "oh wow that's beautiful prose" and feel like mine is elementary in comparison, but every author has a different style and that's the magical thing about writing :) No two writers end up with the same story ever~ But thank you so much for reading and your kind words <3

I'm not positive how many of my tumblr followers are new vs not new, but I'm glad new readers can still enjoy WPS without knowing the full universe! :) MSS is not a pre-requisite for WPS, but it certainly helps to be familiar with the world beforehand. I never thought of it like that—two different reader experiences happening at once :O

Hii, thank you for sharing your thoughts! I'm sure a lot of other TCD readers appreciate it as well! I'm shifting back to TCD now so I hope to see you around for the next update! I take it that you're team Ningning then XD I don't think it's weird at all, it feels like a lot of people are!

I can't wait for you to change Karina's title after the next chapter >:)

Hi! Please keep an eye out on my Schedules page for more info (although it does change pretty often...)

[autumnyacorn]

Plush Delusion

BLACKHOLE: Path of Loneliness

Loneliness / Silence / Control / Chaos / Doubt / Youth

Male Reader x IVE's Jang Wonyoung

~16.3k words

A/N: Path one into the blackhole. I'm posting this slightly earlier to gear up for IVE's Second Full Album's release! Enjoy~ The concept for this piece was introduced to me by @okaylikeschaewon a month back, which I found very interesting and wanted to work something with it. It's called Operant Conditioning! If you're interested, you can go read up about it in the link I've attached to the words~ Big thanks to @dotoliwrites for the comments and beta read~

“Oppa!” Wonyoung squeals as she crashes through the door. “Where are you at~”

“Here!”

“Where’s here!? That doesn't give me much to work with…” Wonyoung grumbles. You hear doors click open and shut as you hurriedly stuff and pack up the mess in the room.

“There you are!” Wonyoung says, pushing open the door gently. “Oppa, look! Isn't it cute?” Your face is flushed as you quickly turn your body around, hiding your hands behind. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you deflect. She eyes you up and down, eyes thinning in suspicion. “You're red,” she says.

“I-I was just doing some… exercises! Yeah exercises! You know, jumping jacks and push ups?”

“Sure…” she says. “Anyway, do you see anything different?” Wonyoung stretches her arms out, posing before twirling around.

“First of all, c'mere,” you stretch your arms out wide in invitation. She smiles and falls into your embrace, melting against you instantly. “Missed you,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around her tight.

“Missed you too…” Wonyoung murmurs, trembling slightly in your arms. You grab on to her fragile shoulders and break the hug, looking into her eyes.

“How was practice today?”

“Long. The choreographer kept changing the counts. My legs are jelly.” Her eyes are laced with exhaustion, but they’re still dazzling bright. “But I’m home now.”

You smile and cup her cheeks, rubbing your thumb lightly under her languid eyes. “Come on, shower first, then fill your belly up. Everything else comes after.” Her tired expression lights at your words like you just offered her the moon.

“You're the best, Oppa~ But look what I got today!” She turns her body and shows you her bag. “Limited-edition Cinnamoroll keychain! Look at the little bow on his ear!” She holds it up like a trophy, the keychain swaying side to side. “There were only 300 sets online. I managed to snag the last one in my cart. If I was any later, I would've missed it.”

You reach out to lift the keychain, flipping it upside down and back, the chain clinking against the zipper of her bag from the movement. The small price tag that Wonyoung didn't remove hangs off to the side. ₩499,000.

“It’s cute,” you say, trying to look as neutral as possible. It is really cute. “Cinnamoroll is adorable. It's round and fluffy, and the small strawberry it's holding on to is so squishy.”

She looks at you happily, taking in all the praises that you're giving the keychain. “Right, right? I’ve been eyeing this since forever, and they finally released it~”

“But Wonyoungnie…”

“I know, I know,” she says quickly, taking her bag back. “I’ll stop. I promise. It’s just… practice was so hard the past few days, and the dorm and practice rooms felt empty after everyone left, and I’ve been practicing extra alone, and I saw it on the app and—”she trails off, looking down at the keychain.

“I thought it would make me feel better,” she finishes softly.

You tilt her chin up. “You don’t have to explain,” you say gently. “I just… I worry. The trip we keep pushing back. The funds aren't progressing… We’re building something together, baby.”

“I’m… sorry.” Her eyes droop down, glimmering with a slight glassiness.

You pull her into your arms again, rubbing against the back of her head softly. “No sorrys tonight. Go shower, I’ve cooked dinner. We’ll cuddle all night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Wonyoung nods against your chest, sniffling a little. “Okay.” She disappears into the bathroom and you hear the water start. You head out of the room and stand at the door, taking in the pastel chaos around you.

Giant Cinnamoroll on the couch. Kuromi keychains dangling from her bag. A small mountain of blind-box figures on the shelf — Sonny Angel, Labubu, Pop Mart. The shelf is overflowing. The coffee table has a Rilakkuma throw blanket she bought last week. The bedroom dresser is half hidden under pastel stationery sets and tiny plush keychains.

It’s cute. It’s her. Wonyoung wouldn't be Wonyoung without them.

But it’s also approximately ₩10 million in the last three months. You sigh and walk towards the kitchen, taking out two Hello Kitty bowls. You turn off the stove and carry the pot to the dining table, setting it on the light yellow Pom Pom Purin silicone trivet. You retrieve another two sets of rice bowls and utensils from the same Hello Kitty dining set and fill the rice bowl with steaming hot rice from the rice cooker — graffiti-ed with numerous Tsum Tsum stickers.

Just as you're done, you set the kettle to boil some water, before squeezing some honey into a MINIVE Cherry mug.

“What's for dinner?” Wonyoung asks as she exits the bathroom, dabbing her hair dry. “Beef stew,” you say, pouring the hot water into the mug before stirring to make some warm honey water. You hold out the mug, passing it to Wonyoung as she settles into the dining table’s chair. She sips on the honey water as you scoop out a portion of beef stew, making sure to give her loads of flavourful and tender beef apart from the potato and carrot chunks.

“So…” you say, scooping your own share. “So, how's your day? Why are you doing overtime, and alone, at that?”

“Mmm. I gotta do my best. Comeback season is upon us, so we need to make sure we're maintaining the momentum.” Wonyoung says, scooping a piece of beef into her bowl to get some rice before putting it into her mouth. “It’s our second full album after all, and DIVEs are especially excited and hopeful. We wouldn't want to serve something disappointing.”

“How about the others? They're not doing overtime either?” you ask.

“They are, it's just me staying even later to practice more,” she says, savouring the hearty stew. “Y’know, I’m THE Jang Wonyoung. I can't afford to make any mistakes or screw anything up.” Her voice softens slightly. She puts down her spoon and turns to the side, reaching out to grab the Rilakkuma plushie sitting on a chair by the side. She places it right on her lap, hugging it tight as she continues to eat.

You just stay there, listening to her complaints as dinner continues: how her day went, and how she was tortured by their dance instructor (Yujin) to repeat the same moves for half a day. “Isn't it ridiculous? I mean, it's not Yujinnie’s fault that we don't have any dedicated dance instructor, but sometimes she's just too harsh during practices.”

You pick up the empty bowls on the table as Wonyoung stuffs the last piece of beef in the pot into her mouth and turn to the sink. “Well, she's the leader of the group, so she's technically carrying the burden of you six.” You squeeze some detergent onto the sponge, scrubbing the sauce stains off the bowls. “You do have to give it to her. It's been what, four years? Maintaining this degree of dedication even though she's not a professional instructor?”

“I know… It's just, I sometimes blame myself for being unable to do well, and we six have to repeat something until I get it right. And that’s why I stay to work harder and try harder.” Wonyoung says, sinking her chin into the Rilakkuma plushie’s shoulder as she looks at your back. “I don't like being a burden.”

You turn on the tap and rinse the soapy foam off the bowls, exposing and cleaning Hello Kitty’s face on the plate. “I know, Wonyoungnie…” She rambles on what happened for the rest of the day as you finish washing the dishes.

“You full?” you ask.

“Yep,” she says, rubbing her palm in circles on her small belly.

“Then it's time for cuddles~” you murmur and smile, drying your hands on the handtowel. You walk towards her and reach out to grab her hand gently, guiding her to the couch.

She climbs onto the couch and crawls into your lap without asking, burying her face in your neck. In her arms is the plushie from the earlier, and another larger Rilakkuma plushie, both squashed underneath her arms. You wrap your arms around her and rub slow circles on her back.

She sighs a long, shaky breath.

“Better?” you ask.

“Much better,” she mumbles. “You’re warmer than any plushie.”

You kiss the top of her head. “That’s because I stay.”

She nods and snuggles closer. You turn on the TV, switching to some romance drama that she likes. Seemingly turned on by the romance show’s kissing scene, she turns to smooch your cheek. But her eyes linger — it looks hungry and almost desperate — as if she's chasing the feeling the drama promises: someone who stays. A switch flips. She dives right into your lips. The next thing you know, she's straddling your hips, undressing and taking you into her. She grinds and bounces on you until she orgasms, to which you grunt and release into her as well.

Wonyoung collapses onto you, hugging you tight as you rub her shoulder with your free palm, tapping her back rhythmically until she falls asleep. You’re still buried in her, cheek pressed to your chest, breathing slow and even.

You don’t move. You just hold her there and stare at the shelf of plushies across the room. They’re all smiling.

But they’re silent.

You don’t reach for a plushie to fill the space. You don’t need to. She’s already holding the only thing that truly keeps the quiet away.

You take a deep breath and reach for the remote, turning off the TV, before gently carrying her to the room in bridal style. You lay beside her, fingers playing with her bangs as you slowly drift off to sleep as well.

***

Her alarm rings at 4 a.m., its piercing sound shooting through your ears. “Wonyoungnie, it's time to wake up…” you mumble as you try to wake her, struggling to open your eyes as well.

You turn to look at her, but she's just laying there, dead as a log. In her arms are three massively large MINIVE plushies, each representing one of her group members: Dal-E (Gaeul) squashed around her right arm, Erang-E (Leeseo) tucked underneath her left, and Ganganji (Yujin) right to her chest, its face smushed onto Wonyoung’s small face. Right behind her head is Naori (Rei), Cheez (Liz) and Cherry (herself). She's wholly surrounded by her plushies that you can't even see her face.

“Wonyoungnie, if you aren't gonna wake up, I’m going to eat all the Dubai chocolate that I made…”

“No!” Wonyoung shouts, eyes darting open in an instant, “Oppa… you can't do this to me!” She whines, yawning as she sits up.

“You have vocal training at 7. No time to waste sweetie, you wouldn't want your effort to be wasted right?”

She climbs off the bed with a grumble, heading to the bathroom to wash up. Just as you were about to join her in the bathroom, your phone buzzes.

<Motion has been detected.>

<Parcel has been identified.>

“Wonyoungnie! Did you order anything?” You ask, heading out to collect the parcel.

“It’s here, it's here!” Wonyoung squeals, running out with her toothbrush in hand, mouth full of foamy toothpaste.

You bring the parcel in and turn around, only to have it snatched by Wonyoung. You frown and grab onto her shoulders and say firmly, “Wonyoung.”

“Mmm?” She hums, eyes still stuck to the parcel.

“Finish brushing your teeth. You're spitting toothpaste everywhere.” You grab the parcel, snatching it back. “Now. Or I’ll open it on behalf of you.”

“Nooo! I wanna unbox it!” Wonyoung panics, running back to the room. You set the parcel down on the table and look at it silently, a million thoughts going through your mind.

In less than a minute, Wonyoung rushes back out, face washed, mouth fresh. “Gimmie gimmie! I’ve been waiting for it for so long!” She takes the pen knife and slices the parcel open, fishing out a black vacuumed bag. She squeals as she cuts the bag open, the vacuum releasing with a hiss. The bag expands and a soft white plushie contorts out of the bag.

“Look! It's sooo cute~” Wonyoung screams, pulling a large Hello Kitty plushie out. She turns and presents it to you, before pushing it close to her chest, hugging it tight. “It's cute right?”

“Yea, it’s… cute,” you say, but your voice softens slightly. “But, don't you have like three other Hello Kitty plushies in the corner there already?”

“Yes, but this is different. They only made like ten, so I absolutely have to get it!” She rushes to the room and comes back with a small paper bag. “I’m gonna show them to the girls later~”

You look at her and take a deep breath before murmuring. “Let's eat, Wonyoungnie.”

After breakfast, she rushes off to practice with the plushie in the paper bag, leaving you alone at home. You turn and look around, taking in the pastel chaos of the house again, only to sigh and head off to work.

As the day passes and meetings with shareholders drag, you're constantly looking at your phone, replying to her unending string of messages throughout the whole morning. It's always: ‘What are you doing?’, ‘Did you miss me?’, ‘I miss you so much…’, among numerous other messages. Then you finally get some peace in the afternoon, where she has a scheduled event.

Focusing on signing off deals for approval, you drown in work, trying to get as much done as possible. Soon your phone buzzes again, and it's another notification. But this time it's not a message from Wonyoung. It's a notification from her Bubble. You’ve subscribed to her since Wonyoung’s an idol and you wanted to keep up with her interactions with fans.

<Jang Wonyoung, 15:20> “My comfort squad is growing ❤️ Thank you for always being there when I need someone to talk to~”

Attached to the bottom of the Bubble message is a photo of her holding her new limited edition Cinnamoroll keychain she showed you yesterday, smiling that perfect idol smile.

You stare at the photo. It's a perfect idol smile, but you know that smile. It's a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You put your phone back down and dive back into work. Your phone buzzes again about two hours later. It's another bubble notification.

<Jang Wonyoung, 17:40> “Another addition to the family~ Look at the tomato the Hello Kitty is holding on to, it's so cute ❤️ I love hugging my toys when no one else can~”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly as you look at the image of her smiling that same smile again as she cuddles with the Hello Kitty plushie delivered this morning. Your mind can't help but think of the pile of plushies behind her when she sleeps, of the numerous keychains that hang off her bags, of the uncountable soft toys and figurines that’s overflowing off the display shelves.

You text back privately:

<You, 17:42> “Come home soon. I miss you.”

She replies instantly:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 17:42> “Miss you more… Bringing home dinner. And maybe one more little friend…”

You sigh.

There's a hole in her heart.

And it’s getting bigger.

***

The next few days come and go in a routine that feels almost normal, until it doesn't. Wonyoung’s schedules ramp up. Vocal training. Recording sessions. Dance practices. Solo schedules. Photoshoots. More vocal training. More dance practice. Ambassador events. Fan messages. Yet more vocal training. Repeat.

She wakes up earlier each day, comes home later each night, eyes heavy, smile tired but still bright when she sees you.

And the packages keep on coming.

They're small ones at first: a ₩480,000 Sonny Angel mini-figure (“It’s the autumn maple leaf version, oppa! So pretty!”), a ¥320,000 pastel mechanical keyboard with duck keycaps (“I thought it would make late-night lyric writing more fun…”). She unboxes them on the couch while you cook supper, squealing and showing you every detail, hugging each new arrival like it's a new companion.

And every time she falls asleep curled against you, she’s holding one of the new ones, face buried in the soft fur, arms wrapped tight like it’s the only thing keeping the quiet at bay.

Then the packages become bigger: a ₩700,000 MyMelody soft toy (“Look at it oppa! It’s so soft and comfy~ I’m gonna hug it to sleep!”), a ₩3.2 million life-sized Kuromi figurine that's as tall as you (“Oppa oppa! It looks so cool~”) that you had to rush back in the middle of work to oversee the package delivery.

You don’t say much.

You just watch.

But you notice the pattern.

She spends more time alone — work, practice.

She unboxes them when you’re not around.

She brings a plushie out everyday.

Some days she brings two.

She posts about them on Bubble with perfect idol captions (“My family of babies are growing~ 🩷”).

She always smiles for the camera.

But when she’s with you, the smile softens into something smaller, needier. She clings harder. Talks less about schedules and more about missing you.

One night she comes home at 1 a.m., hair damp from rain, hoodie soaked, carrying a small paper bag. You’re still awake on the couch, working on your laptop, trying to force your drooping eyes to stay open until Wonyoung comes back.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just kicks off her shoes, drops her bag, walks straight to you, and climbs into your lap like it’s the only place she belongs.

“You haven't slept?”

You set the laptop aside and took out her soaked hoodie, wrapping your arms around her. She’s trembling, but it’s not from the cold.

“Bad day?” you ask softly.

She nods against your neck. “Recording… I kept messing up the high notes. Everyone was staring from the other side of the glass… I felt so… isolated… so small.”

You rub slow circles on her back, the other patting her shoulder softly.

“You’re not small. You’re incredible.”

She lets out a shaky laugh.

“I don’t feel incredible.”

“You don’t have to feel it. I’ll feel it for you until you can.” You tilt her chin up and kiss her forehead. “You've been working so hard. And everyone around you knows it. So don't feel isolated or small.”

She closes her eyes and nods. Then she reaches into the paper bag, pulling out a tiny Labubu blind-box figure. “I… got this during lunch. From the convenience store near the company. It was the last one.”

₩280,000.

You look at the figure and then back at her. She’s already hugging it to her chest. “I know you're probably disappointed in me, but I thought… if I had something new to look at when I got home, I wouldn’t feel so empty.”

You don't say anything. You just stay there, looking at her while she hugs the plushie. After a long moment, you whisper, “Wonyoungnie… Do you feel less empty right now?”

She pauses at your question, then looks at the Labubu. Then at you. “No,” she admits in a tiny voice. “I just feel… emptier.”

You pull her in again for another hug, squishing the figurine right between your chests. You stay there, hugging her, holding her, letting her breathe.

You kiss her temple.

Her eyes are glassy now as she looks up at you. Her mouth opens, and a cracked voice comes out. “I’m always doing things alone now. Solo shoots, solo interviews, solo brand events… Everyone turns away after the cameras turn off. And I’m left standing there smiling, but inside I feel… invisible. Like I’m not even in the room with them.”

She swallows.

“And then I go back to the practice rooms or the dorm and I try to make up for it. I stay longer, I repeat the moves until my legs give out, because if I’m not perfect, they’ll think I’m slacking. They’ll think I’m only here because of my face. So I practice alone. I stay late alone. And every time I finish, the room is empty again.”

Her fingers tighten on your shirt.

“I’m doing well — I know I am. The evaluations say so. The fans say so. But… it’s like there’s this invisible wall. People put me in a different class. ‘Jang Wonyoung can’t struggle. Jang Wonyoung can’t be tired. Jang Wonyoung can’t be lonely.’ So I smile harder. And when no one’s watching… I buy things. Because at least the packages show up. At least they don’t leave me.”

She lets out a broken laugh.

“But they just sit there. They just exist. And I’m still alone.”

You feel her tears soak into your shirt.

“I'm pathetic right?”

You hold her tighter.

“Then let’s stop pretending the plushies are fixing it.”

“I don’t know how… I’ve tried suppressing my urges, but the next thing I know, I’ve already made payment and the item is already in hand. I really don't know what to do…”

“I do. Wait here.”

You stand up and walk to the room, leaving Wonyoung on the couch. You stand right on the edge of the bed and do a partial squat, digging your fingers under the mattress. With a grunt, you lift the mattress up. The hydraulic hinges on both sides of the bed exhale as they take away some of the muscular burden of the heavy lift, exposing the storage compartment beneath. You bend down and reach in, carrying out two mini gacha machines, one red, one green.

Her eyes widen. “What… is that?”

“Something to hopefully fill the emptiness in you.”

You spend the next hour on the rug explaining simply to Wonyoung. Her plushies and figurines littered around the house observe silently, as though they are acting as witnesses to a trial.

“I came across an interesting concept the other day, something called Operant Conditioning. It’s supposedly effective for breaking habits,” you say.

“I won't go into the details as it's quite complicated and complex, but I’ve simplified and tried to make it interesting,” you continue explaining. “Essentially, I’ve divided it into two main categories, Rewards and Punishments. And hence you see the two different gacha machines — the green one for rewards, the red one for punishments. Following?”

Wonyoung nods, listening intently.

“You get rewards when you choose to go a day without spending unnecessarily. Otherwise, you get punished for every uncontrolled expenditure.”

“P-punished? What kind of punishments?” Wonyoung looks at you, eyes wavering a little from worry.

You unlock the padlocks on each of the gacha machines’ and lift their lids up, fishing out a red and green capsule from the red and green machines respectively.

“There are two sub categories, positive and negative, which will be marked as the plus and minus signs. So in essence, there will be four labels: +R, -R, +P, -P. Pluses and minuses just means the giving or removing something.” You pass the capsules to her and say, “Open them, look at what's written on the small card inside.”

She takes the green one from you that's labelled <Common, +R>, prying it open with a small pop sound.

“5-minute cuddle + forehead kisses + praise,” Wonyoung reads off the small card inside. Her cheeks flush as she completes the sentence and she lifts her head to look at you. “So I get cuddles and forehead kisses and praises given to me because it’s a plus. What about that?”

You pass the red capsule in your hand to her, labelled <Common, +P>. “10 hand spanks + 30 minutes corner time, no cuddles.” Her eyes widen and she looks up to you in a panic.

“There are rarer cards,” you say quietly. “Stronger rewards. Stronger reminders. You’ll discover them as we go.”

She swallows. “And if I… mess up really badly?”

You meet her gaze. “Then we’ll have to use the big ones. But only if we need them. I don’t want to get there. I want you to feel safe with me, not scared.”

“Okay.”

“Basically, good behavior gets rewarded and something nice happens. Slipping gets a reminder and something not-so-nice happens. The green machine gives rewards, the red one gives reminders.”

You kiss her forehead.

“Thank you for trusting me, Wonyoungnie.”

She leans into you. “I’m scared that I can’t break this… I’m scared that if I don’t stop you’ll get tired of me and leave and then I’ll be all alone again and I don’t want to be alone anymore. I just want to feel close to you again,” she whispers. “Without needing another package.”

You hold her until she falls asleep, the Kuromi still in her arms. But this time, her grip on you is tighter.

The machines wait in the corner.

Tomorrow is day one.

***

You spend the morning talking to Wonyoung, setting up the entire process so that it’ll be as smooth as possible. She links her cards and banking apps to your phone so that you can track any spending she does. Then you push the two machines right to the middle of the living room’s wall, the one that's filled with her plushies and figurines.

You both stand in the center of the room, looking at it. “Wow… I really went overboard, huh?” she mumbles, half-laughing, half-guilty.

“It's basically an empire of cute chaos that's surrounding the machines,” you smile and turn towards her. “I'm not saying it's wrong to buy cute stuff that you like, Wonyoungnie, it's just that you're trying to fill a hole thinking that it's curbing your loneliness, but it's not. And it's getting to the point where it's getting out of hand, and I fear that you may fall into addiction.”

“I know…” she says, looking down.

“Today’s the first day, so let's start on the right foot, okay? Go kill your practices, baby~” you say, ruffling her hair. She turns to grab a plushie to bring out like she always do, but you stop her. “One more thing. No plushie hugging or interaction at all until this whole thing is over, okay?”

“Mkay~” she replies, lowering her hands down in slight disappointment. She turns to peck you on your cheek before leaving the house.

Friday passes quietly as you work peacefully in the office, receiving text updates from Wonyoung every hour: “Oppa I didn't buy the Hello Kitty pen! But it looks so nice 😞”, “Oppa I'm having lunch right now~ I saw this Pom Pom Purin sling bag on sale, but I didn't get it… 🥲”, “Oppa, I miss you so much… but my schedule ends early today! I’ll cook dinner tonight~ ❤️”

You look at her messages and smile.

When you reach home, she's in the kitchen preparing dinner. Strung all over the table are several opened takeaway boxes, one with its label reading ‘Pilaf Rice’, another labelled ‘Roasted Capsicum’. You set your bag down and walk towards Wonyoung. “Wonyoungnie, smells good~”

She’s standing by the stove, grilling two pieces of store-bought pre-marinated chicken thighs. Hair bunned with a cute Pororo apron tied around her waist, she’s holding tongs in one hand, and a pan lid in the other (shielding her face from the splattering of hot oil).

“Hehe Wonyoungnie~ Give it to me. Go prep the rest of the stuff.” You reach out and grab the pan and tongs from her, taking her place before flipping the chicken. As the chicken sizzles on the pan, she hums and sets the table, clearing all the opened packages. She plates out the microwaved rice and vegetables on her Hello Kitty plates, setting the cutlery to the side.

You poke the temperature probe into the center of the chicken, checking it's core temperature. Once it hits the minimum temperature, you take the pan off the stove and lay the pieces of juicy chicken thighs right beside the rice and vegetables. “Let's eat~”

You both pick up the cutlery, digging in. As the mouthfuls of food disappears, Wonyoung shares about what happened the entire day, repeating all the times where she held herself back from buying something (the exact same things that she texted you the entire day earlier). You listen intently, even though she's repeating the same stories from her texts, because every time she says “I didn't buy it,” it's a small victory that's worth celebrating.

Not long later, you're both done with dinner, washing and cleaning up the dishes together. “Oppa, I get a pull from the green gacha right?” Wonyoung looks at you with nervous yet excited eyes. “I've been a good girl so I get rewarded right?”

You turn off the tap and wipe the last plate dry, setting it to the rack. You dry your hands and turn towards her, reaching out to pat her head. “Yes, my love.”

“Come,” you say, guiding her to the machines. You reach into your pocket and fish out a box of custom-made coins (engraved on them are pictures of each MINIVE character), handing one to her. “Go on. You deserve it.”

“Ehhh, I got my MINIVE mascot as my first coin~” Wonyoung giggles, walking to the green machine and kneels down. The plushies are arranged around like an audience, observing her every move. She takes a deep breath and pops the Cherry coin into the slot, before turning the knob right beside it. With a click and whirr, a capsule pops out of the ejection hole. She picks up the ball and turns it around, searching for the text on it.

<Common +R>

She pops the capsule open and reads the card in it softly: “10-minute cuddle session + forehead kisses + praise.”

Her eyes flick up in happiness.

You smile and sit on the couch, opening your arms. She squeals and crawls into your lap immediately. You wrap your arms around her and tuck her head under your chin.

“Good girl, Wonyoungnie,” you murmur against her hair. “First day clean. I’m so proud of you.”

You press slow kisses to her forehead, her temples, the bridge of her nose and she sighs in contentment.

The timer beeps after ten minutes, and you release your grasp around her.

She looks at you in disappointment and pouts, “Already?”

“Save the rest for tomorrow,” you say, kissing her one last time. “Be good, and the next pull might be bigger.”

She nods.

That night she falls asleep in your arms, no plushie needed.

The second day begins and it’s Saturday. It’s a rare moment for Wonyoung as she has no schedules, and you both can get a full day together.

You spend the morning cooking breakfast, flipping blueberry pancakes. She sits on the counter, swinging her legs, sipping her favourite low-fat milk from her Cherry mug.

In the afternoon you both have a movie/drama marathon on the couch. She picks a romance drama — the same one from earlier in the week. Halfway through a kissing scene, she turns to you with hungry eyes.

“Oppa…”

You pause the TV. She straddles your lap. The Common +R card from last night is still fresh in her mind. Wonyoung tries to lean forward to kiss you, but you grab her shoulders and stop her. You whisper, “Nothing happens until you pull the gacha tonight. Do your best.”

She nods frantically.

The rest of the day she’s glued to you — helping cook, stealing kisses, sitting in your lap while you read emails.

Once dinner is done, she looks at you with her impatient yet endearing eyes. She bounces on her toes, palm out, head tilting side to side like a curious puppy. “I did good today too, right? Coin please~”

“Yep, you've been so good.” You pass her another coin — Dal-E (Gaeul) this time — and she snatches it, skipping towards the green machine. She kneels without hesitation and pops the coin in, turning the knob like she's done it for the millionth time. The capsule pops out and this time, it’s another common +R pull.

“20-minute hand-holding walk around the apartment + ‘You're my favorite person’ whispered,” Wonyoung reads off the card.

“Eheheh~ I love handholding. It’s so… lewd,” she giggles. She grabs your hand and pulls you towards the door. The next thing you know, her fingers are entwined around yours as you both stroll through the park surrounding the apartment.

“So… how are you doing? All good?”

“Honestly, it isn't as bad as I thought. I get to spend time with you, and I get nice surprises from the machine as a bonus… it seems really manageable!”

“Wonyoungnie… you know, you're such a sweet girl and I can't bear to see you being sad,” you say, gripping her hands tighter. “So make sure to do your best and get rid of this bad habit, okay?”

She nods and smiles at you.

You both continue strolling down the path, walking in circles around the park, taking in the sight of the starry sky and breathing in the cool night air. You both settle down on a bench and she rests her head on your shoulders, and you rub her head with your hand, carressing her gently, whispering that she's your favourite person in the entire universe. And you mean every single word you say.

Twenty minutes soon passes and your timer rings. “Come, let's head back in and sleep,” you say as you stand up, releasing your hand from hers. Wonyoung pouts and the removed contact, but she nods and follows along.

***

It's day 3, Sunday, and it's another day off for Wonyoung. You take her out on a rare café date and she orders a hot chamomile infused latte with extra whipped cream. You? A totally contrasting order of hot ginger tea with turmeric extract. She shows you photos on her phone, scrolling through a plethora of screenshots of newly released plushies that she didn't buy.

“Look at this Inuyasha Pop Mart figurine set! They all look so cute and cool at the same time. Kyaaa Sesshoumara looks so cold as always, even if he's cute,” Wonyoung squeals, tilting the phone towards you. “I really wanted to get it… but I closed the app.”

You squeeze her hand under the table. “Good girl.”

She blushes. Back home, you both just lay on the couch, watching some sci-fi movie together as she cuddles in your arms, head on your chest.

The moment dinner has been consumed, she pops up right into your face, peering at you with her wide, shiny eyes. She doesn't say anything.

You chuckle and pass her a Erang-E (Leeseo) coin and she flashes to the green machine again, kneeling and slotting the coin in one smooth motion. Knob twisted once and twice, and another green capsule rolls out.

<Rare, +R>

“Oppa oppa! It's a rare! I got a rare one!” She giggles excitedly, showing it to you. She pops the capsule open and reads it, “P-pussy—what?”

“Go on, continue reading it. Don't stop,” you smile, seeing her face flush crimson.

“Y-yea… Pussy eating until you cum twice.”

Right as Wonyoung completes the sentence, you surge towards her and lift her up, throwing her onto the couch. She lands with a small yelp, surprised by your roughness, but her expression is filled with anticipation. You tower over her, placing your hands on both sides of her head, looking deep into her eyes.

“Wonyoungnie.”

“Y-yes?”

“You're so beautiful.”

She covers her face shyly from your praise, embarrassed to look into your eyes.

“Look at me,” you say, “Don't you look away, because this is what happens when you're good.”

Wonyoung parts her fingers reluctantly, her eyes peeping at you through the gap. You lean closer to her, breathing down the nape of her neck whispering, “This is your reward.” You peel off her hoodie to expose her soft breasts, taking your time to kiss and taste every inch of her skin as you make your way down her neck, over her soft breasts, down her toned yet smooth waist. Each kiss draws a soft moan, and each inch you make across her makes her back arch further. Your lips reach the hem of her shorts and you grab on to it, sliding them off her.

Her shorts pool to the floor and you settle between her thighs, hands firm on her knees to keep her spread wide. Wonyoung’s breath hitches the moment your lips brush the inside of her thigh softly. She’s already glistening, pink folds swollen and slick, the scent of her arousal filling the air between you. The first slow lap of your tongue drags from her entrance to her clit and she melts instantly.

A high, trembling mewl spills from her lips and her hips jerk upward like she can’t help it, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. You press your tongue flat, licking broad and unhurried, savouring the way her thighs quiver on both sides of your head.

“Oppa—ahh—”

Her fingers dive into your hair, clutching tight, holding on like you’re the only thing anchoring her. Every slow circle around her clit draws another shaky whimper, every gentle suck makes her back bow off the couch.

You keep the rhythm steady at first, drawing long, patient strokes that let her feel every inch of your tongue. She’s mewling nonstop now, purring little broken sounds that rise in pitch each time you flick directly over the sensitive bud. Her legs tremble violently and you can feel the fine shaking in her thighs against your cheeks.

She’s unraveling so beautifully.

You slide your tongue lower, dipping inside her just enough to taste how wet she is, then drag back up to suck her clit again. The suction makes her gasp sharply and her grip in your hair tightens until it stings.

“P-please—please don’t stop—”

Who are you to stop? You hum against her, the vibration ripping another desperate mewl from her throat. Her hips start rolling in tiny, helpless circles instinctively, grinding against your mouth like she can’t get close enough. You let her ride your tongue for a few seconds before pinning her hips back down with both hands, taking back control.

That’s when she really starts to shake.

Her whole body trembles — thighs, stomach, arms — like every single one of her nerves are lit up and sparking. Her mewls turn into high, stuttering cries and her breathing breaks into ragged little sobs.

You feel her orgasm building fast. Her walls flutter against your tongue, clit throbbing under your lips. You double down, sucking harder, flicking faster, relentless as you present her award.

She breaks with a choked scream.

Her thighs clamp around your head, fingers yanking your hair as she comes undone, and her back arches so sharply you think she might snap. Wetness floods your mouth, her hips jerking in wild little spasms while she sobs your name over and over.

You don’t stop. You keep licking, slower now, gentler, guiding her through the aftershocks until her trembling starts to ease. But you don’t pull away.

You seal your lips around her clit again.

Her eyes snap open. “Oppa—wait—I just—ahh—!”

Too late.

She’s still sensitive, still twitching, and you know exactly how to push her over the edge again. You suck softly, tongue flicking her swollen clit in tiny, rapid strokes. Her body jerks like it’s been shocked and fresh mewls spill out, higher and more desperate than before.

She grabs your head with both hands now, hips bucking helplessly against your mouth. The shaking returns twice as intense, legs quivering uncontrollably, stomach clenching, breath coming in frantic little gasps.

It’s faster this time.

Way faster.

Her second orgasm races up like a wave she can’t outrun, and you're making that wave accelerate faster. She tries to warn you—“Oppa—gonna—gonna—” but her words fracture into a long, keening cry and she bursts again.

Another hot gush floods your mouth, your chin, and your neck as she squirts hard, harder than she expected. She shakes violently as pulse after pulse soaks your face, dripping down your throat, drenching the couch cushion beneath her and the rug below.

Her thighs lock around your ears, fingers twist painfully in your hair, and her whole body convulses like she’s being electrocuted. You keep your mouth on her through it all, tongue soft and steady, drinking every drop until her orgasm dies down. When she finally collapses back, she's entirely limp, gasping, tears of bliss streaking her cheeks, and you pull away just enough to kiss the inside of her shaking thigh.

She’s wrecked.

Beautifully, perfectly wrecked.

You crawl up her body, gather her close, and press your soaked face into the crook of her neck.

She shudders one last time, arms wrapping weakly around you, clinging like she’ll never let go.

You kiss her temple.

“Good girl,” you whisper.

She makes a tiny, broken sound against your skin, like she’s trying to say thank you but can’t find the words.

You hold her tighter.

The couch is soaked.

The rug is soaked.

She doesn’t care.

Neither do you.

All that matters is she’s in your arms, trembling, sated, and safe. And for the first time in a long time, she isn’t reaching for a plushie.

She’s reaching for you.

***

Her alarm rings at 4 a.m. the next morning, way before the sun rises, and you rouse her awake. She’s surrounded by her plushies, but she's wrapped tightly around your arm, treating it as her bolster. The weekend's over and she rushes to freshen up, bracing for the hectic day ahead.

Your day at work goes on smoothly, albeit without any updates from Wonyoung. She did tell you she will be very busy today, so the lack of messages and bugging from her didn't surprise you. You’re having a late lunch as a meeting dragged way past its initial two hour time slot and you text Wonyoung as you munch on a microwaved gimbap roll:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 3:42 p.m.> How are you doing today? Did you have lunch?

You sit there and continue chewing, waiting for a reply, but nothing comes. She's probably busy, you think. The next thing you know, a notification comes in.

<₩300,000 has been charged to Jang Wonyoung’s credit card ending with the number 1792. Please call us immediately if you did not make this transaction.>

Your breath hitches at the text. It seems like she relapsed. You think about the possible punishments that may happen and sigh. Looks like your heart will ache tonight.

The rest of your work day passes on without any hiccups, but your mood is utterly ruined. You head back home after work, stomach growling, but you skip dinner. No appetite. You just sit on the ground beside the red machine, waiting silently until Wonyoung comes home.

The clock ticks and seconds pass. The door clicks open. It's 2.07 a.m.

Wonyoung pokes her head into the house and sees you sitting there. Her eyes are red rimmed, as though she has been crying for some time. In her hand is a paper bag, probably what she bought impulsively earlier.

“Come here.”

She scrambles in, dropping to her knees in front of you without being asked, paper bag clutched like evidence. She starts explaining as to how she had a solo photoshoot at 7 a.m. where she was all alone in the studio, the staff treating her like “the star”, but there was no real conversation. Then she had an endorsement event at 10 a.m., smiling for cameras, and she had no one to share her exhaustion with. Then she had a filming for an ad at 2 p.m. where each take was so long as the director kept pushing her for a ‘perfect Wonyoung’.

“... Because I had so many solo schedules throughout the day, I had to make up for it and practice alone, and so I was in the empty dance studio all the way till 1 a.m., repeating choreography until my legs were shaking. I-I—”

“Wonyoungnie.”

“Yes?” Wonyoung asks timidly.

“So did you buy anything?” you ask softly.

“... I did.”

“Show me.”

She takes small boxes of unopened figurines from the paper bag, setting it to the floor right beside her knees. Five of them in total from the Fairy Tail anime series. “Natsu, Ezra, Lucy, Wendy, and Happy. They look really nice. Come, let's open them together.”

“You're not mad at me right, oppa?”

You turn to retrieve a small cutter from the side silently and slit the boxes open. Sliding them to Wonyoung, she opens the boxes with trembling hands and puts each figurine carefully on the floor, like little soldiers she summoned to stand with her in the confession

“Do you like them?” you ask.

Wonyoung looks at you and nods hesitantly.

“Tell me what you're feeling now.”

“I-I-I’m disappointed with myself… disappointed that I failed to control—”

“Not that, Wonyoungnie, I know you're disappointed with yourself. I want to know what you were feeling when you bought them today.”

“... I felt super lonely. I didn't have anyone to talk to. I didn't have any plushie to hug. I… I didn't have you beside me.” Wonyoung looks at you, tears welling in her eyes. “I felt so isolated.”

“I didn't know it was so difficult. I thought… I thought that because I managed to pass the last three days clean, that it would be a piece of cake. But it was just an illusion… I had you the whole time during those few days, and we weren't busy at all…”

Wonyoung starts sobbing, facing down as tears streak down her cheeks. You reach forward to palm her cheeks, wiping her tears off with your thumb. “Are you going to give up?” you ask.

“N-no! I’m just… disappointed in myself.”

“It's alright to feel disappointed. That means that you are still willing to change.”

“So... what now?” Wonyoung asks.

You reach into your pocket and take something out. Opening her hands softly, you gently place a Naori (Rei) coin in her palms.

“Can't I be… exempt today? It's been a really tiring and long day.” Wonyoung sniffs, looking at the coin.

“Rules are rules, Wonyoungnie.”

She looks at the coin silently for a moment and inhales deeply. “I guess… it's my fault and I should face the consequences.”

She turns back to the red machine and slots the coin in. Turning the knob with hesitation, a red capsule ejects from the discharge hole, rolling right between her knees. She picks it up and turns the sphere around.

<Common, +P>

You hear her exhale slightly in small relief after realising that it's only a common. The capsule pops open with her trembling fingers and she reads, “Ten smacks on the palm with a ruler.”

She exhales with a tiny, shaky sound of relief mixed with dread. It's only common. Not the worst card. But her eyes still flick to you, searching for mercy. Even though it’s only ten smacks, it's still ten smacks.

You stand slowly from the floor beside the red machine and walk to the kitchen drawer where you keep the wooden ruler — the one she uses to measure plushie heights for her shelf display. It’s light and smooth, not heavy or cruel. Just enough.

You return and sit on the edge of the couch.

“Come here, Wonyoungnie.”

She crawls forward on her knees, knocking the five figurines until they are scattered around her like fallen soldiers. She’s kneeling between your legs. Her hands rest on her thighs, palms up already, as if she knows the position.

You take her right hand first. Turn it gently so the palm faces up. Her fingers are trembling and cold.

“Look at me.”

She lifts her gaze, her lip quivering.

“This isn’t because I hate you,” you say quietly. “This is because I love you too much to let you keep running from what you really need.”

She nods.

You raise the ruler.

The first smack lands clean across the center of her palm. She gasps with a small, startled sound, and her fingers curl instinctively.

“Count.”

“O-one…”

Second smack. Same spot, but a little harder.

“Two…”

By the fourth her palm is pink and warm. She flinches each time now, but she doesn’t pull away. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes, but she keeps her hand steady.

“F-five…”

Her voice cracks on the number. You pause after six, setting the ruler down beside you. Take her stinging hand in both of yours, thumb rubbing gently over the reddened skin.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

Wonyoung takes in shaky inhales, trembling exhales. You lift her palm to your lips, kissing the center softly, then blowing cool air over the slightly swollen heat. She whimpers softly, but not from pain, it's from your sudden gentleness.

“Four more,” you say. “You can do this.”

She nods.

Seventh smack.

“Seven…”

Eighth.

“Eight…”

Ninth. You smack deliberately harder.

“N-nine…”

Tenth.

The last one lands with a crisp snap.

“Ten…”

She chokes on a sob.

You drop the ruler and pull her forward into your lap in one smooth motion. She collapses against you, burying her in your neck, arms wrapping tight around your shoulders. Her whole body shakes as she cries with small, hiccuping sobs muffled against your shirt.

You hold her close. One hand cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. The other rubbing slow circles on her back.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

She clings harder, nails digging into your back like she’s afraid you’ll let go. You rock her gently back and forth like you're soothing a child, pressing kisses to her temple, her hairline, her ear.

“I’m not mad,” you murmur. “I’m proud of you for telling me. For kneeling. For taking it.”

She makes a tiny, wounded sound. “I failed…”

“You slipped. That’s different.” You pull back to cup her face, thumbs wiping the tear tracks. “Slipping means you’re still learning. Failing would be giving up.”

Her lower lip trembles.

“I don’t want to give up.”

“Then don’t.”

You kiss her forehead, marking her with the moistness of your lips.

Then her cheeks, tasting the salt of her tears.

Then her lips, giving her every ounce of your love. She closes her eyes and leans into every kiss like it’s medicine.

You reach behind you, grab the throw blanket from the couch arm, the one with a Rilakkuma print that's soft and worn from years of use. You wrap it around her shoulders, cocooning her against your chest. She burrows deeper, pressing her cheek over your heartbeat.

You keep rocking her. Minutes pass and her sobs slow to sniffles, then to quiet breathing. You don’t rush her. When she finally speaks, her voice is small and hoarse.

“Oppa… can I sleep in your arms tonight? Even though I messed up?”

You kiss the crown of her head.

“You never have to ask.”

She exhales in relief. You stand carefully with her legs wrapped around your waist, blanket tucked around her, and carry her to the bedroom. Plushies line the shelf, watching silently as you lay her down gently. You slide in beside her and pull her close. She sighs and melts against you.

There's no plushie between you. Just your skins touching each other. Just your heartbeats thumping in sync. She falls asleep like that with her tear-streaked cheeks drying against your shirt, breathing evening out.

You don’t sleep right away, staring at the ceiling, looking at the shelf of smiling figurines. Tonight she chose you, even after she slipped. You press one last kiss to her hair. “Good girl,” you whisper.

She doesn’t stir, but her fingers tighten on your shirt, like she heard. And today, the hole in her heart feels a little smaller.

***

The next three days pass in a gentle, hopeful rhythm, each one lighter than the last.

Tuesday brings a manageable schedule for Wonyoung: group vocal work, choreography tweaks, and a short solo interview. Wonyoung returns home tired but bright-eyed, collapsing sideways across your lap on the couch without a word. She didn't spend recklessly. You guide her to kneel by the green machine and she pulls her reward with trembling excitement.

<Common, +R>

“20-minutes of shoulder massage.”

“Just twenty minutes?” she complains. And the twenty minutes feel like a heartbeat. Fingers dancing across her shoulders, rolling againsg her tight knots, then soothing her aching body. In between her venting about the day’s frustrations and moaning at each motion of your massage, you can see the relief spreading across her face.

Wednesday is quieter with no major solo commitments, just group practice and recording. You surprise her with a blanket fort in the living room: Rilakkuma throw draped over chairs, fairy lights strung across the top, pillows piled inside. Her face lights up. She crawls in, pulls you after her, and curls into your side as Howl’s Moving Castle plays.

<Common, -R>

“Remove plushie ban during movie time + full cuddle under the fort.”

She sighs happily as she nestles closer, fingers laced with yours. Halfway through she whispers, “This is better than any package,” and falls asleep in the glowing fort as you keep her safe and warm.

On Thursday, Wonyoung is slightly busier with a group prep, vocal recording and one solo magazine interview. Wonyoung texts you during a brief break between recording and the interview:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 3:12 p.m.> “Saw a new Labubu wave drop while waiting for the next take… almost clicked buy. Closed the app so fast my thumb hurts… TT “Thinking of coming home to you instead.”

You reply immediately:

<You, 3:14 p.m.> “Proud of you for closing it. Come home soon.”

She doesn’t reply again, her interview probably running long, then she has to rush straight to vocal refinement. You feel the familiar pang where she’s fighting, but the day is wearing her down.

She walks in at 10:15 p.m. with her hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair messy from practice, eyes heavy but still bright when she sees you.

“I almost slipped today…” she whispers as she kneels in front of the machine. “But I kept thinking about coming home to this. To you.” Another click and a whirr and a green capsule rolls out.

<Common +R>

“Common again?” she whines, bottom lip jutting out. “Why aren’t I getting rares or epics yet? I want something more exciting…” But she pops the capsule open anyway.

“20-minute kitchen slow dance.”

You’re waiting in the kitchen with a slow ballad playing softly from your phone and she walks straight into your arms without a word.

You and her sway together under the dim light, her head on your shoulder, your hand resting on her lower back. No conversation, just gentle rocking. She sighs against your neck: “I almost slipped today… but I thought of coming home to this.” You kiss her temple and murmur, “That’s why you get this.” She tightens her arms around your neck, whispering, “I just want to stay like this forever.”

You carry her to bed when she starts to doze, and she falls asleep curled against your chest. By Thursday night, hope feels solid again. The slips feel distant, the rewards feel real, and she believes she can keep going. Friday looms ahead, but for now, she’s certain she has this.

***

Thursday bleeds into Friday without mercy.

You wake at 4 a.m. to her still curled against your chest, legs hooked over yours like she’s afraid to let even an inch of space open up. You kiss her forehead. “Last push before the weekend, baby. You’ve got this.”

She nods, sleepy but determined, but the shadows under her eyes are darker than yesterday.

The day is merciless. She told you her schedule last night.

5 a.m. – 8 a.m.: Vocal recording for her upcoming full album.

9 a.m. – 12 p.m.: Solo endorsement shoot for luxury skincare.

1 p.m. – 4 p.m.: Solo magazine cover interview + photoshoot.

5 p.m. – 7.30 p.m.: Solo advertisement filming.

7.30 p.m. onwards: She's free, but because of all her solo activities, she decided to do dance practice alone again.

Throughout the day, not a single text comes, until 6:22 p.m.:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 6:22 p.m.> “Still shooting. Almost done. Miss you so much it hurts. Weekend soon… right?”

You reply instantly:

<You, 6:22 p.m.> “Almost there. The weekend is ours. I’m waiting with open arms.”

No reply after that.

She finally stumbles into the practice room at 8:00 p.m. to “make up” for missed group choreography. You know because she sends one last text at 8:02 p.m.:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 8:02 p.m.> “Gonna stay a bit longer to fix the mistakes. Don’t wait up… but please wait for me? 🥺”

<You, 9.18 p.m.> “Gambatte! ❤️”

You send a final reply, and wait.

She walks through the door at 10:37 p.m.

You’re sitting on the floor, in between the two machines. She stops in the doorway, paper bag in her hand.

It's a large one, with the Kakao logo printed on the paper bag. She drops to her knees in front of the red machine without being asked — the very same spot she knelt Monday night. The bag spills open beside her. Inside is a Sanrio x Kakao Friends giant plush set. ₩1.2 million.

You frown and think to yourself, wondering how you received no notification of the expenditure, but you keep silent. Her eyes are already red-rimmed and glassy.

“Oppa…”

You move and kneel in front of her, cupping her face gently.

“Tell me.”

The words tumble out, but they're fractured and exhausted. “Today was… too much. Vocal warm-up alone, endorsement shoot alone, interview alone, ad filming alone. Everyone kept saying ‘perfect Wonyoung’ like it’s praise, but it just made me feel… fake. Like if I’m not perfect, I’m nothing. When it was over, the studio was empty. Everyone left. I was alone again.”

She swallows.

“So I went to the practice room again. To fix the mistakes again. I repeated the choreo until my legs gave out again. To try and be ‘perfect Wonyoung’ again. The mirrors just showed me, no one else. No one to say ‘good job.’ No one to hug me when I wanted to cry.”

Her voice breaks.

“I opened the shopping app. Just to look. Just to feel… something. And then I saw the set. Limited. Cute. They looked happy. I thought… if I had them, the weekend would be less empty. I clicked buy before I could stop myself.”

Tears spill.

“I-I even… swapped to another credit card so you wouldn't find out…”

She starts sobbing even harder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t speak right away.

You just hold her face, thumbs wiping her cheeks.

“Pull,” you say softly.

She nods.

She takes the Ganganji (Yujin) coin from your hand with shaking fingers, slotting it into the red machine. She turns the knob with an agonising slowness, muttering prayers under her breath, hoping that it will be a common pull again.

The ominous red capsule rolls out.

But it looks slightly different.

It's heavy.

It has gold edges.

<Jackpot -P>

“Oppa… can I pull another one? Please?” she begs with pleading eyes.

“Read it.”

She pops it open reluctantly and reads the card in a whisper that cracks on the last word.

“48-hour full exile. No contact. No kisses. No cuddles. Separate rooms. Minimal communication. No plushie access.”

Her breath stops and her eyes snap to yours in a wide and panicked state .

“Oppa… no. Not the weekend. That’s… that’s our time. Please—”

Tears flood faster.

She grabs your shirt.

“I won’t do it again. I swear. I’ll return everything. I’ll—”

You cup her face.

“I believe you. But the card doesn’t care about promises. It cares about choices.”

She sobs—broken, exhausted.

You pull her into your arms one last time.

Hold her while she shakes.

Kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips—slow, lingering, like you’re memorizing her.

“I love you,” you whisper, “but this isn’t goodbye. This is so you remember that I’m waiting on the other side.”

She clings tightly to you, nails digging in like she’ll never let go, but you pull her up, guiding her to the guest room — the only place exempt from the pastel chaos. She looks back from the doorway and back at you with pleading eyes, hoping that you’ll change your mind, but you don't budge.

“Oppa… please don’t hate me.”

“I could never. So please don’t hate yourself too.”

You help her step inside the room and close the door softly, locking it from the outside, telling yourself that it is not to trap her, but to keep the rule.

The apartment falls silent except for her muffled sobs behind the door.

Plushies stare from the shelf.

10:57 p.m.

The clock ticks.

47:59:24 to go.

Your heart aches.

But you don’t open the guest room door.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not until Sunday night.

The weekend stretches ahead, empty and endless.

For both of you.

You stand in the hallway for a long moment, hand still on the knob, listening to her muffled sobs on the other side. They’re soft at first, hiccuping and broken, but they slowly quieten, as if she’s trying to swallow them so you won’t hear how much it hurts.

Eventually you walk back to the living room. The red machine sits in the center like a silent judge. The plushies on the shelf stare, as if they're mocking her failure. The apartment feels too big now, the air too still.

You sit on the couch, staring at the locked guest room door. Your phone buzzes once. It's a single text from her, sent through the wall:

<Wonyoungnie 🩷, 11:01 p.m.> “I’m sorry. I love you. Please don’t hate me. 🥺”

You read it over and over again. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, wanting to type something, anything. But the rule is no contact beyond minimal communication.

So you type nothing.

You set the phone face-down and lean your head back against the cushion.

The clock ticks.

1:03 a.m.

You hear her crying again. You cry too.

Then silence.

Saturday. It's day 1 of Wonyoung’s exile.

You wake at 7 a.m. on the couch with just the empty weight of the couch beside you.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

No alarm. No sleepy murmurs. No small hands reaching for you.

You walk past the guest room door.

No sound from inside.

You reach out to knock, to check if she’s breathing, if she’s okay. But the rule is no contact. You keep walking.

You make coffee, but you take two mugs out of habit, then put one back.

The MINIVE Cherry mug sits back on the counter.

You drink alone.

Mid-morning: You sit on the couch with your laptop, trying to work, but your eyes keep drifting to the guest room door.

You hear faint rustling inside — she’s awake.

Another soft thump — maybe she's sitting on the bed.

Then silence again.

No texts.

The rule allows minimal communication, but you both know it’s better to keep it at zero for now.

Lunchtime: You cook a simple ramyeon, her favorite comfort food, and set a bowl outside her door with a note:

“Eat when you’re ready. I’m here.”

You knock once softly and unlock the door, then walk away. You hear the door crack open seconds later. The bowl disappears, and the door closes again.

In the afternoon, you clean. Not because it needs cleaning, but because you need something to do with your hands. You head back to retrieve the empty bowl from outside the door and wash it. You wipe down the kitchen counter, organize the coffee mugs, fold the Rilakkuma throw she loves.

Every plushie you touch and rearrange feels heavier than it should.

They’re all smiling, but they don’t care that she’s crying behind a locked door.

In the evening, you sit on the couch again. The red machine stares back. You think about opening the guest room door just to hold her, just to say it’s okay. But you cannot.

You hear her moving inside with soft footsteps, then the creak of the bed. Then crying again, quieter, more resigned.

You don’t sleep well at all.

Sunday. It's the second day of her exile.

You wake to silence. There's no sound from the guest room at all and panic flickers in your chest.

You walk to the door, pressing your ear against it.

Nothing.

You knock once.

“Wonyoungnie? You okay?”

No answer.

You knock again.

“Baby? Just say something so I know you’re breathing.”

Silence.

Your heart hammers and you reach for the lock, but you stop. The rule is until Sunday night. You promised yourself. She promised to obey the rules.

And so you walk away. Pace around the living room. Stare at the plushies. They’re all still smiling.

During mid-morning, a note slides under the guest room door and you kneel to pick it up.

It's filled with her small and shaky handwriting.

Oppa,

I’m sorry.

I keep thinking about how empty it is in here.

No plushies. No you.

Just me and the quiet.

I hate it.

I hate that I did this to us.

I miss you so much it hurts.

I won’t buy anything again.

I promise.

Please… don’t hate me.

— Wonyoungnie 🩷

You read it twice, and your throat tightens.

No unnecessary communication, but you slide a reply under the door anyway. This is necessary.

I could never hate you.

I miss you too.

Stay strong.

Sunday night.

I’m waiting.

No reply comes.

In the afternoon, you sit outside her door for an hour, leaning your back against it.

Not speaking.

Just there.

Then you hear her.

Soft footsteps shuffle inside until they move closer towards you. A small creak sounds and you feel the floor sink slightly. Then a gentle thump against the door, right behind your shoulder blades.

She’s probably leaning against it too.

Just like you.

The wood is thin, and you almost feel the faint warmth of her back through it, the tiny tremor that runs into your spine.

You close your eyes and imagine her: knees up, hoodie sleeves over her hands, forehead on her arms, hair hiding her face.

She starts to cry again, louder this time, more broken. Each hiccup travels straight through the door and into your chest.

The same stuttering rhythm. The same ache.

Your throat tightens and tears slip down before you can stop them. You press your palm flat against the wood, right where her shoulder must be. You don't offer any words. Just physical pressure on the thin wood, hoping the pressure would reach her.

Her crying hitches with a sharp, surprised gasp and it quietens for a second.

You hear the soft scrape of fabric as she shifts, and something pressing back against the wood.

Two palms, separated by three centimeters of wood.

She doesn’t speak, but her sobs slow to shaky breaths, and you hear her whisper faintly, “Oppa…”

You swallow hard and let another tear fall.

You stay like that — backs to the same door, hands mirrored, crying quietly on opposite sides — until the hallway light fades from gold to blue.

Neither of you move.

The door keeps you apart.

But right now, it also keeps you together.

Evening: The clock crawls towards the 48-hour mark.

You stand outside the door, your heart pounding the entire time.

10:56:57

10:56:58

10:56:59

10:57:00

You unlock it.

The door opens slowly and she's right there, sitting on the bed, knees tucked into her chest, face buried in her arms.

No makeup, no idol smile.

Just Wonyoung.

She looks up with her eyes wide. They're red, but hopeful.

“Oppa…?”

You step inside.

She launches herself at you, arms around your neck, legs around your waist, clinging like she’ll never ever let go again.

You catch her, arms wrapping around her as well, holding her tight. She cries into your neck with loud and wrenching sobs, discharging all the tears she will be crying for the next few months in advance.

You carry her to the living room couch and sit, letting her curl into your lap.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

“I thought you’d never open the door…”

“I thought I lost you…”

You kiss her hair.

“You didn’t lose me. You never will.”

She pulls back to look at you.

“I won’t do it again. I swear. The quiet… the emptiness… it was worse than anything. The plushies didn’t help. They just sat there. They didn’t hold me. They didn’t love me.”

You cup her face and say softly, “I know.”

She leans into your hand. “I only want you. Just you.”

You kiss her forehead slowly, deeply, giving her your feelings that's filled with everything you couldn’t say for 48 hours.

She melts against you, and tonight, the hole in her heart feels smaller. It's not gone, but it definitely got smaller.

When you break the kiss, you reach into your pocket, pulling out a Cheez (Liz) coin.

Her eyes widen.

“You survived two days in there,” you say quietly. “No phone shopping. No packages. Just you and the silence. That’s strength. You earned two pulls tonight.”

She stares at the coin in your palm like it's a miracle.

“Really…?”

“Really.”

She takes it with shaking fingers, looking at the green machine. She turns back at you, hesitant if she deserves it at all, but you nod, giving her your affirmation.

“Go on.”

She crawls off your lap and kneels in front of the green machine, the very same spot she’s knelt so many times before. But this time there’s no fear. Just hope.

She slots the Cheez coin in and turns the knob. A capsule rolls out instantly.

<Common, -R>

She pops it open and reads softly.

“Remove tonight’s no-cuddle rule + immediate lap time with forehead kisses.”

She lets out a tiny, disappointed whine, jutting out her bottom lip in that adorable pout you know so well.

“Common again?”

She glances back at you, half-teasing, half-pleading. “I never get anything more than common for my rewards…”

You smile. “Sometimes the small ones are the ones that matter most. Come here.” She scrambles back into your lap immediately and you pull her close. “Besides, did you forget about your rare reward the other day? The one where I ate you out until you came twice?”

She blushes as you tuck her head under your chin, press slow, lingering kisses to her forehead, her temples, the bridge of her nose. She gives a long, contented sigh, melting against you like she’s finally home.

“Better?” you murmur against her hair.

“Much better…”

She nuzzles closer. “But I still want my epic…”

You chuckle softly. “Did you forget, the last time you whined for an epic a few days ago, you got an epic. Although it was one for punishment.”

“Bad luck… I hate it so much.”

“Then use your last coin,” you say, taking out another coin. She looks at the coin: Cherry. Her eyes shine with anticipation.

“Do it. It's your coin, and I reckon that you’ll get what you want.”

She takes the Cherry coin and kneels, slotting it into the machine without hesitation. Hand turning the knob, a second capsule rolls out for the night.

Her eyes light up.

Jackpot.

It's heavy with gold edges, just like the Epic -P punishment she got two nights ago, but this time, it's for a reward.

She freezes for a moment before popping it open with trembling fingers.

She opens her mouth, reading the card in a whisper that turns into a gasp:

<Epic, +R>

“Sex. All night.”

The moment she finishes reading the card, you crash your mouth against hers, kissing her like you're trying to devour her whole. Your tongues tangle immediately with no pretense of gentleness. She opens her mouth wide for you, moaning high in her throat as you lick deep into her mouth. Spit strings between your lips when you pull back for air, only to dive in again harder. You suck on her tongue, bite her bottom lip until she whines, then soothe it with a filthy drag of your own tongue. She tastes like salt and desperation and the faint sweetness of her chapstick, and you chase after every single drop.

Her nails rake down your back hard enough to sting through your shirt, but that's the least of your concern. You pull her up and shove her against the wall beside the darned red machine, pinning your hips against hers, thigh slotting between her legs so she can grind her desperate pussy on it like she’s starving. She takes your invitation without words, giving shameless little rolls, soaking your pants already.

You break the kiss with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your mouths. “You’ve been such a good girl,” you growl, hovering right over her swollen lips. “So fucking desperate to please me. Aren’t you?”

She nods frantically as she stares back into your eyes, pupils blown, spit shining on her chin.

“Yes… yes, oppa… I wanna be so good… I wanna taste you…”

You don’t let her beg more. You push down on her shoulders softly and she drops eagerly, knees hitting the rug with a soft thud, eyes locked on yours the whole way down. She yanks your pants open like she’s been dreaming about this for days. Your cock springs free, thick and leaking, and she actually whimpers at the sight, lips already parted and swollen from the earlier kisses.

She wraps both hands around the base, giving it a few strokes, smearing precum down the shaft. Then she leans in, blowing lightly over your tip.

“Please…” she whispers, licking her lips like she’s starving. “Let me be good for you.”

Her tongue flicks out without permission, giving kitten licks over the slit, lapping up the bead of precum like it’s candy. She moans at the taste and wraps her lips around the head.

It's slow and obscene.

She takes you in inch by inch, dick sucking lips stretching wide, tongue pressed flat to the underside, cheeks hollowing as she sucks. When the tip bumps the back of her throat she gags, but she doesn’t pull off. She breathes hard through her nose and relaxes her throat, forcing herself deeper until her lips kiss your base and her nose brushes your groin.

You let out a loud guttural moan as she hums lightly, threading your fingers into her hair.

“Good girl… fuck, look at you swallowing me whole like that.”

Her throat flutters around you, convulsing, milking, and her spit is already drooling from the corners of her mouth in thick strands. She holds you there for a long second, eyes watering, tears clinging to her lashes, before sliding back up with a slow, wet drag.

She starts bobbing on your cock, taking you in deep, pulling you out. All the while she looks up at your expression, studying which movements make your eyes roll, which angles make you moan harder.

“Am I doing good?” she asks as she pulls off your cock to take a breath.

“So good. So fucking good,” you rasp. She unbuttons her clothes as she breathes, tossing her top aside, exposing her bare tits. She smiles at your praise and dives back in, bobbing again, deeper and faster this time, head moving in a steady rhythm. Every downstroke she gags harder and her throat spasms with spit bubbling at her lips, but she never stops. She loves it.

Her cheeks hollow with each suck, tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke, and she moans around your length, the vibrations shooting straight to your balls.

Spit drips in messy streams down her chin, onto her chest, pooling on her thighs and the rug below. She’s making the filthiest sounds every time she bottoms out — wet glucks, choked gags, greedy slurps.

forcing her nose against you until she can’t breathe.

You take over.

Both hands in her hair now, cradling her skull and you start fucking her face in earnest.

“Such a perfect little cocksleeve,” you praise, “Look at you choking yourself stupid on my dick. You love it, don’t you? Love gagging until you cry. Love making a sloppy fucking mess just to feel full.”

She nods frantically, as much as she can with you filling her, humming her desperate agreement around your shaft. Tears spill freely from her eyes, but her pleading and worshipful eyes never leave yours. She bubbles around you with spit foaming at the corners of her mouth, before sucking them back in with a loud, greedy slurp.

“That’s it… choke on it for me… show me how empty you were without this cock.”

She does it again and again, louder and messier each time, until spit runs in thick strings down her chin, dripping onto her tits.

Her hand flies between her legs, fingers plunging into her cunt, thumb mashing her clit in frantic circles, matching the brutal pace of your thrusts.

She’s soaked.

Slick coats her wrist, dripping down her inner thighs, pooling on the rug in dark, spreading puddles. The wet squelch of her fingers mixes with the gluck-gluck-gluck of her throat every time you bottom out.

“Fuck—look at you,” you groan. “Drooling all over my cock like the good little needy girl you are. You’re making such a pretty mess… but you love it, don’t you? Love being my perfect cocksucker.”

She moans louder, sending vibrations through your entire length and takes you even deeper. Her throat convulses around the head and she gags harder, eyes watering, but she pushes through, holding you there until her lungs burn. Her eyes never leave yours. Pleading. Craving. Obsessing.

She’s crying openly now — not from pain, but from need. Her cheeks are flushed crimson, her spit-shiny lips are stretched wide, and her throat bulges visibly with every deep thrust.

When she finally pulls back, she’s gasping and drooling, and her face a wreck of spit and tears. She looks up at you with pure adoration.

“More,” she rasps. “Please… fuck my throat again. Use me.”

You guide her back down slowly, letting her feel every inch of you stretching her lips, filling her mouth, hitting the back of her throat.

“Fuck yes… that’s my girl. Swallow it all. Stuff that lonely little throat until it hurts.”

Her eyes roll to the back of her head as you push in and out of her throat rhythmically, letting her gag and choke around you while she moans like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt. Spit bubbles and foams with every stroke now, dripping in thick ropes, coating her chin, her neck, her chest.

She’s an utter mess.

You feel your balls tighten and your thighs tense, the pressure coiling tight.

“Gonna cum,” you warn, hips stuttering. “Where do you want it, baby? Tell me.”

She pulls off with a wet, filthy pop and looks up at you with tear-streaked cheeks and spit-glossed lips.

“On my face… please… paint me… make me pretty for you…”

You stroke yourself furiously at her pleas and erupt. Thick, hot ropes lash across her lips, her chin, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, even catching in her eyelashes. Some land on her tongue and she moans, catching it, swirling it around before swallowing with a greedy gulp.

The rest she smears deliberately, dragging your still-spurting cock across her face like a brush, rubbing your cum into her skin in slow, filthy circles, painting herself with you.

When you’re spent she looks up at you, face glazed, lips swollen and dripping, cum streaked from forehead to chin.

She smiles at you in a dazed, proud, and filthy satisfaction as she licks her cum-smeared lips slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s moisturiser… gonna make my skin glow for you… gonna make me pretty so you’ll never leave…”

You groan — half-laugh, half-lust — and haul her up by the arms. She stumbles into you, legs shaky, face still painted with your cum. You walk backwards and fall into the couch, pulling her with you. She straddles your hips instantly and you kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her tongue, her lips and her cheeks, and she moans like she’s addicted to it.

Her pussy is flushed with a dark pink, slick dripping down her folds, clit swollen and throbbing with need. She reaches for you immediately, fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock, stroking twice before guiding you right to her entrance.

“Please…” she whispers, voice hoarse from gagging on you earlier. “Fuck me. Fill me. I need you inside me so bad.”

She lines you up and sinks onto you with one long, slow thrust. You stretch her open until your hips press against hers and she cries out sharply, back arching into an impossible curve.

Her hot and wet walls flutter around you instantly, gripping like she’s trying to pull you deeper. She’s so tight, so sensitive from everything before that every tiny movement makes her whimper.

You stay buried for a second, letting her adjust, letting her feel how completely you fill her, then grab her waist and pull almost all the way out before slamming her back down. She gasps and her legs snap between your waist, toes digging into your ass to force you deeper.

You start fucking her onto you in earnest, each slam punching a broken moan out of her throat. She reaches up with her hands and clutches your shoulders for leverage, starting to move with you.

“So… deep inside of me—” Wonyoung gasps.

She lifts her hips, plants her feet onto the couch and begins squat-bouncing, rising up until only the head is inside her, then dropping back down hard, taking you to the root every time.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room.

Her pussy grips you on every upstroke, refusing to let you go, slick dripping down your shaft, coating your balls, soaking the couch beneath her. Your grip tightens more, helping her slam down harder, meeting her drops with upward thrusts that make her scream.

“That’s it, baby,” you growl. “Ride me like you mean it. Show me how much you need this cock to fill you up.”

She nods frantically, bouncing faster and harder, thighs trembling with the effort. You lean forward, latching your mouth onto one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking the stiff peak while your hips keep slamming up into her.

She sobs your name as her fingers dig into your shoulders so deeply that you’ll probably have marks tomorrow. But it doesn't matter. You switch to the other breast, teeth grazing, sucking until her nipple is red and swollen, then kiss your way up her chest, her neck, until you reach her mouth.

You kiss her messily, tongues tangling, tasting your cum still smeared on her lips, her chin, her cheeks. She moans into your mouth like she’s addicted, grinding down harder, chasing her high. Her bounces grow erratic as her thighs shake, walls fluttering wildly around you.

“Oppa—gonna cum—gonna cum on your cock—”

“Cum for me,” you command against her lips. “Let me feel that tight little pussy milk me. Show me you’re mine.”

She shatters and her whole body convulses, back arching, head thrown back, scream tearing from her throat as her pussy clamps down hard around you.

Hot gushes of squirt spray across your stomach, your thighs, the couch. It's violent, messy, and unstoppable.

She keeps bouncing through it, riding out every pulse, every aftershock, until she’s whimpering, oversensitive, legs quivering uncontrollably.

You wrap your arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other stroking down her spine.

“Good girl,” you whisper. “So fucking good for me.”

You pull out of her slowly, letting her feel every thick inch drag along her sensitive walls. She whines at the emptiness, hips twitching like her pussy is already begging to be filled again.

You flip her around with a rough grip on her hips, turning her so her back faces you. She scrambles into position eagerly, knees planted wide on the couch cushions, feet flat, ass high in the air as she kneels over your lap. Her pussy hovers just above your cock. She looks back over her shoulder with her glassy eyes and cum-streaked face, biting her swollen lip.

“Want you to watch,” she rasps, voice dripping with need. “Want them to watch… how deep you go… how much I fucking take for you…”

She lowers herself slowly, letting just the head kiss her folds. She gasps needily as her thighs tremble, sinking down another inch.

Then another, until she’s fully seated on you, cock buried to the hilt, hips flush against her ass, balls pressed tight to her clit. She lets out a long, filthy moan as her head falls forward, hair spilling across her back.

You grab her hips and start moving her again. She rises up and drops back down hard, taking you in and out of her with purpose. The wet slap of her ass meeting your thighs echoes through the room.

She bounces and bounces, hips rising and falling in perfect rhythm, pussy gripping you on every upstroke, slick dripping down your shaft. You thrust up to meet her drops, slamming deep, making her scream every time your cock punches against her front wall.

“Look at them,” you growl, nodding toward the shelf of plushies and figurines staring silently. “Show those stupid little toys how greedy your cunt really is. Show them how you swallow my cock whole every time you drop like the good little girl you are.”

She nods frantically, moaning nonstop, hips rolling down harder, ass jiggling with every bounce.

“Yes—yes—look… look how fucking deep he is… they can’t do this… only oppa can fill me like this… only oppa owns this pussy…”

You reach your hand forward and palm the bulge in her lower stomach where your cock is pressing hard against her insides, rubbing in slow, firm circles.

The added pressure makes her gasp and her eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent scream.

“Feel that…?” you growl filthily. “Feel how deep I am… stretching you… ruining you… prodding right against your fucking cervix…”

“God, I can feel you in my guts…” Wonyoung whines, shivering with every impact.

You thrust up harder, meeting her bounces with brutal force, watching your cock disappear into her over and over, slick glistening on your shaft, dripping down to soak everything.

“Fuck yes,” you snarl as she touches where you're rubbing. “Rub that bulge, baby. Feel how much cock you’re taking. You’re so fucking stretched around me… so full of me… you love being my little cock-drunk girl, don’t you? Love showing these plushies how your cunt milks me like a greedy little sleeve.”

She’s shaking and her thighs are quivering as her ass bounces wildly, but she keeps rubbing that bulge, amplifying every sensation until she’s sobbing.

“Oppa—gonna cum—gonna cum all over your cock again—please—please let me—”

“Cum for me, girl,” you command, voice rough and possessive. “Squirt all over me. Empty all your loneliness out. Show me how much you love being filled. Show them who this lonely dripping cunt belongs to.”

She detonates. Her whole body convulses as her back arches sharply, head thrown back, scream tearing from her throat as her pussy clamps down like a fist.

A violent, explosive gush erupts from her pussy and hot, clear squirt blasts out in forceful jets, spraying across your thighs, the couch cushions, even hitting the rug several feet away in wet splatters.

It doesn’t stop at one pulse. She keeps convulsing, each spasm forcing out another thick, messy stream that soaks you both as you bounce her on you continuously like a cocksleeve. She’s trembling violently, legs barely holding her up as her hips jerk uncontrollably.

“Oppa—fuck fuck fuck—I can't stop cumming—” She’s crying your name but she still grinds down onto you even as she squirts harder, the pressure of her palm on her own bulge making every gush more intense, more violent, more uncontrollable.

The squirt doesn't end as you bounce her on you continuously like a cocksleeve until she’s shaking, until she's squeezing so hard that she forces your cock out from her, until her pussy clenches and releases around nothing, forcing her orgasm to finally die down.

She collapses forward onto the ground with her ass perched in the air. You hold on to her shaking thighs as she squirts one final, weak spurt that drips down her legs before she goes limp. She's utterly wrecked, sobbing with overstimulation and relief.

“Wonyoungnie. I haven't cum yet,” you grunt before reaching out to grab her hips, pulling her back down onto you as you slam her onto you again, chasing your own release through her aftershocks.

Her pussy is still fluttering as you pound into her, milking you greedily. You hook your arms underneath her thighs and bend her legs towards her head, folding her onto you. Her pussy is fully exposed outwards as you pound into her in a sitting Nelson position.

The new angle sets her already sensitive nerves on fire and lets you thrust deeper and faster. “Fuck Wonyoungnie, your pussy feels so god damn tight. I'm going to cum—”

“Cum inside of me please, fill me up oppa—” Wonyoung begs as your hips go into overdrive, slamming up into her like a jackhammer. With a final grunt, you bury yourself deep and cum hard.

Thick, hot pulses flood her, spilling out around your cock as you fill her to the point overflowing. She shudders through another small, broken climax as her walls ripple until she collapses completely.

“Oppa—m-more please—please fuck the loneliness out of me—” Wonyoung chokes, body still shaking from her aftershocks.

You pull out of her and flip her onto her back with a firm grip on her hips, guiding her so her head rests against the arm of the couch and her legs spread wide for you. You kneel on the floor in front of the couch, positioning yourself between her thighs. Before your cum can even leak out of her, you line up and slam back into her with one deep, brutal thrust.

She screams your name as you bury into her, back arching sharply off the couch as her walls clamp down around you like a vise. The wet heat of her envelops you completely, slick and pulsing, every ridge and clench gripping your length like she’s trying to pull you deeper.

She lifts her hips instinctively, offering herself completely, knees bent and feet planted on the edge of the cushion.

You don’t give her time to adjust and start pounding relentlessly, hips snapping forward with punishing force, cock slamming into her over and over. Your balls slap wetly against her ass in a lewd, rhythmic smack and each thrust forces a fresh gush of slick from her cunt.

Her hot juices coats your shaft, making it so slippery as they overflow and flow down her ass crack. The obscene squelching sounds of her pussy swallowing you fills the room, and it's loud and filthy, mixing with her high, desperate moans every time you bottom out.

“So deep—all for me—oppa your cock—all mine—” Wonyoung moans as you keep the rhythm brutal. You pull almost all the way out until only the swollen head stretches her entrance, the cool air kissing her soaked folds for a split second, then slamming back in deep, grinding your pelvis against her clit on every stroke. The unending friction makes her gasp and her clit throbs visibly under the pressure.

“Feel that?” you growl, voice thick with lust. “Feel how fucking deep I am? This lonely little hole was starving for cock, wasn’t it? All those nights hugging plushies, feeling empty inside… but now you’re stuffed full of me. Stretched wide. Ruined for anything else.”

She nods frantically as her tears stream, hips bucking up to meet every punishing thrust.

“Yes—yes—stretching me—filling me—oppa—only you—only your cock can do this—”

You grab her hips tighter, lifting her slightly to angle even deeper. You jam into her with short, brutal strokes, cock bullying against her front wall, hitting that spot over and over until her walls start spasming uncontrollably around you.

The wet, sucking sound of her pussy grows louder with every thrust and her slick coats your shaft and her inner thighs, muscles quivering with every impact.

“Eyes on me, baby. Look at who’s filling you. Look at who you belong to.”

You lean down, latching your mouth onto one nipple and suck hard, tongue flicking the peak while your hips keep driving down into her without mercy. You switch to the other nipple, then grab her hips again, lifting her higher so you can slam even deeper.

“Fuck yes,” you growl. “This cunt was made for my cock. Gripping me so tight… milking me like it never wants to let go. You love being pumped full, don’t you? Love feeling me drill into that empty spot until you can’t think straight.”

“If only you were a good little girl. You could get this cock all day, every day,” you grunt, leaning downwards to whisper in her ears as you piston. “But no. You choose to spend your money on little toys that can only sit there and stare at you uselessly. Why do you even not try and get fucked by my cock daily?”

She’s babbling now, every thrust forcing another whimper from her lips.

“Oppa—gonna cum—gonna cum all over your cock—please—please fill me more—please keep pumping me full—”

You keep thrusting with long, hard pumps now, cock slamming in and out, slick squelching loudly with every plunge.

“You could get a green capsule everyday. You could be such an obedient girl that I could make every capsule epic. You could experience this everyday. But you choose to press that stupid little ‘buy’ button. You choose to swipe that stupid card. You choose them instead of me.”

The couch creaks under the force and her ass lifts slightly off the cushions with each upward snap of your hips.

“Should I let you cum?”

“Yes yes yes—I’ll do my best—from now on—I’ll only choose you—I’ll only want you—please oppa—oppa—let me cum—” Wonyoung shrieks as she nods desperately, trying to seek your permission.

“Then cum for me,” you command. “Clench around me. Milk me. Show me how much you need this dick to feel whole again.”

She shatters. Her whole body convulses — back bowing, scream tearing from her throat — pussy clamping down so hard it steals your breath.

Her fingers fly to her clit, rubbing frantically, drawing out the orgasm until she’s sobbing, walls rippling and fluttering around you in violent spasms.

The sensation of her tight, pulsing cunt milking you relentlessly sends you over the edge.

You bury yourself deep and cum hard. You unload the final pulses of your cum into her, making her whimper through it. Her walls clench and milk every last drop from you until you collapse onto her, breathing ragged.

“Don’t pull out… stay inside… keep me full…” Wonyoung murmurs.

You stay inside her, breathing hard against her neck. She clings onto you, arms and legs wrapped tight around you as she trembles through the aftershocks.

You kiss her forehead, cheeks and lips softly, tasting salt and sweat and love.

She whispers against your mouth, “I’m yours… only yours…”

You hold her tighter. “I know.”

And in that moment your bodies are tangled, hearts racing, plushies forgotten on the shelf. ***

Months pass like an unending storm, continuously hurling challenges towards Wonyoung. Her schedule doesn't let up at all, getting busier and more hectic.

The apartment still smells faintly of vanilla candles and cardboard from old packages, but the deliveries have slowed to a trickle. The shelf of plushies and figurines gathers a thin layer of dust now — not neglected, just… less urgent. She still touches them sometimes, running a finger along a Kuromi ear or straightening a Sonny Angel’s tiny hat, but her hand always drifts back to you afterward, as if remembering where the real warmth lives.

Some days she comes home and melts into your lap without a word. You wrap her up, kiss her temple, murmur “good girl” against her hair while she sighs and melts. No machine needed. No coin. Just the two of you, breathing in sync.

Some nights are harder.

A long solo schedule, a string of “perfect Wonyoung” comments online, an empty practice room at midnight. She’ll stare at her phone, thumb hovering over a shopping app, heart racing with old habit. But she closes it. Every time. She closes it, walks to you instead, and buries her face in your chest until the urge fades.

She doesn’t always win.

There are slips — a small blind-box here, a limited keychain there. When it happens, she tells you immediately — no hiding, no second card. She kneels by the machines, eyes glassy but steady, and takes the pull. The punishments are lighter now, rarer. The rewards feel sweeter. And afterward, she always ends up in your arms, whispering “I’m trying… I’m still trying.”

You never ask if she’s “cured.”

She never promises she is.

Instead she reaches for your hand more often than her phone.

She falls asleep against your chest more nights than not.

She smiles when you call her “good girl,” and the word lands differently now: less like a rule, more like a truth.

The hole in her heart isn’t gone.

It probably never will be completely.

But it’s smaller.

And every day she chooses — sometimes shakily, sometimes fiercely — to fill it with something warmer than plastic and stuffing.

She chooses you.

And that’s enough.

[bunnsfw]

TWELVE: CH-12 - The Twelfth

MALE READER x LOONA OT12 | ~12,000 WORDS | ← CH-00

A/N: I just reached 1K Followers! Thank you to the 1,000 of you who read, interact with, and support my work. I only started posting again this December, and coming back has been unexpectedly meaningful. Meeting fellow Orbits here and sharing this writing journey with you has made every late night worth it.

One Summer

The vacation house sat nestled in the mountains outside Seoul, isolated enough for privacy, spacious enough for twelve women and one overwhelmed man. You'd rented it for the long weekend, knowing this conversation would take time.

LOOSSEMBLE was over.

The company had tried—God knows they'd tried—but creative differences, financial struggles, and an industry that didn't care about second chances had killed it. The contracts were expiring in two weeks. No renewal. No future.

The five members—Hyunjin, Yeojin, Vivi, Gowon, Hyeju—had to decide what came next.

And you'd invited ARTMS too. Heejin, Haseul, Kim Lip, Jinsoul, Choerry. Plus Chuu and Yves, who'd both cleared their schedules specifically for this weekend. Because after everything these twelve women had been through together—the lawsuits, the injunctions, the freedom they'd fought for—they were family. Didn't matter which company they worked for, which group they were in, whose solo career had taken off.

All twelve. Together one more time.

You arrived early Friday evening, the sun just starting to set behind the mountains. The house was beautiful—open floor plan with a massive living area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, multiple bedrooms branching off a central hallway. A large deck wrapped around the back, offering views of endless green peaks fading to blue in the distance.

You set down your bag and just stood there for a moment, taking it in.

Two and a half years since that celebration in your old apartment. Since Gowon, Hyeju, and Yeojin had shown up with their Nintendo Switch party games and changed everything.

You walked through the house, opening windows to let the mountain air in. The silence felt heavy.

The last time you'd been in a room big enough for all of them was the old Blockberry building. Not the offices—the practice room on the third floor, the one with the cracked mirror they'd never gotten around to replacing. You'd gone there once to drop off paperwork, late, past midnight. Found all twelve of them still there. Not practicing. Just existing in the same space—Chuu asleep on Yves's shoulder against the wall, Haseul cross-legged on the floor sorting through a binder of schedules, Heejin and Hyunjin arguing about choreography while Jinsoul mediated from a folding chair. Kim Lip had her headphones in, eyes closed, mouthing lyrics to something only she could hear. Yeojin was showing Choerry something on her phone, both of them trying not to laugh loud enough to wake Chuu. Gowon sat in the corner with her knees drawn up, watching all of it with an expression you couldn't read.

Hyeju had been the one to notice you in the doorway. She'd looked up from her phone, met your eyes, and gone back to whatever she was doing without a word. But she'd shifted over slightly. Made space.

The fluorescent lights hummed. Someone's phone played a ballad on low volume—you never found out whose. The practice room smelled like sweat and cheap floor cleaner and the tangerines Vivi was peeling on a paper towel, their citrus cutting through everything else.

Vivi was the one who'd actually spoken. "You should sit down," she'd said, not looking up from her work. "You look tired."

You'd sat. She'd handed you a tangerine segment without being asked. You'd eaten it, and then another, and stayed until 2 AM—doing nothing, saying almost nothing, just breathing the same air as twelve women who didn't need you there but didn't mind that you were. Gowon had fallen asleep against the mirror at some point, her reflection curled behind her like a second self. Nobody woke her. Haseul had draped a jacket over her shoulders without pausing her schedule review.

That was the room you were trying to rebuild this weekend. You just didn't know if the architecture still held.

Four months since you'd seen any of them properly.

That was the irony, wasn't it? You'd built your agency to support them, to give them the freedom the old company never had. And you'd succeeded—spectacularly. ARTMS had thrived under your management. Chuu's solo career had exploded. Yves had established herself as a legitimate solo artist. The remaining LOOSSEMBLE members had found their footing, even as their company crumbled around them.

But success had a cost. You'd hired a team, then a bigger team. Taken on more clients. Built something that didn't need you present every day to function. Six months ago, you'd finally stepped back from day-to-day operations, appointed a COO, delegated the things that used to consume you. Your CFO handled the finances now. Your operations team ran the day-to-day. You'd built an empire and then handed over the keys so you could finally breathe.

But breathing had turned into distance. And distance had turned into absence.

You'd told yourself it was sustainable. That the penthouse with its extra bedrooms was proof you hadn't forgotten them. That Vivi living there—her own room now, not just the guest suite—was proof the arrangement still worked.

But Vivi had her own place again as of three months ago. Haseul still kept her apartment. The visits had become less frequent. The group chat was still active, but you lurked more than you participated.

You'd been building wealth. They'd been living their lives. And somewhere in between, you'd lost something.

Your phone buzzed.

Vivi: I'm close. 15 min maybe.

Vivi: Do you need anything from the store?

You started to type "no" and then stopped. She'd always done this. Not the grand gestures—the quiet, practical ones. Showing up with exactly what was needed before you knew you needed it.

You: Just you.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Vivi: That was cheesy.

Vivi: I'll bring tangerines.

She arrived twenty minutes later, alone, carrying two canvas bags and wearing an oversized linen shirt you were pretty sure used to be yours. She set the bags on the kitchen counter without ceremony and started unpacking—tangerines, sparkling water, the specific brand of gochujang Haseul preferred for her cooking.

"You stocked the wrong soy sauce," she said, checking the fridge.

"There's a wrong soy sauce?"

"For Haseul's galbi-jjim, yes." She held up the bottle she'd brought. "This one."

You leaned against the counter and watched her move through the kitchen. She opened cabinets like she knew where everything was, even though she'd never been in this house before. That was Vivi—she oriented to spaces the way water found its level. Quietly, inevitably.

"How are you?" you asked.

She paused, a bag of rice in her hands. Considered the question the way she considered everything—carefully, without rushing to fill silence.

"I'm good. My apartment is good. Work is steady." She put the rice away. "I don't regret moving out."

"I didn't ask—"

"You were going to." She turned to face you, leaning against the opposite counter. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. "Moving out wasn't about you. It was about me needing to know I could."

"And?"

"And I could." A pause. "But the penthouse was quiet last time I visited. Not just empty. Quiet. Like no one had cooked there in weeks."

You didn't have a response to that. She wasn't wrong.

"The fridge was full this time," she said. "When I checked just now. So either you've started eating again, or you stocked it for this weekend."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me." She picked up a tangerine and started peeling it, the motion so familiar it made your chest tight. "It matters to Haseul. It matters to all of them, even if they show it differently."

She crossed the kitchen and placed a tangerine segment in your hand. Her fingers were cool and slightly sticky with citrus.

"Eat," she said. And then, softer: "We're almost here. All of us. Just hold on a little longer."

Before you could respond, headlights swept through the windows.

Your phone buzzed.

Haseul: We're 20 minutes out. Traffic was bad.

Haseul: Chuu and Yves are picking up the LOOSSEMBLE girls. They should be right behind us.

Haseul: You better have food ready.

You smiled despite yourself. Some things hadn't changed.

They arrived in waves. ARTMS first—Heejin driving, Haseul in the passenger seat already texting you updates, Kim Lip, Jinsoul, and Choerry piling out of the back with bags and blankets and too much energy for a three-hour drive.

"Oppa!" Choerry was first through the door, throwing her arms around you. "It's been forever!"

"Four months," you said, hugging her back.

"Forever," she repeated. But something in her embrace felt different—tighter, more desperate. You'd been keeping track of her cycle for over a year now. You knew they'd tried again last month. You knew, from the silence in the chat afterward, that it hadn't worked. Again.

Kim Lip was next, more composed, but her hug lingered. Jinsoul followed, pressing close with her face against your neck, quiet where she was usually chatty. Then Heejin, who punched your shoulder before pulling you into an embrace.

"You look tired," Heejin said.

"Thanks."

"I mean it. Have you been sleeping?"

"Enough."

She didn't look convinced.

Haseul was last through the door, carrying what looked like three different bags of groceries despite the full kitchen you'd already stocked. She paused when she saw you, her expression softening into something that made your chest ache.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi."

She set down the bags and walked into your arms like she'd never left. For a moment, the others faded away, and it was just her—the weight of her, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the way she fit against you like she'd been designed for it.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I missed you too."

"You've been avoiding us."

"I haven't—"

"Don't." She pulled back enough to meet your eyes. "We'll talk about it later. But don't lie to me."

Before you could respond, the second car arrived.

Chuu burst through the door first, a whirlwind of energy that hadn't dimmed despite two years of grueling solo schedules. "OPPA!" She launched herself at you, and you barely caught her in time.

"Chuu—"

"I missed you so much!" She squeezed you tight enough to hurt. "Four months! Four months without seeing you! That's criminal!"

Behind her, Yves entered with more composure but no less warmth. She'd changed over the past two years—more confident, more settled. When she hugged you, it wasn't with the reluctance of their early encounters but with genuine affection.

"She talked about you the entire drive," Yves said dryly. "I almost pushed her out of the car."

"You love me," Chuu said.

"Unfortunately."

Hyunjin came through next, her presence filling the room the way it always did. Behind her, Yeojin bounced in with twice her usual energy, followed by Gowon—quiet, watchful, arms crossed. You remembered that night three weeks ago when she'd shown up at the penthouse, drunk and raw, finally dropping the tsundere act long enough to admit she thought about you constantly. She'd tried to take it back in the morning. You hadn't let her.

Now she met your eyes for half a second before looking away, a faint flush on her cheeks.

Vivi caught your eye from the kitchen doorway. A small nod. She'd already put the tangerines in a bowl on the counter, already switched out the soy sauce, already made space. That was what she did. She arrived before everyone else and made the room ready.

And then Hyeju.

She'd been quiet in the group chat lately. Pulled back from conversations. You'd noticed but hadn't pushed—she was dealing with LOOSSEMBLE's end, processing the failure of everything they'd worked for. Of course she was withdrawn.

But now, seeing her in person, something was different. She looked... softer, somehow. Less sharp around the edges. When her eyes met yours, she held your gaze for a beat too long before looking away.

"Hyeju," you said.

"Oppa." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled slightly when she hugged you. "It's good to see you."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired from the drive."

You didn't believe her, but this wasn't the time.

Dinner was chaos in the best possible way. Haseul had commandeered the kitchen hours ago, Vivi as her sous chef, the two of them moving around each other with practiced ease—the same rhythm they'd developed during those months when Vivi lived at the penthouse and Haseul came over to make sure you actually ate. The spread was absurd: a bubbling pot of malatang on a portable burner at the center of the table, the broth angry and red, loaded with enoki mushrooms, lotus root, glass noodles, and enough chili oil to make your eyes water. Beside it, a tabletop grill sizzled with galbi and samgyeopsal, the fat rendering and popping while Haseul monitored the heat with surgical attention. The rest crowded into the living area, sprawled across couches and floor cushions, catching up on months of missed conversations.

Yeojin waited until the second bottle of soju was cracked before she mentioned the acting classes. Dropped it casually, like it was nothing—"Oh yeah, I've been doing this thing"—but her eyes moved around the room while she said it, checking reactions the way she never used to. The old Yeojin would have announced it as a joke. This one was afraid they wouldn't take her seriously.

Hyunjin spoke first. "Which studio?"

"MUMW. The one in Gangnam."

"That's a good program." No teasing, no qualifier. Just Hyunjin, who'd spent years evaluating talent, recognizing it.

Something in Yeojin's posture changed. She sat up a little straighter. "My coach says I have good instincts. Raw, but good."

"You've always been raw," Heejin said, and Yeojin threw a cushion at her, and the table erupted, and the moment passed—but you'd seen Yeojin's face in the half-second before the cushion flew. Relief. The kind that comes from being believed.

Across the table, Kim Lip fished a piece of tofu from the malatang and dropped it into Jinsoul's bowl without looking. Jinsoul ate it without looking. Their hands didn't touch, but they didn't need to—the choreography was old enough to be unconscious. Jinsoul said something low, close to Kim Lip's ear, and Kim Lip's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile on anyone less controlled. Two people who'd been orbiting each other so long they'd forgotten what it felt like to have separate gravitational fields.

Gowon was quieter than usual. She laughed at Chuu's stories—everyone did; you couldn't not—but between the laughs, her fingers traced the rim of her soju glass and her eyes drifted. Once, during a lull, she opened her mouth like she was about to say something. Looked at you. Closed it. Reached for her glass instead.

You caught it. Filed it away.

Hyeju barely touched her soju. You noticed because she usually kept pace with Gowon, the two of them competitive even in drinking. Tonight she'd taken one sip and switched to water. Nobody else seemed to register it. But you'd spent two and a half years learning the rhythms of these women, and a broken rhythm was louder than a shout.

Chuu dominated the conversation with stories from her variety show appearances—impressions of hosts, behind-the-scenes chaos, the time she'd accidentally gone viral on live television. She told the stories with the same infectious energy that had made her a star, pulling pork belly off the grill with her bare fingers until Haseul swatted her hand away with tongs. Even Gowon couldn't help but laugh.

Yves was quieter, but when she spoke, people listened. Her tour had been a success—critical acclaim, sold-out shows, the kind of recognition she'd always deserved. When Chuu reached for her hand under the table, she didn't pull away. With her free hand, she ladled more malatang broth into Chuu's bowl—the mild side, because Chuu's spice tolerance was still a running joke.

"To us," Haseul said, raising her glass of wine once the grill had cooled and the malatang pot was down to dregs. "All twelve of us. Together."

"To the ones who made it," Gowon added, her tone softer than usual.

"To family," you said.

Twelve glasses raised—soju and wine both. Twelve voices echoing: "To family."

After dinner, as the others migrated to the deck with bottles of wine and what was left of the soju, Haseul caught your arm.

"Walk with me?"

You followed her outside, past the others, down a path that led to a clearing overlooking the valley. The stars were impossibly bright out here, away from the city lights.

"You've been avoiding us," she said again, not looking at you. "Building wealth was supposed to bring you closer, not push you away."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turned to face you. "Because it doesn't feel like you know. It feels like you got scared. Like you thought, if you made enough money, you could protect us from everything bad. And then you got so focused on making money that you forgot to actually be here."

"Haseul—"

"I still want to take care of you," she continued. "That hasn't changed. I still organize your life when you let me. I still cook for you when I can. But I can't do that if you won't let me in."

You didn't have a defense. She was right.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"I don't want a sorry. I want you to be present. Tonight, this weekend, whatever happens—be here. With us. Not thinking about your company or your responsibilities or whatever excuse you've been using to keep distance."

She stepped closer, her hand finding your chest. Through your shirt, you could feel the warmth of her palm.

"Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."

She studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Because I think tonight is going to be important. And I need you focused."

"Important how?"

Haseul just smiled, that enigmatic expression she'd perfected over years of being the leader. "You'll see."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By midnight, the serious discussions had given way to something looser. Wine bottles emptied. Conversations flowed into each other, overlapping, fragmenting, reforming. The energy in the house had shifted from careful reunion to something more familiar.

More dangerous.

You'd noticed it before dinner ended—the way they looked at you. Not with the casual affection of friends catching up, but with something hungrier. Something that remembered.

Four months was a long time.

Chuu found you in the kitchen, refilling your glass.

"Remember the first time?" she asked, leaning against the counter beside you.

You did. Her apartment, the night after she'd been kicked from the group. Rage and desire and something that shouldn't have happened but did. The start of everything.

"I think about it sometimes," she continued. "How angry I was. How ready to burn everything down. And you just… showed up. Ran three blocks because you couldn't find parking."

"You needed someone."

"I needed you." She set down her glass. "I still do. We all do. Even when you're pulling away, even when you're hiding behind your success—we still need you."

She kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper. Her hands found your face, holding you like she was afraid you'd disappear.

"Come to my room tonight," she whispered against your lips. "Please."

You couldn't say no. You'd never been able to say no to her.

Chuu's room was at the end of the hall, away from the others. She pulled you inside and locked the door behind her, and then it was just the two of you in the dim light from the bedside lamp.

She was already pulling at your shirt. "I've missed this. Missed you."

You helped her undress, taking your time. Relearning her body after months of absence. She was thinner than before—the solo schedule had taken its toll—but still soft where it mattered, still warm and responsive beneath your hands.

Her bra came off and she pressed against you, skin to skin, her nipples hardening against your chest.

"They tried to take everything from me that night," she whispered. "And you stayed. You let me take it back."

You kissed her again, deeper, your hands sliding down her sides. She lifted her hips to help you with her shorts, and then she was bare beneath you, trembling.

"Slowly," she breathed when you positioned yourself between her legs. "We have all night."

You gave her what she wanted. Entered her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as she adjusted to you. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting on a soft moan.

"There," she whispered. "Right there."

You built the rhythm gradually. Long, slow strokes that let you feel every part of her—the way she clenched around you, the way her breath caught when you hit the right angle, the way her nails dug into your back when you pushed deeper.

"More," she gasped. "Please. I need—"

Faster now, harder, but still controlled. She wrapped her legs around you, pulling you deeper, her moans rising in pitch as the tension built.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—her whole body tensing, her walls clenching around you, your name falling from her lips in a broken cry. You followed a moment later, spilling inside her while she held you close, her fingers threading through your hair.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there tangled together, catching your breath.

"Stay," she murmured against your neck. "Just for a little while."

You stayed. Held her as her breathing slowed, as her body relaxed against yours.

"Yves told me something once," Chuu said eventually, her voice drowsy. "I asked her why she kept coming back. She said it wasn't about the sex. It was about being part of something. A family that actually wanted her."

She pressed her lips to your chest.

"That's why I started this. Not because I was lost. Because I found something worth keeping."

You didn't know what to say. So you just held her tighter.

Her breathing evened out. Deepened. You waited until you were sure she was asleep before carefully untangling yourself, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

You stood in the dark for a moment, watching her sleep.

Two and a half years ago, you'd abandoned the company car three blocks from her apartment and run the rest of the way. The conference room was still ringing in your ears—contract termination, Yeojin crying, Heejin ready to fight someone. And Chuu hadn't even been there to hear it.

She'd buzzed you in. You'd taken the stairs two at a time, expecting to find her destroyed. Instead, she was pacing her living room like a caged animal, mascara tracked down to her jaw, fury radiating off her in waves. "Those fucking bastards," she'd been muttering. Not broken. Burning.

You'd made her ginseng tea. Sat on her couch, close but not touching, while she drank it and stared at nothing. Texted the group chat: She's with me. I've got her. And then she'd looked at you—really looked at you—and said, "They tried to control everything about me. But this is mine. My choice."

Her hand on your chest. Your heart hammering. The professional boundary you'd maintained for months shattering in a single kiss that she started, not you. Aggressive, demanding, like she'd been thinking about it for months. She'd climbed into your lap and you'd let her, and nothing that followed was gentle or tentative or accidental.

The start of everything wasn't pity. It was Chuu, taking back control of the one thing her company couldn't touch. And you, choosing to stay.

You slipped out of her room and closed the door softly behind you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Heejin and Hyunjin found you on the deck an hour later. Chuu had fallen asleep, and you'd slipped out to clear your head.

"We planned something," Heejin said without preamble.

"Planned what?"

"This." Her hand gestured between the three of you.

"You've been different lately," Hyunjin added, pressing against your back, her chin on your shoulder. "Distant. We don't like it."

"I've been—"

"Busy. We know." Heejin stepped closer. "But tonight you're not busy. Tonight you're ours."

The competitive dynamic between them had evolved over the years. Less about who could outdo the other, more about what they could accomplish together. They'd always shared you well when they wanted to.

Tonight, they wanted to.

Hyunjin's hands slipped under your shirt from behind while Heejin pressed against your front. Trapped between them, you felt the familiar surrender—that moment where resistance became pointless because you'd already lost.

They led you to one of the bedrooms, already negotiating terms before the door closed.

"I want his mouth first," Hyunjin said.

"You had his mouth last time."

"Last time was four months ago. Statue of limitations."

"First of all, it’s statute of limitations, and that’s not how it works."

You stood there catching your breath while they argued. Same as always. You'd missed this—the absurdity of it, the way they could fight about logistics like they were dividing up a restaurant bill.

They settled it the way they settled everything: competitively. Hyunjin straddling your face while Heejin rode you, both of them racing to see who'd break first. The coordination was deliberate, practiced from years of this exact dynamic.

Heejin won. Or lost, depending on perspective. She came first, her walls clenching around you so tight you saw stars, and Hyunjin followed moments later, grinding against your mouth as she fell apart.

They rotated. Argued about the rotation. Rotated again. By the time they were done, you'd lost track of whose turn it was, how many times each of them had come, where you ended and they began.

You collapsed in a pile of tangled limbs, all three of you breathing hard.

"Missed this," Hyunjin murmured against your chest.

"Missed him," Heejin corrected from your other side.

"Same thing," Hyunjin said.

It was.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Haseul found you in the hallway afterward. She didn't ask questions—she never did when it came to the arrangement. She just took your hand and led you to her room.

"You smell like them," she observed, closing the door.

"Sorry—"

"Don't be." She was already reaching for your shirt. "I like knowing you've been with them. It's proof this works."

With Haseul, it was never just about the physical. She undressed you slowly, her fingers finding every knot of tension—your shoulders, the small of your back, your jaw, which you hadn't realized you'd been clenching.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself."

"I've been fine."

"You've been surviving. That's not the same thing." She guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, then stood between your legs, her hands cradling your face. "When's the last time someone just held you? Not sex. Not obligation. Just someone making sure you were okay?"

You couldn't answer.

"That's what I thought." She kissed your forehead. "Lie back."

She undressed slowly. Familiar body, familiar comfort—the small breasts she was sometimes self-conscious about, the birthmark on her hip you'd traced with your tongue a hundred times. She straddled you, still in her underwear, and started with her hands. Long, slow strokes down your chest, your arms, your thighs. Not sexual, not yet. Just touch. Just presence.

"Breathe," she murmured when she felt you tensing.

The massage shifted gradually. Her hands finding sensitive spots—inner thighs, lower belly. You were hard now, aching for her, but she ignored it.

"Haseul—"

"Patience."

She rose up enough to pull her underwear aside, and sank onto you in one long, slow slide. Didn't move once she had you fully inside—just sat there, her walls clenching around you, her eyes holding yours.

Then she started. Slowly. Rolling her hips in small circles that built friction without urgency. Her hands braced on your chest, her eyes never leaving yours.

"I've loved you for a long time," she said. Still moving, still building. "Not the way the others do. My kind of love looks like this—taking care of you. Being the one who keeps you whole."

She increased her pace. Her breath catching.

"You don't have to say it back. I can feel it."

The orgasm built slowly, like a wave gathering far out at sea. By the time it crested, you were both trembling. She came first, her back arching as she cried out. You followed immediately, spilling into her while she collapsed against your chest.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

"I meant what I said earlier," she murmured eventually. "Be present. Whatever happens tonight—be here for it."

"What's going to happen?"

"I have a feeling it will be something important." She kissed you, soft and lingering. "Trust me, my hunches are right most of the time."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found Jinsoul and Kim Lip in the living room around 2 AM.

They'd outlasted everyone else. The wine was finished, the others had drifted to bedrooms or the deck or quiet corners. But these two were still on the couch—Jinsoul's legs across Kim Lip's lap, Kim Lip's hand resting absently on Jinsoul's ankle, both of them reading on their phones in comfortable silence.

They looked up at the same time when you walked in. Didn't say anything. Just looked at each other, had an entire conversation in the span of a glance, and then Jinsoul smiled.

"We were waiting for you," she said.

"You didn't have to wait."

"We wanted to." Kim Lip set her phone down. "We just didn't want to compete for a slot."

It was the most direct either of them had ever been about the arrangement's logistics, and it caught you off guard. Kim Lip noticed—she noticed everything—and the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Sit down," Jinsoul said, pulling her legs off Kim Lip's lap to make space between them. "You look wrecked."

"Thanks."

"I meant it affectionately."

You sat. Jinsoul leaned into you immediately, her head finding your shoulder with the ease of long practice. Kim Lip was more deliberate—she turned toward you, tucking one leg underneath herself, studying your face with that quiet intensity she brought to everything.

"You're different tonight," Kim Lip said. "More here than you've been in months."

"Haseul gave me a lecture."

"Good." No sympathy. Just Kim Lip.

Jinsoul's hand found your thigh. Not urgent—just warm, grounding. Her fingers traced slow patterns through the fabric of your pants.

"We talked about it," Jinsoul said. "About whether to wait or just ask."

"Ask what?"

"If you still want us." She said it simply, without the performance of vulnerability. Just a question that needed answering. "Not the arrangement. Us. The two of us specifically. Because we come as a pair. You know that."

You did know that. You'd always known that. Jinsoul and Kim Lip weren't two separate relationships—they were one relationship with two people in it. Being with one meant being watched by the other, being known by the other. There was nowhere to hide.

"I want you," you said. "Both of you. Always."

Kim Lip exhaled—so slightly you almost missed it. That was as close as she got to relief.

Jinsoul kissed you first. She kissed the way she did everything—generously, with her whole self, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. When she pulled back, Kim Lip was already there, turning your face toward her with one finger on your jaw. Her kiss was different. Precise. Like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

They stood together. Jinsoul took one of your hands, Kim Lip took the other. Led you down the hall to their shared room without a word.

Inside, the dynamic was nothing like Heejin and Hyunjin. No competition, no negotiation. They moved around each other like they were dancing to music only they could hear. Jinsoul undressed you while Kim Lip undressed herself. When Jinsoul pulled her own shirt over her head, Kim Lip was already behind her, unclasping her bra, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck before turning her attention to you.

Jinsoul was the vocal one—soft sounds when you touched her, whispered instructions, her body arching into your hands like she was starving for contact. Kim Lip was quieter, communicating through pressure and position. She guided your hand where she wanted it, held your gaze while you touched her, let her breath hitch speak for her.

When Jinsoul straddled you, Kim Lip knelt beside her, one hand on Jinsoul's hip, the other on your chest. Steadying them both. Watching Jinsoul's face with an expression that was equal parts tenderness and hunger. When Jinsoul started to move, Kim Lip leaned in and kissed her—deep and slow—and Jinsoul moaned into her mouth while her hips found their rhythm on you.

You lasted longer than you expected to. Maybe because they set the pace together, and their pace was deliberate, unhurried. Maybe because watching them touch each other while one of them rode you created a kind of sensory overload that kept pulling you back from the edge.

Jinsoul came with Kim Lip's hand between her legs and your cock buried inside her, her whole body shuddering as she gripped your shoulders and pressed her forehead to yours.

When they switched, it was seamless. Kim Lip sank onto you and set a pace that was entirely hers—controlled, rhythmic, building with the patience of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and was willing to take her time getting it. Jinsoul lay beside you, her fingers tracing your chest, watching Kim Lip with open admiration.

"She's beautiful," Jinsoul whispered to you, like it was a secret, like you didn't already know.

Kim Lip's orgasm was quiet—a sharp inhale, her nails digging into your hips, her rhythm faltering for three strokes before she regained control and rode you through it. You came right after, and she stayed on top of you, breathing hard, her hands still braced on your stomach.

Jinsoul pulled a blanket over the three of you afterward. You lay in the middle—Jinsoul's cheek on your chest, Kim Lip's back against your side, her fingers intertwined with Jinsoul's across your body.

"You need to stop disappearing," Kim Lip said into the quiet. Not accusatory. Factual. Like she was noting the weather.

"I know."

"I don't think you do. But you will." She squeezed Jinsoul's hand. "We'll make sure of it."

Jinsoul was already asleep. Kim Lip stayed awake a little longer—you could feel her watching you in the dark, cataloguing something, filing it away for later use. That was Kim Lip. She gathered information the way other people gathered flowers. You never knew which piece she'd pull out, or when, or why it would matter.

It would matter tomorrow. You just didn't know it yet.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found Gowon in the bathroom around 3 AM. She was washing her face, trying to hide the fact that she'd been crying.

"Go away," she said when she saw you in the mirror.

"No."

"I said go away." Her voice cracked on the last word.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." She gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing holding her up. "LOOSSEMBLE is over. My career is probably over. And I can't even—" She stopped herself.

"Can't even what?"

She was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear: "I can't even tell you how I feel. I've had two years and I still can't say it."

You moved closer. "You said it three weeks ago. When you came to the penthouse."

"I was drunk."

"You meant it."

"I tried to take it back."

"I didn't let you." You reached for her, turning her to face you. "Say it again. Sober this time."

Her eyes were red, her mascara smudged. She looked nothing like the composed, untouchable princess she showed to the world. She looked real.

"I think about you constantly," she whispered. "It's not like I care—" She caught herself, laughed bitterly. "See? I can't even stop doing that. Even when I'm trying to be honest, I deflect. It's like a reflex."

"Then don't deflect. Just say it."

"I love you." The words came out broken, like she was pulling them from somewhere deep inside her chest. "I've loved you for a long time. Maybe since that first night with the Mario Kart, when you beat me and I was so angry but also... I couldn't stop looking at you. I just couldn't admit it because then it would be real, and if it's real then I could lose it, and I can't—" Her breath hitched. "I can't lose this too. Not after everything else."

You remembered that night. Not the way you'd remembered it before—as the beginning of Gowon being difficult, as the start of the push-and-pull that defined your relationship with her. You remembered it now the way she'd just described it, and the memory shifted like a photograph developing in reverse.

The three of them had come over with the Switch. Yeojin was loud, bouncing around the apartment, claiming the best controller. Hyeju was quiet, already sprawled across the couch, taking up more space than necessary. And Gowon stood in the doorway for a full ten seconds before walking in, surveying the apartment with an expression that was either unimpressed or terrified—you couldn't tell which.

She'd sat on the floor in front of the coffee table. Gripped the controller like it owed her money. Lost the first race. Lost the second. Lost the third. Her knuckles going white, her jaw clenching tighter with each finish, while you crossed the line first every time and Hyeju came second just to rub it in.

Six races. Six losses. Dead last in every one.

"This game is rigged," she'd said, throwing her controller down. And you'd laughed—not at her, but at the intensity of it, the way she cared so much about something so small. She'd looked at you then. Not the fury you'd expected. Something else. Something that flickered and disappeared before you could name it.

But what you remembered now, seeing it through the lens she'd just given you, was what happened between the races. During the loading screens, when everyone else was trash-talking or reaching for drinks, Gowon's eyes would drift from the television to you. Quick glances she thought no one caught. And after the fourth loss, when she'd shifted from the floor to the end of the couch—"the floor is uncomfortable, that's all"—her knee had ended up an inch from yours. She hadn't moved it. For two full races, she'd sat with her knee almost touching yours, losing worse than ever because she wasn't watching the screen anymore.

You hadn't thought anything of it at the time. You'd been an idiot.

"I remember," you said. "The Mario Kart night."

"I was so angry." She almost smiled. "Not at the game. At myself. For not being able to stop looking at you."

"I thought you were just competitive."

"I was." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "But not about Mario Kart. Everyone else let me win things. Handed me compliments, made it easy. You just beat me six times in a row and laughed about it. Like I was a real person who could handle losing."

You pulled her into your arms. She resisted for half a second before collapsing against you, her body shaking with sobs she'd been holding back for God knows how long.

"You're not going to lose this," you said. "You're not going to lose me."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

She looked up at you, searching your eyes for the lie. She didn't find one.

The kiss that followed was tentative—Gowon testing whether you meant it, whether this was real. When you kissed her back with everything you had, something in her finally broke open.

"I need you," she breathed. "Please. I need to feel something real."

You held her tighter. Kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the salt tracks on her skin. She pressed against you like she was trying to climb inside your chest, and you let her. Let her take whatever she needed.

She cried again. Not from sadness—from release. Years of emotional walls finally crumbling, leaving her raw and open.

You ended up on the bathroom floor, her curled against your chest, both of you too wrung out to move.

"Don't tell anyone I cried," she mumbled.

"I won't."

"I mean it. If Yeojin finds out—"

"Your secret's safe."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Thank you. For not letting me take it back."

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "That's the version of you I fell in love with. The real one."

Her arms tightened around you. That was answer enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was nearly 4 AM when you found Hyeju on the deck.

She was alone, standing at the railing, staring out at the mountains. The moon had risen high enough to paint everything silver. She looked beautiful and distant and impossibly young.

"Hey," you said quietly.

She didn't turn around. "Hey."

"Everyone else is crashing. Haseul's organizing sleeping arrangements."

"I know."

You stood beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body but not quite touching. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid.

"I need to tell you something," Hyeju said finally.

"Okay."

"But first—" She did turn then, and something in her expression made your heart stutter. "I need you to know that whatever I say, I've made peace with it. I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just need you to listen."

"I'm listening."

She took a breath. Let it out. Took another.

"Do you remember that night? About three months ago? You were stressed about the Kang deal, and I came to the penthouse because I couldn't stand being alone, and we..."

You remembered.

The Kang deal had been falling apart all week. A major distribution partnership that would have secured ARTMS's Japanese market expansion—months of negotiation, legal reviews, back-and-forth with translators—and Kang's people had called that afternoon to say they were pulling out. No reason given. Just a polite email that amounted to "we've decided to go in a different direction." You'd spent six hours on calls trying to salvage it, pacing the penthouse in the same clothes you'd slept in, coffee going cold on the counter.

By midnight, you'd given up. Sat on the couch in the dark with your laptop open and your eyes closed, too wired to sleep and too defeated to work.

That's when she'd buzzed up.

She didn't call first. Didn't text. Just appeared at your door in a hoodie and leggings, no makeup, her hair pulled back. She looked like she hadn't slept either.

"LOOSSEMBLE's done," she said. Not a question. She'd known before the official announcement—they all had. The company had been bleeding money for months, and the remaining members could feel it in every cancelled schedule, every delayed payment, every meeting that got shorter and vaguer. "The manager called today. They're not renewing."

You'd stepped aside and let her in.

She didn't sit down. Walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it. Walked to the window. Walked back. She was vibrating with something—anger or grief or both, compressed into a body that didn't know where to put it.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," she said. "I've been an idol since I was sixteen. That's all I know how to be."

"That's not all you are."

"You don't know that." She turned to face you. Her eyes were dry but raw, like she'd already cried everything out before coming here. "You know the idol version. The version that performs and smiles and posts selfies. What if there's nothing underneath?"

"There is."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here. At midnight. In my apartment. Not performing."

She'd stared at you for a long moment. Then she'd crossed the room and kissed you.

It wasn't like their usual encounters—the arrangement had rules, rhythms, an understood choreography. This was different. This was two people at the end of their respective ropes grabbing onto each other because the alternative was drowning alone. She kissed you like she was trying to prove she existed, her hands fisting in your shirt, pulling you toward her with a desperation that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with needing to feel something besides failure.

You'd pulled her hoodie over her head. She'd pulled your shirt off. Neither of you spoke. The couch was right there, and then the bedroom was too far away so the couch was where it happened—her beneath you, still in her leggings until you pulled them down, her nails raking your back as you pushed inside her without the usual buildup, without the usual care.

It was rough. Graceless. She'd wrapped her legs around you and pulled you deeper with her heels against your lower back, her breath hot against your neck, and you'd fucked her like you were both trying to get somewhere neither of you could reach alone. When she came, she bit your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. When you came, you buried yourself as deep as you could go and stayed there, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together.

Afterward, she'd lain on the couch with her head on your chest, tracing the bite mark she'd left.

"I forgot my pill," she said. Casual. Almost an afterthought. "For like, three days. I've been distracted."

"Should we—"

"It's fine. The timing's wrong anyway." She'd pressed closer. "Don't make it a thing."

So you hadn't made it a thing. You'd held her until she fell asleep, and in the morning she'd left before you woke up, and neither of you had talked about it. Not the carelessness, not the desperation, not the fact that she'd come to you instead of anyone else when her world was ending.

You should have talked about it.

"I remember," you said.

"The timing wasn't wrong."

The words hung in the mountain air.

"Hyeju—"

"I'm pregnant." Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking where they gripped the railing. "Eleven weeks. I found out six weeks ago. I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know what I wanted. And then LOOSSEMBLE fell apart, and everything was chaos, and I just... couldn't."

You couldn't speak. The world had narrowed to this single moment.

"I thought about not keeping it," she continued. "For about a day. Maybe two. And then I realized I couldn't. Not because of any moral thing—just because I want this. I want to be a mother." She finally met your eyes. "I want to do this with you."

Silence.

"I know this changes everything. I have money saved. I can do this alone if—"

You pulled her into your arms and held her.

That was the only answer that mattered.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You sat together on the deck until the sky started to lighten. Hyeju told you everything—the weeks of uncertainty, the doctor's appointments she'd gone to alone, the fear that had turned slowly into determination.

The first appointment had been the hardest. She'd gone to a clinic in Bundang, far enough from Gangnam that she wouldn't run into anyone from the industry. Sat in the waiting room surrounded by couples and pretended to read a magazine while her hands shook. The doctor had been kind. Clinical. Had shown her the ultrasound and pointed to a shape the size of a blueberry, and Hyeju had stared at the screen and thought: that's mine. That's something I made. That's the first thing in my life that nobody else has any claim to.

She'd walked to her car afterward and sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes, crying and laughing and calling no one.

"I almost called you six times," she said. "I had your number pulled up. But every time, I thought—what if you don't want this? What if it changes everything and you pull even further away?"

"I wouldn't have."

"I know that now. I didn't know it then." She paused. "The second appointment, I heard the heartbeat. That's when I stopped being scared and started being ready."

"I was going to tell everyone this weekend," she said. "That's why I wanted us all here. Not just because of LOOSSEMBLE ending. Because I needed my family around me when I said it."

"They'll support you."

"I know." She leaned against your shoulder. "I'm more worried about Choerry."

You understood immediately. Choerry's desire for a child had become an ongoing thread in the arrangement—hopeful attempts that never took, followed by disappointment she processed with increasing difficulty. The doctor visits where nothing was wrong but nothing was right. The methodical tracking of cycles and windows and timing. If Hyeju's accidental pregnancy succeeded where Choerry's intentional efforts failed...

"We'll be there for her," you said.

"Will you?" Hyeju's voice was soft. "You've been so distant. They've needed you and you haven't been here."

"I know."

"Why?"

The honest answer was harder than you wanted it to be. "This. What we have. How much it matters. I thought if I could build enough security, I could protect all of you from anything. And then I got so focused on building that I forgot why I was building it."

She turned her face up to yours. In the pre-dawn light, she looked like something from a dream.

"Be with us now," she said. "That's all I'm asking."

You kissed her. Gentle at first, then deeper. She responded with quiet intensity, her hands finding your face.

"I love you," you said. "I love all of them. But I need you to hear this—I love you. And I'm terrified and ready."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too."

"We're going to be good at this."

"We are. All of us together."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning came too quickly.

You and Hyeju rejoined the others as they trickled awake, gathering in the living area with coffee and leftover pastries. Haseul had orchestrated the sleeping arrangements with her usual efficiency—bodies sprawled across beds and couches and makeshift floor pallets, slowly reassembling into coherent people.

"Meeting time," Haseul announced once everyone was vertical. "We need to talk about LOOSSEMBLE, about futures, about what comes next."

The serious discussion took about an hour. Options laid out, debated, discarded. Hyunjin wanted to focus on her business and maybe building out her own career. Yeojin was pursuing acting or idol life or or something in between. Vivi spoke quietly about potentially returning to Hong Kong for a while, though her eyes kept finding you when she said it. Gowon still hadn't decided anything, her deflection working overtime.

And Hyeju sat quietly through all of it.

Until Haseul turned to her.

"Hyeju? What about you?"

The room went still.

Hyeju took a breath. Looked at you. Found whatever courage she needed.

"I'm leaving idol life," she said.

Confusion, concern, questions. Why? What happened? Are you okay?

Hyeju held up her hand. The room quieted.

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind where twelve people are processing the same information at different speeds and no one wants to be the first to get it wrong.

Yeojin opened her mouth. You saw it happen in real time—the joke forming behind her eyes, the reflex that had always been her armor. Something about timing, probably, or about you. Something that would have broken the tension and also broken the moment.

She closed her mouth. Looked at Hyeju's face. Looked at the hand on Hyeju's stomach.

Crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Hyeju without a word.

It was the quietest thing Yeojin had ever done. And it broke the dam.

Hyeju looked at you. The others followed her gaze.

Understanding settled over them like a wave.

"How long have you known?" Haseul asked carefully.

"Six weeks."

"And you didn't tell us?" Heejin's tone was more hurt than angry. But even as she said it, her expression was already shifting—you could see the exact moment where the hurt gave way to calculation. Schedules rearranging behind her eyes. Maternity logistics. Prenatal care. Who had the most flexible calendar for the third trimester. Heejin couldn't help it. Her brain solved problems the way other people breathed.

"I didn't know how."

Kim Lip stepped forward. "What's the plan?"

"I'm keeping it. And the plan is—" Hyeju paused, her hand finding her stomach. "I want to raise this baby with him. But I don't want this to end what we have. All of us."

She looked around the room.

"You're my family. You have been since before any of this started. And I want you in my child's life. All of you."

Haseul moved first—crossing the room to pull Hyeju into a fierce hug. "You stupid, beautiful girl. You should have told us immediately."

"I know."

One by one, the others joined. Chuu was crying happy tears. Yves held her while adding her own embrace—and when she caught your eye over Hyeju's head, she just nodded. Small and firm and deliberate. No speech, no explanation. Just Yves finally, quietly, choosing this. Choosing to stay.

Chuu squeezed her arm, understanding exactly what that nod meant.

Hyunjin gently interrupted Heejin's logistics spiral: "Maybe just hug her first?"

Heejin looked vaguely offended but complied. Her eyes were suspiciously bright when she pulled back.

Gowon hung back, arms crossed, expression unreadable—until Hyeju reached out and pulled her in, and everything Gowon had built to protect herself crumbled entirely.

"It's not like I'm crying because I'm happy or anything," Gowon muttered, definitely crying.

"Of course not," Hyeju said, holding her tight.

And then everyone noticed Choerry.

She hadn't moved. Stood frozen at the edge of the group, her face a careful mask that was starting to crack.

"Choerry?" Jinsoul noticed first.

"I'm fine." Her voice was too bright. "This is wonderful. I'm so happy for you, Hyeju."

But her eyes told a different story. And when she turned and walked out of the room, no one tried to stop her.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found her on the deck—the same spot where Hyeju had told you everything. She was crying, trying to hide it, failing.

"Choerry."

"I said I'm fine."

You sat beside her anyway. Didn't touch her, didn't push. Just waited.

The dam broke in pieces. First a shuddering breath, then a sob she tried to swallow, then everything at once.

"I've been trying for over a year," she said through her tears. "Every month, hoping. Getting my hopes up. Taking tests too early. And every month—nothing."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turned to face you, expression raw. "Do you know what it's like to want something so badly, to do everything right, to time it perfectly—and still fail? The doctor says nothing's wrong. The timing is right. We're both healthy. It just... doesn't take."

She was shaking now.

"I've tracked every cycle. Changed my diet. Tried every position, every timing, every supplement the internet says might help. I've taken tests so early I knew they'd be negative but I couldn't stop myself from hoping. And every single time—nothing. Just my period, right on schedule, like clockwork, reminding me that my body won't do the one thing I'm asking it to do."

The last time had been three weeks ago. She'd texted you at 6 AM—just "Can you come over?"—and you'd known from those four words exactly what had happened. But you hadn't gone. You'd been in a meeting with your COO about Q3 projections, and you'd texted back "I'll call you tonight" and then hadn't called. Hadn't called the next day either. By the third day, the window had closed—the moment where she needed you had passed, and acknowledging it late would have been worse than not acknowledging it at all.

That was the math you'd been doing for four months. The calculus of distance, where every delayed response made the next one harder until silence felt easier than showing up late.

She didn't mention it now. She didn't have to. You both knew.

"Your body works fine—"

"Then why can't I get pregnant?" Her voice cracked. "While she just... forgot her pill? How is that fair?"

It wasn't. You couldn't pretend it was.

"What if it never happens for me?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What if my body is just... broken?"

"You're not broken."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." You reached for her hand. "And I know that we're going to keep trying for as long as you want to try."

"What if it takes years?"

"Then it takes years."

"What if it never works?"

"Then we explore other options. Fertility specialists. Treatments. Whatever it takes."

Vivi appeared in the doorway. She'd followed silently, and now she crossed to Choerry and knelt beside her, taking her other hand.

"You're not alone in this," Vivi said softly. "You've never been alone."

Haseul had followed too. Standing watch the way she always did.

Choerry collapsed against your chest, still crying but softer now. Vivi rubbed her back while Haseul stood guard, and you held her while the morning light grew stronger.

"I want to be happy for her," Choerry whispered eventually. "I am happy for her. It's just..."

"It hurts."

"It hurts so much."

You had no words that could fix that. So you just held her, and promised silently that you would keep trying for as long as she needed.

"We keep trying," you said. "As long as you want. I promise."

She nodded against your chest, still crying but calmer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Inside, the others were processing in pairs and small groups. Kim Lip found you in the hallway a few minutes later.

"Can we talk?"

She'd always been the most observant of them—the one who noticed things others missed, who filed details away for later.

"I've been watching you all weekend," she said without preamble. "Trying to figure out if you're really here. Or if you're going to pull away again."

"Kim Lip—"

"You hurt them, you hurt us." Her voice was calm but firm. "These past four months. They'd never say it because they love you. But I see things. I see how Choerry's face falls when you don't respond to the group chat. I see how Haseul reorganizes your fridge every time she visits because she knows you're not eating. I see how Hyeju stopped sharing updates because she wasn't sure you wanted to hear them."

She paused. Let you absorb that.

"Gowon showed up at the penthouse three times last month. Did you know that? Three times. And twice you weren't there. The third time was the night she got drunk and told you everything." Her eyes were steady. "She almost didn't come back that third time. Yeojin talked her into it."

The words hit harder than they should have.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. I'm saying it because you need to know what you could lose if you keep running."

"I'm not running anymore."

"Good." She studied your face. "I believe you. But I'm going to keep watching."

She stepped closer, her expression softening. "I'm happy for you. For you and Hyeju, for the baby. I just needed you to hear the hard part first."

She reached up and straightened your collar—a gesture so maternal and unexpected from her that something in your chest shifted.

"Now go be with your family."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The afternoon was quieter. The intensity of the morning had given way to something gentler—conversations in pairs and small groups, processing what Hyeju's news meant for all of them.

Choerry had rejoined the group, her eyes still red but her smile genuine as she held Hyeju's hand.

You'd seen the end of it—Hyeju finding Choerry on the deck after you and Vivi and Haseul had given her space. Hyeju hadn't said anything clever or comforting. She'd just sat down next to Choerry and said, "I'm sorry. I know this hurts and I'm sorry." No qualifiers, no reassurance that it would work out, no toxic positivity. Just acknowledgment.

Choerry had been quiet for a long time. Then she'd said, "Can I be the first one to hold it?"

"Obviously," Hyeju had said. "Who else would it be?"

"Haseul would fight me for it."

"Haseul can wait."

That was all it took. Not a resolution—Choerry's grief wasn't the kind that resolved. But a bridge. Something to stand on while the water was still rising.

"So," Yeojin said, breaking the comfortable silence. "What now? Logistically?"

"Hyeju moves in with me," you said. You'd discussed it on the deck that morning. "The penthouse has enough space. When she's ready to step back from public life, she can do it quietly."

"What about the rest of us?" Heejin asked. "The arrangement. Does this change things?"

You looked around the room. Twelve faces.

"Does it need to?"

The silence that followed was more honest than comfortable. They were all thinking it. Yeojin was the one who actually said it.

"I mean—are we still all sleeping with him? Because I feel like someone should ask that out loud instead of everyone pretending they're not thinking it."

The room held its breath. Then Jinsoul laughed. Then Chuu. Then everyone, the tension cracking open like an egg, messy and necessary.

"Thank you," Kim Lip said, "for being the one person here with no filter."

"Someone has to be," Yeojin said, not remotely apologetic.

"A baby changes everything," Gowon said quietly, once the laughter faded. Then she caught herself, glanced at you, and added—without the usual deflection: "But maybe that's not a bad thing."

"Or it changes nothing," Hyeju said. "I meant what I said. I don't want this to end what we have. I want to find a way to make it work—all of us, together. Just... evolved."

"We don't have to decide everything today," Haseul said. The leader voice. The one that settled rooms. "We figure it out the way we've always figured things out."

"Imperfectly," Kim Lip said.

"Exactly."

"I just want to say something," Chuu said. The laughter had faded, and her voice was serious in a way that made people pay attention. "I fly in from sets. Yves tours for months at a time. We've never been the most present members of this family, and I've felt guilty about that. But this"—she gestured at the room, at Hyeju, at the space between all of them—"this is the thing I protect my schedule for. This is what I negotiate seventy-two-hour breaks for. A baby doesn't change that. It gives me a better reason to fight for it."

Yves squeezed her hand but said nothing. She didn't need to. Chuu had spoken for both of them.

"I can help with the business side," Hyunjin said. She'd been quiet through most of the discussion, thinking rather than reacting. "If Hyeju wants to stay out of the public eye, my company can handle the narrative. Quiet retirement, personal reasons, no drama.

Hyeju blinked. "You'd do that?"

"You're family. That's not even a question."

"Monthly dinners," Vivi suggested. "No excuses."

"Rotating aunt duties," Jinsoul added. "Give Hyeju and Oppa breaks when they need them."

"This child is going to be so confused," Yeojin said, grinning.

"This child is going to be so loved," Haseul corrected.

"Both," Chuu said. "Definitely both."

"Mostly loved," Hyeju said. She looked around the room—at twelve women who'd fought their way out of one family and built another. "That's enough."

That night, you and Hyeju lay together in the master bedroom. The house had quieted. Through the walls, you could hear the muffled sounds of the others settling—Yeojin's laugh from somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of Kim Lip and Jinsoul's voices, a door closing softly. Haseul had organized the sleeping arrangements with characteristic precision, but you suspected half of them would end up in different rooms by morning, migrating toward warmth and familiar bodies the way they always did.

"Scared?" she asked.

"Terrified."

"Good. Me too." She curled against your side, her hand resting on her still-flat stomach. "At least we're terrified together."

"Is this what you want? Really?"

"I've been running for so long. From the company, from the pressure, from expectations I never asked for. This feels like stopping. Choosing something instead of having it chosen for me."

"You chose me."

"I chose us. All of it. This family. It's weird and unconventional and definitely not what I imagined when I was a trainee. But it's real. And it's mine."

You kissed her forehead. "I love you."

"I know." She smiled against your chest. "Now go to sleep. We have a lot of family drama to process tomorrow."

You slept better than you had in months.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

TWO YEARS LATER

The penthouse didn't look like yours anymore.

Baby gates blocked the stairs. Educational toys littered the living room. Crayon scribbles covered the refrigerator—most of them just circles and lines, but treasured like gallery pieces. Hyeju's touch was everywhere, softening the edges, turning a bachelor's investment into something that smelled like laundry detergent and sesame oil and home.

Your daughter was eighteen months old. Dark eyes like her mother's, your nose, a laugh that could fill any room. Her first word had been "Mama," followed almost immediately by "Eonni," because with that many women constantly cycling through the apartment, she couldn't tell the difference. It had made everyone cry.

She was currently being passed between aunts like a particularly adorable football. Yeojin was winning the giggle competition via raspberry noises on her belly—an unfair advantage, but Yeojin had never played fair.

Hyeju sat on the couch beside you, six months pregnant with your second, watching the chaos with a hand on her stomach and an expression that was equal parts fond and exhausted.

"Choerry, stop hogging her," Haseul called from the kitchen, where she and Vivi were plating dinner with the synchronized efficiency of people who'd been doing this together for years.

"But she loves me best!" Choerry protested, bouncing your daughter on her hip.

"She loves everyone best. That's the problem."

Choerry had stopped trying for a baby three months ago. Not permanently—just a break. Her therapist had suggested stepping back, and for the first time, Choerry had listened. The constant hope and disappointment had worn grooves in her that needed time to heal. But when she held your daughter, the wanting was still there—quieter now, less desperate. Something she was learning to carry instead of chase.

You caught her eye across the room. She gave you a small smile—not her performance smile, but something real and hard-won.

"Dinner!" Haseul announced. "Everyone to the table."

The table was too small. It always was. They'd developed a rotation—first seating, second seating—that devolved into musical chairs every month.

Chuu had flown in from a drama shoot specifically for this. Seventy-two hours she'd negotiated into her schedule because the monthly dinner was non-negotiable. She sat next to Yves, their hands intertwined on the table, no longer hiding anything. They'd gone public six months ago. The response had mostly been "finally."

Hyunjin talked about her company—fifty new hires next month, fair wages, proper benefits. The competitive fire that used to be directed at Heejin was now channeled into something bigger.

"You're actually making a difference," Heejin said, and the table went quiet. Heejin complimenting Hyunjin unprompted was a notable event.

"I'm serious," Heejin continued. "What you do matters."

Hyunjin ducked her head. But she was smiling.

Kim Lip's first fully produced album had won a major award last month. Jinsoul's songs were charting overseas now.

Gowon had released her solo debut six months ago. Not a commercial smash, but the critics responded, and she'd found something she hadn't expected—creative satisfaction that didn't depend on anyone else's validation. She still deflected compliments. The walls were thinner, though.

Yeojin was on her third drama. "I have a love scene in the new one," she announced. "The director keeps telling me to be more 'innocent.'"

"Please don't traumatize your co-star," Chuu said.

"Too late."

Between courses, Vivi disappeared from the kitchen. You found her—or rather, heard her—in the nursery down the hall. Your daughter had gotten fussy during the seat change, overtired from too many aunts and too much stimulation, and Vivi had slipped away without a word.

You stood in the doorway. Vivi was in the rocking chair, your daughter curled against her chest, one small fist clutching the fabric of Vivi's shirt. Vivi was humming something—not a LOONA song, something older, something that might have been Cantonese. A lullaby from before she'd come to Korea, maybe. Before the trainee years and the contracts and the lawsuits. Something from the version of herself that existed before all of this.

Your daughter's eyes were closing. Her breathing was slowing. Vivi's hand moved in slow circles on her back, patient and unhurried.

She looked up and saw you watching. Didn't stop humming. Just held your gaze for a moment, then looked back down at the sleeping child in her arms. The expression on her face wasn't the fond exhaustion of an aunt doing a favor. It was something fiercer. Quieter. The look of someone who had found the exact place in the world where she was supposed to be, and who had no intention of leaving it.

She'd chosen this. Not the spotlight, not the stage—this. The unglamorous work of showing up. Peeling tangerines. Bringing the right soy sauce. Rocking someone else's daughter to sleep in a dim room while the party continued without her.

That was Vivi's role now. She and Haseul had become the twin pillars—Haseul organizing, Vivi nourishing. Between them, nothing fell through the cracks.

You mouthed "thank you" from the doorway. She shook her head slightly. No thanks needed. This was where she wanted to be.

Back at the table, Gowon had taken your empty seat next to Hyeju. They were looking at something on Hyeju's phone—ultrasound photos, you realized. Gowon's expression was unguarded in a way she never allowed in public. She traced the outline of the image with one finger, her lips slightly parted, and you recognized the look because you'd seen versions of it all night. On Choerry, it was wanting. On Vivi, it was purpose.

On Gowon, it was possibility. The slow, terrifying realization that the walls she'd built to protect herself were also walls that kept things out. Things she might want. Things she wasn't ready to name.

Hyeju said something you couldn't hear. Gowon's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the muscle memory of one. She placed her hand flat on the phone screen for a moment, covering the image, like she was holding it. Then she pulled her hand back and said something dismissive, probably, because that was what Gowon did. But her fingers were trembling the same way they had on the bathroom floor.

She looked up and caught you watching. The walls slammed back into place—but slower than before. A half-second delay that hadn't been there a year ago.

You didn't say anything. Some things needed time to find their own shape.

Later, after dinner plates were cleared and dessert demolished and the aunts had all taken their turns holding the baby, you stood on the balcony.

Seoul spread out below. Somewhere out there, fans still followed their careers, still bought albums and concert tickets. They had no idea about any of this.

Maybe someday the story would come out. Maybe it wouldn't.

Haseul found you there. As she always did.

"Good dinner," she said.

"You organized it. Like always."

She leaned against the railing beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. "How are you? Really?"

You considered the question the way she deserved. "Happy. Exhausted. Terrified about two kids under three. But for the first time in a long time, I'm not running toward something or away from something. I'm just here."

"Good." She smiled. "That's all I ever wanted for you."

"What about you?"

She looked out at the city. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Her hand found yours on the railing.

Through the glass doors: Chuu demonstrating a ridiculous dance from her drama while Yves tried and failed to look uncharmed. Heejin and Hyunjin arguing about something trivial. Kim Lip and Jinsoul sharing wine, heads bent together. Yeojin chasing your daughter around the couch—Vivi had returned her, recharged, to the chaos—both of them shrieking. Choerry watching with that complicated expression that was slowly, slowly becoming something like peace.

And Hyeju, asleep on the couch with one hand on her belly, a small smile on her lips.

Twelve women. One man. A daughter with eleven aunts and a sibling on the way.

A family built on something impossible that had somehow become the realest thing in any of their lives.

Haseul squeezed your fingers. Through the glass, your daughter dodged Yeojin's reaching hands with a delighted shriek—her laughter echoing through the penthouse, bright and certain, like she already knew she'd never run out of people to catch her.

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REMINDER: If you made it this far, please leave a comment with your thoughts on this chapter and the series as a whole. Your feedback genuinely helps me grow as a writer, and I truly love hearing what you felt, what stayed with you, and what this story meant to you.

[jmuns-kpop]

It Was Only a Week (Part 1)

~Le Sserafim's Yunjin (x Male Reader), 9.7k words (angst, fluff, non-smut), Part 1 of 2

You always hated the airport.

The PA blared again, calling the same passenger for the sixth time. You unzipped the small pocket of your backpack, feeling your passport for the seventh.

It wasn’t so much the building itself you hated. It was just… everyone acted like you felt. Like the airport was a house of perpetual anxiety, its people buzzing with stress. They moved too quick, double-checked too often. Even those sitting down exhibited the signs. The old lady across from you compared her ticket to the screen at the gate three times in a row.

Vacations were ironic. You saved up, willingly going through hours of stress at an airport just to relax for a week. Then you’d have to go through that same stress on the way back to your regular stress, life. Thinking about it gave you a headache.

Maybe the vacation would be good, though. Because your regular stress was hell. Life as a civil engineering student had drained every last remnant of fun from your life for the past three years. And for what? Three men in suits worth more than your tuition walked past, carry-ons in tow, rattling something about ‘quarterly meetings’ and ‘new HR docs’. Would this be your life after school? Would your regular stress compound once you graduated, slowly morphing you into some corporation? You’d rather be a gym bro.

It’s not like you had a choice in the matter anyway. No matter how long you’d been avoiding them, your cousin made it very clear if you missed her wedding in Mexico you’d be dead to her and the rest of the family. Which was why now, in the middle of your final year of school— just before your midterms— you sat at gate 104 waiting for your flight to Cancun.

The flight, though. You could look forward to that. 7 hours cut off from the outside world. The plane like a little capsules, closed off from that stress. 7 hours where you could slip your headphones on and turn your brain off. At least you could look forward to that.

You pulled out your new sketchbook and a finely sharpened pencil the border agent definitely gave you trouble for. You looked in front of you— you’d been staring at the airport seats for an hour and a half, so long they morphed into desks. And you could’ve sworn that old guy didn’t look like your professor half an hour ago. Maybe you needed a change of perspective.

You grabbed your bag (checking your passport was there one more time of course), before switching to a seat facing the opposite direction. You plopped down with your sketchbook.

And suddenly, the airport didn’t seem so bad. A group of girls sitting 3 rows from you huddled together, staring at a phone. The one with the deep red hair guffawed, clapping her hands together as she laughed, followed by the other 3. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, laugh piercing the stale air. You watched as her legs lifted in the air from laughing so hard. Her face lit up, not only her expression, but the room.

One of her friends tapped her shoulder, showing her the phone again, and another outburst came. The four of them seemed so carefree, even joyous. Their fun was a far cry from what you thought airports could be. And yet, even the PA seemed happier, singing its little jingle before it called for a passenger for the seventh time now.

You looked away, conscious of your staring. You looked down at your sketchbook. This seemed like as good a place as any to sketch, especially considering the view. Your eyes occasionally (putting it lightly) flicked to the girl. Even while she sat, idly scrolling on her phone, she looked so comfortable. She was slid so far down her chair her head rested on the back of the seat, her shoeless feet plopped on the carry-on in front of her.

Meanwhile, you sat in your chair perfectly straight, carry-on neatly in front of you. You tried taking up as little space as possible, despite having the entire row of seats for yourself.

You looked down at your sketch. It wasn’t good— you’d totally messed up the glass roof. There were 6 rows of support beams running through, not 8. That wasn’t even mentioning the fact that there were missing details everywhere— a pillar too wide, a clock not round enough. Oddly enough, the chairs were the only thing that looked picture perfect. You ripped the page from the book, crumpling it. A buzz from your pocket vibrated, and taking your phone out, a text from your Aunt read:

“Can’t wait to see you! We just arrived. Have a safe flight!”

You swiped the message away, looking at the time. 8:27. Still another hour before boarding. You picked your sketchbook up again, starting over. You sat up a little straighter, shutting your eyes for a second in concentration. This time would be different— you’d produce a picture perfect sketch of the gate. You silently sketched, eyes flicking to the red-haired girl occasionally. You silently hoped she’d be going to the same resort you were.

It’s even worse than before, you thought an hour later as the first boarding call came in.

--

Of course, back of the plane. Right next to the washrooms. You plopped down in your window seat, tucking your backpack under the seat in front of yours. It seemed the plane had filled up, save for the two seats in your row. Lucky. You plopped your shoes off. It felt wrong, but— vacation mode, you justified. You took your earphones out of your pocket, about to slide them into your ears when-

“Bathroom seats”, a voice sighed. You looked up. The red-haired girl stood at your row, eyes flicking to yours. “At least we don’t have to go through it alone, right?” She said, sliding into the aisle seat. She kicked her shoes off as well, sliding her hoodie off her arms so it hung off her shoulders, hood still covering her head.

You sat there shocked. Wasn’t this everyone’s dream? Wasn’t it a classic trope to see a cute girl at an airport and hope they sat next to you on the flight? And it was happening to you and oh god she was talking to you.

“Ever been to Cancun?” she asked casually, as if you weren’t strangers.

“Oh… first time”, you responded after the initial shock wore off. You quietly slipped your shoes back on. Hopefully she didn’t notice.

She stretched her arms in the air— a moan inducing one by the sounds of it. “Same” she groaned, settling in. “Oh, my group was the last to board by the way. We got lucky, empty middle seat!” She lifted her legs, curling them on the empty seat. “Lets split it? We can each have a half,” she said.

And she wasn’t wearing shoes. Vacation mode it was. “Sure,” you answered, but kept your feet where they were.

You sat in mostly silence as the flight attendants demonstrated the safety measures in case of emergency, but on take off, the girls breath hitched, and she held her armrests a little too tight.

The plane had evened out, and the general buzz of excitement from take off died down into amiable silence— thank God, no kids on the flight.

“How are you so calm right now?” She asked, breaking the silence.

So much for 7 hours of quiet, you thought.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you said, deciding you might as well talk. What else were you going to do? Ignore this beautiful girl for 7 hours? “Planes are peaceful. I don’t know how you were so happy at the gate, though, that place is hell”

She eyed you curiously. “At the gate? Did I meet you at the gate?”

“You’d be hard to miss when you were laughing like a hyena every 20 minutes” you joked. That was weird. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d told a joke.

A smile lit up the girls face. “Someone’s got jokes” she chuckled. “Guess I’m sitting next to a stalker.”

“I wasn’t stalking you, you’re just hard to miss”

“Thanks”, she said.

“Wasn’t a compliment”

She gave a small chuckle. “You know, you’re different than I expected. Not as quiet as I imagined”

You thought about it for a moment. You guessed it was true, most new people ignored you, let you exist as long as you didn’t bother them. But for some reason, you just felt… comfortable around this girl. “I didn’t always give that impression” you said after a pause. “I used to be… fun. Before three years of civil engineering”

“Oh, STEM”, she winced.

“Yeah” you sighed. “What about you. Not sitting with your group?” The question seemed to dig at her. She gave a short smile, and pulled out half a popsicle stick out of her hoodie pocket.

“Got the short end of the stick” she said feigning cheerfulness. “So I had to sit alone”

“They made you sit alone?” you asked. She gave a short nod. “There’s three of them right? Why wouldn’t you just book it in seats of two and two, that way no one got left out?”

“That’s some great math Mr. Engineer” she joked— then sighed. “Pretty sure it was rigged from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… wasn’t really invited on this trip, just a last minute replacement for someone who cancelled. Don’t think any of them would want to spend 7 hours with the outsider alone.”

“Really? You all looked so friendly at the gate” you said.

“So you are a stalker?” She laughed. “And I picked my stick last” she said holding up the popsicle stick. “So I think they must’ve known which stick was the shortest. Probably planned on isolating me from the beginning”

“And now you have to sit next to a stranger.”

She gave you another smile, more genuine this time. “Well you’re not so bad, stranger” she said. “Also, can we go back to what you said before? Airplanes are calm?”

The next hour flew by too fast. You learned the girl’s name was Yunjin, here with a couple of girls from her new job on a ‘bonding trip’. A couple of times you made Yunjin laugh so hard a lady 3 rows in front gave a smug “SHH”.

You also learned she wasn’t from your city— just happened to be at that airport on a layover.

“So, what is it?” She asked. “Why don’t you seem excited for the trip?”

God, this girl. So damn friendly. Wasn’t she scared of overstepping? She looked at you with large, curious eyes. “Cousin’s wedding” you sighed. “You know, family.”

“Yeah. Family,” she repeated.

“I love them but, it’s just- I haven’t seen them in a while. And there’ll be questions. And expectations. How can I face them when they gave up everything to put me in school, to give my life meaning, when my life still doesn’t have meaning? How can I act like I’m living out my dreams when school is kicking my ass every day?” You lifted the armrest, kicking your feet up to your half of the empty seat.

“School’s a bitch, isn’t it” she said. It was all she needed to say.

The conversation died down after another half hour. You wracked your brain for something to say, something to keep the conversation going. Talking to her was refreshing— you already knew you wouldn’t regret the trip, even if just for the flight. No matter how huge the pile of assignments awaited back home.

But it was clear the exhaustion from the flight was getting to you. You both sunk into your chairs. Something light hit your lap. You looked down, one wireless earphone. Yunjin had pulled out her iPad.

“We have a little over 5 hours left. If we start now we can get through the first 2 Harry Potter movies, and a bit of the third one. Or I also have Jumanji downloaded.”

You smiled. “Lets do Harry Potter”

She smiled back. “Knew I’d like you”. Yunjin lowered the makeshift table attached to the back of the middle seat, placing the iPad down. You both settled in, and her legs awkwardly tangled in yours on the empty seat. You didn’t mind. You slid your hoodie off your arms so it hung off your shoulders just like Yunjin’s, iconic melody of Harry Potter ringing in your ears 30 000 feet above the Atlantic ocean.

The rest of the flight flew by, pun intended. You sank into your seat, legs still thrown awkwardly onto the empty seat next to you. You had tried to take up as little space as possible—Yunjin was sharing with you after all. But it was clear Yunjin didn’t mind by the way she plopped her feet on yours. You were acutely aware of the contact— every ounce of you was focused on her legs on yours, the movie be damned. Every inch she moved made you jump, but by first half of the first movie you’d grown comfortable with the contact. You could feel the warmth of her skin through your sweats.

“Ravenclaw?” She asked as the end credits of The Philosopher’s Stone climbed the iPad.

“Huh?”

“Your house. You seem like a Ravenclaw”

“Oh. Gryffindor” you answered.

“Really? Mr. Engineer values courage?”

“I guess, that’s just what the test said”

Yunjin rolled her eyes. “Boring. I’m a slytherin”

“Oh and me being Gryffindor is surprising” you mocked. “You reek of Hufflepuff!”

“Hufflepuff!” She exclaimed. “You think I’m a ditz?!”

“Hufflepuff’s aren’t ditzes. But the way you almost fell off your chair from laughter at the airport just screamed Hufflepuff.”

Yunjin lifted a leg, extending it to poke you with her sock covered toes. “You are a stalker” she said with a click of her tongue. “I guess that means we’re enemies then, stranger. Gryffindor and Slytherin“

You slid your hoodie off your head playfully tossing it at her. “It’s not a rivalry— Gryffindor’s are clearly better. Now scooch. I gotta use the washroom”

She scrunched her body, letting you pass. “Don’t stink up the washroom, we sit right next to it” she said.

You shimmied by her. Who knew the flight might’ve been the highlight of your trip. Honestly, you had been dreading this for a while— seeing your family, answering questions about school, plans and the future. You had enough on your plate trying to pass, and seeing your family would exacerbate those expectations tenfold.

But Yunjin was a breath of fresh air. She too was in an uncomfortable situation, stuck with a group of people on a trip she knew they’d rather her not be on. But she faced it, and now she was with you, watching Harry Potter movies while bantering like you’d known each other for years.

But there was only a limited amount of time left. Who knew if you’d ever see her again once the flight ended. You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Why did your hair look like it was tumbled in the dryer on high? Shit, you shouldn’t have thrown your hoodie away, now there was nothing to hide the haybale on your head.

You leaned in close, brushing and patting, trying anything to fix it. It stood up no matter how hard you tried to quell it. You laughed at yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time ‘your hair’ was the architect of calamity in your life. Usually it was rent, or GPA, or maybe having a heart attack from stress and dying before you could even graduate.

But here you were on a plane to Mexico in the middle of the schoolyear, fixing your hair because you sat next to a pretty girl. You could already feel the stress trickle away.

No, it was definitely there. Even flicking back to the thought of school brought the sinking feeling back to your stomach. But then you saw yourself in the mirror again, thought about Yunjin, and the feeling diluted.

You resorted to wetting your hair with sink water (from an airplane bathroom? Gross) to at least settle the strays before heading back to the seat.

What awaited you was that same otherworldly beauty sitting in your seat.

“My window seat!”

She smiled, not mischievous or playful, but genuine. “Thanks for the seat stranger. Now hurry up,” she said, patting the middle seat and gesturing to her iPad, which now sat on the tray in front of her. “Movie’s starting”.

She wants me to sit next to her, you thought, climbing into place. It was probably for logistics, because watching a movie on a small iPad 2 seats apart didn’t make sense. So why did the feeling in your stomach return? This time not sinking but fluttering, as if the butterflies ate away the stress like leaves. I should’ve brought a hat you thought as you settled in beside her.

--

All too soon the plane rumbled as it touched ground, misplaced applause ringing through the aircraft.

“Who the hell claps for a plane landing?” Yunjin laughed.

“No idea,” you said, dropping your hands back to your lap. Hopefully she didn’t notice.

The plane slowed gradually, yet every moment passed too quick. Every detail— no matter how small or insignificant ran through your head as you tried to soak it all in. The way she threw her head back when she laughed. How she’d stare at you, really look at you when you talked, or rolled her eyes when you said something stupid.

The plane stopped, seatbelt light clicking off as people rose to their feet.

You couldn’t tell why— maybe because you were at the back of the plane, waiting for the rest of the congregation to file out, or maybe because she too was soaking up the time you had left, but neither of you moved for a while.

It wasn’t until the seats had completely emptied, slow line out the plane growing thin did you two move.

“They didn’t even wait for me,” Yunjin sighed under her breath. You pretended not to hear.

She turned to you, carry on in tow, sunhat rimming her head. “Well— it was fun! Call me!” She said, as cheerily as ever. As if it wasn’t only 7 hours, and you’d see each other again. With a wave she was gone.

Wait, call me? Did she give you her number? You took your phone out of your pocket, checking the contacts. You scrolled through your contacts, but you didn’t see any new contacts.

You turned to the front of the plane, hoping to tell her you didn’t have her number; it was too late, the passengers had filed out. Sighing, you slipped your hoodie into your backpack before reaching for your carry on.

You didn’t rush to catch up to her— one because it would’ve been way too embarrassing to confront her in front of her 3 friends, but also because… maybe it was better this way? It was only 7 hours. Were you really going to get attached? No, you had a whole life back home. A life that demanded all of you.

But, later that day, it didn’t matter that the Sun threw its balmy glare on your skin, heating your sunscreened body, or that the piña colada you picked up— spiked with rum of course, vacation mode— cooled you from the inside. As soon as you stepped out of the taxi and into the resort, you knew you’d rather be back on that plane with Yunjin. Especially as your Auntie Jess’s scream rang your name in the resort lobby, and she— and her kids— dashed in your direction.

--

It wasn’t that you didn’t love your family. You did— you would go to the ends of the earth to make your Auntie Jess’s 2 kids happy. You looked at your baby cousins, bundled up in swimsuits— the one’s with little floaties attached to the arms and legs. Your aunt droned on about the flight, the wedding preparations, how the rest of the family would be so excited to see you.

It was precisely because you loved your family that it pained you to be here. Because telling them what you’d been thinking for three years— that you didn’t know if you wanted to be a civil engineer— wasn’t an option. Especially given you had been sent to school on no scholarships or grants. Just the money out of your parents pockets. But lying to them— telling them school was going great, or that you were excited to graduate, to be a real adult was taxing.

“Oh, there’s a casino here”, your aunt pointed. “Bar is open all night. Your older cousins missed you last night,” she smiled, “and I’m sure you’re itching to go, what, studying so hard. We’re all so proud of you— Agnes! Stop poking your brother— anyways, let’s go! Everyone’s been dying to see you” she exclaimed, leading you further on. You sipped the piña colada faster.

The rest of your immediate family had commandeered two large outdoor tables. You lugged your belongings over to them. It was weird, you’d been dreading seeing them for weeks, but as your aunts and uncles pulled you into tight hugs, you were like a kid again. You were surprised how much you missed them.

Then the tears started— lead in charge by your mom of course. Why did moms always go for the cheeks? You swatted away her pinching fingers before she locked you in a tight embrace. Your dad silently nodded to you from his chair, sipping his beer. You nodded back. It was all you would afford each other, but now, after over a year of not seeing him, it was all you needed.

You honestly relished the feeling. “You brought me to the old person table?” You said. It wasn’t a very good joke, but the fact you made one told yourself lots— that you really did miss your family. That was twice today you made a joke. Maybe vacation mode was a real thing.

Your aunt Claire rolled her eyes. “Your other cousins are probably at the beach. Honestly those two— they haven’t been sober since we got here!”

“Looks like I need to catch up”, you replied.

And so you did. You finished your pina colada before your uncle handed you another. And it was great, sitting there, being with the people you knew loved you no matter what. Whom you apparently missed so deeply without even realizing it.

But then the comments came.

“How’s school?”

“You must be so proud of how far you’ve come!”

“What are your plans after you graduate”

Until a voice— all too deep, sort of nasally— cut through the chatter. “Stop hounding the man, let him put his shit away first!”

“Minho! Sakura!” You yelled as your aunt Claire smacked the boy over his language. Your cousins wore the tropical vibe not only in their clothes— a swimsuit with pineapples plastered all over for Minho, and a two piece for Sakura, with a bright sarong wrapped around her waist— but also their demeanor. Laid back and clearly drunk, the sight of them stirred you to your feet.

You ran to hug them. Minho patted you on your back, stumbling a bit, and Sakura’s face was flushed red. She was giggling, the smell of tequila heavy on her breath.

“Let’s show you to our room buddy” Minho said, loud enough for your family to hear. “And hurry up putting your stuff away,” he whispered, “me, you, Sakura. We’re getting sloshed this entire trip”

--

Four drinks in and the weeks itinerary was a mix of letters and numbers.

“Look, all you need to know is this” Sakura said, a little too loud. “Today is Sunday - hiccup - Tuesday is wedding rehearsal, Thursday we have wedding shoots, Friday is the wedding, and Sunday we leave”.

The cool night air sang with the mariachi’s music. The resort was still buzzing with people— it was only 8 pm. And you were already inebriated— vacation mode of course. The last rays of light stretched over the resort.

“Okay sorry— when’s the wedding again?”

Sakura rolled her eyes. “There’s no way you’re still a lightweight. I’d have thought 3 years of university would have upped your tolerance”.

You smacked Sakura’s shoulder. “I’m not a lightweight. I just haven’t eaten since the plane. Plus, remember prom? It wasn’t an hour into the afterparty before you were throwing up. I had to ditch my date for 20 minutes before Minho came to bring you home— where is that guy anyway?”

“Probably off with some girl” Sakura said, smiling. “There’s a buffet here. Let’s go? I’m getting hungry too”, Sakura said, dragging you by the bicep. “I forgot about prom night” Sakura smiled. “You know, you should visit more. Christmas and summers, me and Minho— we really miss you”

You silently let yourself be dragged to the buffet, before the smell of slow braised meats— of cilantro and corn fill the air. Your stomach rumbled.

You and Sakura ate, laughing and reminiscing, and before long your minds began to clear and you’d ordered another margarita.

“How many times do I have to tell you— the wedding is on Friday! Just know, tomorrow you have off. We can go to the beach. But enough about that— your mom says you’re still single. What happened to the cousin I knew from high school?”

“Yeah, well. School has been busy” you said passively.

Sakura laughed. “School? You’re seriously letting school get in the way?” She looked at the soft, embarrassed smile on your face. “Wow, you really have changed. But you’re really not talking to anyone?”

You thought of the girl on the plane of course. Yunjin.

“Cmon, spill it. I see that look on your face.”

“Well— there was this girl. On the plane.”

“On the plane?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure we snuggled. While watching movies.” The look Sakura gave you was a mix of amusement and skepticism. “And then she told me to call her”

“So call her!” Sakura lit up.

“That’s the thing— I don’t think she gave me her number”

Sakura’s eyes closed, clearly baffled and disappointed.

“My cousin. My own cousin.” She repeated incredulously. “You didn’t even get her number? Well where is she staying? At this resort?”

You paused. “No idea.”

Sakura sighed. “Just wait ‘till Minho hears about this” she said, shaking her head. “We should go find him,” she switched the topic, scarfing down the last bite of her fajita. “Last night we bribed one of the employees to keep the pool open past 9. Just for us.”

The rest of the night, aside from the embarrassment and realization you’d probably never see Yunjin again, was a relief. You had forgotten how much you’d missed Sakura and Minho, and even the rest of your aunts and uncles. You were honestly looking forward to meeting the rest of the family.

Well, for the most part. Your other cousin, Annabelle, was apparently in full bridezilla mode. She’d always been high maintenance, but there was a chill in the air even when Minho spoke about her. Maybe it was best you’d leave her alone tonight.

But it didn’t matter as you, Sakura, and Minho— who had been off at one of the resorts many bars talking to a girl twice his age— swam in the pool backlit with LED’s until the early morning.

You laid in your bed that night— room shared of course with Minho— drunk and dizzy, but oddly peaceful. Like… maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Yeah, your family had asked you some questions, but Minho saved you in the end. You were sure more would come, and you’d have to answer them eventually, but you could keep up. After all, it was only a week, right?

You opened up Instagram. Maybe, just maybe by some stroke of fate, you’d be able to find her. Yunjin, you typed in the search bar.

Nothing.

--

The next morning at the buffet, you definitely didn’t regret coming. Breakfast definitely was the most important meal of the day, those who claimed it a myth be damned. You and Minho came back to the table with mounds of eggs, of chilaquiles and fresh fruit. God the fruit.

And in his other hand, Minho clutched three mimosas, because vacation mode of course.

“Drinking this early?” Your mother questioned.

“Leave the boy be, he works too hard. He’s a couple months away from his engineering degree! Let him have his fun,” your Aunt Jess defended.

“Sakura, did you tell him?” Your aunt Claire chimed in.

She rolled her eyes. “No, mom.”

“Oh tell him!” The older lady smiled. Sakura simply looked at you, embarrassed. “Okay fine I will. There’s this girl across the street from us— just moved in! I’ve been telling her about you. About to be an engineer, handsome, responsible. Even Sakura thinks you’d look cute together!”

“I did not say that!” She denied. “I didn’t think my cousin would need help finding someone” she said.

“Well— it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure our big shot plans to stay in the big city,” your aunt Jess chimed in. “Or move somewhere fancy. How about it, what’s your plan after you graduate?”

Suddenly your huevos rancheros didn’t seem so appetizing. You rattled some response, answers with no real substance but enough to appease the masses (2 aunts, 1 uncle and your parents), before switching the topic.

“But hey— how’s Annabelle?”

It had your desired effect— aunts and uncles always loved gossip. It was a rule of life. They rattled on, predicted when she’d have kids, if the dress would be cream or blush or champagne white, who in the family would get married next.

“I’ll meet you at the beach?” You whispered to Minho and Sakura in the confusion of gossip before quietly slipping away (mimosa still in hand). Walking passed the pools on your way to the beach definitely lightened your mood, and soon the white sands, flowing themselves like water gave way to the vast blue ocean. It was picture perfect. The sky was divine, disappearing into the ocean in the vast horizon as rays of the Sun bounced off the water.

Palm trees stuck out of the ground, young coconuts clinging to their branches. Beach balls idly flew past your head as you made your way down the beach, warm sand tickling your feet. And you swear you heard a seagull— something you thought only happened in movies. You made your way left, pausing every once in a while to assess the view.

The beach was lined with resorts, and although you could walk to the other resorts sections of the beaches, you had told your cousins to meet you. You picked a spot near the left edge of your own resorts beach. The bordering resort seemed nice too, but a little more packed.

You settled on a beach chair, taking your sketchbook out. It was a relatively new hobby you’d found, drawing. But it helped you stay calm. And you were surprisingly good at it. Well, you thought so, it wasn’t like anyone had ever seen your drawings.

You let yourself get lost in the lines you drew. In the fluffy clouds, scattered sparingly across the sky. In the sailboat, too far out you couldn’t see anyone on it. And in the seashell, so large it looked fake. Every stroke careful, precise, exact.

“And here I was sad you didn’t text me. Turns out you’d just followed me to the beach,” a familiar voice called out. You looked up, and it was like the Sun had jumped from it’s spot on the beautiful canvas you called the sky and walked up to you.

Yunjin’s deep red hair flowed freely out of her straw sunhat, sunglasses pushed up to the bridge of her nose. It was a miracle you noticed these two details considering the white two piece she was wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight— no, like the sunlight.

She let her glasses fall to the tip of her nose, looking at you inquiringly. “So? Why didn’t you text?”

But you could see the smile she held back, and tossing your sketchbook on the beach chair, you stood. “Yunjin!”

She let her smile show. “Hey stranger”

Funny— you’d been silently hoping to see her since you left the plane, but now that she was in front of you… why was it so awkward? You stood in front of her, unsure what to say, how to react at this miracle. “How was I supposed to text you without your number?”

“Well, seeing as you were too much of a wuss to ask, I slipped it into your hoodie pocket while you were in the washroom. You didn’t find it?”

“When did you expect me to use my hoodie in Mexico?”

“Oh, right” she laughed. “Well, here we are now. On the same beach. It must be fate!”

“Fate?” You laughed.

“What, you don’t believe in fate?” She asked, patting the sand and sitting down into it.

You sat next to her, thinking for a moment. “Well, I definitely used to. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” She asked

“Is it my fate to disappear into my degree? Is that who I am now? Nothing more or less than an engineer?”

She leaned back into the sand. “So, I take it your family has been asking questions?”

“Just like I predicted” you sighed. “And what about you? Where are your friends?”

She gestured into the shallow waters, to three girls playing with a beach ball. “Off playing monkey in the middle” she said.

“Hmm. Three player game”

She put on her best smile, although her eyes, her eyes didn’t light up the way you’d seen they could.

“It’s not like that. Not all of it. They asked me to play with them but…” she trailed off.

“But?”

“You ever feel like people would be having more fun if you weren’t around? Like they’re not exactly rude, friendly even. But when it comes down to it, you’re kind of just… there?”

“Yeah, I sort of get that”

She smiled. Real this time. “But then I saw a stranger looking lonely over here and thought I’d come bother him.”

You both leaned into the sand. It was so surreal, being here on this beach with her.

“Hey, isn’t this kind of surreal?” She asked.

“Surreal?” You asked, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“To be here on this beach. It’s kind of amazing places like this exist.”

You turned to her. Her perfect skin glowed brighter than the white sand, the little mole on her nose perfectly placed. Like an artist placed it to perfect the composition.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Hey!” She exclaimed, standing up. “Let’s walk along the beach.”

“Where’d all that energy come from?”

“Come on stranger” she said grabbing your arms and pulling you to your feet. “Let’s go explore”

And suddenly the awkwardness was gone. You walked and talked, up until the beach thinned and sand became stone cliffs.

It was beautiful, she kept saying. But you hardly noticed because she was there too.

And suddenly the wind blew her hat off and she chased it. And you waved her off and caught the hat seconds before it blew into the ocean and you slipped it back onto her head, but not before sliding a torn off piece of your sketchbook inside, with your number of course.

And it was over in a blur. You were back to your resort’s portion of the beach.

“Shit!” You yelled. “I was supposed to meet my cousins here.”

Yunjin turned to you with concern. “Go meet them! Why didn’t you tell me?”

You thanked her and turned to leave before— “Wait! You’re going to check your sweater, right?” She called.

You smiled back. “Nah. It’s Mexico, who needs a sweater. Hats though. Those are pretty useful.” You waved, and ran back to the resort.

--

The rest of the day would’ve gone better with Yunjin. It wasn’t bad— just less bright despite the blazing Sun.

By the time you made your way to the buffet for lunch, your family was too many drinks deep to pester you with questions.

You spent the rest of the day lounging by the many pools— cocktail in hand for most of the day, because vacation mode. A pretty chill day aside from meeting your cousin Annabelle. Your haircut wasn’t that bad— not enough to ‘ruin the wedding photos’ like she claimed it would.

But it was already a far cry from what you thought the trip would be; your cousins had shown you you truly missed your family, the comments from your family weren’t oppressive, and of course, Yunjin was there, one resort away.

A couple things kept you up that night. Minho’s snores pierced the night air. A shame— your patio stayed open so the soft sound of waves could flood the room. The other was the text you’d been staring at for the past 5 minutes.

Hiya stranger :)

“Minho. Minho!” You whispered, only to be met with snores. Actually, maybe it was better to approach this yourself.

You had no idea what to say, how to respond without embarrassing yourself. But then you thought of her smile.

You weren’t sure if it made it worse or better, but, thinking of her smile, there was no way you wouldn’t respond.

Hi

The reply came quick, the little ding more soothing than the waves you could hear through Minho’s snoring.

Meet tomorrow?

Mmm. Wedding rehearsal. Should be done just after lunch. Maybe after?

I can do that :)

--

The wedding rehearsal was just as you suspected; your cousin Annabelle in full on panic mode. For one, the band’s clothes were too white— she was the bride, she needed to stand out— and for another, apparently it was supposed to rain Friday, the day of the wedding.

So now she was compensating by having you, Minho and Sakura— as well as the whole family— on your best behaviours during the rehearsal.

“We we’re supposed to end this before lunch,” Minho complained. “It’s— 2 o’clock,” Minho checked his phone, “I haven’t eaten— haven’t drank in 6 hours!”

“Stop it! Annabelle is your cousin. She used to watch all 3 of us on the weekends. She’d let us have sweets even though our mom’s told her not to,” Sakura scolded as she flipped through table cards labeled with perfect calligraphy .

“A tyrant then and a tyrant now” Minho gestured to Annabelle and the bridegroom. The ladder following the former like a lost puppy as she barked orders at her soon to be wedding guests.

“She wasn’t a tyrant! Plus, it’s her wedding. Of course she wants it to be perfect! Every girl does!” Sakura fought back.

“She does realize it’s only supposed to rain at like 7. We’ll be deep into the reception at that time. Plus, since when did you care about weddings?” Minho asked innocently.

“Since I was a little girl!” Sakura yelled, cheeks growing flushed, hands scattering table cards on the white tablecloth.

Minho had a truly confused look on his face. “What?”. An ignorant and protective brother, you guessed. You didn’t understand, not that you were paying much attention anyway.

“What?” Sakura mocked, throwing him a pile of table cards. “I’m a woman too.”

“Woman?” Minho laughed. “You snore like a dude. The whole house can hear it!”

“Shut up! Organize those cards. And stop teasing Annabelle, she has a lot on her plate. Back me up here cousin.”

“Hmm?” You replied, barely paying attention.

“He’s not even helping us! He’s been on his phone this whole time!” Minho yelled.

“Stop deflecting. So you don’t think your sweet sister is capable of getting married?” You replied simply.

“So you are listening! Sakura! Get him!” He pointed at you.

Sakura’s gaze pierced Minho to silence, before turning heel towards you and saying “Who are you texting anyway?” Before snatching your phone from your hand.

“Hey give that back!”

But it was already too late. Sakura had already seen who you were texting— with horror you watched her light up.

“Yunjin?! Is this the girl from the plane! You got her number!?” Sakura exclaimed.

“Girl from the plane? Who’s Yunjin?” Minho asked.

Welp. Now you had no choice to tell your cousins what happened— as well as get back to organizing cards, Annabelle’s glare at the three of you ensured that.

Sakura’s eyes went wide as she peered at your texts. “Look at this— Sorry, rehearsal running late,” she read, “meet me on the beach in an hour?”

“Dude, you’re gonna ditch us? I thought we were gonna get drinks after. Is that where you were yesterday too? We were looking for you for an hour on the beach.” Minho lamented.

“Like you didn’t ditch us last night,” you defended.

“Tell us what happened!” Sakura pleaded.

And so you did— starting from the plane to fill Minho in.

“And then you slipped it in her hat?” Minho asked incredulously. “Dude, you’re in!”

“I don’t know, it might not be like that.”

“You’ve been texting her all day!” Sakura said as she scrolled through your phone.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Now can we please finish these damn table cards.”

“Says the one on his phone the whole morning. Plus, you just want to finish fast so you can meet your girlfriend” Sakura teased.

“She’s not my girlfriend!”

With a ding from your phone you reached to grab it, but Sakura swatted your hand away. Her smile went from mischievous to one of feigned disappointment. “Oh, sorry cousin. Looks like you’re stuck with us this evening,” she said, tossing you the phone.

Sorry! Me and my friends booked a catamaran. We’re going snorkeling!

Your stomach did a weird thing— and it wasn’t all the alcohol you’d been drinking since you landed. Funny, your mind was totally fine. You had said it to her yourself, this trip would be the perfect opportunity to become closer with her friends. You were happy for her.

But your stomach panged knowing you wouldn’t see her today. You were suddenly very aware that running into her on the beach was an impossibility that happened, that even sitting next to her on the plane was lucky chance. But Sunday— the day the trip ended— no amount of luck could change that. You only had this week. Your time with Yunjin was limited.

You plopped the cards you had been organizing down on the table. “To be honest Sakura, Annabelle is acting a little crazy. If you act like this at your wedding, I’m leaving. Also since when are you not allowed to drink at a wedding rehearsal!”

No worries. See you tomorrow then?

You texted before finishing up (admittedly slowly) organizing the table cards with an increasingly moody Sakura.

It was nearly dinner by the time Annabelle was satisfied— she dismissed the three of you last.

Minho disappeared right away, but rejoined as you and Sakura made your way to the buffet— 3 pina coladas in hand of course.

A deep voice called the three of you over— your uncle eating with your aunt Jess. “Nephew! Come here!” He smiled. You sauntered over, pina colada hitting like a truck on an empty stomach. Must’ve been a Minho special— triple shot of spiced rum.

An expectant smile was on your Aunt Claire’s face. “So!” You’re uncle said.

“So?”

“I talked to a friend from work— their husband… he’s an engineer! Owns a firm and all!”

“Oh— that’s great…”

“And they have an internship program! I talked to him— he told me to ask for your transcript! But that it shouldn’t matter anyway— you’re basically a lock if you want in!”

Shit. Back to thinking of life. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the offer for the internship; you just didn’t know if you even wanted an internship. Didn’t even know if you wanted to pursue engineering anymore. But it wasn’t like you could tell him that— not when he was so excited.

“Oh— that’s great!” You lied.

“Isn’t it!” Your aunt Jess lit up. “A nice internship lined up, back home too!”

“Yeah, it is”

“Why don’t you call Sakura and Minho over, we’ve been dying to hear more about how school’s been for you. Come eat with us.”

And so you sat with them for dinner, bombarded with questions about school and plans. It didn’t help they were so enthusiastic— so excited for you. And all you could do was sit there, lying about how good your grades were, about how excited and thankful you were for the opportunity.

“Mom, he’s on vacation. Let him be,” Sakura finally said.

It didn’t help that later that night, caused probably by the stress induced from your meal with your uncle, you checked your school email. You laid there in your bed, sounds of the shower Minho was taking ringing in the air.

Sitting there like a little gift was an email from one professor Hark; your least favourite professor:

Class,

Mistake on the syllabus. Your mid-term will be next week Monday. Not the week after.

Professor Hark

It read. Shit. You were supposed to have time. God knows you wouldn’t have been able to take this trip— or at least could have booked an early flight out had you known.

And now what? You’d have to study on your vacation? You were indeed free from wedding activities tomorrow. Just, you thought you’d get to spend it with—

Ding. A text from Yunjin, because of course it was.

Sorry! Snorkeling went late! Let’s hang out tomorrow.

What did you say now? Could you fit in a hangout with Yunjin and study sufficiently? Anger welled up inside you. It wasn’t the usual stress in the pit of your stomach, but something deeper, something that welled up in your chest, and you knew you were going to make a mistake. But were you really going to blow off this huge mid term to spend time with a girl you’d only know for a week? Fuck it, you thought. Fuck it all to damn hell.

What are you doing right now?

Actually, nothing. I could slip away.

--

When you texted Yunjin, you didn’t expect to be climbing those rock cliffs you saw at the end of the beach. But here you were, soft moonlight barely illuminating the climb.

“It didn’t look so tall from the beach!” Yunjin yelled beside you.

“You want to go back down?” You called back.

“No- we’re almost at the top. Plus, it looked cozy up there.”

You passed the lip, heaving yourself over. Atop the cliff sat the perfect little glade, a grassy clearing overlooking the vast ocean. You turned, reaching over to help Yunjin. She grabbed your hand—

How was it so soft? Even after climbing 30 meters of rocky cliffs? This was not the time to be nervous, grabbing onto a girl dangling over the edge of the cliff. What did it matter anyway though? As soon as you’d pull her up she’d probably laugh at you, tell you how sweaty your hands were, how your heart had beat so fast she could feel it through your palms.

Your breathing still heavy, you heaved her up, pushing the thoughts away. She collapsed over the edge to safety with a look of satisfied adventure on her face. Seems she didn’t notice how sweaty your palms were, that was good. “You’re fine climbing cliffs but draw the line at planes?” You asked.

Yunjin sat up and walked to the clearing, taking a look around. The glade gave way to the cliff’s waterside edge. “It’s beautiful up here,” she said.

It really was. The moon’s light bounced off the water in shards, soft white peaks of the waves dotting the ocean. Yunjin took a seat, legs dangling off the side of the cliff.

“Look at the stars” she said, amazed.

You sat next to her. “It’s like a whole different world out here. I can’t even see the stars most nights back home.”

You both sat there— not exactly touching but close enough you could feel her every movement. A while passed in silence. It was comfortable; a perfect night.

“Can I tell you something weird? I mean only having known you for like, 4 days.”

“3 days. But go on.”

She sighed, full of relief, not whatever else a sigh could come with. “I think— I think I’m really glad I met you.”

Your heart did that thing again— skipped a beat didn’t quite encapsulate it. It shriveled and expanded at the same time. It bloomed in your chest like it was trying to escape it, trying to go be amongst the moon and the stars you were under.

But Yunjin gazed at you so deeply your heart was forced to stay with you, stay inside you so she could take it.

“I know, it’s weird.”

And suddenly you had to speak, had to tell her it wasn’t weird despite the knot still in your chest. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re just saying that,” she laughed and it was genuine and pretty and real. But it was also raw and scared.

You gave a short chuckle, one without much humour in it. “You think I’d be here on this cliff if I didn’t want to see you?”

She gave you a smile that could’ve swept you off the cliff and into the ocean, and god would you let it happen. She laid down, and you followed. The grass felt nice— you didn’t get to feel it much, consequences of pursuing an engineering degree.

“How’s the family?” She asked, and not just to break the silence.

“My aunt called me to her room today because her water wasn’t working. She thinks engineers are plumbers.” It earned a snort from Yunjin. “And my uncle lined me up an internship.”

“So, sounds like it’s going great.”

“Mhm. And what about you. How was snorkeling?”

“You know,” she paused as if weighing out her words. “It was really fun. And I think it was fun for them too.”

“Can I say something?” Yunjin gave an audible go ahead. “You- you don’t seem like the kind of girl that would have these kinds of problems— problems with, err, making friends. You’re so friendly.”

“It’s weird,” she started, “I never really had trouble making friends. I think, even if you asked them, they’d… consider me a friend?”

“But it seems like they’re excluding you.”

“Maybe, but— I don’t know, I thought about it. I’ve been so… scared on this trip, so self conscious about how they see me. But today on the catamaran, it was different. I was different. I just, put all of that away, everything I was scared of. It’s like I wasn’t trying to have fun, I just let myself have fun. And then they started… treating me different, treating me like I was one of them. I guess I just had to meet them halfway. Does that make sense?”

You sat up, hands leaning on the soft grass. “I think so,” you said. “What changed?”

“That’s the thing, I have no idea. Maybe it’s just— I’ve always had lots of friends, but I’ve never had a family, you know?”

“A family?”

“I mean of course I have a family, but a group of friends that could be your family, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that. Have you?”

You thought first of your high school friends, the ones you’d been neglecting along with Minho and Sakura for the past years. You then thought of your university friends, the one’s who’d gone through hell- we’re still in hell with. You thought of late nights studying and even later nights eating out after studying. Of the little breaks you could take between term tests, not catching up on sleep but losing more of it to just… chill.

Suddenly, you felt a great appreciation for them, because not having them would make your already miserable life a thousand times more miserable. Was that what Yunjin was missing? But she was so… bright, even in the darkness of the night sky.

“I think I do.”

“And then I got this job— a really good one. And I didn’t want it to be like before, to have all these friends but no family.”

“And that’s what you’re trying to have now?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s why you’ve been so scared?”

“Maybe.”

“When did you start at this job?” You asked.

“Two weeks ago”

You sat up straighter. “Two weeks ago?” You repeated.

“Yeah? Why?”

She really was clueless. “Yunjin. You’ve known them for two weeks and they’ve already invited you to a trip to Mexico! Even if it was as a replacement, they clearly want to be your friend too! How did you even get the time off anyway?”

Yunjin laid there in thought.

“It is so like you to stress over not being able to fit in after only knowing someone for two weeks,” you laughed.

“Hey, this is a real problem to me! And what do you mean ‘this is so like you?’ I’ve only known you for two days”

“Three days.” You said, lying back down. “And if it’s real to you, then it’s real to me,” you said with a plop, “if the snorkeling went well, I think you’re making progress,” you said, and you meant it. “But, yeah. It’s nice to have a family. But family has to meet half way. They’re already trying to be your friend— it’s clear because you’re on this trip. You just have to let them. Even if it’s a little awkward at first”.

Yunjin gave a small laugh. “No, maybe you’re right. It’s just. I plan on being at this job for a while. And it would be nice to have people I could count on. Well, other than you.”

She said it so casually, like you’d always be there to listen to her problems, like you wouldn’t be gone in less than a week.

“Thanks for listening. Really,” she said.

“Anytime,” you said, knowing it was a lie, knowing there was only a small window in which she could ask you anything before you’d fly back and she too would just be someone you’d forget about in the mess that was your life.

“You ever wonder how it would be if we met at a cafe?” She asked after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Or a thrift store. Or a park.”

So, not here. “That would be nice.” You meant it.

“Yeah,” she said.

You both laid there under the stars, glittering like they were just for the two of you. Sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about nothing of substance. You didn’t need there to be substance, the fact that you were both here on this hill was enough. No, maybe it wasn’t enough. You had four more days left, two of which you were busy with wedding stuff, and the others you’d have to study for your damn mid-term.

The wedding, the mid-term, and Yunjin. If only you could focus on all three at once.

“Hey Yunjin, do you want to come to my cousins we-,” you started, but as you sat up, you noticed Yunjin softly sleeping under the vast night sky. You stared at her for a second before laying back down.

And suddenly you were like the night waves, calm and soothed and drifting off to sleep. Maybe this wasn’t enough. Maybe a week wasn’t a long time. But a night— a night could be perfect. You wished you had your sketchbook. You’d be able to draw the night, capture every minute detail, every perfect part of the night could be saved. But your drawing wouldn’t be good enough to capture this moment. You wanted to soak up every detail, every second of the encounter, and you just weren’t good enough.

You peered around you, taking it all in, trying to remember every detail. It was only a night, but you wanted it to last forever. If only you’d had forever, you thought, as the glittering stars and ocean waves carried you off to sleep.

---------------------

A/N:

Hi everyone!

So I know this isn't perfect by any means. The tags are fluff and angst, and it isn't particularly angsty or fluffy. I apologize for that. I just ask you all to trust my vision! This will be two parts, and I'm really excited for the next chapter, which I assure you will have more fluff and more angst.

Also this is my first non-smut fic, which I would like to assure everyone is not going to become standard. This series will not have smut (I thought about adding it but decided against it), but I do not have plans to stop writing smut!

I know a lot of you have been eager for the next chapter of Cafe Cuties, and it is in the works! I expect it will be out within the next 2 weeks.

Other than that, it always warms my heart to see people interact with my stories. My messages and asks are always open to you all!

Small picture.