warning: cnc! smut! reader is described as thin, size kink
You tossed and turned in bed. Too horny to let sleep take over. The ache between your thighs was maddening, and the cool brush of the sheets against your skin only made it worse. You were so worked up it hurt—your legs pressed tight together, your chest rising and falling sharply, ribs faintly visible under the cling of your tank top.
You wanted Sunghoon so badly it was getting in the way of everything—sleep, sanity, breath. You could feel him beside you. Big. Warm. Still.
There was only one way to fix this.
You shifted slowly, limbs light and sharp with angles, and peeled the thick blanket off your narrow frame. The tank top barely clung to your chest, the curve of your ribs showing with every breath. You looked like a whisper beside him—fragile, restless.
You crawled on top of him, moving carefully, your knees pressing down gently onto the mattress. You were so light he didn’t even stir. Your little shorts had ridden up, barely clinging to your ass now, the fabric caught high over your hips, thin thighs spread open as you straddled his lap.
Sunghoon slept peacefully beneath you, chest rising and falling with calm rhythm. His bare torso was broad and solid under your palms. You stared at him—gorgeous and unfairly still—his muscles relaxed, arms stretched at his sides. The size difference between you was absurd. His body made yours look like something fragile, breakable.
You bit your lip and rolled your hips forward, grinding gently against the bulge in his boxers. It was already there—thick, warm, pressing up against you. With every shift of your hips, you could feel it harden beneath you. You gasped quietly, the friction teasing your slick entrance through your thin clothes.
You let out a faint giggle, trembling. This was working. Your body—small, trembling, sharp in all the wrong ways—was driving him crazy, even in sleep.
Sliding down slightly, your fingers found the waistband of his boxers. Carefully, slowly, you pulled them down just enough—not wanting to wake him, not yet. His cock sprang free, thick and long and intimidating. It lay heavy against his stomach, and you stared.
It was huge. Your fingers, so small and thin, barely wrapped around him.
He groaned faintly in his sleep at the touch.
You spit into your hand and began to stroke him, coating him, soft and slow. Your chest rose and fell faster now. He was already twitching in your grip, warm and pulsing. And you were already so wet.
You crawled back up, straddling him once more, and positioned yourself over him. One hand held his cock, the other braced weakly on his chest. Your knees trembled as you lined up and sank down—inch by inch, his cock stretching you open.
A broken moan escaped your throat.
He filled you so deeply it felt like too much. Your tiny body was stretched to its limit, your narrow hips forced wide apart. You whimpered, fighting the urge to stop—fighting the burn that came with taking something so big in a body so tiny. But you needed this. You needed him.
Sunghoon stirred beneath you—just a little. A quiet, breathy moan left his lips. Still asleep.
Once you’d adjusted, you began to move—slow at first, bouncing on his cock with shaky, delicate motions. Your hands were pressed flat on his chest, trying to keep yourself upright as your thin thighs trembled with every drop. You could feel every ridge, every twitch. It was overwhelming, filling, perfect.
Your bones ached with every motion, your chest flushed, sweat slicking the skin over your shoulders. Your breathing turned ragged as your pace quickened. You were lost in the stretch, the fullness, the sound of slick skin and needy gasps. You didn’t even care if he woke up.
And then—A large hand suddenly wrapped around your waist, fingers digging deep into the softest part of your side, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.
You flinched. Your head snapped down—and met his gaze. Sunghoon was awake.
His voice came out rough and dark, laced with amusement. “Such a dirty girl.”
His hand slid up your side, over your ribs, and stopped just under your chest, fingers splayed over the fragile curve of you. You were shaking, eyes glassy, tears clinging to your lashes. Your lips were swollen, bitten raw. Your back arched instinctively.
He looked down at where your small body sat on his cock, trembling and wet.
“You really thought you could take me by yourself, huh?” he growled against your throat, his voice low, wicked. “Tiny little thing—thought you could ride this dick and not get wrecked?”
You moaned, helpless.
Sunghoon sat up and wrapped an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth met your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. You cried out, cunt clenching around him.
“Guess I better help you finish what you started.”
And then he moved. He rose up, slammed you back down. Again. Again.
You cried out, the air knocked from your lungs. Your bones jolted with each bounce, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the room. He used you—lifted you, dropped you, fucked into you so hard it hurt. Your body bent easily in his grip, thin wrists clinging to his shoulders, your breath hitching every time his cock slammed home.
You sobbed against his neck, overwhelmed. Sunghoon kissed your tears. Smiled. And then kept going.
Your body trembled in his arms, shoulders rising and falling with every ragged breath. You clung to him with weak fingers, barely able to wrap your arms around his neck, your thin frame rocking with every brutal thrust.
Sunghoon held you like you weighed nothing.
You gasped as he fucked up into you again, your thighs shaking as your spine bowed under the pressure. Your knees were nearly slipping off his hips now, legs spread wide across his lap. Your hips were red from his grip, his fingertips leaving marks in your skin. He was relentless—grinding you down onto him so deep it felt like your body couldn’t take anymore.
But he wasn’t done.
Without warning, he wrapped his arms under your thighs and flipped you—your back hitting the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the weight of your small frame barely disturbing the bed. He hovered over you now, his body massive, blocking out the dim light above. You looked up at him with wide, teary eyes, your collarbones sharp against the pillows, chest heaving.
Sunghoon took in the sight of you—stretched out, slick and shaking, your limbs spread beneath him, too thin to put up even the illusion of resistance.
“Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent, as he reached down and grabbed your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head like it was nothing. “So fucking breakable.”
You whimpered, lips parted, unable to answer—your body already clenching around him as he slid back inside. You could barely breathe. He filled you completely, stretching your narrow hips wide again, deeper this time. The angle was brutal. Perfect. Your head fell back against the pillow, back arching sharply as he bottomed out.
“hoonie—” you gasped, voice cracking.
He leaned in close, his mouth brushing your ear. “Say it again.”
“h-hoonie.”
“Say who’s fucking so good.”
“You—hoon, it’s you—”
He groaned low and bit your shoulder, sucking bruises into the thin stretch of skin there. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, but they barely reached. You were trembling, tears sliding down the sides of your face from how deep he was. Your back pressed into the bed, hands twitching in his grip.
And he loved it.
He watched you fall apart beneath him, fucked out and ruined, your tiny frame jerking with every thrust. You looked so helpless, so wrecked—thin thighs trembling, lips swollen, voice gone. All because of him.
“Made to take it,” he murmured, hips slamming into yours, sweat dripping down his neck. “No one else could fuck this body but me.”
You moaned—a broken, high sound. Your back arched again, trying to meet every thrust, but it was too much. You were too small, too overwhelmed. You didn’t even know if you were crying from the pain or the pleasure. Maybe both.
Your whole world was just him. His cock. His hands. His voice in your ear.
“G-Gonna cum,” you whimpered, choking on the words.
“Then cum on this dick, baby. Let me feel that tight little body shake.”
You shattered.
Your walls clamped down around him, eyes rolling back, hips shaking violently as the orgasm hit you like a wave. Sunghoon cursed under his breath, thrusting through it, dragging it out. You writhed beneath him, arms still pinned, voice breaking into sobs as you fell apart.
And still—he didn’t stop.
“Not done with you,” he growled, hips pounding harder. “Not ‘til I see you cry for real.”
You whimpered his name again, voice soft and desperate. “Please.”
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anchored
The extremely wealthy man you're newly dating thinks you deserve nothing but the best for your birthday. You struggle to accept that.
WC: 4.8k
TAGS: established (new) relationship, pwp
CW: fem!reader, mingyu being really rich, reader being really not, i think that's it lol
SMUT WARNINGS: unprotected piv, first time together, bondage, blindfolding, creampie, oral both receiving, face fucking
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY DEAR @gyuswhore!!! em&em, you truly deserve the world. thank you for putting so much life and light into everything you do and everyone you encounter. i hope this little piece of mingyu makes the day feel a little more special. I LOVE YOU FOREVER! and of course, a huge thank you to @sailorsoons and @starlightkyeom for mobilizing the em lovers army! you are so obviously very loved, em&em hehe. and to everyone else who isn't tumblr user gyuswhore... go wish her a happy (belated) birthday rn. or else. 🫵🏼 (not edited don't look at me bye)
You lean against the railing and watch as Mingyu swims toward the boarding ladder of his yacht, the thick ropes of muscle in his back glistening in the dying sunlight and flexing with each pull of the water. He takes his time, a soft smile on his lips as he enjoys his last moments in the sea. You left him down there half an hour ago in favor of the sun deck, where you've been anxiously trying to figure out how much your birthday is costing him.
There’s the staff he has to pay to man the boat. The endless food and drinks said staff kept offering you earlier as you laid out in the sun, insisting you were fine. The white gold Bulgari necklace he presented you with upon boarding (and insisted you continue to wear in the water despite your fear of losing it because he can “just get you another one”). The yacht itself.
You aren't by any means poor, but you are so far out of this tax bracket, you can't even tell if estimating that all of this cost millions of dollars is a wild exaggeration or a cute guess that would make the man you're dating giggle. It makes your stomach twist.
Mingyu disappears behind the boat as he finally reaches the boarding ladder and you sigh, pushing yourself away from the railing and plopping back down on one of the lounge chairs miserably. You only started dating two months ago, and you knew he was considerably rich, but this is the first seriously extravagant display of his wealth you're experiencing. It's making you queasy.
You grew up knowing that on the rare times your family was at a restaurant, you weren't allowed to order a drink aside from water and that your meal would come from the appetizer section of the menu. “We have that at home” or “I can make that myself” were mantras of your mother's. The trash bag full of your older cousin's hand-me-downs was your version of the mall. Your friends all balked at the idea that you didn't have an allowance, a fact that kept you excluded from several social events as a teenager.
But you do incredibly well for yourself now. You graduated from school debt-free thanks to your scholarships and part-time jobs. And after a decade of experience, you're finally at a company that pays you well enough to have paid off your parents’ mortgage, bought yourself a new car, and most importantly, keeps all your savings accounts stuffed full. You considered yourself very well off.
Until you met Kim Mingyu.
There was no way of knowing the stranger hitting on you in the ridiculously long line of the cafe by work came from old money. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt on a Tuesday morning for god's sake. In fact, when you agreed to a date with him, your dumb ass had the audacity to worry if he was jobless, maybe perusing the business district for a wealthy girlfriend to mooch off of.
You laugh humorlessly at the idea now. It's painfully clear who's mooching off of who in this relationship, and you've just barely come to that conclusion now. On your birthday. In the middle of the ocean.
“Hey, pretty.”
You crane your neck up to see Mingyu approaching your lounge chair, his hands in two fists around the towel draped over his shoulders—the towel that seemingly did nothing since he still has drops of water running down his golden brown skin, squeezing in between every line, curve, and corner.
He bends down to plant a kiss on your lips, drops of water falling onto you as he does but you don’t mind. You can tell from the peck that it's meant to be a quick greeting, but he pauses just after his lips meet yours, and he lingers a little longer and kisses a little slower. His mouth opens against yours—tongue slides against yours—and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, still cold from the water. It feels like he's kissing you after having missed you for weeks.
“Hello to you too,” you mutter, a little dazed when he finally pulls away and grins boyishly. “How was your swim?”
“Oh, riveting,” he says dryly. “I love being abandoned by my girlfriend in the middle of the ocean.”
“Well, that's dramatic,” you scoff as he takes a seat on the lounge chair next to you. He situates himself on the edge so that he's still as close to you as possible, and he grabs your hand before leaning his elbows on his knees. “You seemed to be having a lot of fun.”
You actually wouldn't know. You were kind of dissociating as you watched him swim around. It was hard to be surrounded by this kind of extravagance and not feel lost.
“Mmm,” he hums thoughtfully, maintaining intimidatingly stable eye contact as he studies you. “Are you okay? You seem a little… I don't know. Tired, maybe? Bored?”
You shake your head quickly, a little panicked that Mingyu has the idea he spent all this money on you just for you to be bored. “No! No, that's not it. I am definitely not bored, baby. I'm having fun!”
He stares at you blankly like he knows that's not true. It's been such a short amount of time dating, but his read on you is hardly ever wrong. Mingyu doesn't say anything, obviously waiting for you to explain what it is as opposed to what it isn't.
You sigh. “I'm just… this is… a lot,” you admit. His eyebrows twitch into the tiniest of frowns and you rush to continue to avoid a miscommunication. “I love it! And I'm having fun! I'm just surprised is all. Like, I obviously knew you had money, but… I didn't know you had yacht money. Or Bulgari necklace money. Tiny welcome chocolates with 14K gold flakes money.”
He snorts, shaking his head at that. “Okay. I do have money for all that, yes. Does that… make you uncomfortable…?” he asks.
To his credit, he passes as levelheaded, but you've gotten good at reading him yourself, and you see the way his eyes narrow a little like he's struggling to understand something. The way his lips turn down in the corners and his tongue pokes at his cheek anxiously.
“I'm just not used to someone spending like this on me,” you say instead of directly answering the question. You don't know what you are. “I could work until I'm 100 years old and never be able to afford to buy you these kinds of gifts. I—”
“I don't expect these kinds of gifts. I don't expect any gifts.”
“Sure, but—”
“Baby,” he starts, suddenly standing.
He forces you to scooch over on your own chaise so that he can lay next to you, and you oblige even though there's really nowhere for you to go. The two of you barely fit, but after he wraps an arm around you and pulls you tight to his chest, you're comfortable knowing you won't fall off the edge.
“I did this because I want you to feel special on your birthday, okay?” he assures you, the worry on his face dissipating immediately when he realizes what the issue is. “I never expect anything back when I spend money on you.” He pauses to think before adding: “Except maybe a kiss or two.”
You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile that grows on your face.
“I don't need gifts. I can buy myself anything I want. The only thing in the world that I want—actually, desperately need—that I can't buy is you and your time and your attention and your l—” He stops to clear his throat, and your heart skips a beat. Neither of you have said I love you, and you want to believe love was the word he wanted to say next. Because it's true. He has your love. You just haven't found the courage to say it. “You being around is more than enough, okay? Besides, I plan to have you around for a long time. You should probably get used to spending my money haphazardly.”
“Mingyu!” you slap his abs, resting your hand there and smiling at the way his muscles feel under you.
“What?” he laughs, shrugging. “I'm serious. Let's not dwell on what we can and can't give each other. What's mine is yours.” He rubs your arm comfortingly and plants a kiss against the crown of your head. “This is all I want. I don't need anything else.”
You lift your head off Mingyu's chest and look him in the eye. He raises his eyebrows a little at the abrupt movement, but it's still plain to see he looks happy, calm, relaxed. Everything a man in love would look like, and you see that he's being sincere with you.
“I'm sorry,” you sigh, making him frown. “I just let my insecurities get the best of me. I'm so grateful for all this, I really am. But I hope you know that I don't need any of this either. I agreed to go out with you fully thinking you were an unemployed loser looking for a sugar mama.” Mingyu huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “Your money is the least interesting thing about you.”
“Wow, an unemployed loser, huh?” he repeats, still laughing. “Was it the flip flops?”
“I mean… yeah?”
He barks out his laughter then and it's contagious, making you grin. When it subsides into a happy sigh, you decide it's a sound you'd like to hear forever. You want to stop wasting time.
“Mingyu, I love you,” you say quietly.
His smile falls right off his face and his eyes widen. You'd be worried if his arms didn't press you even tighter to his still wet body. After several moments of silence, you're about to reassure him he doesn't have to say anything back, but before you can, his hands are circling around your arms and yanking you up the chaise to meet his lips.
Mingyu kisses you more voraciously than he ever has, lips and tongue moving desperately like he wants to swallow the three words himself. It sends a dull ache straight to your core, and you fight the urge to grind your bikini clad cunt right against his thigh. His large hand comes up to hold your cheek, his thumb caressing it while his fingers sink into your hair. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clinging to them desperately like you might disintegrate if you don't.
“Mingyu,” you sigh as he breaks away and starts trailing kisses down your neck. “Mingyu, I—”
“I love you,” he says, his voice hazy with desire.
He repeats it over and over again with each press of his lips against your skin. You put enough space between the two of you to stop his flurry of kisses. You look down at him, and you're knocked breathless at the reverence he watches you with. You have absolutely no doubt in the world that Kim Mingyu loves you.
You smile and surge forward to kiss him once, twice, three times before giggling like a kid. “I love you,” you say again.
He laughs too, his hands coming to your back and rubbing up and down slowly. It's how you realize you're practically on top of him now, the only part of you still on the chaise being one leg.
Your smile slowly slips off your face and you crawl up his body until you're straddling him on the lounge chair. You both have been patient with one another, not pushing sex before the other was ready, but it feels like a day for firsts. Mingyu must think the same because he sits up, arms wrapping around your middle as he tilts his chin to look up at you with big, shiny eyes.
You keep a hand on his shoulder, bring your other to his face, and without breaking eye contact, you wordlessly roll your hips into his. His next breath is a sharp inhale through his nose as you watch his pupils dilate. You feel your lips curve up into a smile as he begins to harden underneath you, straining against his wet shorts in mere moments.
“Um, I—are…” he blinks several times as you continue to grind against him, and when he clearly can’t find the words he’s looking for, his hands clamp down on your waist to stop your movement. “Are you—”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Were you going to ask if I wanted to finally have sex?”
He snorts. “No.” You look at him flatly. “Okay, yes.”
“Still yes then.”
He reaches up to brush your hair away from your face, and he pulls you down by the nape of your neck to kiss you. You're a mess of lips, saliva, and hands—feeling everywhere you can touch while simultaneously keeping away from the one place you need each other. You break away in a gasp when he slips his hand under the back of your bikini and squeezes your ass hard.
You tilt your head back as he kisses down the middle of your throat, and to your horror, you find an employee coming up the stairs of the sun deck with a platter of champagne.
“Oh shit!” you shriek as you scramble off Mingyu’s lap, settling for awkwardly sitting between his calves at the foot of the chaise.
He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind, but you’ve run out of time to warn him. He must hear the footsteps as the yacht staff member approaches, though, because he quickly crosses his legs and very conspicuously cups his hands over his crotch. If the staff member notices, they’re well-trained to ignore it.
“The champagne you requested from the swim deck, Mr. Kim,” the young man announces, lowering the platter so that you both can easily take your own flutes. Neither of you waste a moment grabbing one.
When the employee doesn’t depart, you realize he’s waiting for you both to take a sip and make sure it’s to your liking. You go to toast Mingyu quickly, but he stops you.
“Wait, wait,” he says, hand on your wrist from where he’s keeping you from toasting him and getting rid of the staff. “Happy birthday. I hope it’s the most amazing one yet, and I can’t wait to spend so many more with you.” He’s almost shy when he smiles and finishes with: “I love you.”
“Oh, Mingyu,” you pout before smiling widely and leaning forward to kiss him, almost completely forgetting about your bystander. “I love you too. Thank you for everything. Cheers.”
You clink glasses, and you sigh in relief when the employee takes that as his moment to exit. He sets the ice bucket and bottle of champagne down on the table nearest to your chaise before he smiles brightly at you both.
“Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“No!” Mingyu says too loudly and too quickly. You choke on your first sip of champagne. “I mean,” he lowers his voice considerably, “no, Chad. Just… we’re good. Please let the staff know to leave us alone for the rest of the night. Thanks.”
“Of course,” he responds without missing a beat, smiling brightly before making his exit. You watch him disappear down the stairs as you rub your chest, your coughs finally subsiding.
“Have you fucked girls on your yacht before?”
It’s Mingyu’s turn to take his champagne down the wrong tube. “What?”
“Why does ‘leave me alone for the rest of the night’ seem like normal protocol?” you ask, lips curling into a mischievous smile as you watch him struggle with the question.
“I have not fucked girls on my yacht before,” he denies it petulantly. He clears his throat. “But a ton of people do all kinds of questionable things on boats.” You make a mental note to ask him for stories later. “Yacht staff are all trained to be… discreet. So.”
“So Chad knows we’re fucking tonight.”
Mingyu smirks into his glass, taking several gulps until it’s completely empty. You raise your eyebrows at him. “If he doesn’t, he definitely will in a few minutes.” Your cheeks warm at the implication and he nods at your flute. “Hurry up and finish that. We’ve got somewhere to be.”
You gasp, tears slipping out of your eyes and past your blindfold as you struggle against the ropes Mingyu tied around your wrists. They’re tied to the headboard of the bed in his stateroom, rendering you absolutely helpless as his tongue massages your clit, his hand already two fingers deep inside you and beckoning an orgasm closer.
“Mingyu,” you whimper, struggling to keep your legs open even though there’s nowhere they could possibly go anyway. Your boyfriend’s grasp on each thigh is pressing them down and open mercilessly, determined to keep you from interrupting his meal.
“What is it, baby?” he asks, licking quick stripes up your slit between every few words. “Too much for you? We can stop.”
“No!” you shout quickly, whining when you hear his breathy laughter follow. “It’s not funny. I’m… I…” Your words devolve into a mess of moans as he decides he’d rather eat than talk. His fingers work against the spongy spot inside you, his mouth closing over your clit as he starts to lick and suck with more fervor than before. “Oh god. Please!”
“Please what?” he asks against you, the vibrations of his voice reverberating through your cunt.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for. For the last half hour now, Mingyu has been pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with just his mouth alone. There’s nothing else you could possibly ask for, but still, all you know how to say is “please.”
You gasp, hips bucking as your orgasm shoots through your entire body, causing you to shudder and writhe almost uncontrollably at the overstimulation. You don’t have much space to move, though, with your hands restricted like this.
“Gyu!” you shriek, shamelessly grinding up and into his mouth. His fingers pump in and out of you quickly, your pussy giving no resistance anymore now that he’s made a mess out of you. “Oh my god.”
“I think you’re ready,” he says, smiling against you.
More tears escape as you cry in what you think is relief. He told you there would be a lot of foreplay. He warned you that he was big and that he didn’t want to hurt you—that the only way he felt comfortable doing this was once you were thoroughly prepared. You just didn’t realize it meant having his head between your legs for so long, you’d lost feeling in both feet and gone cross-eyed with pleasure.
Before he leaves his residency, he lowers his chin and stiffens his tongue, shoving it into you as far as it’ll go, his entire face pressed against you. The sensation elongates the orgasm enough that you’re sure it’s started a whole new one as Mingyu licks you clean from the inside out. When he’s done, he kisses your clit before moving around on the bed.
“Hi,” he whispers, voice suddenly right next to your ear. You struggle to catch your breath as his hands run up your sides.
“Hi,” you respond pathetically.
“Don’t cry, darling,” he tells you, voice soft and gravely. You wish you could see how he looked right now. You wish you could know if he looked just as fucked up and fucked out as you felt. If his face matched his voice. “I’m taking good care of you, aren’t I?”
“Too good,” you breathe, not sure you can say more than two words at a time.
He snickers as his fingers slip under your bikini top, the last piece of clothing you have on before he has you completely naked. He massages your breast under the fabric, thumb running over your nipple several times. He presses his lips against your sternum, his weight resting against you as he does, and you realize he’s catching his breath too. You can feel his heartbeat against your stomach, going almost as fast as you think yours is. He continues kneading your tit like it’s his own personal stress ball for several minutes, leaving kisses across your skin absentmindedly.
“I think you were made for me,” he mutters after a while.
“I hope you were made for me,” you respond when you think you’ve finally relaxed enough to have coherent thoughts again. “Because what do you mean you own a yacht and want to eat pussy for the better part of an hour? You’re literally my dream man.”
His hand pauses against you as he laughs into your chest, shaking the bed as he does. You smile at the sound.
“Mingyu?”
“Mmm.”
“Can you remove my blindfold?” you ask quietly. “I want to see your face.”
He removes his hand from your chest, placing the bikini back where it was as if you aren’t already entirely naked from the waist down. He moves up the bed and his fingers work at the knot he made behind your head, undoing it quickly. You blink a few times as you adjust to the already dimmed light of the room.
“Hi.”
He looks so blissful. His eyes are half-lidded like he just woke up, and his mouth is curved up into the slightest, laziest, most content smile. He looks down at you like he truly believes his own words—like he truly believes you were made for him.
Your wrists don’t let you far enough up to kiss him, but he knows exactly what you want and he gives it to you. You taste yourself on him, and the thought that Mingyu loves it enough to go at it for so long makes you impossibly wetter.
“Are you ready?” he asks when he pulls away to kick off his shorts and shove them somewhere toward the foot of the bed. You look down at what you’re dealing with, and you realize Mingyu definitely knew best when he said you needed to be patient. You nod.
“Mhm.”
“I’m going to untie you, okay?” he asks gently even though he roughly shoves your top up your chest, your tits bouncing out. He groans, burying his face between them before taking a nipple in his mouth.
You arch into his body, exhaling softly at the warm feeling. He releases you with a pop and quickly rips the top completely off, throwing it over his shoulder before caging you in with his legs and crawling up the bed to work on the ropes on your wrist. His dick rests against your stomach as he works, thick and heavy and staring you in the face. Your mouth waters.
“Hurry, Gyu,” you whisper. He laughs softly.
“Impatient.”
You bite back a retort because at that moment, the ropes give way and your wrists are freed. Without thinking twice, you have both hands wrapped around Mingyu’s dick immediately, eliciting a gasp from him. You shimmy down on the bed, one hand pulling at his waist.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he tries to keep his balance at your incessant pulling.
“I think it’s your turn” is all you say, releasing him once you’re low enough on the bed. His huge fucking cock hangs in front of you—intimidating and scary and glorious. You lean back and prop yourself on your elbows before looking up at him.
He peers down at you with a confused look on his face. All you do in response is open your mouth wide. His eyes practically bulge out of his head when he realizes what you want him to do.
“Are you sure?!” he asks in disbelief. “I’m—I—you—”
“Fuck my mouth, Mingyu.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, taking himself in his hold and pumping a few times before gently laying his swollen tip on your tongue. He curses under his breath.
“Let me know if it becomes too much, okay?” he reminds you. You don’t bother responding as you take more of his length in. “Holy shit. Fuck!”
It doesn’t take more than three thrusts until tears are collecting in the corner of your eyes, but you don’t care. Because you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything hotter than Mingyu on top of you, fucking your mouth with his eyes squeezed shut like he’s begging a god out there to keep him from coming on the spot. You bring one hand up to his balls, massaging gently and the sounds it pulls out of him are downright heavenly.
“Baby,” he gasps. “Oh my god.”
You’re a mess of precum, drool, and tears, but you remind yourself to enjoy the burn in your shoulders from propping yourself up like this, the ache of Mingyu’s cock abusing the back of your throat, and the sting where his hand has become a fist in your hair because it could last your entire life and you think it would still be over too soon—being able to see how good you can make him feel.
His thrusts slow to a gradual stop and he takes his cock out of your mouth, sitting back on the heel of his feet as he catches his breath, staring at you like you invented blowjobs just for him. You smile at him as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand before plopping back down on the bed, your shoulders screaming in relief.
He situates himself back between your legs, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts one up and over his shoulder. He kisses your calf, then your knee, and then he pushes forward until your thigh is pressed up against your shoulder and you feel his tip at your hole.
Wordlessly, he pushes in gently, and even with all the orgasms you had, you gasp at the way he stretches you open. He groans, head hanging as he watches himself slowly, slowly, slowly disappear inside you. He breathes evenly and deliberately like his control relies solely on him staying as calm as possible. You don’t quite have the same composure, fists tight around his bedsheets as you whine and whimper underneath him.
“Shhh,” he breathes, another kiss ghosting the inside of your knee. “You’re doing so well, baby.” You moan at the praise. “Doing so fucking well for me.”
“Gyu,” you gasp when you feel him bottom out. If his hands weren’t planted firmly on either side of your head, you’re sure he would’ve completely collapsed on you as he exhales a heavy breath, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and onto your stomach.
“Are you okay?” he asks when you know he’s sure he won’t come immediately. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No, I’m okay, baby.”
“Good,” he breathes, nodding as he leans forward and pecks your lips. “I love you.”
You smile. “I love you.”
“I’m going to move now, okay?”
You fight to keep from giggling at how endearing he is, even during sex. “Okay.”
His first few thrusts are so shallow, you’re not sure he’s even pulling out at all. The only reason you know he is is that each thrust back in makes the delicious ache in your stomach grow. It isn’t until you slip your leg off Mingyu’s shoulder and lock your ankles together behind him and pull him in closer that he starts to really pick up his pace, increasingly intense until he’s slamming into you with a frenetic energy you feel like you can choke on.
Being fucked by Mingyu is unlike being fucked by anyone else. It’s in the way he watches you closely, searching for any signs you’re no longer enjoying or in pain. The way he keeps whispering how much he loves you—like saying it for the first time tonight broke a dam wide open and he can no longer keep the three words in. The way he blushes each time you reach up to pull him down and kiss him. The way his body starts to thrash and tremble the closer he gets to his orgasm. It’s the way he fills you up with his cum so thoroughly and completely, you know there’s no way you can ever be anybody else’s but his. It’s in the way he holds you for so long after, you fall asleep in his arms and only wake up when he’s carrying you into the restroom to help you clean up.
At the end of the night, Mingyu wraps you up in his blankets and himself as the yacht docks at the marina, zero desire to leave even though you’re back at land.
u know i started working out this year. like from jan 1st properly 5 days a week, lifting heavy, progressive overload and all, and ofc i got muscle and MYYYY veins r also visible. and even amongst people around me people who workout vs dont, when u workout thats when the veins pop up, so seeing his sooo clearly is just prove of how hard hes worked…like hes so hot godd
wow…my baby hyuckie….this almost made me cry, more than marks annoucement THIS is what made it all so so real for me….even i worried about haechan only when i heard the news cuz i knowww how absolutely close hyuck is to mark and how they both were in two teams but now hyuck has to manage it alone right….but hearing all of this, him saying he learnt enough strength thru mark that he doesnt need it anymore and can walk alone like aw. Thisade it soo realll. im so happy hes so thankful and nothing but brighter days ahead
Summary: Mingyu’s very public, very obvious crush on you finally gets caught at the MMA
Wc: 570
Warnings: none :)
MASTERLIST (idol!reader au masterlist)
~
Of all the celebrity crushes Mingyu’s ever admitted to, yours is the one he never even tries to downplay.
It starts small—harmless, almost.
A radio interview where the host asks, laughing, “Is there any idol you’ve been watching lately?”
Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pretend to think.
He says your name like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The members groan immediately. Jeonghan sighs dramatically. DK lets out an exaggerated gasp.
But Mingyu just smiles, wide, unashamed, a little boyish, and says, “I really admire her. She’s… cool. I love her music and she dances insanely well.”
Clips go viral within minutes.
Then it keeps happening.
A variety show challenge where they’re supposed to guess the song by the first couple seconds, Mingyu gets yours correct everytime.
“HYUNG,” Seungkwan yells, half-laughing, half-mortified. “At least try to hide it.”
Mingyu shrugs. “Why?”
And when Seventeen attend your concert?
He’s in the VIP section, tall enough that he doesn’t even need to stand to see you clearly. He watches the entire show like he’s studying you. Eyes following every movement, lips parted slightly, nodding along to the beat like he’s forgotten the world exists outside the stage.
Fans catch him on fancams mouthing the lyrics.
You notice him, of course. It’s hard not to.
But it’s the Melon Music Awards that changes everything.
You step onto the stage under white and gold lights, the crowd roaring as the intro to your performance begins. The arena is hyped. And from the moment the music starts, Mingyu is gone.
Not figuratively.
He’s leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like you’re the only person in the room. He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t cheer. He just watches, completely still, like he’s afraid blinking might make you disappear.
Dino nudges him at one point. “Hyung. Close your mouth.”
Mingyu doesn’t even hear him.
When you finish, the applause is thunderous. Mingyu finally snaps out of it long enough to stand, clapping harder than anyone around him, a soft laugh leaving his lips like he can’t believe what he just witnessed.
Then comes the award.
Your name is called, and the crowd erupts.
You walk back onto the stage, stunned, hand over your mouth as you bow, thanking your fans, your producer, your team. You’re halfway through your speech when the noise suddenly spikes—cheers turning shrill, frantic, almost chaotic.
You pause, confused, glancing out over the audience.
“…Why is everyone screaming?” you laugh lightly into the mic.
The big screen behind you shifts.
And it’s Mingyu.
His face fills the screen, eyes wide, ears bright red, lips parted in pure shock. He looks like he’s just realised he’s been caught staring for far too long.
The crowd loses it.
Beside him, the rest of the group absolutely explodes—Wonwoo covering his face, DK doubled over laughing, Seungkwan yelling something unintelligible while slapping Mingyu’s shoulder again and again.
On stage, you finally understand.
Your eyes widen for half a second.
Then you smile.
Soft. Genuine.
And into the mic, with a tiny laugh, you say, “Ah… cute.”
Mingyu goes scarlet as the crowd scream even louder.
He ducks his head immediately, hands flying up to cover his face as his members scream like they’ve just won the award themselves.
On stage, you chuckle before composing yourself and finishing your speech, thanking everyone again like you didn’t just casually ruin a man’s entire existence.
Summary — You have every intention of coasting through the summer internship your dearest father handed to you (or rather, forced you into) with as little effort as possible. Luckily, no one in the office has the nerve to call out the CEO’s daughter for her poor attitude and terrible work-ethic. That is, until your usually polite, level-headed boss, Mr. Park, finally snaps. Suddenly, it’s a lot harder to ignore how good he looks when he’s pissed off— and how much you enjoy being on the receiving end of it.
CW & Tags — 18+ MDNI, Smut, Humour, Office AU, bratty!reader, mean dom!Sunghoon, Age Difference, Power Imbalance, boss!Sunghoon x intern!Reader, mildly implied daddy issues, morally grey characters, infidelity, humiliation kink, heavy degradation kink, mild praise, slut-shaming, abuse of authority, power play, brat-taming, mutual masturbation, edging, spanking, choking, slight overstimulation, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, office sex, slowburn-ish, lots of sexual tension, sexting, slight corruption kink?, mild infantilization of reader, casual misogyny from male coworkers, Sunghoon genuinely trying to be a good boss/mentor/role-model and failing miserably, reader genuinely not giving a fuck, FEAT. bf!Jay, coworker!Jungwon NICKNAMES/PETNAMES USED: missy, young lady, Miss, baby, sweetheart
WC — 19.1k
A/N — so yeah um… I don’t know what kind of freak disease I’ve contracted recently. this is inspired by all the memes of Sunghoon being unc. love him down even if he acts like he’s 23 going on 32. shout out to my lovely moot @enchive who is riding the same office!enha wavelength as me
For someone who was handed a summer internship at your father's company on a silver platter, you don't act as grateful as you should be.
That’s because you aren’t— and with each passing day, you find it more and more difficult to even pretend like you are as the office falls hums its same old, familiar tune; a dull, monotonous symphony of keyboard clicking, phones ringing, and men arguing over numbers and deadlines and everything else you don't care about.
"It will give you real-world experience." Was your father's first proclamation.
Yeah, right. Three weeks in, and the only 'experience' you've gained is learning to optimize the speed at which you swap tabs from online shopping to whatever financial model you're supposed to be working on when your ‘boss’ walks by.
"Other people dream of working here!" Came the next.
It's technically true for anyone else— the role is competitive. People claw their way into divisions like these, just to sit in rooms and argue over numbers tied to companies they don't even care about. You, however, are not anyone else. Getting this job was as simple as a conversation over dinner, followed by a forwarded email. And why exactly would you be dreaming of something so easy to obtain?
"If you don't do it, I'll deactivate your credit card."
Now, that was the only statement that made you quiver, and some whining and back and forth later, you realized you wouldn't have it your way— not this time.
Which is how you ended up here.
In theory, it's easy enough. All you had to do was show up. Sit at a desk. Try. In practice? It's painfully, mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring. God, how you wish you could be doing literally anything else other than staring at your desktop screen, eyes straining from the blue light as rows of numbers blur together—valuations, projections and companies reduced to columns.
You switch to another tab, deciding you're done pretending to work for now, and scroll through your Instagram feed, seeing your friends' posts about their vacations abroad, shopping sprees, and summer adventures, soaking in the rays of the afternoon sun. It only solidifies for you what you already know: You don't care about this job. You just don't care at all. So much that it hurts.
It's why you had decided early on you wouldn't even pretend to care. You come in late and leave early. You do your work hastily— finished, but half-assed. You do enough to where nobody can comfortably call you out on it, but never enough to actually waste any of your precious energy on trying, because really, who's going to stop you? It's not like you need this job. It's not like anyone's going to fire the CEO's spoiled little princess of a daughter.
Nobody says it outright, but you felt it the first day you'd set foot in the building, designer stilettos clicking with every step. The air shifted. People smiled at you too quickly, their tone of voice too polite. It was all too easy, all too uninteresting, the way nobody dared to push back. And the ones that vaguely try to are met with a sharp glare— not because you're actually trying to threaten them, but because it was amusing to see how easily they doubled back, scrambling over their words in fear.
Call it cruel. Whatever. It's one of the few things that brought you joy in the midst of suffocating beneath fluorescent lighting and beige walls.
You lean back in your chair, a sigh falling from your lips as your eyes meet the ceiling. Only an hour left of the workday, and yet it felt like an eternity remained. You're not sure how you plan on making it through the rest of the summer.
Your gaze drifts a little to the side, where you catch sight of your boss in his office, the door wide open, eyes glued to his computer screen.
Mr. Park is the kind of boss who doesn't seem to have a flaw— at least in the corporate sense. Always composed. Always focused. Always just... there. Like he came with the office. Like he belongs to it more than anyone else does— like he's been built into the spreadsheets and decisions that run the place. Of course, he's the fucking Chief Investment Officer. He can probably reduce an entire company to numbers in his sleep.
He's also, apparently, the kind of boss who doesn't seem to know when to let anything go, given how it's three weeks into your internship and he continues to gently bring up the topic of your "lack of enthusiasm". He fills your inbox with "friendly reminders" to show to work on time, addressed to the whole team as if everyone didn't already know it was about you, he walks by your desk more than you wished he would, leaning over your shoulder and offering useless "pointers" that he should know by now you didn't plan on using, always careful with his words.
You suppress a snort at the thought of someone like him— with a title like his, and all the authority that came with it— having to tiptoe around you, too afraid to call you out on your bullshit. Your eyes drag down the features on his face, lingering maybe just a moment too long to watch as his glasses drift down the bridge of his nose, until his hand moves to adjust them. At least he's easy on the eyes, you think, snapping back to reality when his eyes tear away from his screen, looking directly back into yours.
Your back goes straight, and the backrest of your desk chair snaps back, hitting you in the back of the head. Looking back, you see his eyes had already returned to his screen, and you frown. You'd almost prefer it if he were to laugh at you. At least then, you'd believe he's human and not a lab-made corporate slave. Boring.
Your hand twitches at your side, feeling your phone buzz. Beneath the desk, you open it, smiling at your boyfriend's name atop the message notification.
Jay: hey baby hows work?
You: awful
You: i literally hate it here
You: i might actually jump out the window
Jay: dramatic as always
You: are you making fun of my suffering?
Jay: relax. just teasing baby
You: what you up to right now?
Jay: waiting for jake to finish in the shower
Jay: and thinking about you
Jay: you?
You: thinking about you too
You sigh as you click send. Your boyfriend, unlike you, got to go on vacation with his best friend. And while they get to lounge on beaches and eat at expensive restaurants, you're stuck here, trapped in this boorish hellhole surrounded by tired, boring, old people. It's not fair.
Jay: yeah?
Jay: ill be back soon
Jay: flight home sunday
Jay: come over monday?
Jay: wanna see you
You grin, picturing the suggestive smile on his face. You do a quick look around you, before replying.
You: sure you wont be too tired?
You: i dont wanna keep you up...
Jay: you can keep me up anytime
Jay: you know i dont mind
Face growing hot, you bite your lip, too immersed in the thought of all the things you'd do when you finally get your hands on your boyfriend again to hear the footsteps behind you. You're mid-way through typing your reply when suddenly your phone is snatched from your hands.
Your expression quickly going cold, you snap your head around, meeting eyes with none other than Mr. Park.
"What the fuck?" You scoff, loud enough that you hear a few conversations die, and the sound of keyboard typing slows down. You look around, feeling your coworkers' eyes on you and, lowering your voice, you return your attention to your boss. "What do you think you're doing?"
"No texting during work hours," his tone is matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining a foreign concept to you. His eyes flick to your desktop screen, where your Instagram is open. "None of that either."
You feel your face burn, closing the tab immediately.
"It was literally just for a second, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes. But seeing him look at you like that, stern like your father, you realize having an attitude won't get you what you want. With a sigh, you wipe your expression clean, looking up at him with the best sorry-eyed look you could manage. You hold out the palm of your hand, "Give it back to me. Please? I need to respond. My boyfriend—"
"Your boyfriend can wait. And so can you."
The sound of two more message pings is heard, and his eyes drop to the screen. The corners of his mouth twitch into the faintest hint of a smile before he swiftly tucks the device into his pocket. Meanwhile, your stomach twists with a mix of humiliation, annoyance, and disbelief at his sheer audacity to find any of this amusing. Since when did Mr. Park, of all people, find anything amusing, anyway?
"You can get it from my office later. In the meantime, how about you finally get to that acquisition brief you've been avoiding?"
An hour of angry typing later— summarizing some company into neat little bulletin points just so that Mr. Park can skim it and decide whether any of it is worth moving forward with at all— you're sending him the document, marching towards his office as the rest of the floor filters into the elevator. You don’t bother knocking; the same way he hadn’t bothered to warn you before snatching your personal property from your hands.
He doesn't even flinch as the door bursts open, heels clicking with each stride. He doesn't look up until you stand just before his desk.
"It's done," you gesture with your hand, open-palmed. "Now give it back."
"Impatient, are we?"
He moves slowly, without urgency, adjusting his glasses as he clicks around. After what feels like an eternity of watching him read, he finally tears his eyes away from the screen.
"I'm impressed."
"Are you, now?" You reply dryly.
He hums in approval, as if you care to hear it.
"This is the first time since onboarding that you've properly followed through on a given task— and not only did you follow through, you did a good job," he continues, scrolling down the page. "Well-written, well-researched, not a single typo... could use a little bit of refining, but—"
"Okay?" You shift uncomfortably, restlessly tapping your foot. "...Phone?"
His eyes drag from the screen, back to yours, looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, but all you know is that it's far removed from the veil of politeness he carried himself with day-to-day.
He nods to one of the chairs in front of his desk.
"Sit with me. Won't you?"
Reluctantly, you lower yourself to the leather cushion, smoothing the length of your skirt. You stare at him like it's a competition you refuse to lose, though you're starting to suspect it's entirely one-sided, seeing how he eases.
That's the kind of boss Mr. Park is, isn't he? Stern, but gentle. So well-mannered. So god damn clean-cut, calm, collected and controlled.
You suppose that must be why your father speaks so highly of him— why he assigned you to his team, under his supervision. You would've walked all over someone too soft and caused a whole lot of problems for someone too harsh. Mr. Park is harder to pin down, striking a balance somewhere in the middle, firm enough to make you hesitate before pushing your luck, but never enough to actually stop you from doing it.
"What do you want?"
"I want to discuss your work ethic. Or, lack thereof." His hands clasp together on the table, posture upright. "Frankly, your laziness is a liability to my team, and I would've fired you a long time ago if I could."
You blink, slightly taken aback. So he does have the balls to call you out directly, rather than beating around the bush. You’re the one feeling impressed, now.
"Me? Lazy?" You feign innocence, jaw dropping as if he hadn’t literally caught you red-handed scrolling Instagram and borderline about to sext your boyfriend. "Mr. Park. I swear to you, I am trying my absolute best. If that's not enough for you... Well, what can I do? I can't help being young and inexperienced. I'm still learning."
He inhales deeply, eyes scanning your face once again. A small, polite smile breaks as his tone softens— acutely controlled, steady.
You already know how this will go. It's the same thing every time. He calls you in. Calls you out politely. You deflect, avoid the consequences, and he sends you off when he gives up trying.
Except, he doesn’t this time.
"I think it is more than reasonable to expect a grown adult like yourself to show up to work on time. Don't you agree?"
You glare for a few moments, waiting for him to cower in fear as everyone else in this building does. But he doesn't falter. He doesn't bend to your will as he should. He only stares back, just waiting. Patiently. Calmly. Without intention to intimidate. Without the intention of grovelling in submission.
Decidedly done with pretending, you slump back in his chair, like you're at home, lounging in your living room and not currently sitting in your boss's office, being scolded.
"I can't control traffic, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes.
"Neither can I. Nor can anyone else in this office. And yet, you're the only one who's walking in ten... sometimes twenty minutes late?"
You don't even bother to respond, pretending like you hadn't heard a single word he said. You look down at your manicured nails, briefly wondering if you remembered to book your regular appointment. Maybe you could ask Jay what colour to get next time—
"Hey," his voice drops, leaning across the desk. Your eyes lock with his as he snaps his fingers. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
You look from his fingers, then back to him, a blatant scowl on your lips. Your hands curl into fists, tension coiling in your chest as your irritation slowly morphs into something overwhelmingly worse, given how he just snapped his fingers at you like some kind of dog.
You don't wish to question why the sudden change in his tone seems to command your attention. All you know is that you're sick and tired of sitting in his suffocatingly sterile, drab-looking office while you could be literally anywhere else.
"Mr. Park." You drag out his name. You're beyond annoyed now, and you don't care one bit that you're practically whining like an overgrown toddler, "Does it even matter if I'm, like, a little bit late?"
"...A little bit?" He repeats, almost in disbelief, as he glares at you. His hands tighten together, "I am trying to be gracious here. I really am. I don't think I am asking for much—"
"I show up, and I get my work done." his jaw tightens as you interrupt, eyes landing on your index finger, pressing firmly against the desk as if to make some kind of valid point. "I don't get what the big deal is. So just give me back the phone, and let it go."
With that, he stands, hands slamming down against the desk. There's a fire in his eyes, one you'd never noticed before, and suddenly your eyes drift to his hands. You note how large and strong they look, sprawled out against the wood, and shamefully, it makes you wonder what his arms must look like, hidden beneath the layers of his perfectly tailored suit, which hug his broad frame and— fuck, seriously? Is this what a few weeks without your boyfriend does to you?
"Your work is sloppy, lazy and barely meets the deadlines. Please use your common sense." He nearly growls, "You are not a child. I shouldn't have to scold you like one just for you to do your job."
"Well, sorry it doesn't meet your standards," you scoff carelessly, dismissively, "And sorry that I'm not an old, miserable, workaholic asshole like you."
Your hand slams back down on the desk, mirroring his rage. And just like that, his empty, ceramic coffee mug at the edge of the desk topples over and shatters into pieces. You wince at the sound, and in the dead silence, you both stand, staring at one another. Unmoving.
"Clean it up."
"...Me?"
"Yes, you. That's what people do when they cause problems," he circles the desk, until he's standing right in front of you, looking down. "They fix it themselves. Or did your daddy never teach you that?"
Sometime later, you return from the closet holding a broom and dustpan in a shaky, rage-fuelled grasp, huffing and puffing because it's just so stupid. Him, bossing you around like he has the right. Like your dad doesn't own him. But you think the stupidest part is the part of you that feels inexplicably inclined to listen.
You try to crouch down to keep the dustpan steady as you sweep up the broken ceramic pieces, but you quickly realize your tall heels and tight pencil skirt won't allow you to do that. He watches your every move, seeing how you huff as you slip off your ridiculously expensive footwear, seeing how you don't dare to look at him as you lower yourself to your knees.
"Look at you," he speaks, slow and cruel, making sure you hear every word loud and clear, "Bet you've never cleaned up your own mess before, have you?"
His footsteps approach, his shoes coming into view. You look up, meeting his gaze. And holy shit. There is no good reason for the strange, sudden flare of something hot and unwelcome you feel at the sight of your boss looking down at you like that— like you're a speck of dust, tainting his otherwise spotless existence.
"Useless fucking intern."
His words don't make you want to slap him, as you should. They make you feel something traitorous. They make you think of things you quickly shove deep, deep down, hoping to god they never resurface and see the light of day ever again, and you're too struck by the shock of your own body's reaction to even process what he'd just called you.
"Apologize."
"Why?" You carefully challenge, your glare sharpening, "I didn't do it on purpose—"
"Apologize."
You click your tongue, a defiant huff escaping you as your eyes return to the ground.
"I'm sorry, m'kay?"
"Look at me," he repeats, crouching down. His thumb and index finger hold your phone, dangling it in view, and you try to reach for it, but he pulls away. "Speak up, and say it nicely."
You crane your neck, sweaty hands curling into the fabric of your skirt despite the overly air-conditioned room. His glasses are gone now, giving you a better look at his hardened expression. He's not disappointed. Not just frustrated. He's completely, utterly floored by the audacity of you.
You find yourself staring a little too long, captivated by just how gorgeous he looks when he's no longer hiding behind a veil of professionalism. You just can't stop looking at the twitching of his strong brows, the fury behind those beautiful brown eyes, the way that sharp jawline of his clenches, and that frown on his pretty lips— stop.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Park."
You surprise even yourself with how easily the words seem to escape you— how there is no defiance or strain to be heard at all as they fall from your lips all too pathetically.
It haunts you long after you've left the building.
[Monday]
Friday night, you tossed and turned, trying to erase the image of your boss from your mind.
Saturday, you went out with your friends, hoping that drinking until you passed out would somehow reset your brain back to its normal functions.
Sunday morning brunch, you silently suffered through your hangover as you sat across from your father, not a hair out of place as you sat pretty on the rooftop terrace, pretending like the late morning sun wasn't worsening the terrible throb in your head. But your headache was long gone the moment your father's words gave you something far worse to worry about.
"I spoke to Park yesterday," he said.
Your stomach dropped, knowing the conversation could have only gone one way. If what you’d assumed was true—if he told your father about all the half-hearted reports, all the times you’d shown up late, about your attitude, about how you text during the workday—all the things a father trying to maintain a perfect image and groom you to take over his empire wouldn’t want to hear—then it would be over for you and your precious credit card. You could kiss your shopping sprees and fancy restaurants goodbye.
Instantly, you debated the possibility of biting back. You could tell your dad that Mr. Park had verbally berated you, humiliated you— but contrary to popular belief, your father isn't as doting as people would assume. He might get you a good job, but he would never fire one of his best employees just because you decided to whine about it.
"Whatever it is he said, I swear, daddy, it's—"
"I was very shocked," he continued, "To hear that you've been nothing but wonderful."
Wonderful. Of all the things he could've said about you, he chose to lie.
Needless to say, you arrive Monday morning— late, as usual— expecting something, though you’re not sure what, only to find everything completely normal. As if Friday never happened.
There are no hushed whispers among coworkers. No requests from Mr. Park. Nor does he avoid your gaze when he enters the office, shooting you a typical, polite smile. You find yourself watching him throughout the day, trying to catch a glimpse of the man you’d encountered Friday evening, but he wears his mask well.
He does, however, summon you to his office again at the end of the workday. Because, of course, he would on the day your boyfriend is finally back.
"This better be quick," you snap almost immediately. Impatiently.
"I believe I owe you an apology," he starts, back to his usual polite smile. "I lost my temper, and I spoke to you in an insulting and highly unprofessional manner."
You stare, flatly, looking him up and down. Too fake. Too eager to please.
"You know, my dad told me all the nice things you had to say about me, Mr. Park," you hum, almost bored, "Guess I'm just a bit confused as to why you would do that for me, since I'm just a useless fucking intern."
"I think we both know how much weight your words carry around here, young lady."
"Oh?" You raise your brow, the gears turn in your head. “You think I'm gonna get you fired?"
"...I wouldn't put it past you." He manages, which earns a laugh from you.
"Yeah. I wouldn't put it past me either," you look him up and down, allowing him to believe that you somehow hold that kind of power. "You can unclench your butthole, Mr. Park. I'm a bitch, but I'm not evil."
He sighs, appearing more unimpressed than relieved.
Realistically, the most your father would do, if he even bothered to listen, would be to move you to another department, which would be just another pain in the ass. But you're not about to tell him that.
"You are unbelievably difficult."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," you deadpan. "Can I go now?"
"Not yet," he gestures to the chair, "Sit."
You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he quickly continues.
"You didn't think I was done with trying to correct your behaviour around here, did you?" He says, "I promise, it won't be long."
Foolishly, you believe him.
Dramatically, you plop yourself down.
"Is it because I was late again?"
"I just want to talk."
"About?"
"I was thinking, after our conversation on Friday. You are the only employee I haven’t interviewed. I know your face. I know your last name and the power it holds. I know your father and the things he says about you. But I don't know you," he starts, "So tell me about yourself."
"Seriously?" You snort.
"Yes, seriously."
You sigh. Deeply, deeply annoyed.
"What do you wanna know?"
"Anything," he shrugs, relaxing back into his chair. He watches you pensively. "What do you like to do? Any hobbies?”
"I dunno. Shopping. Going out with my friends or my boyfriend..." You're not sure why you hesitate to mention that last part. You shrug. "I don't do much, I guess."
"What do you do when you go out? Anything fun?"
"What do you think college students do when we go out, Mr. Park?" You grin.
He returns your teasing with an easy smile.
"Fair enough. You like to party. Then—"
"Did you like to party when you were my age, Mr. Park?"
"I believe I'm the one asking the questions."
"Come on. Now I'm curious," you look him up and down, picturing a twenty-something-year-old version of your boss.
Briefly, you wonder if he’s the kind of person who grew into his looks, or if he’s always looked that good. Hell, you could only begin to imagine what kind of heartthrob he must’ve been if he’s always looked like this— probably could’ve fucked a different girl every night. Probably still could, if he wanted to. Is this what college fuckboys grow into? Boring, business men who bask in their own self-importance?
"Bet you got a lot of attention from the ladies, huh?"
You don't really think about what you're saying until it slips out, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks at the fact that you'd just indirectly called him attractive.
Thankfully, he changes the topic, seemingly unfazed by your comment entirely. The same way he redirects the conversation in meetings when they get too side-tracked. Professional, as always. You decide to let yourself believe that he didn't hear it.
"According to your application, you're a Business major."
"Mhm."
"And if my memory serves me right, your grades are excellent."
"Guess so."
"You like studying business?"
"Sometimes."
"So you do have aspirations." He says, and you flash him a glare. "What, did you expect me to assume that you do? I have to practically breathe down your neck to get you to do your job properly."
"My 'aspirations' can wait. I have time."
"Young people always think they have time. But one day, you'll wake up and realize you're thirty-something, and—"
"You're only in your thirties, Mr. Park?" You dramatically gasp, "Sorry. Just. You're so boring and serious, I thought you were way older. Like, forties, at least."
Your teasing falls flat, as does your attempt to derail the conversation.
"What I'm trying to say," he says firmly, swiftly easing his tone of voice, "is that you're not wrong for wanting to live your life. However, you have been handed an opportunity that most people your age can only dream of, and it would be unwise to continue acting like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you."
You roll your eyes.
"Do tell me— What are your aspirations?"
"I don't know."
"You must have some idea."
You don't respond, and he studies you for a moment, dissatisfied.
"You spend a lot of time researching luxury brands on your work computer. Not just shopping— reading. Articles, reports, brand strategy, market positioning."
"You sure spend a lot of time watching what I do."
"I only watch to confirm that you are not doing your work, as always," he says flatly, "Those companies you're reading about— they're businesses. Structured, valued, acquired. The same way anything else is. If you're looking to work in that industry, then the things you're learning here can be valuable."
"I'm not," you say a little too defensively, scrambling for your words, "It's just brands and clothes. Who cares?"
"You care, clearly."
"I don't."
"I have a hard time believing that," he comments, then persists, "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"
"Will you even be alive in ten—"
"Yes, I get it. I'm old. Very funny. Though if you're planning on becoming a comedian, I'd advise expanding your portfolio of jokes." He deadpans, "I'm asking you a simple question. What do you want?"
"Does it even matter what I want?" You scoff, muttering, "Everyone knows my future is here.”
He leans back in his chair, "You plan to take over your father's position one day?"
"That would be real fun, wouldn't it?" You avoid the question with a grin, "Me, bossing you around."
"You realize the sooner you give me proper answers, the sooner you can leave."
You huff, and after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you look down at your lap.
"You know how these things work. Needing to continue the family business, or whatever." You gesture aimlessly, shifting uncomfortably. "It's stupid. Honestly. I don't give a single crap about this company, and I'm obviously not even good enough for it either, so I don't know why he insists that..."
You trail off, shaking your head at the amount of information you just volunteered.
"You think you're not good enough?" Mr. Park furrows his brows.
"My work is shit. You said it yourself."
"That brief you gave me last Friday wasn't shit."
"That's one time."
He pauses. Suddenly, he’s leaning forward.
"You want to know what I think?"
"No."
"I think you'd rather be dismissed as lazy than to actually try and risk falling short of perfection."
The silence weighs on you.
"You must feel there's a lot of pressure to succeed, whether that be through on your own path, or following the one that's set out for you, don't you?"
"You pry around in all your employees' personal lives like this?"
"As your boss, it's my job to make sure that you do your job," he states. "Confronting you last time didn't work, and I can't exactly fire you. So I'm trying a different approach— to understand you."
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, irked by his gentle tone and how his eyes seem to look right through you. You'd rather he raise his voice. You'd almost prefer he insult you like the last time. Useless is easy. Spoiled is easy. This... is invasive, getting under your skin in ways his anger hadn't.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life. But maybe I can convince you to take advantage of the opportunity you've been given. I'm not just saying that as your boss. I'm saying it as a mentor— and as someone who was once just as stubborn as you are." he smiles, "I don't want to see you wasting your potential."
Your mouth twitches.
"Yeah? Well, I don't want you to keep wasting my time," you cross your arms defensively, "You said this wouldn't take long, Mr. Park."
"How can I support you? How can I help you succeed at this job?" He presses further, "Is it more guidance? More positive reinforcement?"
"I don't want support. I don't want to succeed. I want to leave."
"You can leave when I say you can."
"Technically," you correct, "I can leave whenever I want."
That’s when you notice it—the look in his eye, barely containing that temper he seemed so intent on hiding beneath his clean-cut appearance and deceptively steady composure, as if you hadn't already come to know that side of him only yesterday.
Voice strained, he continues.
"I'm offering understanding and support. I'm letting you know that, despite our conversation last week, I don't expect you to be perfect; I just expect effort. Can you please try to meet me halfway?"
You suppose you could make this easier for both of you and just say whatever he wants to hear. But you don't want to give him that satisfaction. Not after he made you sit there, making assumptions about your inner thoughts, acting as if he knew you. Not after whatever the hell happened on Friday, which had left you hot and frustrated in ways that made you resent him even more than you previously did.
Seeing the telltale signs of his anger, through the clenching of his fist, and the narrowing of his gaze into something sharp, a flicker of excitement stirs within you. What better payback would there be than to make your ever-so-perfect superior snap again?
"What is this, Mr. Park?" You mock, "Performance coaching? Amateur therapy?"
"Don't talk back to me, young lady."
"Oh, Mr. Park," you laugh, hardly suppressing your smile. "I think you're well aware that I can talk to you however I like."
Your fingernails tap against the desk, and you allow yourself a moment to capture the image of his deeply frustrated, beautiful face in your mind.
"And you know what?" You continue, leaning forward, "There's absolutely nothing you can do about it."
There's a silence, a calm before the storm.
"That mouth of yours... do you even hear yourself when you speak?" He growls. A beat passes, and he leans in too. "Or is that dumb little head of yours so empty that you don't even realize how fucking irritating you sound?"
Oh.
Your nails dig into the desk. His voice, low and unrestrained, ignites something deep within you.
"Speak to me however you like. Be as blatantly disrespectful and bitchy as you please. It won't make you any less pathetic. It will never change the fact that you're just a useless, whiny, spoiled, little girl who's never had to try a day in her life."
One leg crosses over the other, feeling how his insults seem to burn in ways they definitely shouldn't. What you should be doing is searching for the words to talk back like you'd intended. Instead, your mouth presses firmly shut, trying not to think about the heat that rises between your legs, and how it throbs without justification. Making him surrender to his anger was supposed to feel satisfying, not the opposite— Not this.
"What's this? Now you don't have anything to say?"
"No,” you quip, rather weakly.
You curse yourself for that being all you can manage. If you were in the right state of mind— if his voice weren't so low and effortlessly commanding— if his face weren't so damn attractive when he's pissed the fuck off— maybe then you could bite back. But right now, there was something deeply wrong with you, and you needed to get the fuck out of there and deal with it immediately.
"So be it." He mutters, "Get the fuck out of my office."
Your legs carry you out, feeling unsteady in your heels as if you didn't know how to walk in them, all thanks to the distracting, near-unbearable arousal which seems to linger. Your phone rings in the elevator, Jay's profile picture on your screen.
"Hey, baby. Just wondering if you're on your way? Been waiting a while," he says, "Everything okay?"
"No," you swallow, fingers curling around your handbag. "Everything is not okay."
"He is such an asshole, Jay," you groan.
He only hums in response, as his lips roam your neck.
You had arrived at his place only minutes ago, and you were already beneath him, sprawled out on his couch, eyes fluttering, and lips parted as he took his time worshipping you.
It's uncharacteristic of him. Jay isn't usually the type of boyfriend to be placing his hands on you the moment you walk through the door— he'd usually offer a drink, sit with you, talk to you like there's all the time in the world, before deciding to make his move. A real gentleman, unlike the flings you’d wasted time with before him. But you both knew how desperate you were to get your hands on one another, so all the talking vacation photos and complaining about Jake could wait.
The summer evening sun seeps through the windows of his downtown condo, his tanned skin illuminated by a warm, golden glow, and while you should feel relieved to finally be back here— in his living room, in his arms, with his playlist humming low in the background as he shows you just how much he's missed you— you instead find yourself tangled up and knotted in your frustrations from the past few days.
"You know what he said to me?" You continue, brows furrowed.
"What'd he say, hm?" He mutters against your skin.
"He called me lazy."
He chuckles when you let out a whimper, kissing a particularly sensitive part of your neck, and a shiver runs through you at the feeling of his breath.
You're more reactive than usual, given your... frustrations. And your boyfriend seems to be loving it, given how he's choosing to tease you instead of just taking you right there, like you need him to.
"Well..." You can feel his smirk on you, "Are you?"
"Hey," you pout, fingers gently threading through his hair. "Whose side are you on?"
You tug just enough to look at him. He wears the same playful, easygoing smile he always does. The one you've grown comfortable and familiar with.
"Yours. Always. My girl is always right," he says, leaning down to ghost your lips, before capturing them with his.
You smile into the kiss, a gasp escaping you when you feel his tongue slip into your mouth, and his hands roam the curve of your waist, down to your ass.
"So worked up," he comments, "Must've been exhausting, sitting there and looking pretty all day, hm?"
You feel his hands work away at your blouse, button by button, until his lips are at your exposed chest, peppering kisses down the valley of your breasts.
"You have no idea," you breathe, trying to focus on how good he's making you feel, trying to focus on him, but— "He said I'm wasting my potential."
"That's such a corporate thing to say," he snorts.
You should be snorting too. You normally would, brushing it off like it's nothing. So it's strange, really, that you feel your chest heave in frustration, dissatisfied with... well, you're not exactly sure.
"So you think he's wrong?"
You hear him sigh, and he props himself up, blinking down at you. His smile is kind, partially amused, partially only tolerating your antics with far more patience than anyone would expect from a man who hasn't seen his girlfriend in weeks. A moment passes, watching, waiting— deciding, finally.
"I didn't say that," he says gently, a hand moving to your cheek. His thumb moves in slow circles, and his tired, jet-lagged eyes scan your expression, trying to read you.
"What do you think, then?"
"I think..." he begins, carefully, "...that I'm a bit confused. Do you want me to take your side or not?"
"That's not an answer, Jay."
"Then I think you need to relax," he replies, his voice a little lower now, and you feel a hand dragging up the length of your thigh. "It's just some summer thing. You're taking it too seriously."
"I'm not, trust me."
"Then don't think about it."
He kisses you again, and you squeal when he pushes past your skirt. He thumbs the top of your sheer-black stockings, which hug the plush of your upper thigh, before moving to the heat between your legs.
"Shit," he breathes, palming you, feeling just how absolutely soaked you are through one layer of fabric, "Missed me that much?"
A pang of guilt runs through you, knowing part of your arousal is due to something else entirely. But you remind yourself that it's only because you missed your boyfriend, and your mind was only wandering because you were bored.
"Don't worry about anything else, sweet girl, m'kay?" He whispers, "Let me take care of you."
You pull him closer by the collar of his shirt, kissing him harder, and his response is immediate. His hands, familiar, practiced, safe and... easy. Against your will, your mind wanders to echoes of a voice that doesn't soften when you push back— of words that shoot to kill when provoked.
[Tuesday]
"You weren't lying when you said the morning traffic is a bitch," Jay says, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He peeks his head out the window briefly, noting the long line of cars that won't budge.
Meanwhile, you hit your knee against the dashboard as you squirm around in the passenger seat, trying to peel your stockings from your legs. His head whips around at the sudden thud.
"You okay?"
"I can't wear these. I think you ripped them last night," you hiss, as you finally slip them off.
You inspect the torn nylon in your hands, then discard the fabric over your shoulder, landing somewhere in the backseat.
"Did I?" He teases, as if he doesn't fully remember how he had you sit on his face while wearing them, needy hands digging into the flimsy fabric as he'd held your thighs steady. "My bad, baby."
You scoff, knowing damn well he doesn't feel bad about it. You're not exactly mad about it either, though you are a little self-conscious as you check yourself in the sun-visor mirror, your hair neat enough but not exactly as flawless as you usually wore it, your makeup light and hastily applied.
You look down at your skirt, wondering if anyone would notice it's the same one as yesterday, or the faint wrinkles that remained as a result of last night's activities. You kept some clothes at Jay's, but nothing exactly up to the dress code of your current job, so outfit repetition it would have to be— save for an acceptable blouse you'd swapped out with yesterday's, the other long forgotten on his bedroom floor.
"I look like shit—"
"You look perfect."
"Fuck, I'm going to be so late!"
"Aren't you always?" He laughs.
"By, like, ten minutes. Not an hour," you groan, rummaging in your makeup bag. You fumble for your usual lipstick, looking in the mirror to apply. "Mr. Park is going to flip."
You don't want to admit that part of the reason you're stressed, though, is not because you fear him. Rather, you’ve become increasingly worried by the way your body seems to react to his temper.
"Just tell your dad to deal with it."
"You tell him. He listens to you more than me," you swipe the corners of your mouth, making sure your application is as neat as it can be for being applied in the car.
"I just know how to talk to him, that's all."
"Smooth talker."
"You mean charismatic," he winks, and you roll your eyes. He turns his attention away. "If it makes you feel better, I'm gonna be in deep shit, too. First day back, and I'm already late."
You watch how his eyes fixate ahead of him as the vehicle inches forward, one hand on the wheel, while the other reaches for your knee, mindlessly.
He looks like a wealthy man’s son in his tailored suit and neatly combed back hair. It's the reason you two just made sense— why your fathers got along, and why your mothers asked "so when's the wedding?" as if you were even close to the age where you should be settling down.
But, well, if not Jay, then who? He’s handsome, privileged, and laughs off your attitude with an easy smile. He walks through life like he’s weightless, talks like he’s worriless, and shakes hands with powerful men as naturally as he breathes air— and you suppose that's because it is. It’s what he was born to do.
He’d probably do a better job running your father’s company than you ever would, wouldn’t he? A part of you always assumed that’s why your parents love him so much. A union with Jay would mean the family fortune would be in good, responsible hands, unlike yours. You can’t really blame them for thinking that.
Jay drops you off with a quick kiss, both of you smiling into it as you say your goodbyes. And when you step into the elevator, tugging at your skirt and smoothing your hair, you can’t help but wish you could float through life as easily as your boyfriend seems to.
You're expecting the worst as you step out of the elevator, though you keep your chin held high despite the nerves coursing through your veins.
Sinking into your chair, your hands dig into your knees, and you prepare yourself for that look from him, only for you to take a quick, cautious glance behind you and find… nothing.
Mr. Park doesn't look up. He doesn't toss a glare or call you over to his office like you'd expect him to, given that you just walked in almost an hour late. He hadn't even left a passive-aggressive comment in your inbox, or a reminder to start your tasks or anything.
Okay, you think. So it's like that?
You turn your head back around, head craning just a bit more. And though you're certainly not about to complain about it, had he really given up just like that? One interrogation, and he decided your "wasted potential" was better off wasted? That would just be too... easy. Too simple.
No, you frown. Mr. Park isn't like that. He's a pest, an ever-present pain in the ass. You tear your eyes away with certainty this time. He's probably just scared like last time, right? Or worried you'll run off and badmouth him to father dearest?
You click through a few tabs for the next hour, pretending to work, pretending not to be so goddamn bothered, and pretending not to think about why that is. When, suddenly, you're watching others stand from their desk, filing into the conference room down the hall.
"Hey," you tug at your right-hand coworker's sleeve. Mr. Yang, you think, though you never bothered to learn his name, seeing how he never bothered to look you in the eye. "What's happening?"
"Ah, we have a meeting, remember?" He gulps, managing a polite smile, "An email was sent out last week—"
Rolling your eyes, you let go of his sleeve, and he mutters something before scrambling away. Then, you gather your things, trailing in with the rest of them only moments later.
You’re only half-listening, your eyes practically glazing over as Mr. Park speaks. He hadn't even bothered to acknowledge you today, so you might as well do the same to him, right? Though unlike everyone else in the room who listens like their life depends on it, you don't find it so difficult to ignore his dull droning. In fact, it's a little bit too easy to drown out the sound of him as your eyes drag over his tall, broad frame.
Suddenly, your name is called. Your eyes snap to him, as the room's eyes snap to you.
"Since you worked on the brief," he says, "Walk us through it."
Your stomach drops, and before you can think to glare, you're blinking, stunned.
"...What?"
You try to read him, to look for some kind of cruel intent behind his steady gaze. Instead, you find he almost appears wholly uninterested. That, you think, is far more infuriating than the former.
There's an uncomfortable pause in the room. The sound of pens scribbling and laptops being typed comes to a slow halt.
"You wrote it," his voice is steady. "So explain it."
You swallow dryly, unmoving, until it fully processes in your mind that he is being serious.
Managing a slow nod, you ask for a moment as you search for the file on your laptop, and after some fumbling, you finally pull it up. But as you nervously glance over the document, you’re reminded that you barely remember what you wrote, or what half of it even means, given that you completed it in a blind fury, with the sole purpose of getting Mr. Park off your ass.
"Well, it's basically..." you start, eyes flickering from the screen, back to him, pretending like you aren't trying to read off the document, "about the company's... growth projections."
"Which projections?" His response is immediate.
From the corner of your eye, you notice a few nameless faces exchange glances. Embarrassment tries to fight its way onto your face, and you counter it with your best fake, corporate smile.
"...The revenue ones."
"What about them?"
"They're... increasing?”
There's another pause, and you hear something that sounds like a chuckle disguised as a cough a few seats down.
Mr. Park allows the moment to linger, and to anyone else in the room, it might appear like he's giving you the chance to explain further, but you know what his true intentions are. You see it in the look in his eyes— that small, barely noticeable hint of satisfaction you'd come to know all too well. The same one he looked down at you with when he'd made you apologize to him on your knees. The same one he had when he'd rendered you speechless and flustered, and quite honestly, still threatens to.
"...Increasing?" he echoes, perfectly timed. He tilts his head, like it's a genuine question. "Increasing based on what?"
You don't even bother to open your mouth to say anything this time. Trying to explain yourself further would only dig you a deeper hole, and he’s already made his point. So instead, you sit there, jaw clenched, unmoving.
He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses.
"That's enough," he states, redirecting his attention away from you. "We'll revisit it later. Moving on..."
The rest of the meeting is anything but boring. It's torturous, sitting there with your face hot, as you look around the room, finding eyes that turn to look away as soon as you catch them.
And the worst part? He doesn't even call you in to speak after the meeting. That bastard.
Pacing across the tiled floor of the restroom, you simmer. You'd gone to try and cool yourself down, running your hands under cold water, taking deep breaths.
It's fine. It's just one meeting, and it's not like it matters. It's not like you care about being viewed as competent when you don't even have to be. But did he have to go as far as publicly humiliating you?
For a man who presents himself as pragmatic, he sure has a lot of nerve calling you out in a meeting to talk about something he knows you don't know shit about. Acting so unbothered. So professional. So bored. Seeing him sit there, pretending like he isn't savouring the sight of your misery is... fuck.
You sigh, a heat starting to pool between your thighs again, and you are not about to stand there and try to unpack why the hell you keep getting hot from the way he treats you, because frankly, the only thing you can do is just accept it at this point.
You're about to push past the door to the restroom when, just outside the door, you hear your name uttered. Leaning on it until you peer just a crack, you catch sight of two male coworkers— again, names of which you didn't bother to learn— who work a few desks down from yours.
They linger by the fountain, one of them holding their plastic water bottle up to the pathetic stream of water that leaks from the old machine.
"...don't even know why he bothers to give her real work when she's clearly a nepo hire."
"Right? Might as well just pay her to stand around."
The other male laughs in response, a sly smirk rising as he nudges the other.
"I mean... I wouldn't blame him for it."
The two snicker, and you narrow your eyes.
"Oh, please. Mr. Park?" the other scoffs, raising a brow, "The guy is practically married to his balance sheets. Probably gets off on them."
"Maybe he's got his eye on some new assets."
The other snorts, clamping a hand over his mouth before erupting into laughter, provoking the other to do the same. Meanwhile, your stomach twists in disgust.
Deciding you've heard enough, you push past the door, and one resists the urge to laugh even harder, while the other tries to shush him. You don’t bother to spare them a second glance, your eyes set on one thing only.
In deliberate strides, your feet carry you to his office, shutting the door behind you as you slam your hands on his desk.
"Is there a reason you decided to do that?"
He doesn't look up right away. He types for a few more seconds before looking to you. Calm. Measured. With a goddamn smile on his face.
"Do what?" he asks, "Ask you to explain the brief that you wrote?"
"You put me on the spot and made me look stupid on purpose," you seethe. "If you heard what others are saying—"
"Are you saying you feel embarrassed?" He raises his brows, acting shocked, before letting his expression fall flat. "Then, maybe you should've come prepared."
"I told you I don't care about this job." Your hands curl into fists.
"And I don't care that you feel humiliated by the consequence of your own actions. Did you really expect me to coddle you?"
"You are such an ass." You growl, "Is that why you give me real work? So you can torture me?"
"I'm helping you," He sighs, shaking his head, "And I know you don't understand that yet, but you'll thank me one day."
You scoff at him in disbelief.
"I'll thank you? Are you serious right now?"
"I am."
He says simply. Nothing more.
A beat passes, and you stare— You stare until you snap.
"Bet you'd love for me to thank you, wouldn't you? So fucking full of yourself. 'Oh, thank you, Mr. Park!' Is that what you want to hear? 'Thank you so much—'"
"Stop that."
"'Thank you so much for calling me a spoiled little bitch—'"
"I said stop." He repeats, sharper this time, like a warning.
"'Thank you sooo much for humiliating me—'"
With that, he stands to full height, glaring down at you. You try to straighten yourself out, lifting your chin, determined not to give him the satisfaction of intimidating you.
"If you don't have anything else to say, then get out of my office."
You stare a moment longer, deciding if you want to push your luck. Ultimately, you decide against it. You were done with him today, and you'd have plenty of other opportunities to make him pissed.
"Fine."
The door shuts with a rather loud thud, and you don't see how Mr. Park brings his hand to drag down his face, breathing in deeply as he suppresses the thought of what you just did from his mind. Though it does not work, and the image of his attractive, much younger intern thanking him for the humiliation lingers, unsettling and persistent, following him long after he’s left the office and returned home.
[Wednesday]
Subject: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Please revise your most recent submission as it is not up to the expected standard of quality.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
Re: Brief Revision
To: Park Sunghoon
make me
You only just hit the 'send' button when you hear a ping from your cellphone. Looking down at the notifications, you grin.
Jay: miss you
Jay: cant stop thinking about you
You: yeah?
You: what are you thinking about?
You're biting your lip, watching the three dots on your screen as you wait for your boyfriend's response, thankful for some kind of distraction— anything to take your mind off of yesterday. But of course, your moment of peace doesn't last long. It never does in this damn office.
Jay: you have no idea
Jay: im so hard right now
Jay: wanna fuck you so bad
You don't feel your boss's presence until he's right behind you, and you freeze when you realize he's right there, leaning down next to you. You nearly jump out of your seat, clutching your phone to your chest. And the expression on his face is... pure horror and disgust. In a less humiliating circumstance, you would find it amusing. But right now, you are in no place to be laughing.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I wanted to see what my intern does on her phone instead of working," he cringes, "Now I honestly wish I hadn't."
"Consequence of your own actions, Mr. Park," you quote him, "Does this mean you'll leave me alone, now?"
"Quite the contrary. If you don't want me looking over your shoulder, reading about... that, then get to work," he folds his arms, and you scowl in annoyance, "You are the one who asked me to 'make you' do your work."
"Pervert," you mouth, so that neither Mr. Yang nor your surrounding coworkers can hear.
He takes a glance around before leaning down right at your ear, breath tickling your skin.
"Says the one sexting at the office," he whispers, and you fight the shiver that threatens to run up your spine as he continues. "Really, do you have any shame?"
He lingers, waiting, and you open the document, reading it over. He waits a few minutes, watching you make a few edits here and there, and after a bit, he leaves.
As soon as he's gone, you delete the edits you've made out of spite, and for the next hour, you waste your time pretending to work, and send back the document with the only thing changed being the font from Times New Roman to Comic Sans.
Re: Brief Revision
To: Park Sunghoon
[attachment fuckoff.docx]
Re: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Please revise again, as it is still not up to company standards.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
You waste another hour, this time instead making it wordier, longer, and impossible to parse through. The document is now double the length of the original, riddled with unnecessary paragraphs, and you know he'll still waste his time reading because that's the kind of annoying little asshole he is. And once you're satisfied, you hit 'send' again.
Re: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Yet again, I am asking you to revise.
Please be reminded that you will need to speak about it at next week’s meeting.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
With a sigh, you glance back, seeing him hard at work as usual. And decidedly done with wasting his time, seeing as you aren't getting the kind of amusement out of it you'd hoped for, you open up a new document.
You do it right this time. Not with the intention of putting your whole heart into it, but admittedly, you grow more immersed in writing it than you should. You don't even hear your phone when it pings, and as you near the end of the workday, you don't realize when people slowly start packing up, leaving the building. When you finally click 'send', that's when you notice you've stayed overtime.
There's another ping on your phone, and you curse under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Jay: baby?
Jay: guess work is busy today :(
Jay: ill pick you up later
Sent 1:27 PM
Jay: see you soon beautiful
Sent 4:48 PM
Jay: almost done?
Sent now
You gather your things, texting out your reply as you make your way to leave. But, unfortunately, so does Mr. Park. You exchange a stiff glance as you wait for the elevator, which takes its sweet time like always.
"Better."
"Hm?" You raise your brow.
"The brief is better."
The elevator dings, and he gestures for you to step inside first, like he's some kind of gentleman. You'd roll your eyes at him for it if you weren't busy narrowing them in response to his choice of words.
"What do you mean, 'better'?" You ask.
"It means it's better," he repeats, stepping inside after you, "but you can still do better."
He presses the main floor button, and you watch in annoyance. You grip your handbag tight, wondering why 'better' feels worse than 'sloppy' or 'lazy' ever did. Whatever, you think.
"It's good enough."
"It is."
"Then why are you complaining?" You snap.
"I'm not." He replies simply. The elevator doors open to the main floor, and he gestures for you again. Just when you think he’s done, he continues, "I'm just saying you're capable of more."
"Well, I don't want to do more."
You step out, and you fully intend on walking far, far away from the conversation so that you no longer have to simmer in irritation.
"Alright. Sure."
Your steps halt, and for a moment, you watch him as he walks past you. With a frown, you take a few hurried steps forward, intending to catch up with his long-legged strides.
"What the hell do you mean by—"
You lose your balance, as one does when they try to jog in stilettos, and you feel yourself starting to fall face-forward. Then, he catches you by the arm. Blinking up at him a few times, you feel your pulse racing. You try to convince yourself it's from the panic of nearly tripping and nothing more.
"Careful," he utters as he steadies you.
His hand doesn't linger longer than it needs to. His distance is professional, his tone polite. There is absolutely nothing about the moment that should be making your heart race the way that it does.
You notice he moves a bit slower with his next step, allowing you the time to catch up.
"I meant that, for someone who claims they don't care about this job," he begins, pushing the door open and holding it for you, "You seem quite bothered by my feedback."
"You are what bothers me," you quip rather defensively, walking through the door.
"Believe me, the feeling is mutual."
A few cars away, your name is called, and you both turn. Jay is there, waving to you from where he leans against his car.
A faint smile spreads across Mr. Park's face. It's different from the one he wears around the office, more amused than it is polite, though you vaguely wonder if there is something else to it you can't quite place. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide it, regardless, as it lingers on his lips.
"Better not keep him waiting, hm?" He teases, and you feel a flush rush to your cheeks.
He begins to walk away, half-glancing back over his shoulder.
"Enjoy your evening."
[Thursday]
You're ready this time. On time. A coffee cup, half finished, as you type away.
You decided sometime last night— as Jay snored at your side, and you lay awake in frustration after having to fake an orgasm for the first time in years— that 'better' wasn't enough.
You do real research this time, instead of glazing over lines from Wikipedia and paraphrasing them. You organize it all, formatted to the expected standard format, in neat little sections, revise it until you can’t find a single flaw, over and over. You do everything you can until finally, you send it, checking your phone for the time. Barely past noon, and you were already finished.
You lean back in your chair with a satisfied smile and turn to the side to see Mr. Yang looking straight at you.
"What?"
"Oh. Nothing, just," he shakes his head, "I've never seen you that focused before."
His eyes go wide at the realization of what he'd just said, and he begins to scramble. He smiles, a look that screams 'please don't get me fired'.
"I mean, don't get me wrong! I'm not saying you're not focused or anything, or..."
His words fade to white noise in your mind as you spare a glance towards Mr. Park's office, smiling at the thought of when you'd be called in— you wonder what he might be thinking. If he's reading it right now. If he's shocked or maybe even proud.
Except he never calls you in. You refresh your inbox the rest of your shift, thinking he might've at least said something. Anything. He doesn't even stop by your desk or return your glances from across the office, and you decide to finally do what you always seem to do anyway, which is barge straight in.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
He doesn't look up, immersed in something else as he types faster than you think any human should be capable of typing. He’s probably busy. You sometimes forget that he actually has work he has to do, unlike you. But still, you find yourself frowning, shifting your weight where you stand, a good distance away from his desk.
"My work."
"What about it?" He responds quick.
So he did read it, you think, which does nothing to soothe your growing discomfort as you process his lukewarm reaction.
"...Your thoughts?"
He stops typing for a moment, sparing you a glance. Just one single glance, and a small smile.
"It's good."
He immediately returns to working, and you stand there. You just stand there.
"That's all you have to say?"
"Your work is good. You did a good job. What else can I say?"
"I did a good job," you repeat, trying not to seethe.
That's when he stops typing. And somewhat amused, he looks at you.
"What, are you expecting a gold star?" He teases, shaking his head. It's not meant to be cruel. You've seen how he speaks when he's trying to be. And yet, it cuts deeper than his cruelty ever has. "You finally did what I expect from everyone here, and what I already knew you were capable of doing. So good job for proving me right."
Your jaw tightens, and his eyes seem to drop, noticing how your hands tremble.
"Alright. Don't be like that," he starts, his tone softer this time. It does not make you feel any better. "I am pleased to see that you're finally making a real effort."
You exhale sharply through your nose as you watch him get up, circling the desk. And soon, a hand is at your back, gently guiding you to the door.
"But you know what would please me even more? Consistency."
You wince when he pats your back, like that's supposed to be supportive.
"So why don't you get back to it and—"
"You think I care about pleasing you?" You manage, swallowing the lump at the back of your throat, pretending like your heart isn't sinking in your chest because the hours of work you spent perfecting that stupid brief only earned you a good job and a pat on the back. Your hands curl into fists, and you're not sure why. You've gotten a bad grade or two before— disappointed a teacher here and there, felt the shame of failure. But this, right now? You'd never felt so pathetic. “ ‘cause I don't. I just did it so you don't embarrass me in front of everyone again. That's all."
He observes you, seeing how you avert his gaze, how you shift your weight from one leg to the other. You begin to blink, your eyes glossy.
"Maybe I should rephrase myself," He goes on carefully, "You're taking it the wrong way."
"Like I said. I don't care. So don't—" you inhale, "So whatever. Fuck you."
He lets out a deep, heavy sigh.
"Let's not take it there," he warns, sternly, "Good isn't an insult—“
"Then what part of it isn't good enough? What could've possibly fallen short of your standards, Mr. Park?"
Annoyed, but still patient, he observes. Finally, he moves towards the desk, and you watch with your fists still clenched at your sides.
"You want feedback. Is that it?” He asks, pulling out his desk chair, “You could've simply asked."
You watch as he beckons you.
"Come. Sit."
You do. And he hovers behind you, right hand on the mouse, his left on the desk, caging you in. You’re hyper aware of how close he is, with how his cologne invades your senses, and how you can hear him muttering low to himself as he pulls up the document you’d sent. You lay your palms flat against your lap.
"This, right here? It's too much. Same thing here. Here. And here. You're overcompensating,” he cuts straight to the point.
"Thought you wanted me to try harder?" You mutter.
"And I think it's sweet that you're trying, missy, but the goal is not to impress me." A low chuckle escapes him, going straight through you. "The goal is to be as clear and concise as possible."
Your jaw tightens, unsure if it’s in response to his annoyingly condescending criticism, or because you’re trying to fight the dirty thoughts of him that you just can’t quite push away, no matter how hard you’ve tried to over the past week. He continues, clicking to another section.
"This, here? Correct, but completely disorganized—"
"Still correct."
"Still disorganized," he affirms. You take a few deep breaths, and he's humming to himself as he highlights all the problem areas on his screen, "You have a tendency to be messy, don't you? Messy, messy, messy..."
You close your eyes as he trails off, acutely aware of how his voice, low and just inches from your ear, is driving you insane. He scrolls down and stops at the final section.
"Ah, and this rambling nonsense. This is the worst part." Your hands curl into fists at your lap, pretending like you don't feel his eyes shift to you, directly, "What was the point of this?"
"I don't know."
"You wrote it. You must know."
"Like...” you fumble, reeling in your thoughts as you continue, “to give my opinion, I guess? Or... something."
He allows you to scramble over your words for longer than necessary, and you wonder at this point if he just enjoys watching you suffer. Then, you wonder why you enjoy the thought of him enjoying watching you suffer. You take in a deep breath, reminding yourself to calm the fuck down.
"My job is to make the opinions. Yours is to give the information."
You wince when you watch him click 'delete' on the entire last section, and something inside you snaps. You spent hours on that. For him to just— You inhale, slow, controlled, desperate not to show that any of this bothers you at all, because why should it?
"Like I said. It's good." He says.
"Is it now?" You scoff.
He stares. Unmoving. You try to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you planted in the chair, without much force at all. His gravitational pull is enough to keep you there, regardless, you suppose. He spins you around to face him.
"You asked for honesty. That's what I gave you." He replies, "You don't get to be sensitive about my response."
"Never said I was."
"You look like you want to kill me."
You have to fight the urge not to let your eyes drop from his, down to his pretty, full, frowning lips. God, how you wish killing was the only thing you wanted to do to him right now.
"I always look like that, Mr. Park," you scoff, "Hard not to."
"You know, I'm really getting tired of this."
"What's this?"
"Your attitude." He sighs, shaking his head. Exhausted from this. From you. From every exchange turning into something difficult. "Do you always have to throw a hissy fit when things don't go your way? I have real responsibilities here that I need to tend to. I can't spend every hour of the work day lecturing you."
"Says the one who turns everything I do into a lecture," You retort. "Seriously. Sometimes it's like you're finding an excuse to talk down to me, or something."
For some reason, this makes him freeze, like he'd only just noticed how close he was to you. You supposed you hadn't fully realized it either. He's close enough that you can see the moles on his face, the texture on his clear skin, and each individual one of his pretty lashes as he looks at you through them.
His tone is pissed, but his expression is... something else entirely. Wide-eyed, jaw clenched tight. His hand twitches, where it rests on your shoulder.
"You think I like talking down to you?"
"Don't you? Why else would you be doing it so much?" You tease, telling yourself it's just to get under his skin. But, you feel yourself start to grin just a little, your voice a little slow, the hint of something that shouldn't be there beneath the surface. "You do this with all your interns? Get all up in their face and insult them and call them names?"
He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn't appear amused either. He’s still. Uneasy.
"Just the ones who don't know their place.”
You wait for him to tell you to get out. To call you a stupid, immature intern or something along those lines, as he can never quite help himself from reminding you. To your surprise, he doesn't.
"Oh?" You tilt your head, and your grin spreads wider. Your hands curl in your lap, heart pounding in your chest as you continue, unthinking, "You're gonna put me in my place, Mr. Park?"
"Don't tempt me to,” his response is quicker this time, and you catch a glimmer of something dangerous in that calculated gaze of his.
"I'd like to see you try."
His mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a smile as he looks you up and down. Then he laughs, hand tightening at your shoulder ever so slightly as he leans to your ear.
"You don't know what you're asking for, Miss—"
Suddenly, there's a knock at the door, and the two of you jump apart as if you'd just been shocked. Immediately, you stand up from your seat, and Mr. Park turns around to face the window, a hand running through his hair, neither one of you daring to comment.
"I should go."
"Yes,” he clears his throat, “Keep up the good work."
"I won't,” you return with a weak laugh, wincing as you leave.
There, at the door, you find Mr. Yang, eyes nervously glancing past you to try and meet Mr. Park’s, hands gripping the file folder in his hands like they’ll fly away. He offers you a polite nod, before trying to brush by you.
"Mr. Park, I wanted to ask about tomorrow—“
"If you have a question, you can send it to my inbox,” he snaps back, looking over his shoulder, “Leave. both of you.”
"But—"
Thankfully, you're shooing Mr. Yang out of the way, shutting the door behind both of you, reading the room for once in your life.
Finally alone, Mr. Park sinks into his chair, looking down at himself, half-hard in his pants. He brings a hand to his face, groaning to himself.
Surely, it's just the result of it being a long ass time since the last time he'd gotten any kind of action— not since he'd signed his divorce papers two years ago, parting ways with a flame that had long since burned out and refused to reignite.
No. Even he's not sure he can convince himself that's the real reason. Truthfully, the only thing he can blame is the one thing that he doesn't want to admit to himself; that despite all the sighs of frustration and headaches you've caused him, you're not exactly the worst distraction to have at his desk. Pretty, quick-witted at times, short-tempered and, well... very entertaining.
Truth be told, he'd encountered many interns over the years whose work ethics were similar if not worse. You're just more annoying and worse at hiding your phone beneath your desk. And, more intriguingly, you’re the first employee he’s never had to pretend to tolerate.
It was refreshing, to say the least, to be able to say exactly how he feels to your face instead of letting the resentment fester and build, with no way to let it out, like it seems to with everyone else. And yet, no matter how many times he loses his temper, or lets his mask slip, you only return with the same whiny, bitchy little attitude you always do— like you’re begging to be put in your place.
He wants to bury himself at his own train of thought, guilty for even thinking any of it in the first place. He’s your superior. He’s supposed to be guiding you, and he’s put in a great deal of effort to establish some kind of trust with you. Today it finally paid off, seeing as you came to him in search of his approval— and yet here he was getting turned on by it like some kind of creep.
Annoyed and deciding there is no point in dwelling on the thought any longer, he looks to his screen, quickly closing the document.
Fine. You’re attractive. He can admit that to himself. It’s not a crime to think it. But he’s not in college anymore, and though the thought of having his way with you may crawl its way to the forefront of his mind on occasion, it would always remain a thought and nothing more.
[Friday]
You stare at him all morning. Obviously.
How could you not, when the way you jumped apart from one another lingers heavily on your mind? You can still feel his casual touch on your shoulder, his voice at your ear, the scent of him. It’s all-consuming.
Shamefully, a part of your mind wants to search for an excuse to bother him again. You could act out. Go back to avoiding your work and texting instead, hoping he'd come by and talk down to you in that low, stern voice of his. The thought was all too tempting, though it had no business being— you know, given you have a whole ass caring, kind and tender boyfriend.
You mentally scold yourself. There is something extremely wrong with you for even entertaining the thought of ruining your Friday night plans with Jay, just so you can get held behind and berated in your boss's office, isn't there?
"He seems stressed, doesn't he?" Mr. Yang— or rather, Jungwon, as you'd recently learned— comments. "He always gets like this before client presentations. We always say it's the only time he seems human."
You try not to seem too surprised by the fact that there is a presentation today, praying there is enough time to review the client's portfolio.
Everyone begins to file towards the conference room later, and you clutch your laptop in your hands, repeating information in your head as you follow suit, but a firm grasp at your arm halts your steps.
"You won't be expected to speak. In fact, it's better you don't," He mutters, "Understood?"
You nod. Because what else can you even manage to say when he’s speaking like that to you?
You think you finally understand just why he's so tense when you sit down in the room, eyes landing on the various faces around the room. A Senior Executive, whose name escapes you, but whom you've shaken hands with more than once over the years, given his working relationship with your father. Senior Clients and their teams, ready to ask probing, technical questions.
Mr. Park leads like he always does—clean, controlled, efficient, with enough friendliness in his demeanour to appease the obscenely wealthy men he is trying to close a deal with. Every slide transitions exactly when it should, every point lands, and you follow instead of drifting like you used to.
You suppose you could say it's just because you're ogling him, but even in the midst of that, you find yourself nodding along to the presentation, comparing it with the overview document open on your laptop as he speaks.
"We're taking a conservative position going into the next quarter," he says, clicking forward. "Stability over aggressive expansion."
There's a pause as he clicks to the next slide, but your brows furrow at his words.
What he’s saying is not at all what you’re reading… and normally, you would chalk it up to your own ignorance but a direct contradiction of his own words cannot be a misinterpretation.
"Didn't we model a more aggressive expansion for Q3?" You mutter beneath your breath, only intended for yourself.
It’s barely audible, but the room, still and tense, picks up on it. Jungwon, sitting at your side, nudges you, shooting a worried glance.
A few eyes turn— not many, but Mr. Park’s do. His lock onto you, something flickering behind them. He doesn’t seem to realize how dangerous that look is, does he? He has no idea how a single glare has you crossing your legs in the middle of a conference room full of people.
"That was one of several scenarios," he replies evenly.
You nod, instinctively, and look back at your screen like you should. Just as you should keep your mouth shut. And you really were planning to behave today, you swear it, but...
"But it showed stronger returns," you add, just a little bit louder than before— Just enough to appear unintentional to everyone else again, but not enough to convince him. This time, Jungwon looks like he’s about to die on your behalf.
You relish the way he freezes, reeling himself back in to keep himself from glaring at you. That's all you really intended— to shake him, just a little, like you always do. So, it surprises you when a few heads begin to lift.
"I also thought the aggressive model was still under consideration," one of the senior analysts hesitates before nodding to you, then looking back to Mr. Park, "Was it scrapped?"
"Surely, it must be incorporated into the final recommendation?" another adds.
The room starts to buzz, a few murmurs are exchanged, papers shifting as a few flip back through their notes, and you sit there, frozen, because you weren't actually expecting anyone to take anything you say seriously.
"Because if the returns are—"
"The aggressive model was one of several evaluated scenarios," Mr. Park states finally, smoothing out the sharpness of his tone with an easy smile. He continues as the room settles, "The final recommendation reflects the conservative projection. Now, moving forward..."
The room follows, and you keep your mouth firmly shut the rest of the time. Because you know you've done more than enough.
When it ends, chairs scrape softly against the floor. Conversations resume—low, professional, and you gather your things slowly, not daring to look at him. You overhear it as the Senior Executive you'd recognized from before moves to shake hands with him.
"That was a bit messy, Park. I'd expect tighter control from someone in your position," He says, and though you don't turn, you can feel his eyes drift towards you, "And you might want to be more deliberate with how your team contributes in these settings."
"Of course, Mr. Lee."
Subject: Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Revise and reformat the attached document.
I expect a clean version tonight.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
You were in the midst of getting ready to leave for the evening, packing up your belongings and fantasizing about all the ways Jay would hopefully relieve the ache between your legs tonight, when suddenly that bullshit appears in your inbox.
If he wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier, he could've called you into his office earlier. But no. He chose to assign you a meaningless task at the last minute.
You stare at it, and before you know it, you’re storming down the hall, pushing past his door to find him packing up his own things. He’s slipping his laptop into his work bag, completely unsurprised as you come right up to the desk.
"I know I fucked up, but is that really necessary?" You begin, fuming, "I didn't even mean to cause a scene. I was just reading the notes you provided."
He sets his work bag down, looking to you. His expression is rigid.
"You disrupted the flow of a client presentation," he says, voice tight now, controlled but slipping, "and introduced confusion where there shouldn't have been any."
"I clarified—"
"You contradicted me,” he cuts you off, practically hissing as he continues, “That wasn't your place, intern."
"You contradicted yourself and giving me bullshit to do on a Friday night as punishment won't change that," You retort too quickly, knowing you are right this time, "I have plans!"
"I don't care," he scoffs, voice slowly rising, "the same way you don't seem to care about undermining my authority, so far as having the audacity to do so in front of everyone."
"I asked a harmless question!"
"Harmless?" he laughs, "you humiliated me—"
"Oh, did I?" You snap, "how does it feel?"
He pauses for a moment, and you watch him circle the desk, standing right in front of you, a respectable distance away but… still.
"You think this is some sort of game?"
"I just think you're being unfair,” you swallow.
Now that really seems to make him want to laugh, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. He approaches you, slow and steady, until you’re backed against the desk, hands curling around the edge of it.
"The only thing that's unfair is how you seem to think you can do whatever you like, say whatever you want, and get away with it, like a spoiled, selfish little brat." You gape at his words, trying to find the words to retort, but pathetically, a heat pools in your lower stomach like it always does when he has you cornered like this. "So go on. Do your job. And while you're at it, better let that boyfriend of yours know that you're busy."
Your face burns, and your hands curl tighter around the desk. How dare he piss you off like this, then expect you to get your work done, all hot and bothered?
"With how much you like to call me in here and berate me,” you begin, venom dripping with every last word, “I'm starting to think you like it when I act like a brat."
His hand lands on the desk behind you, and he glares, inches away from you.
"I dare you to say that again."
"You like it when I—"
He grabs your chin, firm in his grasp as he forces you to look at him in those wild, untamed eyes of his.
"How many times do I have to remind you to look at me when you speak?" He says. "Go on."
You stare, and you breathe. Unmoving, hesitant.
"You like it when I act like a brat. When I give you an excuse to tell me off. Makes you feel real important, doesn't it? Like you're the big bad boss, with all this control."
He smiles, cruelly.
"Aren’t you the one who likes it when I'm in control?”
His eyes drop to your quivering lips, then the way you squeeze your thighs together.
"You know how I know? Because you just don't seem to listen when I'm nice. But when I'm mean, when I don't give you exactly what you want, suddenly... you're kicking down my office door, begging for my attention,” his lips are inches from yours now, and you can feel him breathing. “You don't realize how obvious you are, do you? You fall in line so easily."
He finishes, and you wait. Your whole body buzzes with anticipation, Jay being the furthest thing from your mind. But, looking at him, you watch as his hardened expression softens— pained, almost. He doesn't lean away just yet, hand still firmly planted into the desk, until he releases a regretful sigh.
"Get to work. I mean it this time."
You furrow your brows, watching him start to turn his head away, but he’s one big idiot if he thinks for a single second he can just corner you like that, expose that he can read your deepest desires like an open book, and walk away right after, like it never happened— like he isn’t clearly flushed in the face and pitching a tent in his pants right now— like he doesn’t want this as much as you do. As if you’d ever let him get away with that.
In one swift movement, your hand wraps around his tie, and you tug his lips to yours. And as relieved as you are to finally be tasting him, to have your mouth on his, you don't let yourself relax into it just yet— not when you have something to prove. You trace your tongue along his lower lip, gently coaxing his mouth open, and he fucking groans when you do, kissing you back with equal desperation, but much more restraint.
You’re heaving when he pulls away, like you’d forgotten how to breathe, and he stares down at you. Conflicted. Guilty. Annoyed. Speechless.
"Oh no, Mr. Park... did I just misbehave?" You flash him a not-so-innocent smile, fingers curling around his tie, "Guess you'll have to punish me for that, right?"
You're barely able to catch the flicker of annoyance in his expression before he’s grinning wickedly, one hand at your waist while the other moves to your face. His lips are on yours in an instant, swallowing your squeal of surprise, and every other stupidly pathetic sound you seem to make against your will. Every part of you is burning hot, sensitive to the touch, and he seems to enjoy the way you squirm at the simple feeling of his thumb rubbing circles into your waist. Your mouth parts as it slips beneath your blouse, just grazing the bare skin beneath it.
"Is this what you wanted?" He asks, teasingly, “Just wanted me to touch you? Is that why you’re always bothering me?”
You nod fervently, feeling his hand dip between your thighs. You swear your brain begins to short-circuit as he drags his hand painfully slow across your skin, torturing you right up until the moment he’s found your clothed cunt, soaked in your arousal. As if that wasn't evidence enough of how badly you were craving him, you helplessly move your hips against his hand, where he palms you.
"So fucking desperate,” he’s still grinning as he pulls away from your lips, just so he can watch you try to suppress your pretty sounds as he slips past the fabric just to tease you, letting your slick coat his fingers, sliding up and down your folds.
“Oh, now you want to shut up?” He teases.
The hand on your face cups your chin, his thumb sliding to your mouth to keep it parted, just so he can hear exactly what he’s doing to you as he sinks two fingers inside you. His dick twitches in his pants as you moan, breathless and needy, just begging to be filled.
"So fucking pathetic."
You clench around him at his words, fingers curling into you and hitting you right where you desperately needed them to for so long. You gasp when he offers another slow, torturous thrust, before fucking his fingers into you.
Your lashes flutter shut, trying to form a cohesive thought.
"Says you,” you say, eyeing his painfully hard and large erection in his pants. But your eyes fall shut again when his fingers angle into you just right.
"Says me," he echoes, satisfied as your words catch in your throat, "me, who's barely touched you, yet you clench around me like you're about to fucking cum."
Uselessly, you try shaking your head, but then he's fucking his fingers into you like his life depends on it, and you're crying out, grasping onto him. You can feel that familiar feeling start to unravel in you all too soon, too worked up to fight him, too fucking attracted to him to resist it, either. He's so tall, and broad, and freakishly handsome that it almost scares you. You wish you had the strength to peel those layers of clothes right off of him, to see all of him for yourself, and worship every inch of him.
"Who knew that all I had to do to get you to stop being a bitch, was to treat you like one?" He says cruelly, before slowing the pace of his fingers conveniently when you've almost reached your high. "But acting like a bitch doesn't get you what you want."
You whine pathetically when his fingers pull away from you, but he ignores your desperate pleas.
"Mr. Park..."
"I'm guessing you were never taught any manners. Looks like I will have to teach you."
He moves to sit on his chair, and you watch, eyeing the obscene bulge in his pants, only tearing your eyes away when he gestures for you to follow. You follow suit, assuming he means for you to climb into his lap, but before you can mount him, he's grabbing you, folding you over his lap.
With your skirt pushed up, revealing your ass and those little panties which barely cover anything, he's stroking your bare skin. Feeling, groping, never touching you where you need him to most. You can feel just how hard he is now, pressed against you, and it fucking kills you that his grip on your hips won't allow you to grind down against him.
"You wanna be punished?" His voice is soft, but there is nothing kind or good-intentioned about it. You nod, letting out a weak yes. "I'll show you punishment."
There's a pause in the air, heavy breathing as he traces the edges of your underwear, watching it snap back against your skin when he lets go.
"But I'm not gonna be generous, like your daddy." his hand cracks down on your ass, and you yelp, squirming as his large, strong hands keep you in place. "And I'm not gonna be sweet like your little boyfriend who clearly doesn't know how to fuck you right."
He spanks you again, this time with a little more force, and your back arches, crying out. Your pussy clenches around nothing.
"I'm gonna do things my way. And fucking hopefully, when I'm done, my dumb little intern will learn to treat her superior with respect. Got that?"
"Yes, Mr. P—"
You nod, crying out when his hand makes impact with your ass again, and your hips try to rock against nothing.
"Eager to please, are you?" He chuckles, hand rubbing up and down, while the other threads through your hair, lifting your head just enough to whisper in your ear. He pinches your clit, smiling at your little noises. "You're a lot cuter when you're playing nice."
Releasing his grasp on you, he allows you to crawl into his lap. Your lips meet his instantly, your mouth hot and desperate as you grind your hips into his lap. You swear, you're seeing stars at the feeling of his cock against you, and all you want to do is release it from its confines, when suddenly, you're being lowered to the floor.
You blink up at him, on your knees, as his hand meets your chin.
"Touch yourself."
"...huh?"
"Don't make me ask again," he states, stroking your cheek, "You remember what I said about fixing your own problems, don't you? So play with yourself while you tell me how sorry you are for earlier. Then, maybe I'll think about fucking you."
It's humiliating, to say the least, as you peel your panties down and spread your legs for him. But that's exactly why he asked you to do it, didn't he? His eyes are on you, carefully observing as your hand moves down, rubbing yourself in slow circles.
You can't even remember the last time you'd done this on your own, with your hand. Even before Jay, you'd become accustomed to your trusty vibrator to get the job done quickly, dismissively, like it was some chore you were too bothered to take care of. Your face burns as you roll your hips into your hand, while the other works at the buttons of your blouse, enough to palm your chest through your bra.
"M'sorry."
"For?" He questions, "There are a lot of things you need to apologize for, my pretty little intern."
Your eyes drag down to where his hand palms himself through his pants, a whimper catching in your throat as you look back up, "Sorry for embarrassing you today."
"And?"
"For being a brat," you sigh, your finger poking at the entrance of your cunt. He watches it sink in, adoring how frustrated you are with that simply not being enough. His hand moves over his crotch, palming himself absent-mindedly. "For having an attitude. For showing up late. For n-not doing my job right... for— ah"
Honestly, he loses his train of thought watching you slip another finger into yourself, watching your eyes flutter, and your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you ride your hand pitifully. It doesn't take long for him to get his cock out, stroking himself as he watches you pinch and roll your nipples between your fingers, your wetness seeping past your fingers and staining the carpet under his desk. You mutter incoherent apologies between whines and gasps until you look to him, licking your lips as you eye his erection.
"Mr. Park," you're whining as your movements become more erratic, "Please... s'not enough, need more..."
Hand still at his cock, he moves forward to place the tip of his cock at his mouth.
"You forgot one last thing," he says as he sinks into your mouth. He doesn't care about how you gag around his length, sliding in until he reaches the back of your throat. "To apologize for starting this. But I don't think you feel sorry about that part, do you?"
He laughs, watching you shake your head, trying to reply with your mouth full. He pulls back for a moment, allowing you a moment to breathe, adoring how you cough and pant, eyes slightly tear-stained.
“Well?”
“M’not sorry,” you finally say, careful not to smile too widely, but it’s hard to hide your look of satisfaction when you’re exactly where you want to be, “Not sorry at all.”
"Dirty girl,” he breathes, “You'll just have to make it up to me."
He sinks back into your throat as you touch yourself, just adoring the way you moan around him every time he tugs your scalp, and how you drool all over him. Enthusiastic and eager to please, he thinks he's obsessed with how you look up at him all wide-eyed, saliva and precum escaping the corners of your mouth from how he's stuffing it full.
He finds himself approaching his orgasm quicker than he would expect at his grown age, having thought he'd left that hormonal, insatiable version of himself he was in his twenties behind. He doesn't mind, though. He's sure you don't either, given how he's working your poor little throat to death.
"Gonna cum, and you're gonna swallow. And you're gonna fucking thank me for it afterwards."
You try to whine in approval, weakly, and he groans, burying himself to the hilt as he spills down your throat, and when he pulls back, he grabs your mouth, humming in approval at the sight cum in your mouth, on your tongue, opened wide for him. You make a show of swallowing it, moaning like it's the best thing you've ever tasted, smiling up at him after like you're searching for a hint of pride in his expression. And fuck, is he proud of you.
"Fuck," he breathes, "You're such a fucking slut."
You barely have time to process what's happening before he's sprawling you over the desk, pens and whatever the fuck else falling to the floor as your back collides with the hard surface. He's hovering above you, tie above your face as two of his fingers sink into your cunt, and god, you're just thankful to finally have something more than the shallow thrust of your own fingers inside of you.
His long, thick fingers curl right into that spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back, not taking much to build you up again. Soon, he's lowering himself, and when you feel his mouth on your clit, you're thrashing around.
"Now, remember what I said?" He coos, "Let me hear it. Say it nicely for me."
"Thank you— ah!" You cry out, fingers curling into his hair.
He's grimacing to himself as your legs fall over his shoulders, pulling his face closer. Hands threading through his hair, tugging harshly, you begin to fall apart. And after being on the edge for so long, you lose yourself around his fingers, his tongue lapping up every last drop.
A string of thank yous leaves your mouth, trailing off into whimpers, but his mouth doesn't leave between your legs until you're practically kicking and shoving his face away, overly stimulated. Still trying to wrap your head around whatever the fuck he just did to you, he's above you now.
As you come down, he hovers above you, and as he gazes over you, taking in how absolutely gorgeous you look spread out on his desk, more than ready to fuck the ever living shit out of you... He then sighs, a hand dragging down his face at the sheer realization of what he's done, and just what he's about to do.
He's supposed to be your mentor, a role model. That's the dynamic he had tried to establish with you, anyway, when he realized how much guidance you lacked and how severely insecure you are behind all the designer handbags, diamonds, and whatnot.
In a moment of weakness, he leans down, kissing you, hands moving to cup your face. He swallows your whines, lost in the kiss when—
"Mr. Park," you whine, dragging out his name in that annoying, breathy tone you always did. Now, he thinks he'll never hear it the same. "You gonna fuck me, or what?"
With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he pulls away from your lips— and of course, you're there, smiling up at him. Because you're exactly where you want to be, getting exactly what you want from him.
He flips you around, bent over the desk, and bottoms you out, quite literally knocking the wind out of you at the sheer force and size of him inside you. He's fucking huge, stretching you open, fucking you so deep you swear you feel him in your guts.
Your nails curl around the edge of the desk, bracing yourself as you take him, back arching, and a cry rips from your throat as his hand smacks your ass. You clench around him in response.
"Greedy whore. So fucking impatient," he groans. "Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you. Fill your tight little cunt."
You're gushing around him when he slaps your ass again, kneading the flesh, gasping with every deep thrust of him. There's not a thought behind your eyes as he takes his frustration out on you, head completely empty, your pussy completely full.
He can't say that his head is all that clear, either, though. Completely gone at the sight of you, a pretty, young thing wrapped tight around his cock like you'd never been fucked properly before. You probably hadn't, he's sure. Guys your age probably make it to three pumps before finishing from the sight of you all spread out alone— hell, he knows he would've if he were still the dumbass he was back then.
God, wasn't it just incredible to see you all wide-eyed and precious, knowing he'd just fundamentally changed the trajectory of your sex life forever. You'd never be able to go back to whatever bullshit you did with that trust-fund boyfriend of yours. Selfishly, he grins at the thought, and he's pulled out of them when he hears your cries get louder.
"I'm close, I'm—"
He grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging you enough so he can see your face.
"Yeah? You think you deserve it?" He slows down, letting his cock drag deliciously and torturously along your fluttering walls. "Think you deserve to cum around my cock?"
You whine, pleas falling from your lips, begging. Grinning to himself, he pulls out, just to flip you around again, because he doesn't want to miss a single second of seeing your dumbstruck, fucked-out face as you finish on his cock.
He throws your legs over his shoulders and places his cock between your legs, dragging the tip over your needy, soaked cunt. It would be a real sweet revenge to jerk himself, coating your poor, desperate cunt in his release, watching it twitch and throb as you beg for completion, wouldn't it?
He shouldn't give you what you want. But...
"You always have it your way," He scoffs, half at himself as he presses into you again, hand braced around your neck. "Spoiled little brat."
Your eyes roll back, and he fucks you through your high, the desk shaking with every thrust, your cries spilling from your pretty lips. He finishes sometime after, spilling deep into your cunt as you flutter around him.
He watches you breathe, his head clearing, the reality of what had just happened and what he'd just done weighing on him. He's already planning how he's going to clean up this mess, when he's going to buy you plan B, how the fuck he's going to go back to work next week and even function properly when—
"Holy shit, Mr. Park," you let out a breathy laugh, "You're such a freak. Where the fuck did you learn any of that?"
He blinks down at you, a second passing before a wolfish grin spreads across his face.
"Let's just say I got around in my younger years.”
[...]
"...GENE Group is currently positioned as a mid-market fashion brand," you begin, voice steady, "but over the past two quarters, there's been a measurable shift toward premium positioning."
You look around the conference room, noting how a few heads lift as you stand before the presentation slides behind you. But there's only one pair of eyes that carries any real weight, and not just because he's evaluating you.
"Retail partnerships have been reduced by thirty percent. The average unit price is up twelve. And their latest collection was distributed exclusively through flagship locations and direct online channels. They're not scaling anymore," you state, hand tightening around the clicker before moving to the next slide. "They're narrowing."
"Speculation."
Your mouth twitches, narrowing your eyes in his direction, careful not to let it linger for too long.
"The data supports a directional shift—"
"It supports a possibility," Mr. Park cuts in, sharper this time, in a tone that he knows you fall apart for. "You're assigning intent."
All eyes are on you now, and you nod once, taking in a slow, steady breath as you cool down your thoughts.
"Then I'll rephrase," you say, smooth, controlled. "The company's recent decisions suggest a move toward premium positioning, supported by reduced distribution and higher price anchoring."
"Better."
Your face is hot now, as is the rest of you, but you ignore it. You click to the next slide. Focus.
"If this transition is intentional, short-term performance will continue to decline," you continue, clearing your throat. "Which explains the current undervaluation—“
"But long-term, a successful repositioning increases brand equity and margin." Someone at the table leans forward, talking down to you like you're some kind of dumbass— which is something you tolerate from one man and one man only.
You scan the room, eyes finding the person in question, recognizing him as one of the sleazeballs who joked about you sleeping with the boss outside the bathroom a few weeks ago. And, well, you are fucking your boss now, you suppose, but at least you're getting laid. You doubt he can say the same.
"This creates a timing opportunity," you reply with a steady smile, "The market is pricing GENE as a declining mid-tier brand. But if the repositioning holds, it becomes a premium asset at a discount. This is where we enter—"
"This section," Mr. Park gestures, "is unnecessary."
You swallow, eyes returning to him.
"It contextualizes the valuation gap—"
"It buries your argument."
"Finish this faster" is what he's really trying to say, seeing how he glares at you like he's trying to look through your clothes. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead nodding.
"Then I'll summarize. In short," you click to the final slide, pulse racing as you continue, "we're not investing in what the company is today. We're investing in what it's trying to become—before the market fully recognizes it. And if they fail, the downside is already priced in."
"So based on current data," you finish, "GENE is a moderate-risk, high-upside opportunity contingent on execution."
You hear a few mutters of approval around the room, smiling to yourself both in relief and anticipation as you wait for him to speak. A second passes as he types a few notes into his laptop.
"Next time, lead with that. There's no need to make people wait for your point. It's a waste of everyone's time," Mr. Park sighs.
He's already closing his laptop shut and tucking it under his arm. And with a polite hand grazing your shoulder, he brushes past you.
"Meet me in my office after."
You have to bite down on your lip to suppress a grin.
"Yes, Mr. Park."
"Everyone is dismissed," he calls out as he exits.
The room gets up, and you collect your things, quietly buzzing with excitement. A few coworkers offer a nod of approval in passing, and some offer a word of encouragement, and you nod wordlessly, thoughtlessly, because all you can really think about is getting into his office before you go insane.
"Hey, don't look so down. You did a great job."
"Hm?" You look up, and Jungwon is there, offering a kind, pitiful smile.
"I've never seen him that harsh... but he's probably just upset over what happened at the client presentation a few weeks ago," He says. You bite your tongue, pretending to hide a frown. "I'm sure he'll warm up again soon. Especially if you keep working hard."
"Yeah." You smile, "I'm sure he will."
You're propped up on his desk, your legs wrapped around his waist as his lips press against yours, groaning into you.
His hands are all over you, at your hips, then at the collar of your blouse, slowly working at the buttons so that he can move his lips down your chest instead, marking you up where your clothes will at least be able to cover you. Though you're gasping when you feel his hand start to climb up your skirt already, before the work day is even over.
"You dragged out that presentation on purpose, didn't you?" He scoffs into your neck, "Made me sit there, thinking about spreading you out on that conference table."
"Sunghoon..." You breathe.
"Not at work," He says sternly.
"Mr. Park," You then continue, whimpering as his lips worship your skin, "Don't you think you were too harsh earlier?"
"Was I? Thought I was just giving feedback, the way you like to hear it," he replies, his fingers now brushing over your arousal. You shiver from the touch, "Think we both know you don't get this wet for praise."
"But was it..." you blink, collecting your thoughts for a moment, breathing hitching, "Was it good?"
He pauses, pulling away just enough to look at you. Taking in your unsure expression, he then cups your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"You didn't need to drag it out, but apart from that, it was great," He smiles sweetly, hesitantly as he quirks a brow, "You want me to be nice today?"
"Not at all," you shake your head, grinning to yourself, "Just wanted to make sure you're still giving honest feedback.”
"I told you I would. No special treatment... apart from this," He kisses down your face, and you giggle, beaming as he drops his face between your legs, "So let me reward my slutty intern properly, hm?"
You're nodding enthusiastically, but before he can get his face between your thighs, his phone is ringing. You whine as he pulls away, pouting as he tosses you a stern look, and without checking, he answers, a hand still stroking your knee.
"Yes?"
You recognize the voice immediately, fighting back a loud snort.
"...of course. She's been improving."
Your dad’s voice drones on the other end, and you’re just about dead seeing Sunghoon reply in that professional tone of his. Desperately trying not to laugh, you clasp a hand over your mouth, ignoring his glares until his expression then shifts.
"Oh?"
He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head in confusion, hand mindlessly reaching out to play with the end of his tie. His hand continues to slide up and down your thigh.
"I see. That's... unfortunate."
Though for some supposedly ‘unfortunate’ news, he sure is beginning to smile widely, and you can't help but wonder what the hell your dad could've possibly told him. A few more yesses and hums later, he's hanging up the phone. And he looks at you, brow still quirked.
"Your father seems upset," he says, almost casually, amused as he watches your face drop.
"What?" You scramble, “Over what? Does he know about—?”
"He’s upset about you breaking up with that guy."
Ah. Right. Jay.
You tore off the band-aid pretty soon after you slept with Sunghoon, telling him you’d fallen out of love. Though if you're both being honest, you were never in love with him to begin with, and neither was he. He didn't understand. Didn't see it coming. But you figured leaving him confused would be better than continuing to pretend like your heart was in it at all.
Your father was the one who was taking it the hardest, though. Kept calling you and pleading with you to give Jay another chance. Hell, it seems he even took it upon himself to even try calling your boss. It’s moments like these where you want to tell him to just adopt Jay if he loves him so damn much.
"Is he?" You act surprised, "How tragic."
"You really broke up with him?" Sunghoon asks, definitely not disappointed, but a little unsure about how to react, given the complicated nature of your relationship with one another.
"Yeah," you shrug, "Got bored of him, I guess."
With that, he’s grinning.
"Is that what you're calling it?"
"What would you call it?" You return, brow raised as you pull him in by the tie again. His lips ghost yours for a moment, humming to himself thoughtfully.
"...Inevitable?”
Your laugh is cut short by his mouth on yours, a little too pleased to know he hasn’t had to share you these past few weeks. Still, there’s something else in the way he kisses you. Something that feels like a quiet approval that runs deeper than plain jealousy.
"I'm going to miss this job,” you manage as his lips travel down again, nipping at your collarbone.
"Thought you hated it?”
"I like making your job hard..." You smirk, and he glances up at you, while your eyes travel down, "And you, harder."
oh my mark 💔 he seems so sincere, my baby, i love u….the first nct member i ever stanned, even before i knew what nct was, i remember i got this short with his voice, and i was so enthralled. After that since 2023 ive been such a huge fan, i was in class 11th then and im almost in 2nd year oh medical college now…ive kind of grown up a little with the nct members and enhypen too and mark….seeing heeseung and mark,,, both my BIGGGESTT most fave groups in all of kpop….this hurts….i have an entire pinterest board for ty and mark…i remember december 2024 so well….with marks lookalike contest in nyc and the release of frakstiya…i was so lost back then, then his album, i was in shimla when he dropped it and i rmember listening to all his songs there, then every year on marks birthday theres this post with messages from all the members for him, and everyyear i saw that post and think oh how long we have come, to this one video of mark, with the song its the first of the month that circulates on twt every new month lol, to the millionsss of nct vlogs and content that supported me and was my friend for so long when i was alone… now im content in life, i found my path now, im in a college i love in a degree i absolutely adore, studying to be a doctor and having so much interest in it, getting distinction and highest marks in my class in all anat, physio, biochem….and seeing mark also settle down, decide his dream, hes only 25 ish i think, theres a long way for him to go and i love him and support him always, hes so talented, ill miss u markie <3
i feel the mostt sad for haechanie, cuz even if mark moves on, hyuck is stuck behind, handling two groups all alone, stuck behind missing his best friend of years….
first heeseung and now mark, both my biggest ult groups, enhypen and nct, and both lose one of the most important members of their group.
mark alr dropped such a successful solo…i have no idea what could have brought this about…..if he was overworked, why leave AFTER the tour is over? now he has more time to himself anyways. And i know its been 10 years and till now he has managed so so well, so i dont even know what led to this…
and haechan….god….i feel so sad, cuz haechan is still in 2 groups alone, and donghyuck…hyuckie loved mark soooo much, i cant even imagine what hes going thru
and leaving sm, idk where marks gonna go, im gonna support him no matter what but this is so sad, thats why everyone was crying in the last concert :(
smut. boyfriend anton. sneaky sex, unprotected sex (p in v), he pulls out lmao, slight breastplay, mutual masturbation, aftercare
oh just send me to hell at this point. not proofread! 2.5k+ words
after your friends announced the room and bed assignments to the whole group, everyone immediately changed into their swimming outfits and headed for the beach.
anton, on the other hand, was still hunting for his swim cap. you waited patiently for him on the bed assigned to the two of you: a double-sized mattress tucked into the far corner of the room next to the bathroom.
“i thought your trunks would match my set?” you pointed out as he slathered sunscreen onto his legs.
“i forgot, baby. i’m sorry.” you only nodded in response. once you saw he was finally ready to head out, you bolted from the room first, growing impatient since everyone else was already out having fun.
you missed the sight of anton shaking the bed frame, testing it to see if it would make a noise.
when you were a short distance away, you heard his hurried footsteps jogging toward you. he caught up and instantly hooked an arm around your waist.
“you’re so hot,” he whispered, pulling you flush against his side.
“if i see someone wearing the same color as your trunks, i’m giving you away,” you joked, pulling away from his grasp to walk ahead.
he let out a playful whine. “that’s not fair.”
“okay! i’m going to ride the jetski alone,” you teased.
he pouted, giving you his best fake sulky face. “you’re mean. although i was planning to do something on the jetski.”
“huh?” you were taken aback.
what could he possibly mean by do something?
once you reached the shore, you climbed onto the driver's seat of the jetski, revving the engine and laughing with the rest as everyone was figuring out how to control the ride.
anton settled behind you, his hands gripping your waist tightly as you sped off into the open water.
once you were far enough from the shore that the group looked like tiny specks, you felt his hands wander.
one hand stayed firm on your hip while the other began to slip beneath the hem of your bikini top, his fingers tracing the curve of your skin with a bold familiarity. the sudden heat of his touch against the cold ocean air made your heart skip.
“anton, stop it,” you yelled over the roar of the engine, though you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips.
not content with just a wandering hand, anton leaned forward, his plump lips grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder.
he then reached down further to tease you, his fingers hooking into the elastics of your bottoms and instantly finding your heat down there.
the way you were bouncing over the waves made your breath hitch, not helping your current situation.
“we’re going to drown here!” you yelled again, nearly causing you to jerk the handles.
you felt his chest vibrate against your back as he laughed, his lips pressing a fleeting kiss to your shoulder before he reluctantly pulled his hand away and gripped your waist properly again. “you forgot i know how to swim.”
“and you forgot we’re in public!” you remarked, slightly leaning your head back so he can hear you.
“but no one’s gonna see.” you ignored what anton had just said, forcing you to hide a smile again.
after a heavy dinner that spiraled into a night of drinking, everyone eventually stumbled back to their rooms and drifted off to sleep.
however, your boyfriend seemed to have different plans.
“should i eat you out first?” anton hissed, pausing to look up at you from where he was.
right on your boobs.
when you looked down at him, it was the exact moment his lips attached again to your hardened nipple. his free hand was busy massaging the unoccupied one, kneading it with a possessive grip.
then, he pressed his thumb firmly against the nub of the breast he was massaging, while teasingly grazing the other with his teeth.
anton earned a soft, broken moan from you, and you instinctively fisted your hands in his hair.
as he began to provide alternating, wet licks to each bud, you found yourself pushing his face closer against your chest, desperate for more.
it was sensory overload. you were squirming so much that your legs wouldn't stay still, despite anton’s weight pinning you down.
the duvet didn’t rustle much, but if anyone were to glance over right now, it would be painfully obvious that a body was draped over yours, even in the shadows of the room.
anton continued to swirl his tongue around the sensitive tips, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. he buried his face between your breasts to muffle a low, guttural groan.
eventually, he slid under the duvet beside you, pulling you into his side so your head rested in the crook of his shoulder.
“don’t move too much,” he whispered. the two of you were already so close, but there was a desperate need to be closer, fueled by the fear of making too much noise.
“anton. there’s other people in the room,” you hissed back, suppressing a sudden gasp by pressing your hand over your mouth.
“they’re all blacked out, i promise.” he pulled you flush against him, his hands already working at the waistband of your shorts.
you sighed before shifting in one swift motion to face him. “we should’ve gone with your jetski idea instead,” you breathed against his lips.
you felt his lips curve into a smirk. “jetski or not, you know we were always going to end up like this.” you adjusted the duvet over the both of you, feeling hyper-conscious of every rustle of fabric.
your hands slid underneath his shirt, tracing the planes of his torso as you brought your lips to his. determined to catch him off guard, you pinched his nipple, hoping to coax a sound out of him.
anton couldn’t suppress the whimper that broke through the kiss. you quickly shushed him by continuing to lap at his soft, plush lips to keep him quiet.
his fingers were already pushing inside you. he didn't even attempt to start slow or tease you first; he just surged in. “hah. i was right about you being wet already.”
as he felt your reaction, his lips pulled away from yours to roam along your jawline, trailing down to the sensitive skin of your neck.
the duvet was making far too much noise given the supposed secrecy of the moment. you stopped him before he could go any further. “next time, i’m insisting on a solo room,” you murmured.
he gave a pathetic yet frantic nod, immediately returning to the crook of your neck.
before he could lose himself again, you pulled his face back to look at you. “anton, i’m serious. they’ll kill us tomorrow if they find out.”
“i don’t care. just stay quiet.” you let out a silent groan. at this rate, your heart was going to burst long before you reached an orgasm.
“it’s more fun when there’s a thrill, baby,” anton murmured, continuing to mark your sensitive spots while you bit your lip to stifle a moan. “we’ll be fast.”
this was completely shameless.
yielding to the friction, you reached down to find the hardened length of him. you massaged him through the fabric first, earning that low, hitched breath you loved, before pushing his shorts down just enough to grip him. his tip was already slick, so you spread the moisture and began a steady, rhythmic motion.
it was a struggle to give him a proper handjob, given the cramped space and how tightly your bodies were pinned together, but the risk only seemed to make him harder.
he didn't waste a second, his fingers picking up a rhythmic, messy pace inside you that had you arching your back off the mattress. his other free hand pulled you closer, even more, so you can steady your body and not make any extra noise with the duvet.
the pace of your hand going up and down on his length matched his. every wet thrust was punctuated by the faint, rhythmic sound of skin hitting skin.
you buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle your ragged breathing, feeling the friction of his knuckles against your sensitive skin.
he leaned in close, his hot breath ghosting over your ear as he picked up the speed, his thumb finding your clit and pinning it down with a pressure that made your toes curl under the duvet.
"babe. need to fuck you now," he urged in a gravelly whisper, his movements becoming more urgent as he felt you begin to tremble against his hand.
you managed to respond despite the continuous low gasps overflowing from your mouth. “how t-the hell?”
before eventually stopping the movements your hands were doing on his length, you squeezed his tip. he hissed at the sudden gesture, and started lapping at your lips roughly.
“turn around, we’ll make less sound.” you rolled your eyes at his crazy suggestion.
you shifted as quietly as possible, but the duvet still rustled like thunder.
definitely not a good idea. still, you like it.
you had no choice but to just swallow the huge lump on your throat.
anton hooked a leg over yours to pull you into a tight, sideways spoon. you could feel the intense thud of his heart matching your own.
"stay just like that," he breathed, his hand reaching around to grip your hip. “try not to make any noise, okay?”
"i'm gonna put it in." he guided himself in with one smooth, agonizingly slow push, the sensation of him filling you sideways making your breath hitch in your throat.
you reached back blindly, your fingers digging into his thigh as he began to move, his rhythmic thrusts shallow and controlled to keep the bed from creaking.
every time he bottomed out, he pressed a stifled, hungry kiss to your shoulder blade, his low grunts muffled against your skin. you can only bite your lip to stifle any moans.
with every shallow thrust, he tilted his hips just enough to hit a specific spot.
it was agonizingly good. anton’s grip on your hip tightened, his fingers bruising your skin as he picked up the pace, seemingly not caring about the sound of the duvet rustling too much.
“fuck, you're so tight," anton hissed into your skin, sending shivers down your spine. you can’t help but let out a grin to what he had just told you.
you buried your face deep into the pillow that you grabbed next to you, the fabric damp from your breath as you fought the urge to ruin the silence.
“harder.” you moaned out. then, his movements become more desperate and less controlled.
anton leaned down even more, his teeth grazing the sensitive part of your nape as he struggled to keep his own composure.
your heart hammered so hard against your ribs. the bed gave a tiny creak, and the both of you froze instantly.
but anton didn’t stop with his persistent movements, his thrusts are deeper now, more insistent.
you attempted to peek to check if someone from the other side of the room stirred.
“we’re good,” anton let out a shaky, hot breath against your ear.
the sound of his skin slapping wetly against yours was a rhythmic and dangerous chorus filling the room’s quiet atmosphere. it was not that loud but you can only internally offer a prayer that the others were truly as deep in their sleep.
his thrusts became shorter and more desperate, resulting in a soft moan slipping off your mouth.
“ssshh…” he rested his free thumb on your lips. your hands went feral, not knowing where to place or grip it; your toes curling against the mattress.
“you’re doing good, baby.”
anton seemed to sense you were close. you felt the familiar coil of tension tightening in your stomach, so he reached down with his thumb to find your clit, applying a grounding pressure that sent you over the edge.
this put your brain to a short circuit as his actions followed by him barely pulling out now, and opting for deep, grinding hitches that forced you to bite down hard on your lips.
overstimulation has gotten into you. “close-” your body was already shaking, your hands grabbing his nape from the back as you attempted to bring his face close so you could kiss him messily.
anton’s quads were locked tight against your legs and his hand on your hip was practically pinning you down intensely.
“we’re not doing this again, anton lee.” you squirmed while he bottomed out again.
he let out a sharp, jagged inhale through his teeth, followed by an evident smirk you felt through his breath.
then, you felt that his entire frame shuddered with the effort of keeping a low groan only heard in the tiny proximity you were keeping.
with a heavy lunge, anton buried himself deep inside you and stayed, his entire body locking up as he’s almost reaching his limit.
anton’s grip on your hips finally slackened, leaving a muffled and guttural groan right on the skin of your shoulder. he then immediately replaced it with a soft peck.
slowly, he withdrew, pulling out at the last possible second. you didn’t even have the chance to fight the soft whimper from the sudden feeling of his absence.
anton adjusted your hips while you felt your body finally relaxing as you let out your release. neither of you moved, and you can hear the loud synchronized thud of your hearts.
both bodies tensed against each other and you were exchanging ragged exhales with him in the dark.
with a quiet urgency, anton gripped himself and directed his release away from the sheets. you could hear the faint, wet sound of him moving frantically to chase his high and finish.
“fuck.” his voice barely breathed. “i love you, baby.” blurting out those words as if he was launched to cloud nine.
your eyes were still closed, tired from the sneaky situation. “tissues in my bag beside you.” your hazy mind was still able to form some words.
you felt his heavy figure slumped back against the mattress with his chest rising and falling in jagged heaves that turned into a sudden low groan.
anton crawled back toward you as he tucked his face into your neck, "worth the risk," he whispered. you scoffed in return as you felt his soft lips on your skin.
he pulled you closer and draped a heavy, protective arm over your waist.
“hell no,” your chest was still heaving. “i think i prefer the jetski idea now.”
anton pressed a sleepy kiss to the top of your head, his fingers tracing mindless circles on your arm. "let’s clean up, baby. " he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with exhaustion. “bathroom’s just to our right, so…”
you let out a long, shaky sigh of pure contentment as you fix your clothes. “you okay?” anton helped you up, enough to not cause the bed to groan.
once the door clicked shut, you immediately pulled him in for a quick hug. he rested his chin on the top of your head while you feel the warmth of his embrace. your legs swaying slightly from fatigue.
“careful,” anton whispered as he guided you. “here,” his voice lost its rasp and returned to its usual gentle tone.
anton gave you a quick kiss on the forehead as he started carefully cleaning you.
you mumbled, “we are not sharing a room with anyone next time.”
he let out a small chuckle. “you didn’t like the thrill?”
“that’s your fantasy?” you lightly smacked his arm while he was busy helping you.
Hiii love your recent anton work!! Can I request another one?? Can you write something for sungchan where he's like obsessed with reader and had always been creepy towards her, bullies her usual borderline creepy stuff but he secretly obsessed with her but reader hates him. You can either make him reader's boyfriend's friend or her brother's friend I leave it upto you. Long story short I want noncon to happen in shower like reader would be taking shower and he'd break in already taking his clothes off🤤omg I'm drooling js thinking about it. Can't wait for this one!!!
_🎀
your mind... (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) hell yesss.. sorry had to make it dub con... who wouldn't want sungchan?
tw: non-con, dub-con, stalking/obsession, breeding, verbal degradation, manhandling, physical force, rough sex.
it was a quiet afternoon. your brother had mentioned he was headed out to the gym, so you finally felt relaxed enough to take a long, hot shower. you didn’t even bother locking the bathroom door—the house was supposed to be empty.
you were standing under the spray, eyes closed as the steam filled the room, when you heard the faint click of the door closing. your heart stopped.
the curtain was pulled back slowly.
there he was. sungchan.
he was already shirtless, his broad chest glistening in the damp air. he wasn't even pretending to be an accident; he was just standing there, looking you up and down with that dark, obsessed gaze you'd seen a million times in the living room.
"sungchan? get out! what are you doing?" you scrambled to cover yourself, your voice trembling.
he didn't move. instead, he stepped into the tub with you, his large frame making the shower stall feel tiny. he didn't care that he was getting his jeans wet. he just reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you toward him.
"shh. i saw your brother leave" he whispered, his voice deep and vibrating against your ear. "i’ve been waiting for this for a long time. you knew i was coming eventually, didn't you?"
"no—please, just go—"
you tried to push at his chest, but he didn't even budge. he was like a brick wall. he just smiled, a small, creepy tilt of his lips as he used his free hand to pin both of your wrists against the tiled wall above your head.
"you always act like you hate me" he mocked, leaning down so his nose brushed against yours. "acting all disgusted whenever i look at you but you're shaking so hard right now. is it because you're scared, or because you finally got what you wanted?"
the water was pouring over both of you, making it hard to breathe. he pressed his body flush against yours, his weight pinning you into the corner.
"i've watched you for years" he groaned, his eyes dropping to your lips. "i know all your little habits. i know exactly how you look when you think nobody's watching. and now i get to see how you look when you're mine."
you shook your head, a sob catching in your throat, but his grip only tightened.
"don't cry. you're too pretty to cry" he hissed, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. "just stay still and let me have you. if you're good, maybe i won't tell your brother how much you liked this."
he didn't wait for an answer. he just captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted like salt and steam, his hands moving to your waist to hoist you up, making sure you knew exactly how little power you had against him.
you tried to shove at his shoulders, your palms slipping against his wet skin, but it was like trying to move a mountain. he didn't even flinch. he just gripped your chin harshly, his fingers digging into your jaw to tilt your head back so he could stay connected to your lips. it was a bruising, messy kiss that tasted like the peppermint soap and the hot spray of the shower.
"stop... sungchan, stop" you managed to gasp out when he pulled back just an inch, your chest heaving.
he didn't say a word. he just looked at you with those dark, blown-out eyes, his expression completely blank and scary. he reached down with his free hand, fumbling with the button of his jeans. he didn't care that they were soaked through and heavy; he just kicked them off right there in the tub, letting them heap at your feet like lead.
"your brother has plenty of clothes i can borrow" he muttered, his voice sounding so casual it made your skin crawl. "i'm not in any rush to leave."
you shook your head, your hands coming up to his chest again to try and create some space, but you could feel your own resolve starting to slip. the heat of the water and the sheer weight of him pressing you into the tiles was starting to make your head swim. maybe you weren't pushing as hard as you should have been.
"look at you" he hissed, a small, mean smirk pulling at his mouth as he noticed your hands faltering. "you're barely even trying anymore. you like that it's me, don't you? the creepy friend you're supposed to hate."
he didn't wait for an answer. he hooked his arms under your thighs and hoisted you up in one swift motion, your back hitting the cold wall as he forced your legs to wrap around his waist. you let out a sharp gasp, your fingers digging into his wet shoulders for balance.
he started grinding against you right there, the friction of his skin against yours sending a jolt through your entire body. he was so much bigger than you, his broad frame blocking out the rest of the world until all you could see was him.
"stay still" he commanded, his voice dropping into that deep, scary register.
you whimpered, your head falling back against the tile as he positioned himself. you tried to shake your head one last time, a weak protest dying in your throat, but he just leaned in and bit your earlobe, hard enough to make you hiss.
"too late to change your mind now" he groaned, his grip on your hips tightening until it was almost painful. "you're finally exactly where i've wanted you for years. and i'm not letting you go until i'm done."
he didn't listen. he just gripped your waist with both hands, his large fingers digging into your skin until it bruised, and shoved himself all the way inside you in one heavy, unrelenting motion. a choked-out scream left your throat, muffled by the sound of the water hitting the tile.
"fuck— sungchan stop— it hurts— too big—" you sobbed, your hands desperately pushing against his wet shoulders to try and create even an inch of space.
he didn't even flinch. he just cooed at you, a low, mocking sound that made your skin crawl. "shh, shh. you're okay. you're just tight because you're scared," he whispered, his voice sounding disturbingly calm while he started to move.
he was manhandling you so easily, using his sheer size to keep you pinned against the cold wall while he bounced you up and down on him. every time your weight came back down, he met you with a harsh, upward thrust that made your head snap back against the tile.
"look at you, crying like a baby" he muttered, a dark, obsessed smile spreading across his face as he watched your tears mix with the shower water. "you've been acting so tough in front of your brother, but you're so small once I actually get my hands on you."
you whined, your voice breaking as you tried to turn your head away, but he just caught your chin again, forcing you to look at him. he wanted to see the exact moment you broke.
"it hurts because you're fighting it" he groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he picked up the pace. "stop fighting me and just take it. you know you've been curious about what the 'creepy' friend would do to you. well, now you know."
his movements were blunt and powerful, his broad chest thumping against yours with every hit. you were completely at his mercy, your legs shaking where they were hooked around his waist, your strength completely gone.
"you're so loud" he saidd, leaning in to bite at the skin of your shoulder. "i bet the neighbors can hear you. i bet they know exactly what's happening in here."
he didn't slow down for a second. if anything, your whining only made him more aggressive. he hitched your legs higher over his waist, tilting your hips at an angle that let him hit your g-spot with every single blunt, heavy thrust. the sensation was overwhelming, and despite how much you were crying and trying to push his chest away, your body was betraying you—clenching around him so tight it made his head spin.
"fuck" he hissed under his breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he felt you start to milk him. "you're so tight... look at what you're doing to me."
he started going even faster, the sound of the water hitting the tile drowned out by the rhythmic, wet slaps of his skin against yours. you were sobbing now, a high-pitched, broken sound as the friction became too much, your hands feebly scratching at his wet back.
"sungchan— please— too much—" you gasped out, your head lulling back against the cold wall.
"shh, shh, i've got you" he cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet compared to the way he was manhandling you. he leaned in to press a messy, wet kiss to your lips, swallowing your protests. "you're doing so good for me. just take it, sweetheart. just let it happen."
he was relentless, his large hands holding your waist so steady that you couldn't even squirm away from the sensation.
as you felt your orgasm starting to build, your internal muscles clamped down even harder, pulling him in deep. sungchan let out a low, guttural groan, his pace becoming frantic as he felt himself hitting his limit.
"that's it... just like that" he whispered, cooing into your ear while he delivered a few final, devastatingly deep thrusts.
he let out a sharp breath, his body tensing as he finally filled you up, pinning you hard against the tile to make sure he didn't miss a drop. he stayed there for a long moment, buried deep inside you, his chest heaving against yours while the hot water continued to pour over both of you.
even then, he didn't let you go. he just kept his arms around you, kissing your temple and the side of your neck, acting like the "sweet" friend again while you just hung there in his arms, shaking and spent.
"see?" he whispered, a smug, obsessed smile back on his lips. "i told you it would be better if you just let me in."
Keeps his gaze down, serves, cleans and stays quiet with his hands joined... He acted so obedient and submissive like hell you da real devil in disguise my mehboob ꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡
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