synopsis: when a ballerina finds herself becoming the muse of a man who’s lips candy coat his twisted desires and masks them as dreams, does she take the bait and fall prey to a gang of wolves, or does she run away like prey?
warnings: obsession, stalking, various mental illnesses, psychological thriller, graphic descriptions of death, violence, gangs, strong language, ddlg relationships, reverse harem, smut, mxm, threesomes and more, mature themes, and many others tba
ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ author’s note: this book is solely based on my love for ateez iomt era. their roles are a crossover between janggi & chess! it will be a little diff from my usual writing as this one has much of a darker theme & will carry a lot of poetry, etc. heavily inspired by the neighbourhood & joe goldberg. so get your snacks, a warm blanket, and hold on tight bc this is gonna be a wild ride.
———
‘you never know what they might do if they catch you too early.’
ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ author’s note: boldened italics are internal thoughts.
˙ . ꒷ ♜ ♞ ♝ ♛ ♚ ♝ ♞ ♜. 𖦹˙
the studio smells faintly of oil paint and turpentine, the scent of red wine, and the burning vanilla candle on the coffee table in the center of the room intermingled in the air.
seonghwa adjusts the canvas for the fifth time, the edges of the frame needing to align just so with the corners of the room.
it's a compulsion he can't escape: the need for perfect symmetry, balance, harmony. it's all he craves, and the only time he feels at ease, at peace, is when his hands move in rhythmic strokes, capturing something that feels like control.
like order.
you are the one who ignited it, the one who unknowingly became the center of his fixation. your silhouette, the pretty little dancer etched in his mind from the moment hongjoong had taken him to opening night of swan lake in seoul's art center.
a beauty like no other.
the way you move, so poised, so delicate, as if every muscle of your form is designed to create perfection. it's all he can think about when he closes his eyes. every pirouette, every arabesque, each breath you take underneath the ambient stage, all eyes cast upon you, as if what they'd been watching was the act of your very soul leaving your body, open for all to see.
for me to see, he thinks to himself, sipping on his glass of chapoutier, imported by an international acquaintance. me and my men.
the long, hall-like room is lined with masked men, balaclavas black in color, donned in pristinely tailored suits with firearms of all kinds situated at the hip, a red colored pocket square situated on their left pectoral, closest to the heart. meaning they were class byeong, or rather soldiers to janggi.
the door of the hall opens, men tilting at no less than a ninety degree angle in the form of a bow, hearing the sharp sound of hard soled shoes making contact with the marble flooring.
"you've been cooped up in this room for ages, jagi," hongjoong says, blond hair slicked back with not a hair out of place, paired well with thinly framed glasses, perched low on his nose.
"i think it's due time that you've gotten some fresh air."
he'd been dressed to the nines, armani menswear donning his body, two obsidian buckles running down his side to show off the dip of his waist, and rings situated of every one of his left hand's fingers.
as he rounds the easel, he takes in the sight of a larger version of seonghwa's most recent sketch, seeing the splotches of green and pink start to form the background of a bay of various delicate flowers.
"still on the girl, i see," he speaks in his ear, resting the curve of his chin within the crook of seonghwa's neck, making sure to press a quick kiss to the exposed skin. "should i be jealous."
seonghwa scoffs, rolling his eyes.
not when she's yours just as much as she is mine.
"how was it, yesterday, hm? i take it well."
seonghwa stops for a moment, sitting back in the chair to take a look at what he's done thus far. sleeves rolled up with his pallet in one hand whilst the other clasps firmly onto a small detailing brush.
"surprisingly, yes," he explains, resting his head within his warm palm. "quite intriguing, she is. found her crying outside all alone when she could've been basking in the fame and glory of her performance."
you deserve it all. why deprive yourself of what is rightfully your own?
hongjoong tuts, pink plush lips poking out into a faux pout. "and did you do as we spoke," he questions, grin akin to the cheshire cat as seonghwa nods.
"she took it. shouldn't be too long before she'll be falling right into our very palms," he smiles, staring longingly at the canvas, as if the love of his life had been plastered on it. "she's perfect."
its only a matter of time until you shall be knelt before me. i could almost smell the powder of your skin, dove.
"well, as much as i hate to pull you away from your art, we have more harping matters to attend to down in the garden," hongjoong explains, looking out of the window at the trees in the distance.
"and have you rounded up the chessmen," seonghwa asks, standing to his feet whilst untying his apron that's dotted with miscellaneous colors and hues.
the man hums as a response, hands now pushed into the pockets of his black trousers. "they're already down the corridor as we speak."
putting aside his color palette gently, he stands to his feet to trudge toward the marbled sink, scrubbing at his hands until the skin bleeds from the knuckles, porcelain beaded with rose and a black handkerchief soaks up the remnants, patting them dry.
"then i guess it's time," he says, pulling on his white ysl archive blazer that tailored to his frame perfectly. his slim waist and wide shoulders emphasized with the back of the piece donning the red crystal embellishment of the hanja symbol han, setting his place as janggi's general.
marbled black and white tiles kiss the crimson soles of louboutin shoes. the glossy, crisp click of the heels sharp, a warning, causing the hairs on the necks of many made-men to raise, spines tensing in attention.
there's an unspoken rule to never look the chessmen in the eye, always keep your chest high, eyes downcast until you hear them pass. they'll take it as a challenge and the saying don't bite off more than you can chew comes into effect immediately.
upon arrival to the corridor, hongjoong, the king, secured his glossy black glock to his waistband, calling the attention of his men, who wear pocket squares of the color green, also known as class jol, or pawns.
they serve a more straightforward purpose in janggi, one that is simply to follow the rules, do as told and move product from their base in seoul to surrounding regions for profit.
the garden, made up of thirty-two black tiled squares and an equal amount of thirty-two white tiles that make up the complete exterior of its structure.
an odd choice for anyone else.
for janggi, it was a battlefield.
every inch of the estate had been built to resemble a game long before the first move had ever been played. there was no room for improvisation.
only strategy. patience.
you'd love the roses, dove, he thinks to himself, crossing on leg over the other when the chessmen join him at the table amidst the center of the garden. specifically white ones that climb the wrought-iron arches, their petals untouched despite the summer heat.
he likes to think that you'd stop for a moment. just long enough to brush your fingertips over them before apologizing to no one in particular when a thorn nips at your skin, painting the white in red.
you have a habit of doing that.
not bleeding but apologizing.
as if the world deserves an explanation for every breath you take.
you shouldn't.
not when he'll soon be around to make sure you're his completely.
this should be yours. all of it. and you shall be mine.
the soldiers stationed around the perimeter lowered their heads as hongjoong pulled out a black king chess piece, situating it onto the glass held map of korea and each of its hubs. directly onto where they were: seoul.
conversation ceased immediately, the sound of the nearby violinist playing an arrangement of debussy's clair de lune softly.
around the elongated stone table sat the remaining chessmen: rooks, bishops, and knights donned in their respective white and or black.
yunho idly flipped through a leather-bound folder, glasses resting low against the bridge of his nose as columns of figures reflected in the lenses. mingi leaned comfortably against the back of his chair, long legs spread, oozing the confidence of someone who had never questioned his own place. san remained still, hands folded before him, his silence somehow louder than the others' voices. wooyoung toyed absentmindedly with a silver lighter, the lid snapping open and shut in an absent rhythm. yeosang pulled black gloves over his haves and separated hundreds from a pile of fifties, twenties, and tens. and jongho held a small porcelain figure of a ballerina within his palm, waiting.
no one spoke until hongjoong did.
"the ports."
only two words.
enough to command the room.
yunho slid several photographs across the polished surface of the table.
"our routes through busan remain stable. customs has become... considerably easier to persuade."
"and incheon?" hongjoong asked.
"a liability."
"then remove the liability."
there was no hesitation.
no one asked whether he meant the route or the people responsible for it.
within janggi, the distinction rarely mattered.
the discussion continued effortlessly, shipments replacing names, territories replacing faces. millions of won exchanged hands with nothing more than the movement of a finger across paper.
seonghwa listened. he always listened.
yet somewhere between projections and cross country allies, his attention wandered.
not to the numbers.
to you.
it always circled back to you.
had you gone home after your show, or had you stayed behind to give the stage one last performance before you tucked back into yourself akin to a rosebud.
he imagined you standing amidst the stage in your lonesome, center dead center in arabesque penchée until the arch of your foot ached.
you always ignored it.
such sweet torture.
you pushed yourself harder than anyone around you ever asked.
you called it discipline.
he called it devotion.
a similarity between you and i.
there was something almost admirable about the way you punished yourself in pursuit of perfection even when it's all over.
though, if he were honest, perfection had never been what fascinated him.
it was the moments between it.
the way your smile disappeared the instant applause faded.
the tears you believed no one had witnessed behind the theatre.
"...seonghwa."
hongjoong's voice cut cleanly through the haze.
every pair of eyes shifted toward him.
"the theatre. if we get it, it will be the largest hub in the country. no one will be moving more than we are.”
three simple words.
an invitation.
seonghwa's gaze lowered to the map spread across the table, fingertips resting lightly against the paper before nudging a crimson marker toward the heart of seoul.
"there."
mingi arched a brow.
"the arts district?"
"it has remained untouched for too long."
"because there was no competition. nothing worth the trouble."
a beat of silence followed.
"there is now."
no one questioned him.
no one except hongjoong and their eyes met for only a fraction of a second.
it was enough.
hongjoong understood.
he always did.
the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he leaned back in his chair. “then we'll make our move,” he says with finality, moving the piece over to the star that marks the theater.
the room shifted immediately into discussion, routes being redrawn and personnel reassigned as though the decision had always been inevitable.
no one noticed the almost imperceptible smile that settled across seonghwa's features.
you would. eventually, at least.
this feeling you give me, it is a peculiar thing. it rarely announced itself. it simply rearranged my thoughts, my desires…until every move, whether i realized it or not, became one i’d already anticipated.
warnings: smut, mdni, mature themes, p in v penetration, clit stim, unprotected sex, dirty talk, squirting, riding, phone sex, backshots, oral (f receiving) dry humping, fondling, toy play, humiliation kink, cursing, dirty talk, belly bulge, dumbification, slight choking, cum eating (m &f), age gap, if i missed any lmk :3
summary: perv winwin & yangyang x fangirl reader
requested! thanks for being so patient with this one!
winwin and yangyang were obsessed with their pretty fan girl. some would consider you somewhat of a saesang, to others yes it does come across that way, but you know the truth, you know yangyang pays for all your flights and accommodation so you can come see him in concert. you know winwin always asks you to come to filming locations for some extra special motivation. you don’t just show up to their dorms or apartments unannounced, they invite you over.
yangyang thinks it’s funny when you get called out for being a saesang, watching online discourse take place in your name, calling you obsessive, dangerous, a stalker, but you have never once paid for any of their info and you have never sold it either. winwin thinks you are the prettiest girl in the world, he always apologises for not being able to take part in nct/wayv promotions due to his acting commitments but he remains thankful that you support this career move just as much as his music.
when yangyang brings you out to see winwin together, you all go back to wins hotel and they both love on you, have you crying and shaking, hair clinging to your neck and forehead with sweat. you had grown up with nct and wayv, attending concerts and fanmeets throughout your teens, but when they first started this little fling with you, you were freshly an adult, they felt like such pervs, eyeing up the cute 20 year old who they had met hundreds of times, now freely touching your hands and arms during fansigns, looking at your legs and up your skirt as you walk away from the table and down the line, scanning your chest, imagining what kind of bra your wearing if you’re wearing one at all, what your boobs look like under your shirt, nipples perked up and begging to be toyed with.
yangyang is the bolder one of the two, not ashamed to be seen in public with you, out at restaurants, grabbing coffee, sure he tries to “disguise” himself but everyone knows who it is, and everyone recognises you, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who you’re with. when you’re spotted with winwin, it’s mostly snapshots of you on his sets, keeping heating packs to his cheeks to keep him warm and holding fans to him to cool him down. nctzens across the internet complaining every time a new picture is dropped, saying that you are a psycho, been stalking these boys for years and now you’re legal you’re forcing yourself into their beds and infiltrating their lives and schedules.
yangyang always teases you, whenever you stop by his house, after he’s invited you, he lets you in with a quick “hi stalker” making you roll your eyes. you’ll be on his couch, watching tv while his palm gently grazes your stomach over your shirt while he hugs you, his thumb intentionally bumping the under side of your boob while he does.
“you keep touching my boob”
“no i’m not, just holding you close”
“you’re touching my boob”
“you wish i was touching your boob, plus you’re not even wearing a bra, so its not my fault even if i did”
you go quiet, because you do, wish he would push his hands up inside your shirt and squeeze and fondle you, pinch your nipples and twist them hard, you wish he would just initiate what you came here for quicker. he chuckles at your lack of comeback
“say it baby”
“no…”
“oh come on, don’t be shy, just tell me”
“you’re so annoying you know that? okay fine, i wish you were touching my boobs, happy?”
you sit back to look at his smirk while he nods his head yes cheekily, his hands coming up to grab the hem of your shirt, it’s barely even a shirt, a skin tight, paper thin tank top that he can see every curve of your torso in, clinging to you and your boobs, nipples poking through the material. he pulls it up and off and watches your boobs bounce and recoil as the fabric snaps off you.
“sitting here all innocent, pretending to watch our show, when really you just want these played with right?”
he cups your boobs and gives them a light squeeze before shaking his hands and jiggling them slightly
“mhm…”
“is it cold in here? nipples are so hard baby, could take my eye out”
you laugh and push his chest before he’s laying back against the couch arm rest, bringing you to straddle him
“want you to ride me like this, let me watch them bounce”
you grind down on him instinctively just to relieve some of that tension in your core and he laughs
“at least wait for me to get your clothes off baby, god so desperate”
you stand off him and he tugs your leggings down, and your not wearing any underwear
“you’re impossible you know that? came all the way here with no bra and no panties? that needy for me?”
you just giggle, knowing that he’s somewhat wound up and turned on at how desperate you are. he pulls himself out of his pants, keeping his clothes mostly on, wanting you to feel any kind of embarrassment from being completely nude for him while he remains dressed. you straddle him again, dragging his length up and down your slit before pushing down and sitting fully, both of you let out a breathy moan at the squeeze. he brings his thumb to your clit and your legs twitch either side of him
“you’re so wet, i haven’t even done anything and your cunt swallowed me whole”
“shut up, knew what you were doing”
“oh yeah, playing with these”
he smirks as his free hand comes up to fully grab your tit, jiggling it before moving on to the other making you whine. he pinches your nipple between his finger as you start to grind your hips on him, twisting and tugging at it and your head falls back, pushing your chest closer to him.
“so pretty baby, keep going, fuck yourself for me”
you pick up the pace, moving with a steadier rhythm, with more purpose, grinding in between each bounce of your hips. your arms fall back and against his thighs for leverage as you lift yourself off him, dropping back down before you’re moving your arms again to hold onto his shoulders. you’re a fidgety thing, always searching for the right angle and trying to hold onto him. your hands claw at his shirt over his shoulders and chest, he keeps up with his derogatory praise, you don’t know how he does it but he’s able to degrade you and praise you all in the same breath, the same sentence.
“luckiest little fangirl there is huh? greedy cunt getting split open on your favourite idol, so fucking good for me baby, love this nasty little pussy so much”
you’re whining and moaning, his words and his dick hitting that spot inside of you sending shockwaves through your veins.
“let me call win, bet he’s missing his best girl”
he slides his phone out his pocket and facetimes winwin, a few rings later he’s picking up and the camera is already flipped to you, yangyang smirks as winwin panics and holds his phone close to his chest, fears that his cast mates have just seen what’s happening on his phone screen. hurriedly walking to another room alone.
“thought you might like to see what pretty girl is up to”
“fuck look at her, hi baby”
“h-hi- ah!”
yangyang free hand is back on your clit rubbing harsh circles all for winwin to see
“she’s doing so good, i’m not even doing anything she’s just taking it herself”
“yeah she’s good like that, have you came yet sweetheart?”
“no… i’m close though, fuck yangie it feels so good! so big”
his hand moves from your clit and to the bulge in your belly that disappears and reappears every time you sink down.
“yeah? filling you up nice?”
“mhm! oh shit! it’s so good”
winwin starts to jerk himself off quickly, doing anything he can to relieve himself asap before being called back to set
“fuck princess, keep going, riding him so good, look at those tits, so gorgeous, you look so beautiful like this baby”
yangyang hurls a glob of spit at you, aiming and hitting your chest, it shines in the glow of the living room light, before he’s sitting up, mouth going to take one of your nipples in his mouth, biting and licking the skin around it, you hold his phone, holding it back in selfie mode and let winwin watch as you ride his best friend, while he sucks and licks at your chest
“you feel good? you look like you’re about to cum princess”
“feels so good winnie… i’m so close”
“you gonna let her cum yang?”
he pulls off you
“oh for sure, want her to soak me”
when your hips start faltering his got both hands either side of you, holding you up as his hips thrust up and drove into you at a new found speed, drilling into you while you shakw with the force, you’re holding onto his phone, angling so it catches your fucked out face, tits swaying and the brief view of yangyangs hips meeting yours. winwin watches as you drool and eyes cross struggling to speak with just how good yangyang is fucking into you
your muscles lock as you feel the band tighten and tighten before it snaps. your mouth hangs open, spit tumbling down your chin and in between your tits keeping them shiny from spit, your eyes roll back and the faint hiss of your orgasm falls on winwin ears.
“fuck baby! look at you!”
you can’t move, can’t really hear him until he’s taking his phone from your hands and panning it to showcase your squirt covering his shirt, lap and some on his couch, his hips still bucking into you with the same force. he wraps a hand around your neck, holding you up as he shows winwin the scene, hips stilling inside you as he paints your walls with thick seed. groaning as the sound of his jean clad thighs thumping against your ass comes to a slow stop. winwin groans as he keeps pumping himself.
“let me see her leak”
you let out a little noise as yangyang shoves you off him, feeling empty and started at the sudden movement. he has you on your back at the opposite end of the couch and comes to sit on his knees, phone held up above your legs as he pushes them open, your cunt still twitching and gaping around nothing, before the thick white starts pooling out of you. you hear both of them groan at the sight, winwin finally letting go of his own hot spurts of cum too.
“she made such a fucking mess”
“yeah couch is soaked, how much did she squirt? jesus”
“a lot, not seen her in a couple days so she was pent up, isn’t that right baby?”
his tone is mocking as he brings a hand to your face, cupping and squeezing as he baby talks you, rocking your head side to side with his hand. you giggle dumbly and nod yes as best you can.
“i gotta clean this messy pup up, speak to you soon, get back to work”
winwin doesn’t have time to bite back before he’s hanging up, throwing his phone on the table, and pushing your legs apart, watching as his cum has leaked in between your ass cheeks, licking a long hot strip through your cheeks then your folds to gather it up before spitting it back down on you. you moan at the lewd gesture and try and grind your hips up to meet his lips again
“sit still mutt”
he dives back it, arms strong while holding you down, licking sucking and slurping at your cunt, his own cum covering his lips and chin now, eating it out of you and cleaning you up. you shiver as he keeps lapping at you, squirting again, he chuckles as it sprays him and he moves back to watch it flood out of you.
“fuck… look at that”
“yangie”
you pout and thrash as he lets go of your legs, humping up against nothing, legs twitching and hips grinding. after you’ve calmed down he keeps you naked on the couch in his lap again, watching tv while you grind against his clothed thigh.
when you finally get real alone time with winwin he doesn’t waste much time before he’s got you on all fours in his bed, pulling your hair back in a makeshift ponytail creating the perfect arch for him, an evil smirk on his face as he humiliates you
“missed this little stalker pussy so much”
“m’not a stalker- ah! winwin!”
“sure you’re not”
he laughs as he feels you clench around him
“did you miss me?”
“you- you know i did, missed you so much, f—fuck… missed your dick so much”
“yeah you did”
he keeps ploughing into you, picking up some pace and his free hand pulls you back against him harder. your breathing hard and heavy through gritted teeth, eyes watering. your whines and whimpers spur him on when he feels you cum around him his hand moves from your hip to snake around your front and in between your legs, fingers strumming against your clit in fast circles causing you to sob out. he pulls you by the hair to bring you deep down on him, keeping you there as you shake and cum again. it’s not long before you feel his hot speed filling you up, you feel full to the brim, like it’s going to leak out of every crevice of your being, weeks, maybe months of pent up release, sure he’s jerked off but even winwin can’t deny that nothing is as good as cumming inside of you, his pretty dumb stalker.
of course he knows your not really a stalker like some of the other saesangs, but he does remind you how you came to be like this with him, first started as just a fangirl, following them on your, going to multiple dates, staying at the same hotels, going to any events they’re at, waiting for them to sign photo cards and albums, showing up to film premieres and getting invites to private screenings. you were determined, enamoured by them, and himself and yangyang couldn’t help but give into their own urges.
his hips stop rolling slowly, pulling out and pushing you forward, face falling into the pillows as he watches his seed drip and gloop out of you, glazing down your thighs slowly. you know not to move, you know he loves to watch as you push him all out, loves how gross and disgusting it is, watching your cunt expel all of his sticky cum, listening to the air bubbles and wet globs as your cunt spits him out.
“that’s it, make a mess baby”
you feel his palms gently rub up your thighs, purposely smearing himself all over you.
“c-can i taste it? please… been so long”
his fingers scoop some up, collecting his cum on two of his fingers from between your folds, then lays his palm out as you push more out, bringing his hand to your face. your tongue falls out, flat and wide and he splats his palm on it, letting you lick his whole palm, dragging it down slowly letting you lick and suck the fingers with his cum on them.
“there you are, eat up… oh you were hungry for it”
he watches amused as you guzzle every drop you can, holding his wrist to keep his palm infront of you, licking and slurping even when all that’s left is the shine of your spit covering his digits.
the three of you don’t have any idea what you would call your relationship, it’s definitely more than just a fangirl x idol thing, but it’s not exactly a relationship or even friends with benefits, it’s unprofessional, messy, dirty and unpromising. you spend a lot of time with them both outside of just sex, but it would be absurd if any of you were to fully commit, knowing they can’t get caught in a relationship, but having rumors and allegations thrown around about you surely isn’t ideal either, but you don’t care, in fact it fuels your ego knowing how notorious you are in the fandom, knowing that so many people speculate and don’t believe you, people hating and sending all kind of threats, but nothing can shake you, not when both of them fill you up to compensate. you no longer need a job, both of them finding your lifestyle, if you had any commitments outside of them, it would limit their time with you even more, so they agree to be some kind of sugar daddy duo for you, splurging on you always so you can keep up with them during tours and schedules in return for your company, and of course your body.
it’s unconventional, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, devoting your life to both of them.
Summary | After a break-up with your boyfriend of one year, you find yourself in bed with a handsome stranger you meet at a bar. You pride yourself in keeping your personal and professional life at a distance, never daring to mix the two. That is, until that handsome stranger becomes your new co-worker.
Pairing | Johnny Suh x Fem!Reader
Genre + AU | Romance, smut + strangers to lovers, coworkers to lovers, office romance, secret relationship
WC | 19.7k
Content | Mentions of alcohol and food consumption, side characters (aside from nct members) aren’t based on any specific idols, abusive language from ex, use of Y/N, reader mentions not wanting children, hickies, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, handjob, oral (m+f), creampies, recording, praising, possessiveness, breeding kink, missionary, doggy, mating press, pet names: boss, baby
A/N | I wanted to make this with multiple parts because my original idea could not be posted in just one post without exceeding the post limit. I’m not sure when the next part will be. Also, please note that I do not have any background in business nor do I know anything about how it works behind the scenes, so I tried to make it as simple as possible with the little knowledge I have heh! Let me know what you think & as always, happy reading!
— The Break Up & The Wingman.
“Paying separately or together?”
The waitress questions politely, shoulders tensing as she asks as if she already knows what the man in front of you is going to say. There’s a hint of pity in her eyes when she meets yours, like she knew how this night was going to end the second you walked in with the man you spent the last year with.
“Separately.”
A quiet huff of disbelief leaves the waitress, before she quickly turns it into clearing her throat. You, on the other hand, don’t hide your apathetic demeanor. With a quick hand of your credit card to the waitress, she hastily disappears while you and your now ex-boyfriend sit in silence as those around you continue with their pleasant conversations.
“Are you…okay?”
Your ex partner struggles to meet your gaze, but when he does, he nearly shudders at the way you’re looking through him — like he’s nothing but a tiny spec of dust in the air. This quickly turns into a bitter and stark sound that resembles a laugh upon the realization that his words didn’t quite affect you the way he’d hoped.
“Pathetic.” He whispers under his breath. “This is the exact thing I was talking about! No emotions. It’s like speaking to a brick wall all because of your ego.”
Your jaw slacks open and you run the tip of your tongue against the bottom row of your teeth. Rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest, you tilt your head and a dry, unamused scoff leaves you.
“Did you expect me to be sobbing in the middle of this restaurant while begging you to take me back?”
His jaw clenches and his brows furrow in dissatisfaction. You watch as his fingers tighten into a fist and feel the table begin to shake from his knee bouncing up and down from beneath the table. “If that’s the case, you don’t know me at all.”
With a long sip of the remaining wine left in your glass, your gaze doesn’t falter while the man in front of you seethes in anger at the sight of your calmness. Before he can respond, the waitress returns with your card and the receipt to sign.
“I hope you take this opportunity to better yourself.” The man in front of you lets out as he slips his card into his wallet and then into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Pushing his chair back, he quickly stands. “Otherwise you’ll be alone for the rest of your life.”
Your scoff turns into a dry laugh as your ex-boyfriend pushes past the waitress and out the restaurant doors — the scent of his expensive cologne, that you once loved, now makes your stomach churn. When you look at the waitress, her eyes soften at the sight of your tiny, closed lip smile.
“You seem too good for him.” The waitress quietly comments as you stand and grab your belongings, sliding your card into your purse. “I wouldn’t listen to a word he says.”
“Never planned to.” You assure with a grin. “I apologize for his rudeness tonight. He’s a condescending jerk.” Pulling out your wallet, you hand the waitress a crisp hundred dollar bill as a thank you for the professionalism she upheld throughout the night despite your ex’s awful behavior.
With a swift head shake, she bashfully pushes your hand away before claiming it was too much.
Simply tucking the bill under the bread basket, you give her a final nod before heading towards the bar you’ve been itching to get a drink from since the conversation turned sour very early into the night. Your heels click against the marble floors until you slide into the nearest barstool.
“What can I get you?” The handsome bartender smiles a charming little grin that makes your heart jump for a second, but when you see the silver wedding band on his ring finger, the bubble you’re in pops and you huff a small laugh to yourself.
Of course everyone else is in a loving and committed relationship, except for you.
“Just two shots of tequila, please.” You smile, hiding the disappointment of being single — once again.
Smoothly throwing his cleaning rag over his shoulder, the bartender grabs two shot glasses and fills them up with your alcohol of choice. When presented, you quickly take the shots with ease — letting the sting slide down your throat and warm up your entire body.
“If you don’t mind me asking, miss, but is everything okay?”
You sigh, then scrunch your nose when you look at him. “Bartenders notice everything, huh?”
“Well, either something’s wrong or you really enjoy tequila — and no one really likes tequila, do they?” He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest, his broad shoulders shaking and bottom lip tucking between his teeth.
“I got broken up with tonight.” You dryly chuckle, already feeling pathetic hearing how you sound.
“Ouch.”
“He sucks. I’m just upset I wasted a whole year with him.”
Your bartender’s lips press into a thin line. Without another word, he refills a shot glass with your choice of alcohol. Then pulls out a fresh glass before filling it up again, but this time lifting it up and towards you. “Here’s to a new start, then.”
Lifting your glass, you mirror his movements and you both throw your heads back to let the liquid slide down your throats. You sigh in relief, your body immediately relaxing when you feel the warmth course through you.
“Anything else I can get for you, miss?”
Shaking your head, you give him a quick thanks before you occupy yourself by deleting and blocking your ex’s number, checking your messages, and ensuring you pace yourself to make your afternoon flight tomorrow. After a few passing guests and text exchanges between you and friends, the bartender surprises you by sliding you a martini with a single olive inside.
“What’s this?” You ask with a small smile, stuffing your phone back into your hand bag propped on the bar’s table top.
“Courtesy of that gentleman down the bar.” Your bartender grins, pointing at a young man who gives you a small head nod and a smile hidden behind his whiskey. “Full disclosure though, he’s a good friend of mine and thinks you’re pretty but he doesn’t wanna come over unless you’re okay with it.”
“If I’m not?”
“Then you can take the free drink and I’ll pass on a thank you. If you are, well, everything afterwards is up to you two, isn’t it?” He smirks at you, tucking his hands under his biceps.
You look down the bar, eyeing the way the bartender’s friend casually scrolls through his phone and taking reserved sips of his drink. “And what’s your friend’s name?” You ask aloud, gaze still locked on the man interested in you.
“John.” The bartender nods, watching as you take a cautious sip of your martini. “I’m Jaehyun. I thought I might as well introduce myself if I’m introducing you to a friend of mine.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” You chuckle, introducing yourself before taking another sip of your free drink. “Now be honest with me Jaehyun, does your friend have a girlfriend or wife waiting for him back home? I’m not a fan of getting into drama because a man can’t stay faithful.”
”He’s painfully single.” Jaehyun admits as he quietly laughs under his breath. Looking over his shoulder at his friend, he leans forward onto the bar. “Loyal to a fault, sometimes. He’s a good guy though. I promise you’ll be safe with him. Hell, I trust him with my life.”
”You sound like you’ve known him for a while.”
”Too long.” Jaehyun laughs, his cute dimples making their appearance in front of you. “So, what do you think? Wanna meet him or should I just send him your thanks?”
You pause, pondering the options. But with a sip of alcohol courage, you settle on your answer. “I don’t mind meeting him.”
“You won’t regret it.” Jaehyun playfully throws you a wink and turns to look at his friend. He tilts his head in your direction, a cheeky and knowing smile curling from his lips.
— A Very Charming Man.
The tall man at the end of the bar makes his way to you — dark gray slacks accentuating his long legs, black long sleeve button up shirt wrapped perfectly around his biceps, and a half full glass of whiskey in his hand.
“I’ll leave you two to it.” Jaehyun playfully wiggles his eyebrows after introducing the two of you, then quickly turns his attention to tend to the arrival of new patrons.
With a firm handshake, Johnny locks his eyes with yours as a kind smile curls his lips. Pulling at the barstool next to you, you slightly lean forward and thank him for the free drink he sent your way.
“It’s my pleasure.” He replies, mirroring the way you leaned into him. With a hand respectfully pressed on the middle of your back, he rubs a quick circle before retracting his hand. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here? Is it personal or business?”
“Both, I guess.” A tiny smile dances on your lips before you take a sip of your drink. “I had dinner with my boy—“ You pause and clear your throat, correcting yourself. “Ex-boyfriend. And I leave for a work trip. This hotel is closer to the airport, hence my stay.”
Johnny nods, then looks past the second part of your response, clearly not there to talk about work. “So, that guy you were with is your ex?” He points behind him with his thumb, gesturing towards the dining area you were previously sitting.
“You were watching me?” You tease, the tip of your tongue pressing on the inside of your cheek. Your head slightly tips to the side and you lightly swivel the stool you’re on, almost flattered by the information he let slip.
Johnny drops his head before rubbing his chin, a small chuckle leaving his lips. Pushing his styled hair back with his long fingers, his jaw slacks open just enough to see the tip of his tongue run across the back of his lower teeth.
“Believe me, I’m not one to look at women who are already taken.” The edge of his mouth lifts into an unapologetic smirk. “But you? You’re hard to ignore.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly and you smile against your martini glass, trying your best to keep your cool while you assume his words are used on every woman he’s interested in.
“Now I’m very curious,” Johnny lets out, palm facing down and fingers sprawled open on the bar’s counter top. “Did he break up with you or was it the other way around?”
“I wish I could tell you I did, but no,” you quietly huff, “he broke up with me.” You bitterly admit, swallowing a big gulp of your alcoholic beverage.
Johnny’s eyebrows furrow, clearly baffled at your words. He shakes his head and chuckles in disbelief. “There’s no way. Did he give you a reason?”
“Many, actually.” You giggle, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth with a slight head tilt, thinking back on your ex-boyfriend’s reasons behind ending the relationship. “I’m too focused on my career and not enough on him. I have to be mentally fucked for not wanting to start my own family. And he chewed me out for not having sex with him for the last three months.”
Johnny sharply sucks in air through his clenched teeth. “You’re clearly the problem. Those are huge red flags, didn’t you know that?” Johnny sarcastically comments, earning a giggle from you as he grins from ear to ear.
“Yeah, it’s totally me.” You press your palm to your chest, feigning a bit of pain as you sarcastically admit to your wrongdoings. “You’re absolutely right. You should run before it’s too late.”
You and Johnny quietly laugh to yourselves just as his hand slowly cups under yours; testing the waters to see if you’d pull away or not. When you don’t, he leans in just enough for you to smell the fresh aquatic cologne he has on.
“If you ask me, it sounds like you scared him.”
“What?” You giggle, unknowingly squeezing his hand. “What’re you talking about?”
Johnny grins, enlighten at the fact you asked him to explain. “Hot girls are always so oblivious.” He lets out, slightly shaking his head just before he shifts his feet onto the foot rail on the stool he’s sitting on. “You’re so sure of yourself, it scares him. Some men can’t handle that.” Johnny playfully shrugs before finally swallowing the last of his drink.
You catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows, the condensation of melted ice slowly rolling down his long fingers. You tighten your hold on his hand, moving it on the bar top before securing it on your lap. “And where do you fall? Does that scare you, too?”
Johnny’s grin spreads, sharp enough to make your pulse skip. His large hand grabs the leg of your barstool and pulls you closer to him with ease, surprising you with his strength. With your knees fitting perfectly between his, his bold actions cause a flurry of butterflies in your torso and lustful thoughts rush straight to your brain.
“Not at all.” He confidently answers, carefully leaning into the backrest of his stool. “I find it very attractive, actually. I’m even glad he fumbled the way he did.”
“Why’s that?" You giggle as your palm gently rubs up and down the fabric over his thigh. His muscles tense up and you watch the way he casually drags his thumb against his bottom lip.
“Well, for starters, I’m with you right now and he’s not. That itself is a win, don’t you think?” He cockily grins, straightening his posture.
You can’t help but giggle, amused and in awe by his naturally charming demeanor. “Are you always this smooth with your words?” You ask, leaning forward enough to invite yourself into his personal bubble.
You don’t expect him to mirror your actions, but he does and your breath catches when his lips are inches away from yours.
“Only with women I’m interested in.” His gaze falls to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Do you always play hard to get?”
“Only when I don’t wanna seem too eager.” You reply, pulling yourself away. You watch the way Johnny hungrily locks onto your movements before he leans back, too.
“Eager for what?”
You simply shrug and swallow the last bits of your martini.
“It can be a lot of things. You could be eager to have a stimulating conversation or to have someone to help you forget about your ex.” He pauses, eyeing you up and down like he’s ready to devour you right then and there. “Maybe you’re eager to sleep with a handsome stranger you met at a hotel bar. Who knows? The possibilities are endless.”
You bite back a smile, looking away from the stranger in front of you — almost refusing to admit how easily he saw right through you.
“Can I ask you another personal question?”
“Sure. At this point, I’m an open book for you.”
Johnny chooses his words carefully before he speaks. “You refused to sleep with him. I wanna believe it’s because he wasn’t good in bed, but I have a feeling it’s more than that.”
“Oh, it’s absolutely more than that.” You chuckle under your breath, sitting up and straightening your posture. You give Johnny a sigh, scoffing in disbelief as you recall your ex’s words that cut a little deeper than you wanted to admit. “I assume you know what a breeding kink is, right?”
Johnny’s cheeks flood with a pink hue and you’re unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the fact he’s surprised the words came out of your mouth. “I, uh, not from experience but I’ve heard of it, sure.”
“Well, I’m not fond of the idea of having children of my own, but under the right circumstances the idea of breeding is kinda hot — the possessiveness, the dirty talk, the creampie. Anyway, the idea of stopping my birth control was brought up so he could start a family. I told him I like the act but don’t actually want kids but he told me I was crazy to have the kink and not actually pull through with it.”
Johnny’s expression is unreadable when he looks at you. For a second, you think you've shared too much but he nods, intently listening to your words.
“His pressure to let him come inside me without protection started to annoy me, so I just took sex off the table. I guess it took him 3 months of no sex to finally end it.”
“Wait,” Johnny huffs in disbelief, “he got to come inside of you and still had complaints?” Johnny runs his palm over his face in slight frustration, shaking his head. “This guy is a fucking idiot. Listen, if that had been me—” A low whistle leaves his perfectly shaped lips while he hungrily eyes you up and down. “I’d shut up. Actually, I’d let you do anything you want to me. Might even thank you if I did.”
You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous comment. Playfully pushing his shoulder, you earn a giggle and smirk from him.
Johnny is too charming for your own good — something you know you shouldn’t fall for; something that has ‘player’ written all over it. But you ignore what you know you’re supposed to do because who says you can’t hook up with a handsome stranger you met at a bar that you probably won’t ever see again?
“So,” Johnny quietly interjects your thoughts, holding your hand in his. “Let’s say you did have me for a night, what would you want me to do?”
You pause, tilting your head before your lips curved into a sly smile. “I’ve been in a shitty relationship for a year with a shitty guy who didn’t know how to fuck me properly.” You lean in and he meets you halfway. With your lips brushing against the shell of his ear, his skin begins to prickle with anticipation. “Show me what I’ve been missing.”
He hums a laugh that’s filled with mischief and lust. “My room or yours?” His lips part slightly, hand sliding up and down the side of your thigh.”
“Yours.”
— Room 1409.
“After you.” Johnny smiles, holding his hotel room door open and gesturing to you to step in.
You sharply inhale, slightly nervous about hooking up with a stranger after so long. Your hold tightens around the straps of your handbag before you step into the air conditioned room. You catch your reflection at the full-length mirror near the closet and you take a quick look at yourself — there’s a sheen in your eyes from the alcohol, but to your surprise your hair and makeup are still intact.
“Beautiful, aren’t you?” Johnny whispers, palms sliding over the front of your dark green satin dress wrapped around your torso when his reflection appears behind you. With a swift movement, he twists your body to face him.
You let out a giggle when you nearly trip on your heels. “You’re a real smooth talker, Johnny.”
“It’s easy when everything I say is true.”
His warm palm slides against the side of your neck before his fingers cups your nape. As his thumb brushes your bottom lip, your heart stutters and slow, shallow breaths begin to slip from between your lips. His thumb slides down your chin before settling just under your jaw, hand loosely wrapped around your neck, but tight enough to make you melt under his touch. When your lower back meets the nearest console table, his hips press into yours and your fingers curl around his black button up, silently begging him to come closer.
The second his lips weave with yours, your knees begin to quiver. The tang of alcohol is prominent, but you don’t mind. Not when his hand grips tighter around your throat making you whimper against his lips.
It’s intoxicating and possessive, like you were always his.
His large hands slide down your waist and squeeze your hips just enough to smoothly lift you until you’re sitting on the wooden console’s table top. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw all while his hands roam under your dress, hooking his fingers on the waistband of your underwear and slides it down your thighs before slipping the thin fabric in back pockets of his dress pants.
Kissing down your throat, he begins sucking hard enough to leave proof of this night. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls your skin taut to leave a deeper discolored bruise, then another, and another. Pushing your dress up and over your head, he trails down your chest to leave a badge of claim between your cleavage and when he drops to his knees, he kisses down your sternum and your hips.
The anticipation is agonizing, yet it’s the most intense and satisfying feeling you’ve felt in a while. It’s slow, deliberate, but purposeful like Johnny can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest; like he enjoys the way you’re trembling just by grazing his lips over your skin.
Johnny lifts your leg over his broad shoulder while his other hand pushes against your other thigh, spreading your legs wider for him. Tilting your hips, he buries himself between you — licking and sucking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
You don’t realize the way you’re holding your breath, already feeling light headed as you watch him drag his lips closer and closer to your core. Your eyes flick to the mirror behind him and a spark in the pit of your stomach ignites all while excitement pools between your folds.
When Johnny flattens his tongue and glides it over your slit, your mouth slacks open from pleasure. Your fingers comb through his hair as you throw your head back, resting it on the wall behind you.
His name stutters from your mouth, fingers tugging on his now messy and disheveled hair. He swirls the tip of his tongue over your clit and his saliva slides down, mixing with your slick. The pads of his fingers dig into your inner thighs, burying his face deeper into you and wrapping his lips around your drenched pussy, gliding his tongue up and down all while his gaze never shifts from your reaction.
It’s embarrassing, really, how close you are. Heat pools in your lower back and soon travels up your spine and neck before it floods your face entirely. Your chest heaves up and down, already feeling dizzy from the intensity that’s building faster than you can keep up with.
But that certainly doesn’t stop your hips from moving against Johnny when the tip of his tongue flicks against your swollen clit, selfishly chasing the high that’s so close, you can barely hold on. Your hand flies to your mouth, muffling your sultry moans that made Johnny harden under his dress pants. Unsatisfied, Johnny tugs on your wrist and pins it to your abdomen while your free hand grips the edge of the table beneath you.
You don’t give Johnny a warning except for a string of curses that you’ve intertwined between whimpers. Your velvety walls clench tightly, and so do your thighs, as the coil in your lower abdomen snaps. Your body twitches when his tongue runs over your throbbing clit — sucking and gently rolling over it until you’re helplessly trembling from the stimulation.
Johnny smirks against you, then tenderly pecks kisses against your soaked core. When he rises he immediately cups your cheeks, but you’re the one who lunges towards him desperately. He lets out a low chuckle, allowing your fingers to hastily undo his leather belt before tucking your hand into his dress pants.
You grin against Johnny’s lips when you feel his long, thick member hidden behind the fabric wrapped around his waist. Dragging your thumb over his leaking tip, Johnny quietly groans before his middle finger rolls over your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips twitch against him.
His middle finger slides into you with ease, your slick coating his entire finger. When he curls his fingertips, it brushes past your sweet spot and makes your walls involuntarily clench around his digit. Your fist tightens around his shaft, jerking it up and down to mirror the way his finger slides in and out of your soaked cunt.
“This pretty cunt can take one more, right?” Johnny whispers against your lips as the tip of his ring finger probes your entrance, easing its way through your opening and filling your space to its brim.
You eagerly nod, colliding your lips with his. The sting of the stretch soon melts into pleasure, letting you focus on the feeling of pleasure you couldn’t even fulfill on your own.
Your moans turn into shallow bursts of breathless air, chest rising up and down as his rough palm rubs slaps against your aroused clit. The rhythmic movement inches you closer to another burst of pleasure that makes you insatiable.
Your lips part in a silent cry. Your leg mindlessly wraps around Johnny’s waist, hips grinding against his palm, and nails scratching the fabric over his deltoids. His head drops to your shoulder when he feels your gummy walls pulse around his fingers and his breath warms your bare shoulder with a cocky huff of laughter.
“F-fuck me,” you beg, hastily push down the waistband of his underwear and dress pants.
His cock springs up and blood rushes to his shaft, his veins protruding against his skin, and his darkened tip leaking with his thick and clear precum. His large hand guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You already feel the way your body has to adjust to his size when he slowly pops his tip in and out over and over again until every inch is swallowed by your needy little cunt.
Your fingers frantically search for the buttons of his shirt, eagerly undoing the top two buttons before Johnny impatiently pulls the fabric apart — buttons becoming undone as it rips from the threading and falls onto the floor.
The way your palms slide up his chest and across his shoulders to push the fabric of his shirt off sends jolts down his spine and straight to his cock, twitching inside of you. When he allows his shirt to slide off his arms and fall to the floor, he hooks his arms behind your knees then presses his palms against the top of the table console before breaking you open ensuring he’s flesh to flesh with you with every hard thrust. Your breath hitches when he slowly but harshly rocks his hips back and forth until your moans are fucked right out of you. The edge of the table bangs against the wall behind you in a rhythmic pattern to match Johnny’s deep and hungry jerk of his hips.
With every rut, he dives deeper into you — nothing but his tip sweetly kissing your cervix in the compromised angle he has you in. Slinging your arms around his shoulders, you pull him closer and catch a glimpse of the reflection of the mirror. The way his back muscles flex with every slam of his hips makes you pant into his ear, which does nothing but gives him permission to fuck you until your eyes roll to the back of your head and you’re barely forming coherent sentences.
Your fingers manage to tug his hair, tilting his head back before gripping his jaw and forcing his focus to shift from his hips to the way your tongue rolls over his.
With a shaky exhale through his nose, he quickly pulls out of you and your legs fall suddenly without his support. He tugs on your forearm and swiftly manages to have his bare chest pressed against your back as he guides you to the bed.
“Bend over.” He commands through gritted teeth, already pushing down on your shoulders.
You don’t object. With your knees firmly planted into the plush mattress, Johnny’s thick tip pushes past your folds once more but this time your juices help glide inside of you as if he belongs there. A deep raspy groan leaves him when he bottoms out, your body jerking forward as he thrusts. His fingers tightly grip your ass for leverage just before he mercilessly ruts into you. His bare chest presses against your back, heat building between your bodies. His soft grunts fill your ears as his lips brush against the shell of your ear, causing your nails to dig into the sheets before burying your face in them.
Johnny chuckles devilishly, gripping your elbows with both hands and pulling you back until the top half of your body is suspended over the sheets. Snaking a hand down your torso and tucking itself between your thighs, he easily finds your sensitive nub between your folds, circling it delicately. “You’re not hiding that pretty face from me.”
You’re not sure how many times you’ve reached ecstasy with the way you’re being thrown in positions you thought you were too rigid to be in. Your body trembles, but you happily push past it with the way Johnny eagerly fulfills your request: to show you what you’ve been missing out on.
Johnny knew when to slow it down, giving your body the most tender kisses and admiration it rightfully deserved. But he also knew when your body craved for more — and more, and more — until you’re tearing from the corner of your eyes from the overstimulation that blurred pain and pleasure seamlessly.
And you enjoy every second of it.
As you lay there, limp and exhausted, a satisfied grin is painted on your face as his seed leaks out of you. Johnny’s plastered beside you, proud and confident as ever. You cuddle into him, feeling his chest rise and fall — clearly still reeling from the dopamine rush that came with spending the night with you.
“I haven’t felt this amazing in years.” You sigh, fingertips gently running up and down the crevices of his abdomen.
“Glad to be of service tonight.” Johnny chuckles as his lips brush against your forehead. “Glad your ex fucked up the way he did.”
“Loser behavior, I guess.” You happily sigh. “Though, I do wish I could see the look on his face if he ever saw your cum dripping out of me. He hated the idea of my other exes doing it. Imagine how pissed he’d be that I let a stranger do it.”
“Why don’t we find out?”
Your head shoots up, looking at him in confusion. “What?” You awkwardly laugh. “What are we gonna do? Invite him here to see this?”
“Not quite.”
Johnny swings his legs off the side of bed and fishes for his phone from the pocket of his pants. Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, he parts your thighs and it’s astonishing how quickly you comply. Lifting his phone in view, you quickly catch on to what he has planned. He presses the big red button to film between your thighs, fingers sliding his seed into you. When he lifts his coated middle finger to your lips, he ensures the camera only catches the lower half of your face, as you gladly suck on his digit until he ends the recording.
“What’s your ex’s number?” Johnny questions as the pads of his fingers patiently wait for your reply.
You repeat the number that you’ve unfortunately memorized by heart and watch him type it into his phone. “Won’t he just have your number if you send him the video?”
“It’s a good thing I’m changing it when I get back home.” Johnny smiles as he lays next to you. He hovers his phone, ensuring you can also see the screen and what he’s typing.
Thanks for leaving her, loser. Never would’ve met her at the bar if it weren’t for you. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. I’ll just breed her until the only name she knows is mine.
The swoosh sound on iMessage is heard and the delivered notification pops up under Johnny’s message. He silences his phone and tosses it to the side.
You giggle, swinging your leg over him before straddling his lower abdomen. With his palms sliding across the sides of your hips, he grabs a handful of your pillowy rear — your skin spilling between his fingers before his tip slides into you again, lifting his hips and sinking into you until you’re stuffed full. Pressing your lips to his jaw, you trail soft kisses until you reach just below his earlobe.
“You should keep your promise. Unless…” you tease between kisses, “you’re all bark and no bite?”
Both you and Johnny miss the flurry of angry texts flooding Johnny’s phone, but neither of you care; not when you’re being shown pleasure in ways you could never imagine until the break of dawn.
❁❁❁❁❁
Who tf is this?
Fucking answer me you little shit!
[10 missed calls]
You’re a little bitch. ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE.
[6 missed calls]
When I find you I swear to god I’ll beat your ass
[4 missed calls]
I hope you get a fucking STD
❁❁❁❁❁
Your internal clock and the sun beaming into the room from the balcony wakes you from your sleep. There’s a delicious ache between your thighs and it takes you a second to process your surroundings, until you’re made aware of the arm that slides across your bare torso and effortlessly pulls you closer to his heated body.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of sneaking away before saying goodbye.” Johnny chuckles — soft, tired, and raspy. Nuzzling the tip of his nose into your shoulder, a gentle kiss adorns your skin.
“I was gonna leave a note.” You playfully counter as your fingers mindlessly rake through his thick and messy hair. “But now that you’re awake, guess I can tell you that I should probably head out to let you pack for your flight back home.”
Johnny groans, lifting his head to see the pieces of clothing haphazardly thrown around the room along with his suitcase wide open with used clothes piled on each other.
“Thank you for last night, John.” You quietly let out, hand gently pressed against his cheek to carefully guide his gaze back to you. “I really appreciate it.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Placing a quick kiss to your cheek, you take that as your cue to get ready to leave. His eyes watch your movements intently as you slip on your dress from last night and search for your underwear amongst the pile of clothes.
“Where’d you put my underwear?”
A tiny snicker leaves his lips before a smug expression washes over him as he leans back into the headboard. When you look at him, he gives you a tiny and innocent shrug. “Maybe if you stay while I pack, it’ll show up.”
You roll your eyes, jaw slacking open with a tiny grin. Your eyes flick to his white long sleeve shirt he wore last night and you swipe it into your hand before wrapping it up around your waist.
“You can keep that and I’ll take this as a memento.” You giggle, making your way to his side of the bed. “Remember, it’s silk. Don’t make the mistake of throwing it in the washer. Hand wash, only.”
Cupping the sides of his face and tilting it in your direction, you place a kiss on his forehead — his eyes fluttering shut at the softness of your lips while his arm wraps around your waist.
“Have a safe flight home.”
Johnny chuckles softly, his arm pulling you in effortlessly and your knees press into the side of the mattress. “You know…I’m a fast packer.”
“Yeah?” You giggle. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“One more time for old times’ sake? I’ll let you be on top this time.”
Letting out a hum and pretending to contemplate the tempting idea, you gently brush your thumbs over the space just below his eyes before a kiss presses onto his lips.
“Let’s have fate decide when we do this again.” You whisper in the space between your lips. “In the meantime, I have a meeting to prep for and you have luggage that needs to be packed. Not to mention, a flight you need to catch.”
Johnny sighs in defeat, then a beat of silence follows before speaking again. “That’s fair.”
Bringing the back of your hand to his lips, Johnny gives your skin a quick peck then brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. Cupping your face with a gentle touch, he pulls you in for a kiss — one of gratitude and farewell all wrapped in the slow movements of his lips.
When you pull away, your forehead presses against his while you catch your breath.
“Take care, Johnny.” You finally let out, pulling away as he playfully tugs on your fingers.
When you finally get enough distance, your hand drops to your side and Johnny’s arm drops onto the sheets covering his bare lower half. Giving him a final wave goodbye, you grab your belongings and head out into the hallway, feeling renewed. Like a night away from your usual strict routine made you genuinely happy — something you haven’t felt in a very long time.
❁❁❁❁❁
Sorry, too busy fucking her dumb to get back to you.
She feels waaay too good to only go one round…or two…or three…
Also thought you should know Y/N says thanks, you helped her realize how bad you are at sex.
And the name’s Johnny, bitch.
[this contact has been blocked]
— A New Place & A Reintroduction.
“So…” Mina sheepishly rocks back and forth on her heel, the wind whipping through her thick dark hair. Her fingers grip the handles of her handbag, the leather fabric tapping against her knees as you two wait near the front entrance of the high rise building you’ll be working in for the next year.
“So…” you repeat suspiciously, waiting for Mina to stop beating around the bush and ask you what’s on her mind.
“That hook up…” she finally lets out, quickly scanning your features for any reaction that would somehow tell her who it was with.
“Mina.” You sternly reply, giving her a look as if to tell her to keep your personal business far from your professional life. “Not now.”
“I’m sorry,” she whines, childishly stopping her feet. “One minute I’m thinking you’re getting proposed to at dinner and the next you tell me you’re single and hooked up with a stranger.”
You sigh, already regretting telling her about your night of fun while waiting at the gate for your flight a week ago. It’s clear to you that this has been stewing in the crevices of Mina’s brain, too scared to ask more details knowing how privileged she is to even hear that you hooked up with someone.
“It’s like something possessed you. It doesn’t sound like you at all:” She quietly comments, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I love it, I’m just surprised. Do you know his name at least?”
Before you could reply, an older man waves and catches your attention. It takes you a second to realize it’s the manager you’ve been in contact with for the past few months — Mr. Choi. He appears with an all too excited grin on his face, already telling you he’s more than excited for this partnership between your home company and the one you’re temporarily transferred to.
“It’s nice to see the both of you again! Come on in, I’ll show you around.” He smiles, leading you towards the bright lobby of elevators. “I’m sorry to hear about the delay in furniture deliveries for the two of you. I’m hoping the hotel suffices until then.”
“Oh it does!” Mina interjects happily, enjoying the room service at the expense of the company account. “This is by far the best hotel we’ve been in and, trust me, we’ve been in a lot.”
A deep chuckle rumbles in Mr. Choi’s chest, arm extending out between the elevator doors as it opens then gesturing for the two of you to step into the cramped metal box.
“We take up the top two floors. Beautiful view over the city, I should add.” Mr. Choi says, sounding a lot like a real estate agent than anything else at the moment. “Our floor is split in two, the east wing—” Mr. Choi looks at you. “Is where you’ll be. The west wing—” Mr. Choi looks at Mina. “That’s where you’ll be.”
When the elevator doors open, you’re greeted by the floor to ceiling windows providing natural lighting that spills through the central lobby. To the right of you, you’re met with the two receptions who stand upon seeing their manager.
“Good morning, Mr. Choi.” They greet in unison before their eyes flick towards you and Mina.
Your sights fall towards their lanyard and the identification card that is used to enter the many doors of the building.
“Chenle, Jisung,” Mr. Choi greets, straightening his posture. “I’d like you to meet the newest members of our team — Miss Y/N and Miss Mina.”
“It’s nice to meet you, welcome to the team!” Chenle says, clasping his hands together. “Let us know if we can do anything to make the transition smoother.” The younger man next to him simply smiles and nods before excusing himself when the phone rings, pulling his attention there instead.
You and Mina give the two younger men a warm smile and a nod, but your verbal appreciation is cut short when you’re gestured towards the west wing by Mr. Choi, who immediately begins spewing out the renovation plan to improve the floor even more.
As you’re swept away, you quickly turn your head to let out a quick thank you to the two men you just met. As you do, you catch a glimpse of disdain on Chenle’s face who seems to be burning a hole in the back of Mr. Choi before Jisung playfully punches his bicep to get him back into work.
Just past the restrooms, you see the heavy glass doors at the end of the hallway open up. A man with dark rimmed glasses, a white button up shirt, and dark slacks with his hair perfectly parted into a three-fourths part walks out, his gaze focused on the iPad he’s holding.
“Ah, Doyoung!” Mr. Choi loudly greets, starling the man who stops in his tracks.
The man, you now know as Doyoung, mutters something under his breath before gripping the tablet in his hand and pushing the frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Meeting him halfway down the hall, Mr. Choi introduces you and Mina.
“Miss Mina, Doyoung is the person who is going to show you the ins and outs of the west wing.” Mr. Choi informs, watching Mina firmly shake the hand Doyoung extended.
“Can’t wait!” Mina says enthusiastically.
“C’mon,” Doyoung quietly says, tilting his head towards the glass doors. “I’ll show you to your office. It’s right next to mine.”
“And Doyoung,” Mr. Choi interjects. “Introduce her to the rest of the team and catch her up, will you?”
You watch Doyoung sharply inhale. His posture fully straightens before a tight lipped smile forms on his lips.
“I will.”
You watch as your friend disappears behind the foggy glass doors and you’re now left alone with Mr. Choi, analyzing the way his eyes burn intimidatingly while he watches the glass door come to a full close. When he looks at you, they drastically soften and the playful demeanor he’s always presented to you reappears.
“Let me show you to your office.” He nods and the two of you backtrack, passing the central lobby and towards the east wing. Walking past conference room one and two, that’s directly across from each other, you’re guided to a vacant office room that’s filled with sleek, minimal furniture and painted with boring white walls that you’re able to see that’s not covered windows.
“You’re right, the view is great.” You let out, making your way towards the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city below you.
“It’s the best!” Mr. Choi says proudly, as if he’s the one who made it that way. “Across the hall is one of our best employees, but don’t tell him that. He can get a little cocky. He’ll be your point of contact to help you adjust, though he’ll be reporting to you.”
You look out the wide picture window that gives you the perfect view inside the unoccupied office across from yours. The same furniture you have is rearranged into a logical design you learned would be efficient for productivity. On the desk, a stack of Manila folders balanced next to his office phone and a notepad with a few bullet points scribbled on the top of the white lined sheet.
“If he’s the best like you say he is, I’d say the confidence is well deserved, no?”
Mr. Choi chuckles, watching as a disarming smile stretches across your face. “A little humbling would do him good, but I suppose you’re right.” An awkward beat of silence follows before he speaks. “Let me show you the break room.”
You follow Mr. Choi down the hall and enter the large break room with a few lounge chairs and counters filled with a variety of drinks and snacks for anyone’s enjoyment.
“Didn’t expect everyone to be in here.” Mr. Choi said sternly, scanning the room filled with employees who shamefully looked down at the floor beneath them.
The contrast of the chattering then and the dead silence now is stark. You watch as some employees uncomfortably shift from one foot to another while others finish up making their morning coffee. Then Mr. Choi clears his throat, adjusts his posture to his full height and crosses his hands against the small of his back.
“I’d like you all to meet the newest member of our team, Miss Y/N.”
Their sights land on you all at once making you feel uncomfortable beyond comparison. You manage to give them a small wave and they mirror your movements, a quiet wave of ‘hi’ and ‘hellos’ filling the space. The tension is so thick you could slice it with a knife.
“Looking forward to working with you all,” you smile, quickly pulling yourself together — straightening your posture, lowering your hands to your sides, and taking a half step forward.
Mr. Choi takes a full step forward, now placing you slightly behind him. “I’m sure you all have work to start on, right?” He says, an edge to his voice to grab any semblance of power in front of you.
With another step forward, you’re now next to Mr. Choi. The uncomfortable look on the employees face is prominent, making you realize Mr. Choi is purposefully ignoring it.
“I’m sure they’re fueling for the day ahead.” You interject, looking at Mr. Choi dead in the eyes, something you’ve learned from your years in this career. “Don’t we all need a little moment to ourselves and a nice cup of coffee before diving into piles of work?”
You flash Mr. Choi another placating smile with your hand gently placing itself on his shoulder for a second before retracting it next to your side.
“I mean, I know I do.” You chuckle, looking at the rest of the employees. They quickly catch on to your point and each one of them gives an agreeable head nod.
“I suppose you’re right.” Mr. Choi quickly agrees, palm of his hand rubbing the back of his flushed neck. “Again.” He quietly chuckles, sliding his hands in the pockets of his dress pants.
Mina appears beside you and so does Doyoung, hand still holding the iPad but this time, glasses tucked into the breast pocket of his collared shirt. Doyoung does his part in introducing Mina who, like always, greets with the utmost enthusiasm.
Mr. Choi’s phone rings, excusing himself to the corner of the room as he takes the call. You take this opportunity to get the names of some of the employees to begin building rapport with them after the awkward initial meeting.
From the corner of your eye, you watch the way Mr. Choi snaps his fingers to catch Doyoung’s attention, his phone still pressed to his ear. He whispers something into the young employee's ear and you know it’s about you when Doyoung’s eyes lock onto yours. Then just like that, the older manager disappears out of the break room and into a conference room for more privacy to pace back and forth.
With a small wave goodbye, the employees disappear into a bigger room filled with cubicles separating them into smaller spaces. Doyoung follows suit, making his way out the door before you stop him.
“Uh, Doyoung—” you call out, stepping towards him. “Can I speak with you…in my office?”
Surprised with your request, he nods hesitantly before both him and Mina follow you. Closing the door, Mina leans against your desk while cranning her neck to take in the boring look of your new space. Doyoung stands in the middle of the room, patiently waiting.
“What’s the deal with the tension between everyone and Mr. Choi?” You blatantly ask, catching the employee in front of you by surprise.
Lifting his hand to the back of his neck, he gently scratches his prickling scalp. His mouth falls open, only to close again.
“Tension?” Mina squeaks, catching everyone’s attention. “There’s tension?”
Doyoung sighs, balancing his iPad on the arm rest of a nearby sofa. “He’s fairly new.” Doyoung begins to explain. “And utterly incompetent at doing his job. A lot of us feel that he’s on a constant power trip and it doesn’t help when he belittles anyone that isn’t a specialist, analyst, or consultant.”
“How’d he get the job?” Mina questions, reading your mind and saving you from asking the question yourself.
“Connections.” There’s an edge of annoyance in his tone. “Apparently, he’s friends with the founder. Though, I highly doubt the founder knows how shitty Mr. Choi—”
The two loud knocks on your office door startle the three of you before the door swings open and you see the subject of your conversation step through the door frame. Behind him stood a 6 foot 3 man with his dark locks slicked back and a killer smirk lifted from the corner of his mouth, lowering his disposable coffee cup from his lips when he locked with your gaze.
“John, this is Miss Y/N.” Mr. Choi introduces, stepping forward and causing Doyoung to step back, settling himself next to his point of contact that’s now lingering by the window and snapping photos of the view. “Miss Y/N, this is John Suh. He’ll be working with you to ensure you’re acclimated to the new environment. He’ll assist you in whatever you need and will be reporting to you as well.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs so hard you’re certain it’ll leave bruises. A knot tightens in the pit of your stomach, anxiety rising when you remember the night you shared — expect now he’s not just a handsome stranger you met at a bar, he’s your co-worker; one you’ll be working closely with for the next year.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Johnny interjects with a smile, feigning obliviousness and giving you a firm handshake like the one he gave the night you met.
“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too.” You nod. “I heard you’re the best guy here. I have nothing but high expectations.”
Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, fingers holding his coffee cup by its rim. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“Good.” You clear your throat, your hands clasping together just below your belly button. “We should probably catch up on the recent projects coming up.”
“We should do the same,” Mina says as she points her finger between the space separating herself and Doyoung. “Walk me through the campaigns and I’d like to see data—”
Mr. Choi chuckles — an unamused laugh that makes a knot twist in your stomach. You didn’t like the way his hand wiped over his mouth or the way he shook his head slightly as he scratched over the stubble he didn’t shave before coming to work.
“What’s funny?” You question, cocking your head to the side in confusion. You look over at Doyoung and take a sharp inhale, bracing himself for the comment the manager is about to make.
“I can’t help but think we’re overestimating the value of our creative department.” Mr. Choi says ignorantly with a dismissive shrug to his shoulders. “I mean, anyone with a smartphone can upload a post to social media.”
Your blood boils, heat rushing to your cheeks and a slight ringing in your ear. Between the surprised look on Mina’s face, the second hand embarrassment in Doyoung’s, and Johnny's tense expression written all over his face, you can’t not say something.
“But what do I know right?” Mr. Choi laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and an oblivious laugh leaving his lips.
Johnny steps forward to defend Doyoung’s team, something he’s done countless times before, knowing Doyoung won’t ruffle feathers with a man as ignorant as Mr. Choi.
But you speak before he can.
“Sir, I hope you’re not insinuating our creative team doesn’t provide an essential role to this company?” You let out, voice calm and steady. “I’d hate to see when a poorly thought out campaign or a post highlighting a failed strategy goes viral. It wouldn’t reflect well on the company or the founder, would it?”
The mere mention of the founder turns Mr. Choi’s face pale, letting your words sink in before uncomfortably clearing his throat. Your eyes lock with his, refusing to be the first person to look away. Mr. Choi feels the tension, beads of sweat forming on the nape of his neck before looking down; your comment about the founder rattling him more than anything.
“You’re right.” He manages to let out, rolling his shoulders back in a lame attempt to recoup. “I will let the four of you get back to work. Please let me know if you need anything.”
And just like that, with no apology, Mr. Choi turns on his heels and walks out of your office and straight to the elevators.
“Well that was fucking rude,” Mina huffs. “What kind of manager says that about any department?”
“An incompetent one.” Johnny scoffs, then quickly apologizing on Mr. Choi’s behalf. “We learned to ignore a lot of his comments. I’m sorry you had to see that first hand.”
“And so soon.” Doyoung adds, his eyes still glued in the direction of your office door.
“Just ignore him,” Johnny breathes, shoulders finally relaxing as he turns to you, then to Mina. “We have a solid team and despite us not listening to him or anything he says, we don’t get reprimanded harshly when we actually do our job well and the higher ups are happy with the results.”
“This is gonna be a shitshow.” Mina exhales, then turns to you with her hand on your shoulder and a playful grin stretched across her face. “Good luck, you’re gonna need it more than me.” When she turns to her point of contact, she pulls him towards the door by his bicep. “C’mon Doyoung! We have a lot to go over.”
And just like that, you’re alone with Johnny. Thick silence fills the room and a prickling under your skin makes you shift on your feet.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Johnny arches a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk as he lifts his disposable cup to his lips. “How’ve you been?”
“Great.” You nod, quickly clearing your throat. “So about those upcoming projects—”
“You go straight to business, don’t you?” Johnny chuckles, dropping a seat on the arm rest of a nearby couch. “I remember you being… less serious than this.” He pauses, crossing his wrists over each other as it languidly rests against his thigh. “In fact, I remember you being more relaxed than anything else. So relaxed, you could barely open your eyes when my tongue—”
The palm of your hand flies over his mouth, pressing your skin against his soft and plump lips and nearly knocking the coffee cup from his hand. With a quiet shush, you slowly retract your hand and shut your office door before closing the blinds that look into the hallway.
“Listen, John.” You sigh, forehead pressed against the frame of your door before you turn to look at him. “Whatever happened between us stays between us and in the past.”
Johnny cocks his head, listening intently to your words.
“From this point, everything is strictly professional. No more flirtatious looks or those little smirks. None of that.”
Johnny can only chuckle. Not dismissively, but amused. The tip of his tongue runs across his bottom lip before tucking it between his teeth. Setting his nearly empty cup on the coffee table, he stands to his full height, towering over you.
Your breath catches in your throat, swallowing the words you meant to say.
“You’re sure?” Slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he takes a few steps toward you and traps you between his frame and the door you just backed into.
You simply nod, slow and unsure, but you hoped Johnny didn’t notice the presence of hesitation. His gaze swipes over your blown out pupils staring back at him before dropping to the untucked collar of your dress shirt. His long fingers gently adjust the fabric and your breathing halts, almost afraid any type of movement would silently tell him about the fire ignited in the pit of your stomach and the tingle between your thighs.
When he pulls away, he grabs his coffee cup by its rim and simply flashes you a charming, easy going grin.
“I’ll follow your lead, boss.” He nods once, then goes quiet for a beat too long before clearing his throat. “Do you, maybe, wanna get out of the way so I can show you those reports?”
Heat from embarrassment prickles your underarms, your senses suddenly feeling heightened as you pathetically regain the confidence to finally move out of the way and open the door behind you. The whiff of newly brewed coffee whips through you, the smell going unnoticed until now. The typing of keyboard keys and the playful banter between the two receptionists suddenly feel louder, but don't drown out the heartbeat you hear pounding against your chest.
Johnny snakes from behind you, unlocking his own door. Lavender scent hits you by surprise as you step in; the mist from a nearby diffuser spritzing in a calculated pattern. You watch as Johnny moves behind his desk, fingers working fast to bring up the most recent reports. He glances at you, then pauses his movements.
“You know you’re really awkward for someone who wants to move past our night of fun.” Johnny chuckles. “If you don’t want anyone to suspect anything, don’t be suspicious.”
“This is new to me.” You admit, dropping your arms to your side.
“This position or what happened between us?”
You roll your eyes and a tiny smirk threatening to make its way onto your face. “Working with someone I previously hooked up with.” You quietly say, moving behind his desk to see his computer screen.
He nods, eyes falling back onto the electronic files. “I was worried for a second that you didn’t know how to do your job.”
“I do it very well, thank you very much.”
“So I’ve heard.” Johnny remarks, opening up the files most relevant to this quarter. He looks up at you and you catch a glint in his eyes as a strand of your hair falls before you quickly swipe it away — Johnny being completely enamored by your presence before he could stop himself.
“John.” You softly call out. “The reports, please.”
“Huh?”
You shyly smile, your thumb and fingers pressing into his cheeks before gently turning his attention back to his computer screen. “The reports, Johnny. Walk me through them, please.” Slowly retracting your hand away from his cheeks, you watch a wide grin spread across his face.
“You got it, boss.”
— A Note & A Future Lunch Date.
Two months into acclimating to the new company and your new partner, you realize a few things: Mr. Choi is absolutely not fit for his managerial position, Mina has been on a personal mission to get Doyoung out of his introverted shell and stand up to anyone who downplays his intelligence, and Johnny is incredible at his job — so incredible, you’re wondering why he isn’t in the manager’s position himself.
In fact, you find yourself thinking about Johnny a lot — a lot for someone who wants to leave the hook up in the past. The way he tilts his head and holds eye contact when he’s listening to someone speak, how his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek right before his thumb brushes his bottom lip when he’s focused on the task at hand. And the way his fingers curl around—
“Any questions for us?” Johnny’s voice sears right through your thoughts and pulls you right back next to him in the boardroom with pairs of wide eyes staring at the two of you.
“Yes.” The lanky old man that Johnny nicknamed Mr. Cautious speaks up, shifting in his seat as he stares at the color-coded line graph behind you. Using his pen to point behind you, you and Johnny slightly turn in the direction he’s pointing in. “How are you two confident your sales are projected to increase? I mean, not too long ago, this company barely had revenue coming in a few months ago.”
“Rest assured that our predictions are based on the upward trend we’ve been seeing in the most recent weeks. New strategies, more effective and efficient I may add, have increased our numbers drastically and immediately.” You share, taking pride in the strategic plan you and Mina helped implement since arriving — no thanks to Mr. Choi who insisted on keeping the mess of a strategy already set in place until you kindly reminded him the reason behind your transfer.
“I get that, but—” Mr. Cautious interjects, hesitation written all over his face.
“I understand the risk you’re taking.” You reassure, now understanding the reason behind Johnny’s nickname for the man in front of you.
“If I may add,” Johnny interjects, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks and straightening to his full height. He glances over your way before looking straight at Mr. Cautious. “The company Y/N is transferring from has one of, if not the best, business strategies that we've seen in years — the same strategy we’ve adopted just recently and the numbers don’t lie. You can choose now or you can choose to wait, but I fear waiting won’t have much benefit to it.”
“Though I’m sure you already know that, sir.” You flash a charming smile, before glancing over at Johnny who follows your lead and plasters a grin on his face. “You’ll find standard contracts in the folders as well.”
In unison, those in front of you pull out the contract and look it over before signing away. A knock on the conference room door pulls your attention before Mina’s head pops in just in time for her and Doyoung’s time slot with the group. Johnny quickly collects the contracts before you both quickly grab your belongings, say your goodbyes with the crowd in front of you, and head out into the hallway.
“All contracts accounted for.” Johnny smiles proudly. “Even from Mr. Cautious himself.” He lifts his fist to give you a fist bump and you reciprocate, a little ritual you two have when you both have a successful day. “I’m going out for lunch, do you wanna join me?”
“I’m okay. I was planning to use my lunch break to catch up on my sleep.” Cupping your cheeks with the palms to warm your cold hands, you turn to glance at the surprisingly comfortable couch in your office.
“I’m gonna guess you spent the night working.” Johnny crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head like a disappointed father.
“You guessed right.” You giggle. “But before you go, I wanna thank you for having my back in there. It’s nice to know I have someone I can rely on.”
Johnny smiles, endearingly stroking the back of your head. “We’re a team, you don’t have to thank me.”
”Sure, but I think it’s still worth noting.” You gently squeeze his arm. “Even if Mr. Choi refuses to admit it to your face, you’re amazing.”
“Well, since we’re dishing out compliments,” Johnny steps forward and leans towards your ear. “I’m glad you're here. You make coming to work worth it.”
You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from smiling too wide at Johnny’s words. “Enjoy your lunch John. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Johnny nods, watching you disappear into your office. You catch his eyes from your window and you give him a small wave before shutting the newly replaced blinds that blocked out the hallway lights. Situating yourself on your sofa, you can’t help but replay Johnny’s words in your head until you drift off to sleep.
❁❁❁❁❁
The alarm on your phone interrupts your sleep to let you know that you have 15 minutes left of your lunch break. Stretching your arms over your head, you stare at the blank ceiling to help yourself actively wake up before sitting up on your sofa.
To your surprise, you find a wrapped sandwich, an unopened bag of your favorite chips, a bottle of water, and a handwritten note from a memo pad you have on your desk is sitting undisturbed on the coffee table in front of you.
It’s your usual order. You need the energy :)
- Johnny
You make your way over to your blinds, opening it up and seeing Johnny sitting at his desk chewing on the end of his covered pen before his eyes meets yours. He gives you a small wave before grabbing his notepad and jotting something down then lifting it up for you to read.
Did you sleep well?
You quickly look behind you for the identical notepad and pen to write your response.
Yes, I did :) Thanks for the food, too.
I owe you a lunch date this week.
Holding up the notepad to the window, you watch the way Johnny’s eyes scan your writing and a genuine smile stretches across his face. Pressing his pen to the paper, he writes a quick response and lifts the notepad to his chest.
I’ll hold you to that :)
You quietly laugh to yourself, then nod at Johnny, silently agreeing to his words. Johnny gives you a wicked smirk accompanied by a wink before his attention turns to his ringing phone. You take that as your cue to quickly scarf down your lunch as you clear out your email’s inbox, ensuring to tuck Johnny’s note into your wallet for safe keeping.
— A Rainy Day.
Four months into transferring and the routine of your position is deeply rooted into your daily life. Rolling your neck, you briefly shut your eyes in an attempt to relieve the strain on your eyes from staring at your computer screen all day.
It’s one of those days you haven’t left your office — meeting with people virtually, ordering lunch through an app and one of the two receptions delivering it to you to get a second away from the ringing of their phones, staring out your window at at the pouring rain, and above all being isolated from the one person that effortlessly eased your work stress.
Johnny’s been cooped up in his office for the same reason you are — meeting with overseas partners and clients virtually. You’ve caught him a few times, pacing back and forth in his attempt to stimulate his brain to prevent him from falling asleep during boring small talk he doesn’t care about.
You try your best to refocus on the reports you have left to do before your work day ends. Your eyes gloss over yet another detailed and excruciating report, scanning for information that would be remotely beneficial to you at the moment.
When you finally come across a discrepancy, your body jolts to attention and you use this as an excuse to save both you and Johnny from another minute of boredom.
Your hand flies to your office phone’s receiver to call your partner in the room across from you. Two rings pass until Johnny’s voice is heard on the other line.
“Hey boss, finally caved in to admit you missed me today?” He jokingly says, leaning into the backrest of his chair and tucking an arm under the other.
“No, I—”
“Too lazy to walk in here yourself?” He quickly interjects, head flying up when he sees you through the hallway windows when you stand from your seat, giving him a look that feigns annoyance. In return, Johnny gives you a quick, playful wink as he holds the phone’s receiver to his ear.
“Or did you call to see if I missed you since I’ve been cooped up in this stupid office all day without my favorite person to keep me company. The answer is yes by the way, if you care.”
His words, admittedly, make your heart soar. Your lips break into a smile before you could stop it. “Then stretch those long legs of yours and make your way over here. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Something?” His brow quirks up and a little smirk lifts from the corner of his mouth. “Something delightful, I hope.”
“Not quite.” You hum and scrunch your nose, watching his lips fall into a frown as he hears your words. “It’s about the reports you sent me.”
“Uh oh, I’m not in trouble, am I?” His bottom lip juts into an exaggerated pout, swiveling his chair side to side as he holds your gaze through the glass.
“You will be if you don’t make yourself useful and get over here.” You lift a finger and curl it, motioning him to ‘come here’ before ending the call.
Sauntering over, Johnny appears in your doorway within seconds. “Your insane attention to detail will be the death of me.” Johnny complains, making his way over to you. “What did I do wrong boss? And go easy on me, my ego is still recovering from the last time.”
“Oh please, last time only I pointed out your typos before sending it off to the execs and you acted as if I cursed your entire family.” You roll your eyes. “You’re being so dramatic. Anyway, lucky for you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just have a question about the drop in sales from here—” You point at your computer screen, your manicured nail pointing to the drop in numbers on the table in the report. “—to here and it keeps repeating every year. I’m not planning on having it repeat again, so do you have any idea what happened?”
Johnny makes his way behind you to get a better look at the screen. Bending forward, one hand presses on top of the wooden table top of your desk while the other rests on the top of your backrest. With his cheek so close it could brush yours, you could smell a whiff of his cologne — the same one from the night you first met him.
He hums and mumbles something quietly under his breath before the hand behind you goes over your shoulder and traps you between his body while he uses your mouse and keyboard to search through your inbox for reports Doyoung has sent the two of you.
You can’t help but watch his long fingers move as you’ve taken a liking to them after your rendezvous with him. Your gaze wanders up his arm, admiring the veins protruding against his skin until you glance up at his features — first his angled jaw, then his soft lips.
“What’re you looking at, boss?” Johnny grins, eyes still locked onto your screen. “Your wandering eyes are gonna get us both in trouble.” But from the way he’s blushing, it’s clear he’s enjoying your attention.
Biting the corner of your bottom lip, you refocus on the screen. “Just wondering why you’re so close to me.”
“It’s because you’re my favorite person,” Johnny smiles. “As for the reports, I’ll set up a meeting with Doyoung and Mina for tomorrow to see if we can remedy this dip in sales.”
“Thank you.” You whisper as you turn to him, his lips now inches away from yours.
You’re tempted to kiss him, feeling first hand depravity from not touching him for so long especially when that’s all you did that night. You’ve tried to deny the tension between you two; tried to ignore the flirtatious comments he made that you’ve engraved into your memory; tried to talk yourself out of using that night’s experience to help you pleasure yourself.
But you hold yourself back, again.
After all, he’s your co-worker and you know better than to mix business with pleasure.
“From what I remember, you have another meeting in ten minutes.” You softly let out, ultimately being the first one to pull away.
Johnny looks at the time on the top right of your computer screen and drops his head in disappointment. Pulling back, he straightens his posture and rubs his hands over his face.
“Can I stay here?” He pouts, the inner part of his brows curving upward and his eyes softening. “I can’t stand being in my office alone. It’s depressing.”
“Isn’t that inappropriate?” You tease, swiveling your chair side to side as you look up at Johnny. “I am your senior after all.”
Johnny huffs a chuckle, rolls his eyes, and pokes his tongue against his cheek. “God forbid I took a gap year after graduation to broaden my horizons.” He sarcastically retorts. “You only have seniority over me by one year. You have to feel bad — I’m going insane in my office. I need social interaction that isn’t online.”
“Fine!” You dramatically huff, waving your hand in the air. “You can sit at my desk while you have your meeting. I’ll make myself comfortable on the couch and read over—”
“Thank you!” He happily interjects, grabbing your hand and placing a dramatic kiss on the back of your hand. “You’re amazing.”
You can’t help but giggle, watching as he proudly makes his way out of your office to grab his laptop and other necessities for his meeting, though he ends up choosing to stay with you until the end of the work day.
Four months into transferring and you’ve gotten to see many sides of Johnny — all sides you find utterly charming and endearing; all sides that make your heart race and your mind rattle.
— Out of Town Bar & A Tucked Away Office.
You don’t notice when Johnny walks in.
His suit jacket slung over his arm and long sleeves of his white collared shirt pushed up to his elbows. He runs his fingers through his loosely styled hair that loosened through the day while a sealed pack of cookies are presented in front of you. You look up at the man that’s been on your mind more often than you’d ever admit — and, god, does he look ethereal when he gives you a tired lopsided grin.
“What’s this for?” You ask, picking up the sealed bag of cookies and examining it. “You know that sucking up to me isn’t gonna make me like you more.”
“You know you love me. I’m your life line here.” Johnny grins, taking a seat on one of the chairs placed in front of your desk. “A client gave it to me and I thought you’d like it when your sweet tooth kicks in during the day.”
“What’re you talking about? I don’t have a sweet tooth.”
“I catch you stealing sweets from the break room all the time.” Johnny giggles, resting his ankle just above his knee. “Did you know you walked into the break room five times in a span of seven minutes yesterday?”
“No…I did not.” You embarrassingly admit, biting your bottom lip before taking the cookies and rolling your office chair over to your mini fridge nearby to secure them for future use. “Thank you for the treat.”
“You’re welcome.” Johnny adjusts himself in his seat, lifting his hips slightly to lower himself just a bit.
“You don’t normally stay this late.” You ask, palm resting under your chin.
“Been keeping an eye on me?” Johnny smirks, fist gently pressing into his temple as his elbow is propped onto the chair’s arm rest. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”
“I care.” You quickly interject, looking down at how reckless your words came out. “Is everything okay?”
Johnny simply nods. “Why are you still here?” He questions, looking at the analog clock perched near the windows.
“I got a hot date with reports.” You reply bleakly, pointing your pen towards your computer screen. “I just need to finish a few things so I don’t have to worry about it.”
“Do you have a lot to do?”
Leaning into your chair, you cross your arms and scan the to-do list you have written on a notepad. “Eager to help cut my work load in half, is that it?”
Johnny chuckles quietly, then shakes his head. “Eager to have drinks with you tonight actually.” His words are so brazen and matter of fact, it takes you by surprise; only allowing you to stutter out a response before recollecting yourself.
“No,” you chuckle, “we both know what happened the last time I had drinks with you.”
The fond memory flashes through your mind before you could stop it. The positions he had you in, the marks that remained as a remembrance a few weeks afterwards, and the intense pleasure you felt for hours you couldn’t replicate on your own.
“Plus, someone could see us.” You add, shoulders slumping when you feel a hint of disappointment in your chest.
Johnny sits up, straightening his back and extending his long legs outwards to cross an ankle over the other. “There’s this bar on the outskirts of the city that no one here goes to.”
You sharply inhale, still cautious about the offer.
“Colleagues have drinks with each other all the time, why can’t we be one of them?” He questions, tilting his head to the side and gaze dragging along your features, eyes softening as the milliseconds pass. “We’re friends. Friends have drinks with each other.”
The word echoes in your ears and you don’t expect the simple label to sting the way it did. Friends. The quick, harsh squeeze of your heart makes you sharply inhale before you’re able to play it off with a long exhale.
“You’ve worked hard since you started here and I’d like to treat you to a night out to—” Johnny pauses, buying himself time to find the words he needs to convince you to spend your Friday night with him. “—celebrate everything you’ve done.”
A tiny uninvited smile tugs at your mouth and Johnny notices it.
“Is that a yes?” He quietly teases. “Please let it be a yes.”
You surrender. “My place is nearby. We can leave our cars there and get an Uber to the bar.” You offer, giving into the temptation.
“Smart girl.” Johnny’s lips parted into a cheesy grin before jumping to his feet, rubbing the palm of his hands together. “I promise you won’t regret it!”
❁❁❁❁❁
“How’d you find this place?” You ask. The thin long sleeves of your blouse cling to your arms as you cross them over your chest in an attempt to keep yourself warm against the cool air.
“My friend Yuta owns it.” Johnny says proudly, hand resting on your mid back and ushering you towards the bar’s entrance.
“So you just have bartender friends all over the country?” You giggle, remember the handsome bartender who first introduced you to Johnny.
Johnny grins and causally shrugs. “What can I say? Making connections is my forte. I even have some out of the country, if you fancy taking a trip with me overseas.”
“Let’s get through tonight first before we start planning trips to other countries. For all you know, I could be trouble.”
“Oh I know you’re trouble.” Johnny gives you a knowing glance, standing in line at the entrance. “That certainly doesn’t deter me whatsoever.”
Playfully and gently shoving him, Johnny’s arm slings over your shoulders and pulls you close as you two walk into the establishment. Classic rock from the 80s, 90s, and 2000s plays in the background as the chattering of patrons suddenly fills your ears. Johnny leads you to an empty table, giving you the small laminated menu sitting among the napkin dispenser and the ketchup and mustard bottles.
As you scan the menu, a young man with dark shoulder length hair pulled back into a half up and down updo using hair sticks appears next to Johnny. With one hand cupping Johnny’s shoulder, the other lifts to give Johnny a familiar handshake.
“Hey John, haven’t seen you in a while.” The man glances over to you, giving you a friendly smile to show off his pearly white teeth. “Who’s your lady friend?”
“She’s my boss.” You catch a mischievous glint in his eye when he looks at you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.
Your eyes widen and your jaw drops immediately. “I-I’m not his boss. That would be so inappropriate.” You shake your head, palms facing outward and shaking mirroring the way you’re denying his accusations. Your face quickly heats up, the heat traveling down your entire body making your entire body prickle. “We just work together.”
Johnny’s friend laughs loudly. “I believe you, don’t worry. I’m Yuta.” Extending his hand out, you take it and give it a firm shake.
“Oh! You’re the owner.” You gleefully say, “I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you. How do you know Johnny?”
Yuta scratches the back of his neck. “We slept together in college.” With his quick movements, he blocks Johnny’s punch to his shoulder, telling you they’ve done this many times before.
“You gotta stop telling everyone that.” Johnny shakes his head, pulling Yuta in a headlock. “Tell her the truth.”
Yuta flashes you a smile, hands gripping Johnny’s wrist. “We were roommates in college,” he laughs, “so technically what I said is true.” Yuta finally frees himself from Johnny’s grasp, strands of hair somehow falling perfectly to frame his face. “I had the top bunk and he got the bottom.”
“Huh,” you let out as you looked at Johnny, “I never took you as a bottom.”
“Alright, you two are done.” Johnny shakes his head, grabbing Yuta by his shoulders and turning him away.
“You should get the beer battered fish and chips. It’s our most popular dish!” Yuta shouts as he’s pushed away from the table and towards the bar.
“For the record I asked for the bottom bunk purely because I kept hitting my head when I sat up. I’m certainly not a bottom…” Johnny holds contact a little too long enough to catch a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or have you forgotten?”
Your eyes quickly and bashfully avert away from his gaze, locking onto the menu in your hand. “I think I’ll take the fish and chips, like Yuta recommended.” You let out, changing the subject. “With a beer.”
“Good choice. I’ll be right back.”
Johnny disappears into the crowd, though the top of his head sticks out and easy to spot makes you less worried that you’ll lose sight of him. Taking a glance around the room, you watch the group of people intently watching the white cue ball make its way across the billiards table before strategizing their next move. You glance over the group of people chugging their beers while the rest of the group cheers them on. Your eyes move towards a couple in a corner booth, watching as they giggle to themselves and throwing flirty glances toward each other. You try not to stare, but their nerves are so palpable you could feel it three tables away.
Your attention is pulled towards the unopened bottle of beer in front of you as Johnny takes a swig of the identical bottle in his hand. Without a word, Johnny uses the wide part of a random key from his keychain to effortlessly pop off the bottle cap.
“Are you showing off, John?” You playfully retort with your hand resting under your chin.
”Depends. Is it working?” He smiles, taking another sip of his drink. “I figured it’s better to open your drink in front of you, so you know it isn’t tampered with.”
“Very considerate of you, thank you.”
Johnny simply lifts his bottle towards you and you gently clink your amber colored glass against his. Taking a long sip, you allow your body to finally relax after a long week of work. Johnny makes himself comfortable on a stool across from you, elbows resting on the round table in front of him.
“What caught your attention earlier?” Johnny asks.
“It looks like that couple may be on a first date.” You share, inconspicuously tilting your head in the direction of the couple in the corner booth. “I found it cute that they’re holding hands under the table and it got me thinking about my first date, that’s all.”
“Oh?” Johnny’s eyebrows quirks upward, leaning into the backrest of his chair. “Do tell.”
“No.” You shake your head. “Not a chance.”
“Oh come on!” Johnny pouts. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“And what makes you think I’d want to hear about your first date?” You tease.
“Fair.” Johnny shrugs. “Hearing about another guy being your first anything doesn’t seem like a topic I’d like to touch on.”
You quietly chuckle and lean into your seat. “Jealous?”
“How can I not be?”
Your foot playfully jabs Johnny’s covered calf, causing him to chuckle to himself. Before he could speak up, you’re interrupted by a waiter and the delivery of the food Johnny ordered for the both of you. With a quick thank you, you take a bite of the potato fry that’s clearly fresh out of the fryer.
“Okay, so no discussing first date experience. Tell me what your ideal date would be.” Johnny lets out, mirroring your movements and grabbing a bite of the freshly fried potato.
“What?” You giggle, folding your arms over your chest. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Humor me.” Johnny shrugs. “I’m trying to have a normal conversation. What would your ideal date be?”
His gaze locks onto yours and you bite the line he’s throwing. With a sharp inhale, you lean forward. You follow Johnny’s fingers as he rips a piece of fish from the plate in front of you and dips it into the accompanying sauce the dish comes with before popping it into his mouth.
“A candle light dinner at home and a movie afterwards.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I took you for someone who’d want to go to a fancy restaurant or something. Maybe take a trip overseas for dinner. Your ideal date seems—”
”Basic?”
Johnny nods, watching as your lips wrap around the opening of the beer bottle.
“A lot of the men I dated loved the lavish lifestyle and it gets old really fast when you realize they’d rather shower you with expensive things than spend time with you.” You let out a sigh. “I know it sounds like a first world complaint, but at the end of the day, it’s a whole lot of loneliness.”
“And that’s why you’d rather have a simple night in with someone that’s genuinely interested in you.” Johnny slowly nods, leaning into his chair and bringing the opening of his drink to his lips. “That’s good to know.”
❁❁❁❁❁
Four beers in and suddenly Johnny’s the funniest and most philosophical person you know; not to mention, a yapper who can go on and on about his growing Pokémon card collection that probably makes him the cutest nerd who has a goldmine of rare cards that would put him on a rob list.
Two beers in and a glass of whisky later, you’re a giggling mess and suddenly sharing more about your life than you’d ever imagined you would — everything laid out on the table for Johnny to pick and choose what to relentlessly tease you about; though he probably would never.
You catch the glimpse of the time, surprised with how quickly it has passed when you're with Johnny. “We should probably head out soon. It’s getting late.”
Johnny lifts his wrist, checking his watch. “Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?” He grins, swallowing the last bits of his drink before pulling his phone out. “I’ll order a ride.”
With your hand on his, you halt his movements. “Let me use the restroom first. It’s a pretty long ride back.” You eye the line of the woman’s restroom, sighing in disappointment as you’re aware of how full your bladder is. “We might be waiting for a while.”
Johnny follows where your gaze falls before tucking his phone away. Standing from his seat, he offers his hand to help you up. “We can use Yuta’s office restroom.”
“He’ll be okay with that?” You question, taking his hand and allowing him to lead the way.
“Yeah. He gave me a spare key to his office for nights I get too drunk and can’t make it home. His couch isn’t the comfiest, but when you’re drunk out of your mind, anything will do.”
You giggle, following him down the hall hidden behind the bar. Based on the lack of intervention from the employees, you have a feeling he’s done this a few times short of it becoming a habit.
He unlocks the wooden door with a key he has and ushers you in. When the door shuts, the loud music and chatter suddenly stops. “The restroom is the door on your left. I’ll get a ride here while you do what you gotta do.”
“Thank you.” You smile, rushing off to the restroom while Johnny fiddles with his phone.
When you exit the restroom, Johnny quickly looks up at you from the sofa and jumps to his feet. “Our ride is 10 minutes away.”
You nod, looking around the room and catching the framed photos on Yuta’s desk. One photo of who you assumed to be Yuta and his parents, another of Yuta and his sisters, and another of a younger bar owner and a group of men — one of them being a shirtless younger Johnny with bleached blonde hair and lack of his tattoos that adorned his bicep that you’ve imagined tracing over more than you’d like to admit.
“This is you, right?” You smile, pointing at the photo of him at the beach with his friends. “I wouldn’t have expected you to go blonde.”
Johnny sharply inhales, shaking his head in disapproval of his younger self’s choices. “Spur of the moment type of thing.” He shrugs, using his large hand to cover the photo from your view. “Let’s not walk down memory lane of embarrassing moments.”
You smile, setting the framed photo down where it previously was. “Maybe you should consider going back.” Lifting your hand, you run your fingers through the side of his hair. “I think you looked great.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’m very fond of the idea of frying my hair off again.” Johnny chuckles, taking your hand in his. “I just got it back to a healthy state.”
Pulling your hand back, you cross your arms over your chest. “Should we wait outside for our ride?”
Johnny glances towards the door, then back at you. Lifting his hand, he gently moves a strand of hair away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear. “I think you’ll be warmer here.”
Your knees go weak and there’s the flutters in your stomach that you try to bury deep into the pit of your stomach. When you finally meet his eyes, his gaze flicks between your eyes and lips. “Why are you looking at me like that?” You mumble, suddenly feeling self conscious.
“You’re beautiful.”
“We agreed to be strictly professional.” Your voice trembles when you feel his palm slide down your arm, the conviction in your words slowly withering with a simple touch. “Compliments like that are making me think you’re not holding up your end of our deal.”
“Believe me, I’m trying.” Johnny chuckles, his hand now playing with your fingertips right before lacing his fingers between yours. “You’re just…really hard to ignore.”
His lips press against your knuckles and you don’t stop him; not when he gives you a tender kiss on your wrist or when his lips press into your cheek, and certainly not when his hand cups the side of your neck and he gently weaves his lips with yours.
Warmth spreads through your body while his arms slide across your lower back to pull you closer. Your body arches into him, fingers mindlessly raking through his hair before you pull away slightly breathless.
“I don’t think this is what friends do, Johnny.”
A quiet huff that resembles a laugh leaves his lips before resuming his movements. “Please don’t be mad. I only said that because I thought you wanted me to say it.” He confesses between breaths and kisses. “I thought that’d be more palatable than to tell you how badly I want you.”
A smile blooms across your lips, satisfied with his words. You deepen the kiss — this time your lips frantically moving like you’ve been deprived from his touch for years.
You press against the edge of the desk, feeling the bulge forming under Johnny’s dress pants and heat pools between your thighs. Your hand dips under his waistband, feeling his warm and veiny shaft harden at your touch, twitching as your fingers wrap around his girth. With one full stroke from his base to his tip, he shudders. Your thumb rolls over his slit, his hand cups the back of your head and fingers grip your roots, tilting your head to look at him.
“Tell me you want me too.” He softly growls, his forehead pressing against yours. “I can’t be the only one.”
You grin, slowly stroking his shaft and watching him melt under your touch. “I need you.” You whisper against his lips. “Let me taste you.”
Johnny takes half a step back and you drop to your knees, fingers hastily moving to bring his waistband down his thighs. Before he could take in the sight of you on your knees for him, you envelop his tip between your lips and his jaw drops at the warmth your mouth offers. As your tongue swirls around his sensitive tip, his head tips back and his teeth bite down on his knuckle to stop the noise he so desperately wants to make.
Swallowing around him, saliva runs down your chin as his tip meets the back of your throat. Your eyes begin to water and when you look up at him, mouth full of his heavy cock, your tears spill from the outer corners of your eyes and he gently swipes them away with his thumbs.
“You’re doing a great job, baby.” He coos, the pads of his fingers gently stroking the space under your eyes. “You’re so perfect. Taking me so well.”
Your tummy does backflips and you squeeze your thighs shut, focusing on the bobbing of your head and the swirl of your tongue. Your cheeks hallow around his tip, sucking it until his lips break apart with a moan, jaw slacking and chest huffing up at down.
“My perfect girl.” He babbles, fingers gripping the roots of your hair. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna come for you.”
Excitement ignites just behind your bellybutton, sucking on his tip just as you’ve done before. His eyes flutter shut and his brows draw tight. Johnny quietly groans your name, whispering it over and over like a prayer. His cheeks burn and his fingers twitch just before he tightens his grip in your hair.
And before he could stop it, his thick creamy ropes paint your tongue as his body stills, letting his entire body feel the ecstasy you helped him achieve. With a quick swallow of the remnants in your mouth, you pepper his sensitive tip and shaft with gentle kisses.
Helping you to your feet, his lips crash into yours while his hands frantically grope your backside. But before any other exploration could happen, a notification on his phone goes off.
A small frustrated groan rumbles in his throat and he pulls his phone out to see the notification that the ride he’s requested is arriving.
“Everything okay?” You ask, glancing at Johnny’s phone then catching his eye.
“Yeah, our ride is here.” He sighs, giving you a gentle kiss on your forehead. “We should probably—” He tilts his head towards the door and you simply nod, quickly readjusting your clothes before Johnny leads you out the door hand in hand.
Johnny slides in next to you, fingers lacing between yours and his head resting on your shoulder. The hints of his cologne mix with the smell of alcohol on his lips, and while you’d find it completely unpleasant if it were anyone else, Johnny was the exception.
And part of you entertains the idea that he’ll always be an exception.
— Apartment 3B.
“Thank you for tonight.” Johnny gives you a lopsided smile, the alcohol still coursing through his bloodstream. “Not just for what happened in Yuta’s office, but for letting me get to know you a little more.”
“Yeah, it was fun. A night away every once and a while doesn’t hurt.” You nod, feeling the cool air prickling your skin.
There’s a beat of silence, unsure of where to go from here. You shift on your feet, looking behind you at the entrance of your apartment building and Johnny glances towards his parked car, fingers fiddling with the keys in his pocket.
“I should probably go.” Johnny’s lips press into each other, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You must be tired.”
A tiny grin dances on your lips. Stepping forward, you reach for Johnny’s wrist as he pulls his keys out of his pockets. He looks at you surprised, lips parting slightly.
“I can’t let you drive after drinking tonight regardless of how much you can ‘handle your liquor.’” You let out, gently tugging on his wrist.
“You’re right.” Johnny sighs, looking back at his car. “I’ll sleep in my—”
You lift your palm to stop him. “You’ll be warmer in my place.” Giving him an affirmative nod, you pull him towards your building’s front entrance before he could object and you refuse to let his hand go as you both walk up to the third floor to your apartment.
As you push open the front door, you feel the surge of anticipation run through you as you blindly search for the nearby lightswitch. When the bright warm colored lights fill the room, you quickly step in and both you and your guest for the night toe off your shoes, kicking them to the side of the entrance way.
“Nice place,” Johnny compliments, “very cozy.”
You chuckle, turning on your heel to look at him. “Thanks. C’mon, I’ll give you a quick tour.” Extending your hand out, he cups his palm into yours but this time, he pulls you into his body – one hand finding your waist while the other cups the side of your neck and his lips hastily find his way to yours once more.
You don’t take a second to think about what to do next when your hands frantically undo the buttons of his long sleeve shirt and strip it off, throwing it haphazardly behind you while he drops his pants to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. It takes a split second to have your clothes in a pile next to the front door, leaving you in your matching garment set.
You’re stumbling through your apartment entrance, finally tumbling on top of Johnny as he falls onto your sofa. Climbing on top of him, knees pressing into the cushions of each side of his thighs, his erection hardens with every minuscule movement of your hips.
“Finally gonna let me be on top?” You playfully ask, trailing kisses against his jaw and down the side of his neck.
Johnny rasps a laugh, arms wrapping around your hips and in one swift move, he’s on top of you — giving you your answer.
“Not a chance.” He hums as the tip of his nose brushes against your cheek just before placing a soft tender kiss on your heated skin. “Now open—” He smacks the side of your thigh, the slap of flesh filling the silence of the room. “I need to taste you after you’ve deprived me for so long.”
You do as he says, spreading your thighs apart as you watch Johnny drop to his knees. Pulling aside the fabric covering your core, he wastes no time tasting you with a long strip of his tongue against your slit. Your head presses into the soft backing of your sofa, fingers raking through his hair as he devours you with no end in sight even when your vision blurs into stars or when your chest heaves up and down, and certainly not when you’re a whimpering mess with your nails digging into your cushion and gripping the edge of your seat.
Your body trembles when he gives you mercy, pulling away with his lips and chin glistening with your slick. You grab his hair, yanking him to your lips and your hands busy themselves with the waistband of the only fabric he has on. Slipping it down his legs and letting it pool around his feet before kicking it to the side, you give his long length a few pumps until his jaw slacks open as he feels all his blood rush to his cock.
Aligning his leaking tip with your entrance, he pushes into you, pressing your thighs to widen your spread for him. And with ease, you take him without hesitation.
“Your cunt is starving for me, baby—” Johnny groans, “begging me to stretch this pretty pussy open until you’re stuffed full with my cum.”
Blood rushes to your face and your heart races. You watch the way Johnny’s blown out pupils scan your features, suddenly making you extremely aware of how intoxicating his movements are — the quick and brutal thrust of his hips, the rush of heat through your body when his tip meets that sweet spot, and especially when his fingers dig into your skin as he pulls you down his cock.
You don’t bother being quiet. Not when Johnny pushes your knees to your chest and traps your body between him and the couch cushions, feeling your pulse pick up in speed and the octave in your moans becoming louder and louder with every pound of his cock into your soaking cunt.
“Scream for me, baby.” Johnny growls, the raw slapping of flesh punctuated by a groan. “Let everyone know I’m breeding my girl. Let them know you’re mine.”
His words only rattle in your head, making you nod and babble like the obedient slut you are. You cry out his name, tears prickling from the outer corners of your eyes as you writhe under him.
“Say you’re mine.” He orders through clenched teeth, hips harshly thrusting into you before stilling, feeling his tip press into your g-spot and making your eyes roll back. “Say. It.”
“Y—” Your breath hitches. “I-I’m yours.”
You mindlessly repeat the words, satisfying Johnny as his hips mercilessly snaps into you until you’re sobbing out how pathetically close you are to the edge; unable to hold on to the last bit of control you’re desperately clinging on to.
Your voice breaks as you cry out his name, feeling your walls tighten around every crevice of his engorged cock. Your eyes roll back, nails scraping down the skin of his back as his face buries into the crook of your neck. You whimper through the pleasure and your desperate noises are enough to make his voice crack on a moan, feeling him empty himself inside of you in sharp pulses. His cock twitches and a gravelly groan rumbles from his chest, pinning your hand into the sofa cushion with his eyes screwing shut and jaw slacking open at the bliss coursing through his body.
When he pulls his heavy cock out of you, the remnants he left behind slowly drip out of you and onto your flushed skin. Johnny smirks, using two fingers to scoop up the spill and push it back inside.
“It's dripping out of you already.” Johnny grins, fascinated with the sight of you limp and satisfied.
“Maybe you should fuck it in me again.” You happily let out as you prop yourself on your elbows. “Harder this time.”
“That wasn’t hard enough for you?” Johnny questions, an eyebrow quirking and his grin spreads wider, sharp enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m gonna have to fix that, don’t I?”
“I think so,” you tease. “Unless you think you don’t have it in you?”
Johnny laughs deep in his throat, a laugh that promises trouble. “Oh you’re definitely going to regret saying that.”
❁❁❁❁❁
The ache between your thighs is difficult to ignore as you carefully pull yourself out of bed to make coffee for yourself and the unexpected overnight guest who laid peacefully with his body heat keeping you warm last night.
“Where are you going?” He groggily asks, one eye squinting as he lifts his head to watch you throw on your silk robe. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving me again.” His sleepy smile sends your heart into overdrive and you give him a reassuring peck on his temple.
“I’m gonna make coffee.” You whisper. “Its also my place, where else would I go?”
Johnny sheepishly smiles, falling back onto your pillow as you walk out of your bedroom and into the kitchen. As you wait for the coffee, the silence makes you think back on the night you had — a night that somehow surpassed the pleasure of the first time you spent with Johnny. You find your giddy state to be slightly embarrassing, but you can’t help but quietly squeal as if you had reached a new level of happiness.
“I love the smell of coffee in the morning,” Johnny yawns, joining you in your kitchen still in his boxer briefs. He takes a seat on a countertop and carefully takes hold of the mug you offer, taking a small sip. His eyes flutter shut, allowing the warm liquid to work its way through his body. “Not the best cure for a hangover, but addicting nonetheless.”
You chuckle, taking small sips of your beverage. “What do you want for breakfast?” You ask, setting down your favorite mug and making your way to the fridge. You pull the double fridge doors open, quickly embarrassed by the emptiness in front of you. “Ah, on second thought—” You let out an awkward laugh before it falters into a fake cough.
“Breakfast is on me. Is delivery okay?” Johnny swoops in, hopping off the counter.
You eagerly nod, delighted by the idea that you get to finally spend the morning after with Johnny.
Johnny disappears into your bedroom to fetch his phone, meanwhile your attention turns to the front door after hearing your doorbell. Peaking through the peephole, you’re surprised to see your elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kang, outside with her lip tucked between her teeth and her brows knitted together.
You quickly open your front door and a wave of relief washes over your neighbor’s face when she sees you.
“Oh thank god!” Mrs. Kang lets out. “You’re okay.”
“Y-yeah, I am. Is everything okay? Do you need help, Mrs. K?”
Your elderly neighbor shakes her head. Her short dark bob swung at her movements. “It’s just, I didn’t hear you come home last night and then I heard these noises coming from your apartment. I called my daughter to see what I should do — if I should check in on you when I heard the noise or call the police right away…”
You nod attentively as you hear her express her concern. A mix of embarrassment about how loud you were and the regret of not throwing on your sleepwear makes you uncomfortably adjust your robe. You hold the fabric together near your collarbones, almost afraid Mrs. Kang could somehow see you’re completely naked underneath.
“…but she told me to check in on you in the morning. So here I am.”
You nervously gulp, suddenly feeling you’ve done something wrong. “I’m so sorry to worry you, Mrs. K. I went out for drinks with a friend of mine and didn’t get in until late.”
“But the noises—”
“Hey baby, do you want a breakfast sandwich or are you feeling—” Johnny’s voice becomes clearer as he appears behind you, still in his underwear, eyes glued to his phone screen, and completely unaware of your neighbor’s presence or her wide eyes when she finally connects the dots in her head.
“Oh.” Mrs. Kang simply says, finally grabbing Johnny’s attention. She bites back a sheepish grin, avoiding eye contact with you and the handsome man behind you. “Ah, the noises make sense.”
“I’m so sorry Mrs. Kang. I wasn’t—I didn’t—I-I’ll keep it down, I promise.” You profusely apologize, using your arm to push Johnny behind you in fear that his half-naked body would somehow send your poor neighbor into cardiac arrest.
“Not to worry, dear. I was young too and had my share of midnight friends.” Mrs. Kang giggles. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you for checking in. I’ll give you my number, that way when you’re worried or need help, you can just call me directly.” You quickly jot down your personal phone number on a nearby memo pad.
“And your name, dear?” Mrs. Kang looks at Johnny who is now using your front door to hide his promiscuous state.
“Oh! Uh, I’m John. John Suh, ma’am.” You catch a hint of redness paint over Johnny’s cheeks and travel down his pale neck. “I apologize for the noise. I told her to keep it down last night.”
With a quick nudge to Johnny’s bicep, you give your neighbor the piece of paper with your number. “I’m so sorry, again.”
Mrs. Kang lifts her hand, palm facing you. A warm smile stretched across her face. “It’s no problem. I’m just glad you're safe."
“Thank you, Mrs. K. Just let me know if we’re a bother or anything. We won’t take offense, I swear.”
“Will do, dear. Have fun you two.”
You and Johnny wave an awkward goodbye before he slowly shuts the door. When he turns to you, he gives you a small laugh under his breath as he scratches the back of his neck. “That was awkward.”
You give him a knowing look, crossing your arm over your chest. “Told me to keep it down last night, huh?” Your eyebrows raise and your head tilts to the side. “Weren’t you the one telling me to do the opposite?”
Johnny gives you a lopsided smile before his palms cup your cheeks, pulling you in to give you a kiss on your forehead. “Back to breakfast, what do you wanna eat?”
“Surprise me.” You mumble into his chest as your arms wrap around his waist. “I trust you.”
Cupping the back of your head, he lifts his phone and orders breakfast from a familiar diner that he’s ordered from before, getting the both of you his regular order.
“Now that’s settled—” Johnny tosses his phone onto your couch and swoops you up over his shoulder. A squeal leaves your lips, legs flailing as Johnny saunters into your bedroom.
“What’re you doing?” You giggle as you’re gently thrown onto your mattress, watching as Johnny climbs on top of you. His fingers play with the fabric holding your robe together before tugging at it, watching the silk unravel and slip down your shoulder.
“Having a pre-breakfast.” His devilish grin disarms you quickly, allowing him to spread your thighs wide. “This time, you might wanna keep it down…for your neighbor’s sake.”
— The Morning After.
Walking into the break room, you’re greeted by Mina and her insanely bubbly personality at 7:30 in the morning. “How was your weekend?” She asks, taking a generous bite of a donut that another employee brought in to share.
You can’t help but bite back a smile, fingers busying themselves as they shuffle through the newly stocked bags of veggie chips to snack on later. Spending the entire weekend with Johnny wasn’t something you’d plan, but between the fucking, the cuddling, and the pure bliss of simply being around each other made it hard for either of you to be the first one to let go of the hold you two had on each other.
“It was fine. How was yours?”
Mina babbles on and on about how she rearranged her bedroom twice, had a virtual meetup with some friends back home, and started a rewatch binge of The Big Bang Theory for the 5th time.
From the corner of your eye, you catch a familiar figure coolly sauntering into the room with his hair parted perfectly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, and shining the same glow you’ve had since Friday night. A few morning greetings are thrown his way and Johnny kindly returns polite conversation before interjecting into your conversation with Mina.
“Morning Mina.” Johnny smiles politely, then turns to you. “Morning, boss. Think I could pick your brain before our meeting today?” Johnny asks, eyes locked with yours as if he’s giving you a message only you’ll understand.
“Putting her to work before 8 am? You’re brutal, Suh.” Mina teases, tossing the used napkin in her hand into a nearby trash bin.
“What can I say? I gotta keep her focused.” Johnny laughs quietly, then turns to you. “What do you say?”
You nod at Johnny before wrapping up your conversation with Mina. Following closely behind Johnny, he opens his office door and gestures to you inside. When you hear the door’s lock click, Johnny’s hands find your waist, twisting your body and pressing his against yours.
“So, this is your idea of picking my brain?” You giggle, throwing your arms around his shoulders and pulling his lips to yours weaving them together like you’d done this entire weekend.
Johnny smiles against your lips, fingers cupping the nape of your neck. “This weekend wasn’t long enough.”
“It’s a good thing you see me here everyday, huh?”
Johnny hums. “And yet, it somehow feels like that won’t be enough.”
With your palms firmly pressed into Johnny’s chest, you pull away from his kiss. “You’re obsessed.” You playfully remark, carefully moving the strand of his hair that’s fallen onto his forehead.
“Come over after work.” Johnny offers, lips leaving a trail of kisses on your cheek.
“Next, you’re gonna ask me to stay the night.”
“Would that be a bad thing?”
You hesitate for a moment, your eyes searching for sincerity in his. Then you realize where you are — at work, with your co-worker peppering you with kisses in secret.
“What’s wrong?” Johnny asks, afraid he’s crossed a line he can’t come back from. “I-I’m sorry.” Quickly dropping his arms, he steps away to give you space.
“No, no. You didn’t—” you quickly say. “Maybe we can keep things professional during work hours. The last thing I want is for us to lose our jobs because we can’t keep our hands off each other.”
Johnny nods in agreement. “We’ll keep things professional during work hours. I’ll take what I can get.” He looks at the digital clock sitting on his desk. “We have 10 minutes before our work shift actually starts. Does that count a—”
Biting down on your bottom lip, your hand snakes behind the back of his neck to pull him down to your lips. But just before you could meet his lips, his office phone startles the both of you when it rings and Mr. Choi’s name pops up on the screen.
Johnny grumbles quietly before lifting the receiver to his ear. Johnny greets the manager simply, listening to his words and rolling his eyes in the process.
“Sure, I’ll head up in a bit.” Johnny says before hanging up. He looks at you apologetically, holding your hand in his. “Choi wants me to meet some fresh college grads for an internship here. He says he’s pairing one with me and that I should meet her before the internship actually starts.”
You don’t mean to focus on such a minor detail, but your mouth works faster than your brain sometimes. “Her? Your new intern is a woman?”
You see a small grin tug on the corner of Johnny’s mouth. “You’re kinda cute when you’re jealous. Your nose crinkles a little when your eyebrows—” Johnny reaches to press his thumb against your furrowed eyebrows before you swat his hand away.
“I’m not jealous.” Your attempt to make your words sound less defensive but the amused look on Johnny’s face makes you realize he can see right through you.
“That’s good,” Johnny reassures, “because there’s no reason to be. I’m yours, remember?”
You press a smile as you feel his lips pecking against your cheek. Pushing down the uncomfortable feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, you file this jealous feeling under irrationality in your brain.
After all, Johnny is loyal — to a fault sometimes, like Jaehyun shared. There’s nothing you need to worry about.
Right?
❁ disclaimer | do not copy, repost, translate, or modify any of my writing. do not share my work on other platforms without my explicit permission.
“when you talk so sweet when you’re doing bad things, that’s bed chem.”
synopsis: After a night of drinking, your friend Chanyeol admits that he likes being especially dominant in the bedroom. This sounds like something that you would enjoy being on the receiving end of.
word count: 4.3k
genres: Chanyeol x f!reader | nonidol!au | pwp smut
warnings: alcohol (no drunk sex), profanity, d/s themes, masturbation (m solo), dominant!Chanyeol, bratty!reader, spanking, fingering, oral (m receiving), deep throating/face fucking, light degradation, praise, p in v, raw, choking, dumbification/mind-break (ish? i don't think it's that extreme but i don't want to not tag it and have it be a problem), facials, blink and u miss it size kink and belly bulge (someone lock me up man)
disclaimer: pls practice safe sex and do real research if interested in more kinky, d/s sex (not that this is that extreme but i just like mentioning it on some of the harder stuff i write okay ty ty) <3
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
It starts with a glass of wine. Then two. Then three.
The hours have bled together at this point, your sorrows not quite long-forgotten but hovering on the periphery now. You and Chanyeol are sitting cross-legged on the floor of your living room, proof of the drinks you’ve both consumed scattered around you. Your hands, clumsy and uncoordinated, knock over an empty beer can on the floor as you gesture wildly. “And he said that I’m the dramatic one!” you huff. “Can you believe that shit?”
Chanyeol shakes his head in over-animated solemnity, taking another swig of his own drink. You can tell that he’s feeling the effects of his beers as well, though he’s probably not as inebriated as you. “I’m so glad he’s out of your life now before it got too serious.”
You giggle, setting down your glass next to you. You lean in, whispering loudly. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he singsongs back.
“Can I tell you a secret, Yeollie?”
“You can tell me anything.” He grins in anticipation. “What is it?”
You pause for dramatic effect. “He never… never… made me cum.”
Chanyeol’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open slightly. “What?”
You shake your head. “I didn’t even have to fake it.” A wave of giggles bursts from your lips. “He never asked! He never did any foreplay or anything, just stuck it in until he was done.”
“That’s terrible,” Chanyeol shakes his head. “Everyone deserves the right to cum.”
The two of you erupt into a fit of laughter, nearly bowling over as the silliness of it all overtakes you. “What about you?” you ask the moment you can form words. “How’s your sex life?”
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, not meeting your eyes. “Kind of personal, no?”
“Chanyeol,” you whine, tugging at his sleeve. “That’s not fair, I just told you about my sex life.”
“You mean, your lack of one.”
“Now you definitely have to tell me,” you say, swatting his arm lightly. “Since you want to be mean to someone who just got dumped.”
“Alright, alright, fine,” he sighs. “It’s been… a while.”
“Why?” you interrupt him. “There’s always girls all over you when we go out.”
“Ah…” he trails off, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I guess because the sex I want to have… I have to be comfortable with the person I’m doing it with. I wouldn’t feel right hooking up with a stranger.”
“What do you mean ‘the sex you want to have?’” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you into some freaky shit?”
“No!” His entire face is now burning red. “I mean… maybe? I don’t know. What counts as freaky shit?”
“Like… are you into being called daddy and spanking and shit like that?”
To your amazement, Chanyeol remains decidedly quiet.
“Shut. Up,” you say.
“I don’t like being called daddy,” he stammers. “But. Yeah. I like it rougher so I don’t want to do that with someone I barely know.”
You completely abandon your perch on the floor and crawl a couple of strides over so that you’re right in front of him, settled between his open legs. His expression is one of peak embarrassment, his face the color of a ripe tomato. This is not the face of someone who likes it dirty in the bedroom. “Tell me more,” you say.
He huffs. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“Please,” you pout, slightly puffing out your bottom lip. You think you hear his breath hitch, a slight gasp deep within his throat, but you probably imagined it.
“I guess I like having a partner who does things to piss me off and then I get to… you know.” He trails off. He looks like he’s praying for a stray lightning bolt to strike him down, anything to get him out of this conversation.
“Punish them?” you ask softly, a smirk forming on your face.
Chanyeol groans, closing his eyes. “You’re making me sound like a dirty pervert.”
You don’t say anything for a second, a tiny tremble starting low in your stomach. Your inhibitions are now totally gone, so you can’t help the sentence from tumbling out. “Can I tell you something else, Yeollie?” you whisper.
“Mm,” he grunts, eyes still closed.
You lean forward, your fingertips brushing his sweatpants-clad knee. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”
Chanyeol’s eyes fly open. He gently grabs your wrist and stands up, urging you to do so with him. The floor spins slightly underneath your feet, but the dizziness passes in an instant. “Okay. Time for bed.”
“But Yeol.” You look up at him through your lashes, fluttering your eyes at him. “You have no idea just how frustrated I’ve been. Unable to get off for weeks… and now you’re just going to tease me like this?”
Chanyeol blinks, then sighs. He puts two hands squarely on your shoulders and looks you dead in the eyes. “You’re drunk, silly.” He smiles at you fondly, warding off all the sexual tension with the shield of familiarity. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
He drags you, pouting and whining, to bed, tucking you underneath your covers. “Will you sleep with me?” you ask when he turns to go.
“I’ll be on the couch,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”
You sigh dramatically. “Goodnight, Yeol.”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Chanyeol locks the door of the bathroom behind him, gripping the edges of your sink as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. Get a grip. Pull yourself together.
When he closes his eyes he sees the image of you, your wrist in his hold, practically begging for him. Your face was flushed, maybe from the alcohol or maybe from your need, your bottom lip sticking out, eyes wide and glossy with interest. So infuriatingly hot.
He couldn’t hold out hope that you meant anything you said. You were drunk, hot off the heels of a relationship, even if it was short-lived. In the morning, you might take it all back, and the two of you would have to forget that it ever happened.
But still… fantasies flutter through Chanyeol’s mind. You sinking to your knees for him, you naked with your head thrown back, gasping for more, you with his cock buried deep inside of you, shaking and trembling with each thrust. He would give it to you so fucking good, make you forget that asshole who couldn’t be bothered to make sure you finished. With him, there would be no question about it, you would have to practically pry him away from your cunt. He would make you cum until his name was the only thing on your mind.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his erection straining against his sweats. He pulls out his cock, a bead of precum already forming at the tip. He jerks off to the thought of you, needy and writhing, imagines pounding into you until you’re fucking senseless, just a pretty, pretty little thing for him to make his. He cums into his fist, stifling a groan into the back of his other hand. Against his better judgement, as he cleans himself up, he prays that come morning you’ll still want him the same way.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You wake up with a headache and a whole lot of embarrassment sitting in the pit of your stomach. You open your bedroom door slowly, the creak of it alerting Chanyeol, already awake on the couch.
“Morning,” he says, sitting up. His hair is sticking up every which way, sleep still etched into his features. A part of you is still in disbelief that Chanyeol, this man right in front of you, gets off on punishing his partner. But then again, now that the initial shock and the alcohol of it all has worn off, you can picture it maybe a little too well. An image of him hovering above you, a cocky smirk on his face, flashes by in your mind’s eye, stirring some sort of heat in your gut.
“Hi,” you reply. “Um… I’m really sorry about how forward I was being last night. I’m pretty embarrassed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, smiling. “Do you wanna sit?”
You do so, taking care to keep some sort of distance from him. You can’t look him directly in the eyes without your face heating up just yet, so you settle on looking at your hands.
“Do you remember everything we talked about last night?” he asks softly. You nod in response. “What do you… think about it now? Do you still think that?”
You exhale softly. “Yes,” you say quietly.
Chanyeol’s quiet for a moment. “What about it is appealing to you?”
You consider the question carefully, because truthfully before this the only answer you could have given is well, it’s hot. But when you think about Chanyeol doing it rather than some random, faceless stranger, the answer becomes clear. “I don’t want to have to think,” you say. “And I want to put all my trust in you to take care of me, even when it hurts.”
He hums quietly. “That’s why I don’t just do it with anyone either. I want to know that the other person trusts me. And I have to trust the other person that they’ll tell me to stop or slow down if they’re uncomfortable.” He smiles at you. “Do you think you could do that?”
“Definitely.”
There’s some more talk, mostly about what you want to try, what’s off the table, and what he likes as well. He tells you about the traffic light system and safety procedures, making sure you understand how important it is to speak up whenever possible. He’s really serious about this, you think midway through his explanation. It makes you feel a thousand times more secure and any doubts that you might have had slip away.
“The last thing is, I won’t initiate the first time. So honestly, if you change your mind just let me know and we can forget that this ever happened. But I want you to come to me when you’re ready.”
“How should I initiate it?” you ask.
“Well, you know.” Chanyeol grins playfully. “Piss me off.”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
What are you doing now?
The text comes back almost immediately. Getting some work done at home. You?
You position your phone above you, making sure that the camera captures how the oversized shirt you’re wearing just barely covers your pussy, bare thighs on full display. Your free hand teases the hem, the tips of your fingers dipping just so underneath the fabric. You hit send and he reads it. Three dots appear, then disappear. Then reappear again.
Don’t touch yourself.
The next photo you send shows you doing exactly that, the shirt still hiding most of the image but your fingers are unmistakably deep inside of you. A thrill goes down your spine as an idea sprouts in your brain. You record a voice message, making sure that it picks up the wet sounds of your fingers leisurely fucking your hole. “Yeol,” you moan, breathy and light. “Need you.” His response to this takes longer, but it still thrills you nonetheless.
Be over in ten.
It only takes seven minutes for the knock on your door to arrive. When you open it, Chanyeol steps inside, and oh how could you ever think that he wouldn’t be capable of this? His eyes are fiery with frustration, towering over you as he cages you against the wall. He hikes up the hem of your shirt and groans at the sight of your bare skin.
“Answering the door with no fucking panties on?” he growls. “Shameless.”
“I couldn’t help it,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. “I was just horny and I got tired of waiting.”
He laughs. “Hope it was fucking worth it. Come on.”
Chanyeol heads to your couch, leaving you to follow closely behind. He sits, gesturing at his lap when you stand there, frozen. “Well?” he says, lifting one eyebrow. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? When you sent me that fucking voice message you were thinking about this, weren’t you?”
“Y-Yes,” you say, truthfully. If there was one thing you wanted to try more than anything, it was this. You settle down over his lap, hugging one of your throw pillows to your chest for support. He flips your shirt up, completely exposing your lower half to him. His rough palm caresses your ass cheek, rubbing back and forth soothingly.
“Color?” he asks.
“Green,” you whimper.
Smack! His hand comes down, heavy and hard. The force of it makes you gasp involuntarily, your pussy clenching around nothing. Again. Smack! This time a moan, high-pitched and breathy, leaves your mouth.
Chanyeol chuckles. “Hm, you like it more than you thought, huh?” He hits you again, the sound sharp and blistering in your otherwise empty home. “I knew you would, you dirty,” Smack! “fucking,” Smack! “girl.” Smack!
You grip the pillow for dear life as he lands blow after blow, the sting spreading deliciously all over your ass cheeks. You don’t know whether you want to arch into it or shy away, the balancing act between pain and pleasure making you writhe. You can’t help it—you start to drive your hips forward, grinding down against his leg to get any sort of friction.
Suddenly, Chanyeol plunges two fingers deep inside your dripping pussy. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, turning into a long moan when he begins to finger you roughly. “You’re soaked,” he groans, placing his free hand on the small of your back to hold you in place. “You really wanted it that badly, huh?”
“Y-Yes,” you cry out.
“That’s Yes, Chanyeol,” he says, smacking your ass again. “Might as well let your neighbors know who you’re slutting yourself out for.”
“Yes, Chanyeol, fuck!” And it’s just so overwhelming and hot, how quickly he has you under his control. Your voice comes out breathy and broken, high-pitched moans involuntarily escaping your throat. His fingers are relentless, seeking out that spot deep inside you that he knows will shatter your resolve completely. He curls his fingers just so and you wail, your entire body jolting and shuddering.
“Col—”
“Green, green, green, fuck I’m so close,” you babble. “Please, Yeol.”
“Do you think you deserve it?”
“Yes!”
He grabs a fistful of your hair and lifts your face up, ensuring that your face is no longer buried in the couch, your noises flowing freely and uninhibited. “Say my name when you cum,” he commands.
You do so, your voice wavering on the syllables of his name. You want to curl in on yourself, shy away from the overwhelming pleasure of his fingers, but his firm touch keeps you rooted in place. With nowhere to go, your orgasm shudders through you roughly, your entire body spasming and trembling. It’s nearly enough to make your head spin, your thoughts turning to static.
“On your knees,” he says roughly, urging you off of his lap. Your bare knees sink to the tile, and it seems like your fingers have a mind of their own, floating towards Chanyeol’s belt as if magnetized. He chuckles, helping your shaking digits. “You already knew what I wanted,” he says, amused, pulling down his pants and boxers down with one swift motion. He settles back on the couch, pumping his swollen length once. “So good for me already.”
The sight of his cock, heavy and thick, makes your mouth water, but you know not to take what you want just yet. Instead, you sit prettily between his legs, opening your plush lips, the pink of your tongue sticking out invitingly. Chanyeol swears, his free hand gripping the couch cushion underneath him.
“I thought I would have to tell you what to do more,” he says, scooting up so he’s just that much closer to giving you what you want. “But you already know how to be such a perfect little slut for me.”
He puts one hand on the back of your head, guiding your lips down to just barely wrap around the head of his cock. He holds you there, one hand fisted in your hair, a silent instruction to wait.
“What do you say?” he says, teasing.
“Please.” You don’t necessarily mean to, but the word comes out all breathy and desperate, your warm breath ghosting over the tip. A twinge of satisfaction and a deep pooling of arousal courses through you when his fingers twitch in your hair, his cock nearly jumping at your tone. “Let me apologize properly for earlier,” you say. Your lips just barely brush against him as you speak, so close to what you crave.
He exhales, hard. “Okay, sweetheart, show me how sorry you are. No hands.”
He lets go of your head and you do your best to take in most of his considerable length, flattening your tongue against the bottom of his cock. Shakily, you focus on inhaling and exhaling through your nose, but it’s difficult with your lips stretched so wide. You bob up and down on his length, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, drool slipping out of the corner of your mouth.
“Fuck,” Chanyeol groans. His eyes never leave yours, taking in the vision of you, so gorgeous, eyes watery, face flushed. He half expects to wake up at any minute, it’s just too good to be true. How many nights has he thought about having you just like this? “Don’t stop,” he rasps.
He can’t help it, his hips start to rock into your mouth, minute movements at first that turn into his hand returning to the back of your head, possessive, holding you in place as he thrusts upwards. You choke around him, your hands flying helplessly to grab onto his thighs. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks.
“So pretty when you’re ruined,” he grunts, which earns him a muffled whine. “Shit, if I didn’t wanna fuck you so bad I’d want to cum down your throat. C’mere.”
You wobble up onto your feet, settling into his lap. “Get this fucking thing off,” he mutters, tearing your shirt over your head. His hands roam your body appreciatively—from your thighs, the curve of your ass, up your back. His large palms settle on your breasts, palming and cupping them.
“You’re so perfect,” he whispers in awe. “I hope that fucking asshole knows how badly he lost every single day for the rest of his goddamn life.”
And the thrill that courses through you is more than lust in that moment, it’s… something else entirely. “Yeol,” you whisper, running your hands under his shirt and up his chest, feeling the toned muscle underneath your palms. The confusing feeling flits away, gone just as quickly as it came. “Fuck me, please.”
He groans, crashing his lips into yours. It’s the first time you’ve kissed him, you realize, and God willing, you hope it’s not the last. He kisses with fire in his touch, his lips searing, tongue scorching. His warmth is all-encompassing, burning you from the inside out. It’s so much, almost too much, that you almost need his cock inside of you just to dilute a bit of that heat.
You lift his shirt over his head and admire the long, hard lines of his torso before his hands are under your thighs, urging you to position yourself above him. He puts his cock directly under your slick cunt, gathering the wetness that’s dripping from your folds onto the head of his cock. “Beg for it a little more,” he commands.
“Please,” you whine, your voice little more than a hoarse, pathetic thing. “Need you, Yeol, wanna feel you inside me.”
He puts one hand on your hip and the other around your throat, eyes searching yours for permission. You just moan, tilting your head back and baring your neck for him, slowly sinking down onto his cock. Once you’re fully seated on his throbbing, hard length, he squeezes.
Choking on a gasp, you begin to move your hips, rising and falling at increasingly faster speeds. Chanyeol is thick, filling you up in ways that you didn’t even know was possible. The sensation paired with the hazy effects of your oxygen supply being suppressed start to ebb away at any other thought in your mind. There’s just Chanyeol, the sound of his voice and the warmth of his body, and the intoxicating, wanton pleasure threatening to burn up your insides.
He moans, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “Feels so fucking good, fuck, the way you’re squeezing around me.” The muscle in his forearm tenses when he squeezes your throat just a little bit harder. “You like it?”
You nod, slamming your hips down on him. A strangled cry leaves your lips when he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. “Y-Yes,” you sob.
He lets go of your throat and you suck in the air greedily, a heady rush filling your head. Your head lolls backwards, your moans incoherent as you bounce on his dick, just a steady stream of pathetic mewls leaving your throat. He grabs onto both hips and plants his feet into the ground, driving upwards into you at a brutal, relentless pace. You can’t do anything but take it, completely subjected to his whims, any sort of agency long flown out the window.
“You look so slutty like this,” he grunts, shifting forward to suck a bite against your collarbone. “You’re my pretty fucktoy, huh? My gorgeous, mindless, plaything?”
“Yes!” you cry out. “Ch-Chanyeol, please!”
He sticks two fingers into your mouth and you coat them eagerly with your spit without a second thought, your actions automatic now. His hand travels down between the two of you, rubbing tight circles around your clit without warning. Your second orgasm hits you instantly and you sob, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you bow against him. The ecstasy is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, all-encompassing and whole, swallowing you from the inside out. He keeps you steady, holding you close to his chest as you writhe, pressing his lips against your forehead as you come down. “Color?” he murmurs.
You whimper in response, reaching through the vestiges of your muddled mind. “Green,” you say, finally.
“Just a little more, princess,” he replies softly. He laughs at the way you cuddle deeper into him at the nickname. “Oh, you like that, hm?”
In one strong motion, he lifts you up and lays you down on the couch, hiking your legs up over his shoulders. He enters you swiftly and you both moan at the feeling—you at the sensitivity of your puffy walls and him at entering your soaked entrance once more. Despite the sweetness of your earlier exchange, he resumes his brutal pace, slamming into you with no reprieve.
“O-Oh God, I feel you here,” you whimper, bringing your hand up to your lower stomach. “So big, Yeol.”
“Fuck, baby.” He drives himself deeper into you, the damp, sweaty ends of his hair hanging over his eyes. His control, that he held onto for much longer than you did, is rapidly slipping. His fingers grip your thighs and his pace seems to get impossibly quicker, losing all sense of rhythm and precision.
“Where do you want me to cum, princess?” he grunts.
An image flashes in your mind, and suddenly it feels like the only thing you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. “My face,” you breathe. “Please.”
He swears, and just like that, you broke him. He delivers two more shaky thrusts before he pulls out of you abruptly, urging you onto your knees on the floor. You look up at him rapidly fisting his cock, panting with animalistic need, and stick your tongue out.
Chanyeol cums with a long, desperate groan, shooting ropes of cum all over your face. It’s warm, and somewhat unpleasantly sticky, but the sight of his awestruck, breathless expression, like he’s never seen anything hotter in his life, is enough to make up for it. He drags his cock across your bottom lip, moaning when you wrap your lips around the tip.
He sinks down to his knees, joining you on the floor, and gives you a kiss. A laugh bubbles out of your throat when he wrinkles his nose at the taste.
“You’re so brave for that,” he jokes.
“Mhm,” you hum, leaning your forehead into his shoulder. Your exhaustion hits you all at once, all the muscles in your body sore, your bones as pliant as jelly.
“Let me help you,” he murmurs. He guides you onto the couch and cleans you up, even providing you with your favorite comfy pajamas and a fuzzy blanket. His attentiveness fills you with a feeling of fondness, and maybe something else.
“Yeol?” you ask.
“Yes?” He hands you a warm mug of your favorite tea, taking a sip from his own.
“What are we?”
He nearly chokes on the liquid, face turning bright red. “Um… if you want to talk about it later, we can.” His eyes widen at your stricken expression. “Not like that! I just mean that right now you might be too influenced by the… after-effects of the sex. I don’t want you to make any rushed decisions.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “But… wouldn’t it be the same for you?”
“Well…” He suddenly takes great interest in the fraying thread at the hem of his shirt. “I’ll just say that my decision would be based on stuff I’ve been thinking about for… a while.”
“...Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Hey.” Chanyeol sets his mug down and cards a hand through your hair fondly. “Take your time. We can always talk about it later.”
“Okay,” you smile. “Later.”
(Later turns out to be in the late, late hours of that night, in between rounds three and four, after he comes inside and fingers it out of you, and before he takes you against the washing machine waiting for the dirty sheets that you’ve soiled. Chanyeol doesn’t seem to mind.)
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
a/n: giving baekhyun a break this week and also it seems that cy has been wrecking everyone's ass lately (mine included lmao) feels good to write filthy pwp again but it wouldn't be a tulipbaeks oneshot without a sweet ending
genre: non idol!au, friends to lovers, lowkey fast n' furious if it was supah horny, mechanic!mingi x street racer!reader
word count: 31.3k
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
warnings: no use of y/n, plot with some eventual smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), car sex hallelujah, public sex if u squint, dry humping, p in v, multiple o's, cum play, slight edging, mingi is a fkn munch, felching, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation (kinda), breast play, nipple play, bratty!reader, dom!mingi hallelujah, mingi is a meanie >:c, spanking, praise kink, almost pronebone but not rlly, he calls the reader a slut once, manhandling, size difference, body worship, use of 'good girl', slight dacryphilia, he's big, weak ass pullout game, implied marathon, cute aftercare (mingi is a softie my baby) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: i saw his part in the bad mv and this idea just came to me in a dream. his outfit just screamed mechanic to me but also i was horny as fuck sooo can you blame me :> i apologise in advanced to anyone who owns a car or drives i dont have a license (yet) so i was just writing sum bullllshiiit. my friends and i have been rewatching the entirety of the fast and furious franchise so it also continued to spark this idea in my silly little brain. who knew typing a story with one hand could be so hard... i jest! i hope you guys enjoy my extremely self-indulgent fic of mingi. stream ghpt5!
ps. heres some songs i listened to while writing this fic: one, two, three, four, five
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @puoeri @mingvxs @no1likepepix8 + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
The asphalt screamed under your tires like it was begging for mercy, and you gave it none. You’d taken the second turn tight. The one with the loose manhole cover that sent most racers wide. You heard the car behind you overcorrect, its bumper grazing the guardrail in a shriek of metal that meant you’d already won. The night air whipped through your cracked window, carrying burnt rubber and cheap cologne up from the crowd lining the overpass.
Your hands were steady on the wheel. The engine hummed the way it always hummed when it was happy—deep and throaty and just the right side of angry. You’d built this car from the ground up, and the only people who’d ever touched it besides you were the crew at ATZ Auto, and that was a trust you didn’t hand out lightly. Three weeks since the last race. Three weeks of late nights in the garage with nothing but a socket wrench and a headlamp for company. Three weeks of waiting for this exact stretch of empty industrial road.
The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was already—
Clunk.
You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Your stomach dropped.
There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driver’s side—under the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator.
You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.
“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “Come on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.”
You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldn’t drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.
Not tonight.
You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didn’t care.
The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting something—your car’s name, probably, or the name they’d given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.
You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. You’d learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.
A window rolled down somewhere behind you. “No way your shitty car beat mine”
“Well...” you said, and forced a laugh you didn’t feel. “It is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?”
They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.
You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldn’t reach without a lift and a full set of tools.
You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if you’d eaten dinner. Found the number you needed—the one you’d saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.
“ATZ’s Auto, this is Mingi speaking.”
You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like he’d been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.
“Hey—”
“Hi, sweetheart.” There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. “What did you do to her this time?”
You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.
“I didn’t do anything,” you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. “She just—I don’t know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like something’s swinging loose under the driver’s side.”
“Clunking?” He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. “If it's under the driver’s side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?”
“Maybe? I couldn’t tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.”
“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. “No dash lights?”
“Nothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.”
“Of course you can’t,” he teased, “Because the car knows better than to show you what’s wrong. It’s saving it for me.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not being smug. I’m being right. There’s a difference.” You could hear him moving through the shop—the familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. “Where are you? Still on the industrial stretch?”
“Yeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."
“I know the one.” There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. “Stay put. I’ll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.”
“Mingi, you don’t have to—”
“See you soon,” the line went dead before you could argue.
You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.
You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that you’d never been able to fully read.
Twenty minutes.
You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a person’s pulse slows after a scare—still elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. You’d felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.
The tow truck arrived in eighteen. You’d know the sound of it anywhere—that particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanic’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like he’d been working on something else before you called.
He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rig’s boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the car—which, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.
“There she is,” he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.
You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. “You in one piece?”
“I’m fine. The car’s the one—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,” he was already crouching beside your driver’s side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. He’d barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. “Can you pop the hood for me?”
You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his hands—long fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that you’d asked about once and he’d shrugged off with "kitchen accident, don’t worry about it." You worried about it.
He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. You’d heard it enough times to know the variations.
“Transmission mount,” he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didn’t seem to notice. “Or something connected to it. The bolt’s either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.”
“Well... Can you fix it?”
He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thing—the half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. “Can I fix it?” He repeated, like you’d asked him if water was wet. “Sweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”
“Then why do you charge me so much?”
“That's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isn’t free.” He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “C'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and I’ll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.”
You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. “You’re not going to lecture me about racing, are you?”
“I’ve given up on that.” He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. “Besides. You won anyway, didn’t you?”
“Huh? How'd you know?”
“You called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “Winner stays. Loser limps home. That’s how it works.”
You helped him hook the chains—your hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingi’s jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.
He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be.
He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentleness—and you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.
The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard light—the sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.
“You’re staring,” he said, without looking over.
“You have grease on your face.”
He touched his cheek, found nothing. “Where?”
“Nah, it's on the other side.”
He touched the other cheek. “What a little liar.”
“You’ll never know.”
The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.
You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingi’s thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldn’t quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothing—just the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.
You came back to consciousness in pieces.
First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warm—cotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someone’s breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.
Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. “—she’s fine, she’s just—no, I’ve got her.”
You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.
You were in Mingi’s office.
You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad he’d found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.
You were on the couch. Or—not a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.
You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.
“Hey.” His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse.”
“How did I—”
“You fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.” The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. “It was very dignified. Very graceful and adorable”
You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “You carried me in here.”
“Yes, I did.”
You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."
“And be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over you—his jacket, the oversized mechanic’s one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I promise the car isn’t going anywhere.”
“But… I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.
“You can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.” His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. “I’m just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scout’s honour.”
“You were never a scout.”
“How do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacket—once, twice—and then he pulled his hand back like he’d remembered himself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”
He left the door open a crack—enough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. You’d heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. You’d always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.
You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like him—the coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.
Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingi’s boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentrating—the same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.
You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.
══════════════════
Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Or—the chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingi’s jacket was still draped over you like a promise he’d made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.
You turned your head.
Mingi was standing at the small counter he’d wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.
He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hips—not a mechanic’s uniform, not a work shirt. Something he’d changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. He’d either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you weren’t sure which answer was more like him.
The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.
He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counter—the oat milk kind, the specific brand you’d mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when he’d handed you a black coffee and you’d said "oh, I usually take it with—" and he’d cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."
He didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.
The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that at—you squinted at the clock on the wall—seven-forty in the morning.
“Morning,” he greeted, his back was still facing you. “You snore, by the way. Just so you know. It’s not loud. It’s more of a—” He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. “Like a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.”
You scoffed. “I do not snore.”
“You absolutely snore.” He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. “It’s cute, though. Don’t worry about it.”
The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever he’d splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the light—along the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?
You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.
“How long have you been up?” you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.
“Since about four.” He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. “Got as far as I could on the car, then hit a wall—parts house doesn’t open until eight. So.” He lifted a shoulder. “I reorganized the tool wall.”
You raised an eyebrow, “At four in the morning? Really?”
“The socket wrench set was out of order,” he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingi’s brain, maybe it did. “It was bothering me.”
You held the mug against your chest and studied him—the way he stood in the morning light like he’d been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.
“How’s my car?”
Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.
“Transmission mount bolt sheared clean through,” he explains, “Right at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good news—I didn’t have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. There’s a crack along the bracket on the driver’s side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.”
You closed your eyes. “Thank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?”
“Taking into everything into account,” He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. “Three-fifty, maybe four hundred. I’ll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.”
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured look—the one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.
Mingi had never once pressed you for money. He’d let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.
“I can pay up front,” you weren’t entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing you’d never fully excised from your system. “I’ve got some cash from—from last night.”
“From the race.” He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. “How much did you take?”
“More than enough, thankfully.” You took another sip of coffee. “The other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.”
“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. “You want to see her?”
You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingi’s jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.
The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in here—metal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingi’s careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on it—
Your car.
She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimate—the transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.
Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. “See there? The crack runs along the weld line. It’s been stressed out for a while—this didn’t happen last night. This has been a gradual build up”
You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both weren’t saying.
“How long has it been building?” you asked.
“Hard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourself—when was the last time you had the transmission out?”
“Three months ago. When you replaced the clutch.”
“Right.” He reached past you—his arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your back—and tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything he’d already told you. “The mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing just—” He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. “She held on as long as she could. She’s a good girl.”
The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. You’d heard him say it before—to engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running clean—but with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.
You looked up at him. He was close—closer than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.
“You fixed the bolt already?” you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.
“Started to. I couldn't sleep, remember?” His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. “The bracket’s the holdup. I’ve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.”
“That quick? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I‘m sure.” He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thing—that slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. “Unless you had somewhere else to be?”
You didn’t. You looked back at the car—at the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. He’d been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee he’d made exactly the way you liked without being asked.
He’d cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. He’d reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and he’d remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t just about the car and it wasn’t just about the coffee and it wasn’t just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night you’d ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.
You remembered the first time you’d stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, “No offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.” He’d fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you “boss” with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.
You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. He’d hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, “You good?” Like he already knew you weren’t, but he’d be there when you started to be.
You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. You’d expected nothing—maybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, you’d found a note under your windshield wiper: “Nice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, I’ll fix her up. - M :)"
You remembered a lot of small things. The way he’d always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way he’d set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How he’d talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How he’d stand close, when you both leaned under the hood—shoulders bumping, elbows knocking—and none of it ever felt accidental.
You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like they’d been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.
You thought about every time you’d tried to pay him back, every time you’d tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways you’d failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or just—anything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.
The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person you’d told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didn’t hurt—it just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.
You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.
You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his hand—a reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concrete—and set it somewhere safer without comment.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Don't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."
He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment ago—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasn’t going to make it difficult.
“Like I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up by—” He tilted his head, calculating. “Three, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished”
You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. “Sounds good! Also, don’t bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.”
“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. “Go home. Sleep in a real bed, please.”
You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where you’d left it, the screen lit with three new notifications—your best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat you’d muted, and a weather alert you didn’t read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.
“Mingi?”
He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care he’d built around you without ever asking for permission. “All of it.”
His mouth did the half-smile thing—the one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. “Don’t mention it, it’s my job after all.”
You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.
══════════════════
You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothes—jeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone else’s cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.
The text came at 8:47.
Parts house has the bracket.
Pulling it now.
She’ll be ready by 3.
Don’t come early, I mean it.
You sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else, because if you started typing you’d say something stupid, and Mingi would read it in the middle of a transmission job and drop something heavy on his foot.
You spent the morning doing nothing useful. You organized the junk drawer. You called your mother and listened to her talk about the neighbour’s cat for eleven minutes. You scrolled through your phone and found a video someone had posted from last night’s race—the angle was bad, the audio even worse. You could hear the clunking in the last stretch, that rhythmic metallic death rattle that had sent your stomach through the floorboards. The comments were already filling up. She’s cooked. That’s a rod. Nah that’s transmission. RIP to another one. You closed the app and put the phone face-down on the couch.
At two, you couldn’t sit still anymore. You grabbed your keys and your wallet and this jacket, still draped over the back of the kitchen chair where you’d left it that morning, because you’d forgotten to give it back, or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to—and headed out the door.
You stopped at the place on the corner. The one with the yellow awning and the handwritten menu taped to the window and the cook who knew your order by heart because you’d been coming here since before you had a car to break. You got two orders of the spicy pork bulgogi bowls—extra kimchi on the side, extra rice, the way Mingi liked it, because you’d watched him eat it enough times to memorize the ratio.
You added a container of japchae because he’d mentioned once, offhand, that his mother used to make it on Sundays, and the way he’d said it had made you want to put the entire city between you and the feeling it produced. You got two coffees—black for him, oat milk and two sugars for you—and a slice of the honey butter cake that the owner’s wife made fresh every afternoon, because Mingi had a sweet tooth he pretended he didn’t have and you’d watched him eat three pieces at a shop potluck without breathing between bites.
The bag was heavy and warm against your hip as you walked the six blocks to the shop. The afternoon sun was high and bright, and the city smelled like exhaust and fried food and the particular greenness of the potted trees someone had placed along the sidewalk in a doomed attempt at beautification. You passed the auto parts store where Mingi had sourced your bracket, the hardware store where he bought his electrical tape in bulk, the laundromat where he washed his shop rags because the machines at his apartment complex ate quarters. You knew this stretch of road the way you knew the inside of your own engine bay—every crack, every stain, every story it told about the people who walked it.
The shop’s roll-up door was half-open when you arrived, and you could hear the radio before you could see inside—some old rock station Mingi kept tuned to because the signal was clear and the DJs never talked during the guitar solos. You ducked under the door and stepped into the fluorescent hum.
Your car was on the ground. The hood was closed. The driver’s side door was open, and the interior light was on, and you could see the fresh gleam of something newly installed through the gap in the door frame.
Mingi was sitting on an overturned bucket near the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. He had the radio turned up just loud enough that he didn’t hear you come in, and for a moment you just stood there and watched him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for the solvent bottle, the way his jaw worked around whatever he was chewing (gum, probably, or the inside of his cheek), the fresh bandage on his left hand where he’d clearly cut himself again and upgraded from electrical tape to something that actually qualified as medical supplies.
You cleared your throat.
He turned. His face went through three expressions in rapid succession—surprise, recognition, and then something warm and slow that started at the corners of his mouth and spread upward until his whole face was doing the thing, the thing you’d been cataloguing for months without admitting what it was.
“What did I tell you about coming early, hm?” He deadpanned.
“Don't be dramatic, Min.” You held up the bag. “I got your favourites.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face, and the warmth deepened into something that looked almost endearing, which was not a look you’d ever seen on Mingi and did not know what to do with.
“All of this for me?” He set the rag down and stood, and he was taller than you remembered, or maybe you’d just forgotten in the hours since morning how he filled a room without trying. “You shouldn’t have, baby.”
The word landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there. He said it casually, the way he said everything—like it cost him nothing, like it was just a sound the air made when it passed through him on its way to you.
You crossed the shop and set the bag on the workbench, pulling out the containers one by one. The bulgogi bowls steamed when you opened the lids, and the smell of garlic and gochujang filled the space between the tool chests and the lift. You handed him the black coffee without asking and kept the other one for yourself, and you set the japchae and the honey butter cake on the bench beside the bowls like you were setting a table.
“It’s for my favourite mechanic, after all,” you smirked, keeping your voice light and easy.
Kept it from doing the thing it wanted to do—which was crack open and spill everything you’d been carrying since four that morning when you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room. Maybe even beyond that.
Mingi’s smile went wide and bright, showing the dimples that only appeared when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. “So, you finally admit I’m your favourite, huh?”
You handed him a pair of chopsticks and fixed him with a look that you hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of affection and threat. “Don’t push it, pretty boy.”
He laughed—full and loud, the kind of laugh that echoed off the concrete walls and made the overhead lights buzz in sympathy. He pulled the bucket closer to the bench and sat, and you pulled up a stool from the corner, and you ate lunch together.
He told you about the bracket—how the parts house had exactly one left in stock, how he’d had to sweet-talk the guy behind the counter into holding it, how the installation had gone smooth except for the bolt that fought him for twenty minutes before finally surrendering. You told him about the cereal, and the cat, and the video someone had posted, and he made a face and said, “Send me the link, I want to see these idiots diagnosing your car from a thirty-second clip.”
You ate the japchae first, and he didn’t comment on it, but you watched his face when he took the first bite and saw something shift behind his eyes—something old and fond and a little bit melancholic—and he looked at you across the workbench with an expression that said he knew exactly why you’d ordered it and exactly what it meant that you’d remembered, and he didn’t say thank you because he didn’t need to.
The honey butter cake disappeared in four minutes flat, and he licked the glaze off his thumb with the shamelessness of a man who had given up pretending he didn’t have a sweet tooth approximately three bites ago.
When the food was gone and the coffees were empty and the radio had cycled through two more songs, Mingi stood and stretched—arms overhead, back arching, the white tank pulling tight across his chest in a way that you absolutely did not stare at—and walked to your car. He patted the roof twice, the way you’d seen him do a hundred times, and looked at you over the hood.
“She’s ready when you are.”
You walked to the driver’s side and ran your hand along the door frame, tracing the line where the paint chipped and the clearcoat had started to surrender to time and sun and too many city winters. It was cool and solid under your palm, and for the first time in days you didn’t imagine hearing the sickly metallic tick that had haunted every drive since the first warning sign. No rattle. No vibration. No secret countdown to catastrophic failure shivering through the welds. Just a door, a car, a moment of stillness as you drew in a breath and let your shoulders drop.
You slid into the seat, and the interior smelled like Mingi—solvent, engine oil, the sharpness of fresh brake cleaner and something sweeter underneath, a cedar note that clung to the cloth. You could see where he’d wiped down the steering wheel, the faintest imprint of a towel snagged on the horn pad, and the new bracket gleaming through the gap below the dash. The seat was exactly the way you left it, except you could tell he’d sat here, adjusted the mirrors, checked the fit of the pedals. It was like stepping into a space that had been quietly, lovingly proofed against disaster.
The key was already in the ignition. You turned it.
The engine caught on the first try—clean, steady, the deep throaty hum you’d tuned into existence with your own hands, but different now. Quieter. Settled. Like something that had been suffering in silence had finally been allowed to breathe again. You pressed the throttle lightly and listened, heart in your mouth, waiting for the telltale clunk or metallic swing-and-bang. Instead, there was only the smooth, even purr, the delicate click of injectors priming, the systems waking up like a body stretching after a long sleep.
You pressed a little harder, feathering the pedal. The tach jumped, held, dropped. No hesitations. No overcompensation. No subtle warning in the feedback through the wheel. If you closed your eyes, you could almost believe this was someone else’s car—someone who’d never driven it to the edge, never asked it to survive three consecutive summers of midnight street circuits, never let it run a degree hotter than it was supposed to just to beat a kid with something newer and flashier. But it was yours, and you’d earned every scar on the center console, every burn mark on the carpet. And now, for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like a ticking time bomb. It sounded like something that was meant to last.
You sat with that for a minute, hands resting on the wheel, the engine’s steady rhythm echoing in your bones. You shifted into neutral and let the engine idle. Mingi’s handwriting was on a sticky note taped to the dash: “Check oil before running. -M.” You popped the hood just to be sure, and the dipstick came up clean and full, the oil exactly where it should be, the new gasket already sealing like it was part of the block from the beginning. He’d even topped off your washer fluid, the little things he always did, the ones he never mentioned but that you always noticed.
When you came back around, Mingi was standing by the shop door. He’d wiped his hands again, but there was a new smudge of something across his cheekbone, and he was watching you with an expression so open it made it impossible to look away. There was pride there, and relief, and a weird kind of gentleness that didn’t fit with the way he usually moved through the world. You realized, suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, that he was waiting for you to say something. To react, to light up, to show him that this mattered.
So you revved the engine, just a little, and gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield.
He grinned, and the whole shop seemed to brighten. You cut the engine and stepped out, and for a second the world held its breath.
He nodded, then pointed at the car. “How does she feel?”
You tried to come up with something technical. Something that would do justice to the hours he’d put in, the parts you knew he’d paid for himself, the sweat and blood literally on the line. But all that came out was, “She’s perfect.”
Mingi’s face went soft around the eyes, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “You did most of the work, I just did some touch ups,” he smiled.
You barked a laugh. “All I did was fall asleep in your office and bring you lunch. You fixed my car.”
He shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased. “Yeah? What’s next, then? An oil change? New tires? You know, just for fun.”
You grinned. “I was thinking about a test drive. Want to come with?”
He hesitated, then held up his hands. “I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but only because I don’t want to get kimchi juice on your nice upholstery.”
You tossed him the keys. “No Min, You’re driving.”
He caught them one-handed, easy, and you felt something loosen in your chest. You hopped into the passenger seat, let the window down again, and watched as he adjusted the mirrors just so, checked the angle of the seat, and all the little rituals he did before a test drive.
He started the engine, and this time you noticed the way the sound made him smile. He rolled slowly out of the shop and down the street, careful at first, but then letting the car stretch out as the road opened up. You watched the city go by in a blur—corner store, laundromat, the park with the busted swing set—and realized you were seeing all of it through the windshield of a car that was finally, blissfully, whole.
Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter, and he kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize your reaction. You leaned back in the seat, let the sun warm your face, let the feeling of the world working as it should sink in.
Halfway to the river, he turned to you and said, “So what do we do now? Victory lap? Or do we just keep driving until something else breaks?”
You considered it. “Can we...” You stopped, not sure how to put it into words, and settled for, “Let’s just keep going for a while.”
And so you did. You let the city recede, let the noise fade into the background, and just existed, two people in a car that was finally running right, the road unspooling ahead of you like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
The road curved along the riverbank, and the water caught the late afternoon light in long, lazy ribbons of gold. Mingi drove with the windows down, one elbow resting on the door frame, and the wind pushed his hair back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, looser, like someone who’d set down a weight he’d been carrying for years and forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight.
You watched the trees slide past and let the silence hold for another mile before you spoke.
“Hey,” you began, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “I have another race on Friday. The industrial stretch again—the same one as last night, but bigger. More cars. Some guys from out of town are coming up.”
Mingi’s thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Twice. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You turned in the seat to face him, pulling one knee up under you. The leather creaked. “I’m in, obviously. Jihoon, the guy that had that fat stack of cash, wants a rematch, and there’s this new kid from Busan who’s been talking shit online all week.”
Mingi nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “You can beat him for sure.”
“I don’t even know what he drives.”
“Nah, it doesn't matter.” He glanced over, a warm smile spread across his face. “It’s not about the car, it’s about who’s behind the wheel. That cocky piece of shit will not win, trust me.”
The warmth that spread through your chest was embarrassing in its intensity. You looked down at your hands, at the grease still lingering in the creases of your knuckles, and you said the thing you’d been turning over in your head since you woke up on his shop-towel bed with his jacket over your shoulders and his coffee in your hands.
“You should come watch me. In the race— I mean.”
The words hung in the air between you, carried on the wind rushing through the open windows. You kept your eyes on your hands, on the grease, on anything that wasn’t his face, because you’d said it casually—or tried to—and you needed a second to make sure the casual had landed.
Mingi was quiet for too long. Unusually long, you think. His jaw had set. Not in a hard way—in the way it did when he was about to deliver news he didn’t want to deliver.
“Friday,” he repeated, and the word came out carefully, measured, like he was testing its weight. “This Friday?”
“Mhm. Starts around ten. Should be over by midnight, hopefully by one.”
He exhaled through his nose—a slow, controlled breath that told you everything before the words did.
“Oh I'm sorry, sweetheart.” His voice had gone soft in that particular way, the way that meant he was about to disappoint you and he already hated himself for it. “I can’t. I’m booked solid. Like—completely. I’ve got three clients coming in after hours, and one of them’s a timing chain replacement on a V6 that’s going to take me till two in the morning if everything goes right, which it won’t, because timing chains never go right.”
“Oh,” you mumbled. And then, because you were a person who’d spent your entire adult life pretending you didn’t need anything from anyone: “That’s fine. No big deal. It’s just a race.”
You turned back to the windshield. The river was on your left now, wide and flat and silver, and a heron stood motionless in the shallows, and you focused on the heron because the heron didn’t care about Friday nights or timing chains or the particular ache that had settled behind your sternum like a stone dropped into still water.
The car slowed. Mingi pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was enormous—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway and the sound of your own breathing, which you were trying very hard to keep even.
He turned in his seat.
You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on the heron, which had taken a step forward into the water with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never once needed to explain itself to anyone.
“You’re doing the thing,” he frowned as he scanned your facial expression.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you say it’s fine and it’s not fine.” His voice was close. Closer than the passenger seat should have allowed. “Look at me, please.”
You looked at him.
His face was right there—inches away, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. He was looking at you with an expression that made your chest do something complicated and painful, like a valve opening somewhere you hadn’t known was closed.
“I want to be there,” he mumbled. The words were simple and direct, the way Mingi’s words always were when he meant them. “You know I want to be there. I’d rather be watching you race than doing a timing chain on a V6 that some idiot ran dry for six months. But I told these people I’d do it, and they’re counting on me, and—”
“I know.” You did know. That was the worst part. You knew exactly the kind of person Mingi was—the kind who showed up, who kept his word, who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning because someone had asked him to and he’d said yes. You’d fallen for that person. You didn’t get to resent him for being exactly who he was. “It’s okay, Mingi. I understand.”
He studied your face for a long moment—the way your mouth was doing something you hoped passed for a smile, the way your eyes kept flicking to the heron because holding his gaze for too long felt like standing too close to a fire. He saw it. Of course he saw it. Mingi saw everything.
His hand came up.
Slow. Deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away, to deflect, to make a joke, to do any of the things you usually did when someone tried to touch you with intention. You didn’t move.
His palm settled against your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone—once, twice—and his skin was warm and rough and smelled like solvent and the honey butter cake from lunch, and the touch was so gentle it made your eyes sting.
“Hey,” he whispered. Soft. So soft. “I’ll make it up to you. You name it, and I’m there. I promise.”
You leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself. Just a fraction—just enough to feel the pressure of his palm, the steady warmth of it, the way his thumb stilled against your skin like he was holding his breath.
“You promise?” you mumbled against his hand, your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
“Promise.” His thumb moved again—a slow sweep along your cheekbone that sent something warm and liquid through your bloodstream. “I’ll clear a night. I’ll put it on the calendar in permanent marker. I’ll tell every client in the city that Song Mingi is unavailable that evening because he has a prior engagement that is non-negotiable.”
A laugh escaped you, a little broken, but real. “Non-negotiable?”
“Completely non-negotiable.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dimple appeared, and the cut on his lip stretched when he smiled, and you thought—with the kind of clarity that only comes in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the next—that you would remember this exact image for the rest of your life. Mingi in the driver’s seat of your car, his hand on your face, the river silver behind him, promising you something he meant with every molecule of his being.
“Okay,” you exhaled. “Another night.”
“Another night, I promise.” He held your gaze for one more beat—long enough that the air between you changed, thickened, became something you could almost taste—and then his hand dropped from your cheek and returned to the wheel, and the moment collapsed back into the ordinary like it had never happened.
He started the engine. The car came alive around you, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled back onto the road, and the heron lifted from the shallows and beat its slow, heavy wings into the sky, and you watched it go until it was a speck against the pale blue, and then you watched the road unfold ahead of you, and you didn’t say anything else because you didn’t need to.
The silence held. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that felt like a promise.
══════════════════
Friday arrived like a held breath finally released.
The industrial stretch was different tonight—larger, louder, the energy cranked up to something that buzzed against your skin like a live wire. More cars lined the turnout than you’d seen in months, their engines idling in a low, impatient chorus that vibrated through the soles of your boots. The crowd had spilled past the guardrail and onto the shoulder, phones out, speakers blasting three different songs at once, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and someone’s body spray mixing with the burnt-rubber perfume of the asphalt. Someone had strung LED lights along the overpass supports, casting everything in a pulsing, carnival-bright wash that made the night feel like something staged, something that knew it was being watched.
You stood at the open driver’s side door with your hands on the roof and your head bowed, running through the checklist.
Tire pressure: thirty-two all around, checked four times.
Oil: full, clean, Mingi’s handwriting still on the dipstick tube where he’d marked the fill line with a pencil.
Coolant: topped off. Brake fluid: clear and full. Belts: tight, no cracks, no fraying.
You’d gone over every inch of the engine bay yourself that afternoon, twice, with a headlamp and a torque wrench and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that bordered on compulsion. The new bracket gleamed under the hood like a promise kept, and the transmission mount bolt sat snug and true, and you’d driven the car here tonight without a single sound that didn’t belong.
Still. You checked again. You always checked again.
Behind you, the pre-race circus was in full swing. You could hear your best friend, Yuna, before you could even see her. A voice that could cut glass and a laugh that could shatter it—was arguing with someone about the bet spread, her hands moving in sharp, emphatic arcs while three guys in matching jackets nodded along like they understood a word she was saying. Your friend, Soobin, was crouched beside your rear tire with a flashlight, double-checking the tread depth because he’d lost fifty bucks once on a blowout and had never fully recovered emotionally.
And there, leaning against the hood of a black sedan that had no business being at a street race, were three figures you’d recognize anywhere.
Hongjoong saw you first. He was the shortest of the three but carried himself like he’d been genetically engineered for maximum authority—black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a leather jacket that cost more than most of the cars on the stretch, arms crossed, jaw set in that permanent expression of mild, world-weary amusement that he wore like a second skin. He raised his chin in greeting, and you raised yours back, and that was the entirety of the conversation Hongjoong ever needed to have with anyone.
Beside him, Seonghwa stood with the kind of posture that suggested he’d been born in a finishing school and escaped at the first opportunity. Tall, lean, dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for someone he didn’t like, his dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. He was the manager at ATZ—the one who kept the books, handled the clients, and maintained the delicate fiction that the shop operated within the bounds of something resembling a schedule. He was also, you’d learned over the months, the only person on earth who could make Mingi do paperwork without a fight, which meant he was either a wizard or had blackmail material of catastrophic proportions. You suspected both.
Jongho was on Seonghwa’s other side, arms folded, watching the crowd with the alert, slightly wary expression of someone who’d seen enough to know that crowds were where trouble went to multiply. He was the youngest at the shop but moved through it like he’d been born under a lift—quiet, capable, the kind of mechanic who could diagnose an engine from the sound of the starter alone. He’d helped Mingi with your transmission mount the morning after the repair, you’d learned later, holding the bracket in place while Mingi threaded the new bolt. He gave you a small nod when you caught his eye, and you nodded back, and the exchange contained approximately as much warmth as two people who respected each other’s competence could manage in a single gesture.
You straightened up from the door and walked over to them, wiping your palms on your jeans.
“I can’t believe you guys made it,” you beamed, because it was the polite thing to say, even though the sight of them—of anyone from ATZ, anyone who knew the shape of your engine bay the way you did—had loosened something tight behind your ribs.
“Hongjoong lost a bet,” Seonghwa said, without looking at Hongjoong.
“I did not lose a bet.” Hongjoong’s voice was flat. “I made a strategic decision to attend a cultural event.”
“Uh-huh, cultural event… right, right.” you nodded your head slowly, heavy with suspicion.
“Street racing is a cultural institution with deep roots in—”
“He lost twenty dollars to Jongho about whether you’d check your tire pressure two times or four,” Seonghwa said, and Jongho’s mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. “It was three, by the way.”
“Four, actually.” you corrected, and Hongjoong pointed at Jongho with the satisfied air of a man who’d just been vindicated.
“See? She checked it four times and I said four. You said three. Pay up, kid.”
Jongho reached into his back pocket without argument and handed over a crumpled twenty. Hongjoong took it with the gravity of someone accepting a Nobel Prize.
You laughed, the sound felt good in the night air, loosening something that had been wound tight since you’d pulled into the turnout and cut the engine. The three of them were here. They’d come. Mingi’s people had come, which meant maybe he was also there too.
“How’s the car?” Seonghwa asked, and his tone was professional—the manager’s tone, the one that meant he was genuinely interested in the answer and not just making conversation.
“She’s solid,” you answered back confidently. “Mingi did the bracket last week. She’s running cleaner than she has in months.”
“Mm. Good.” Seonghwa’s eyes moved past you to the car, assessing it with the same quiet attention he gave everything—invoices, clients, the state of the break room microwave. “He spent three hours on that mount. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”
Something warm bloomed behind your sternum. You didn’t let it show on your face.
“Control freak,” you joked lightly.
“The worst,” Seonghwa agreed, and there was something in his voice—something knowing, something that suggested he’d been paying attention to more than just the state of the break room microwave—but before you could parse it, Hongjoong was speaking again.
“Who are you running against tonight? The Busan kid?”
“Jihoon and the Busan kid, yeah. And a few others—some guy in a WRX who’s been talking a big game on the forums, and a girl in a Civic that’s been modded within an inch of its life. It should be interesting.”
Jongho made a sound—a low, considering hum that was eerily similar to the one Mingi made when he was cataloguing damage. “The Civic’s got a K-swap. I saw it at the meet last weekend. She’s running a bigger turbo than she should be. She’ll pull hard off the line but fade by the second turn if the cooling can’t keep up.”
You looked at him. “You went to the meet?”
“I go to all of them.” He said it like it was nothing. Like attending every unofficial car gathering within a thirty-mile radius was a perfectly normal hobby for a twenty-five-year-old mechanic who otherwise gave the impression of being allergic to social interaction. “Research.”
“Research,” Hongjoong repeated, deadpan.
“Market analysis,” Jongho smirked, and didn’t elaborate.
You grinned and turned back to the car. The ritual wasn’t finished. You still had to walk the length of the stretch—check the surface for debris, note the manhole cover on the second turn, feel the asphalt under your boots and commit its texture to memory. You still had to sit in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, running the course in your head—every shift point, every braking marker, every place where the road cambered in a way that could send an unwary car wide.
Your eyes moved past the crowd. Past Yuna and her betting spreadsheet, past Soobin and his flashlight, past the three ATZ mechanics standing in their cluster of black leather and quiet competence. Past the LED lights and the speaker stacks and the groups of strangers with their phones raised like offerings to some digital god. You scanned the turnout. The guardrail. The overpass. The shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.
You looked for him.
You looked for the tall frame, the dark hair, the oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up. You looked for the way he stood—loose and easy, one hip cocked, like gravity was a suggestion he’d chosen to follow. You looked for the familiar smile. You looked for the one person in the crowd who would be watching you the way he watched engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
The turnout was full of people. None of them were Mingi.
You let your gaze sweep one more time—slower now, deliberate, giving him every chance to materialize from behind a car or step out of the shadows or call your name from somewhere you hadn’t checked. The crowd shifted and pulsed, and a flare went up near the starting line, throwing red light across a hundred faces, and none of them were his.
He wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. He’d told you, and you’d said it was fine, and it was fine. It was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent fine.
You turned back to the car and placed both hands on the roof again, fingers spread wide, and you took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of your lungs and held it there for a count of four.
“You okay?” Seonghwa asked from behind you. His voice was careful. Observant. He’d seen you looking.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied, and you meant it about the car, and you meant it about the race, and the part that wasn’t about the car or the race—the part that was about a mechanic who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning and remembered your oat milk and carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders—you set that part aside. You set it in the same place you kept all the other things you weren’t ready to examine, and you closed the door on it, and you turned the lock.
You had a race to win.
You walked the stretch. You checked the surface—clean, dry, the manhole cover still loose on the second turn, the same one that had sent Jihoon wide last time. You committed the texture to memory—smooth here, slightly rough there, the seam where the old pavement met the new running like a scar down the centerline. You sat in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, and you ran the course in your head.
You opened your eyes. The dashboard glowed its familiar amber, and the key was in your hand, and the crowd outside had gone quiet in that particular way that meant the flagger was taking position.
You turned the key.
The engine caught—clean , steady, that deep throaty hum that meant every bolt was where it belonged and every belt was singing the same song. You let the RPMs settle, then blipped the throttle twice—once for luck, once because the car asked for it—and pulled forward to the starting line.
Jihoon was already there. His silver coupe idled beside you, its aftermarket exhaust popping and crackling with the aggressive, attention-seeking rhythm of someone who’d spent more on sound than substance. He revved at you—three quick stabs, the automotive equivalent of a middle finger—and you didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the flagger, on the strip of white cloth hanging limp in the still night air, on the exact point where it would snap upward and the world would narrow to nothing but asphalt and instinct.
The Busan kid was two cars back in his modified Civic, the intercooler gleaming under the LED lights like a promise of trouble. The WRX was on your other side, its driver—a guy you didn’t recognize, late twenties, a baseball cap pulled low—cracking his neck side to side with the theatrical tension of someone who’d watched too many movies. The girl in the K-swapped Civic was behind you, engine ticking over with the tight, impatient rhythm of a turbo spooling against its wastegate.
The flagger raised his arm.
Your hand found the shifter. First gear. Clutch in. Throttle to the sweet spot—three thousand, hold it, feel the car strain against the brakes like a dog pulling at its leash. Your heartbeat was steady. Your breathing was even. Everything outside the windshield had gone soft and distant, the way it always did in the seconds before the green—the crowd noise flattening to a dull roar, the LED lights blurring into streaks of color, the smell of burnt rubber and beer and body spray condensing into a single, meaningless note.
The flag dropped.
You released the clutch and the brakes simultaneously, the way you’d practiced ten thousand times in empty parking lots and deserted stretches of road, and the car launched forward with a violence that pressed you into the seat. The tires bit—clean, no spin, no wasted energy—and you were through first gear before the WRX had found its footing, the tach needle swinging past redline and your hand already moving to second, third, the engine screaming its approval as you fed it everything it asked for.
The first turn came fast. You took it tight—tighter than the line you’d rehearsed, cutting inside the apex marker by a close margin because Jihoon was already trying to crowd you wide, his front bumper edging into your peripheral vision like something predatory. You held the line. Your right rear tire kissed the inside curb and the car shuddered once—a brief, violent protest—and then settled, and you were through, accelerating hard into the short straight before the second turn.
The manhole cover. You could see it ahead—a dark circle in the asphalt, slightly raised, slightly loose, the same one that had cost Jihoon a bumper last time. He’d remember it. He’d be cautious. You wouldn’t.
Your foot came off the pedal at the last possible moment, and the car rotated into the turn with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly how much grip you had left and being willing to use all of it. The manhole passed under your left tires with a dull, metallic thunk that you felt through the steering column, and you were already unwinding the wheel, already feeding power back in, already watching Jihoon in your rearview as he lifted—just barely, just enough—to avoid the cover, and the gap between you opened by half a car length.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
The third turn was sweeping and fast, the camber pulling you toward the outside guardrail, and you fought it with micro-adjustments of the wheel—tiny, instinctive corrections that kept the car on the line you’d drawn in your head three minutes ago. The tach sat at six thousand in fourth gear, the engine pulling hard and clean, no hesitation, no vibration, no sound that didn’t belong. Mingi’s bracket held. Mingi’s bolt held. The transmission mount sat silent and true beneath you, and you pushed harder because it let you.
The Busan kid was gaining. You could hear him—the high, tight whine of his turbo spooling, the sharp crack of his exhaust on overrun—and in your mirrors you could see the Civic’s headlights swelling, closing, eating the gap you’d built on the first two turns. He was fast. Jongho had been right about the cooling—you could see heat shimmer rising from his hood in the LED light—but he was fast enough that the fade wouldn’t matter if he caught you before the straight.
The fourth turn. The one that looked easy and wasn’t.
Jihoon had recovered from the manhole. He was on your right now, his front bumper level with your door, his engine screaming as he pushed for the inside line. You could see his face through his window—jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead with the desperate intensity of someone who’d bet more than he could afford to lose. His car was faster in a straight line. You both knew it. If he got past you before the fifth turn, the straight would belong to him, and you’d never close the gap.
You braked early.
You let the car slow a fraction of a second before the braking marker, and Jihoon took the bait. He shot past your bumper, diving for the inside, certain he’d found the opening, and you let him have it. You let him have the inside line on a turn that tightened at the exit, on a road that cambered outward, on an asphalt surface that was slightly rougher on the inside than the outside.
He realized his mistake a half-second too late. You saw it happen—the moment his wheels lost their grip, the moment the camber pulled him wide, the moment his rear end stepped out and he had to catch it with a correction that cost him speed, momentum, everything. You cut to the outside, carried your speed through the exit, and when you looked in your mirror, Jihoon was a full car length behind and fighting to stay on the road.
The straight opened ahead of you—flat, dark, the orange cones of the finish line glowing like distant candles. Fifth gear. Foot to the floor. Don’t lift. Don’t think. Just go.
The Civic was still there. The Busan kid had found something on the fourth turn—some line you hadn’t anticipated, some technique that kept his turbo spooled and his tires planted—and he was alongside you now, his front bumper creeping past yours inch by inch, his engine howling with the particular fury of a K-swap pushed past its comfort zone. Heat poured from his hood in visible waves. The cooling was failing. You could see it in the way his tach was fluctuating—dropping a hundred RPM, climbing back, dropping again—the engine fighting for air it couldn’t get.
But he was still moving. Still gaining. His front bumper was at your door. Then at your front wheel. Then past it.
The finish line was thirty seconds away. Maybe less. The cones were getting bigger, the crowd noise swelling from a dull roar to something sharp and specific—you could hear individual voices now, individual shouts, someone screaming your name.
You dropped to fourth. The engine screamed—past the redline, into territory you’d never asked it to visit, the tach needle buried in the red and the valves singing a song that was equal parts defiance and desperation. The car responded. It always responded. The RPMs climbed past anything the factory had ever intended, and the power came back—not smoothly, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to close the gap. Enough to pull even with the Civic’s rear bumper, then its door, then its front wheel.
The Busan kid looked over. You saw his face through his window—young, flushed, eyes wide with the particular shock of someone who’d been certain they’d won and was watching the certainty evaporate. He pushed the throttle harder. You heard his engine stutter—a single, violent misfire that cost him everything—and in that fraction of a second, you were past him.
The finish line. The cones. The flagger’s arm dropping.
You crossed first.
You knew it before the crowd told you. You knew it in the way the Civic’s headlights fell behind you, in the way the straight opened up empty ahead of your bumper, in the way the engine’s scream shifted from desperate to triumphant as you lifted off the throttle and let the car coast, the adrenaline still singing through your veins like electricity through a live wire.
The crowd erupted.
You could hear it even through the closed windows—a wall of sound that hit the car like a physical force, hundreds of voices merging into a single, incoherent roar of celebration. Phones were raised, flashlights swinging, the LED lights along the overpass pulsing in time with the bass from the speakers someone had turned up to maximum. You pulled into the turnout and cut the engine, and the sudden silence was immediately filled by the sound of people running toward your car, their boots pounding on the asphalt, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations and disbelief.
You sat there for a moment. Hands on the wheel. Breathing hard. The dashboard lights faded slowly, and the engine ticked its cooling song, and something behind your chest—something that had been wound tight since the starting line, since the moment you’d scanned the crowd and found him missing—unspooled all at once, leaving you lightheaded and grinning like an idiot.
The door opened from the outside.
Yuna was there, her face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, both hands gripping the door frame like she was afraid the car might try to escape. “You absolute madwoman! You insane, beautiful, completely unhinged—” She was pulling you out of the seat before you could unbuckle, her arms around your neck, her voice shouting directly into your ear at a volume that should have required a permit. “You killed it, babe! You beat them all! The Busan kid looked like he was going to cry!”
Soobin was right behind her, his flashlight still in his hand, his face flushed with the particular joy of someone who’d just won back the fifty dollars he’d lost on the blowout plus interest. “Dude, that fourth turn was insane! That was literally criminal, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal but who gives a fuck.”
You were laughing—you couldn’t stop, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and raw and entirely involuntary—and people were pressing in from all sides, hands clapping your shoulders, voices shouting your car’s name, your name, variations of your name that you’d never heard before. Someone had a bottle of champagne—the cheap kind, the kind that came in a green bottle with a foil label—and the cork popped with a sound like a gunshot, and foam sprayed across your hood in a wide, arcing fan that caught the LED light and turned to gold.
“Careful on my paint man!” you shouted, but you were laughing, and someone else had a second bottle, and then a third, and within seconds your car was glistening with cheap champagne, the hood dripping, the windshield streaked, the headlights wearing crowns of foam that slid slowly down the lenses. The crowd was chanting—your name, your car’s name, something rhythmic and obscene that Yuna had probably started—and you stood in the center of it with champagne in your hair and the particular, dizzying high of having done the thing you’d set out to do and done it perfectly.
Hongjoong materialized at your left shoulder, his twenty-dollar bill now folded neatly in his breast pocket, his expression one of grudging respect. “Not bad, kid.” He nudged your shoulder, which from Hongjoong was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.
Seonghwa was beside him, arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The bracket held,” he observed, like he’d been watching for exactly that and nothing else.
“Thank god for that, huh,” you confirmed, and the words came out slightly breathless, slightly giddy, and you wiped champagne from your eyebrow with the back of your hand and grinned at both of them like you’d just won the lottery.
And then you saw him.
He was at the edge of the crowd—tall, unmistakable, the white of his tank top bright against his leather jacket, dark jeans that had no right to fit the way they did. Hair pushed back. Rings shining brightly on his fingers and silver chains by his throat catching the light they always did. Both hands clean, the left one uninjured and wrapped around the stems of a bouquet he was holding down at his side with the careful, slightly uncertain grip of someone who had never bought flowers before and was now standing in a crowd of street racers holding flowers. Proudly wearing that stupid smile of his.
Mingi.
Your brain short-circuited. You blinked. You blinked again. The champagne was still dripping from your hair, and the crowd was still roaring, and Yuna was still screaming something in your ear that you couldn’t hear, and Mingi was there, standing at the edge of the turnout like he’d materialized from the very specific fantasy you’d been refusing to acknowledge for the past couple of weeks.
You pushed through the crowd. People moved aside—or you moved through them, you weren’t sure. The crowd parted like water, and you were running. Boots slapping against the champagne-wet asphalt, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Mingi lifted the bouquet from his side and held it out to you like an offering, like a confession, like the only thing he could think to bring to the most important moment of his week.
You took the flowers without breaking stride. Wildflowers, not the kind from a shop, the kind that grew along the riverbank where you’d pulled over that afternoon, blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in what looked like shop towel because Mingi didn’t own ribbon. Then you were launching yourself at him, both arms around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist because the momentum demanded it, because physics demanded it, because every molecule in your body demanded it.
He caught you. Of course he caught you—his free arm hooking under your thighs, the other still clutching the bouquet, his body absorbing the impact with the same easy, practiced confidence he brought to everything that mattered. You buried your face in his neck, and he smelled like something warm and new—aftershave, maybe?
The crowd erupted.
Not the race-winning eruption—something different, something bright, the particular sound of hundreds people collectively losing their minds over something they hadn’t known they were watching for. A chorus of whoops and whistles and someone—Yuna, definitely Yuna—screaming “OH MY GOD” at a frequency that could transcend both space and time. Phones were up, cameras flashing, and you could hear the cooing, the affectionate, slightly drunk awwww that rolled through the turnout like a wave, and someone shouted “KISS HER, BRO!” and someone else shouted “AW MAN I THOUGHT I HAD A CHANCE.” and the whole thing collapsed into laughter and applause that vibrated through the asphalt and up through Mingi’s chest and into yours.
His mouth was at your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and his voice was low—so low that only you could hear it, the words meant for you and you alone, tucked into the space between his jaw and your hair.
“Congratulations, my little racer,” he whispered. “You were incredible. I watched the whole thing from the overpass. You kicked their asses.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him—his face inches from yours, the gold in his eyes catching the LED light, the cut on his lip healed to a thin white line, the flowers crushed between your chest and his, releasing their faint, sweet smell into the narrow gap between your bodies.
“You came,” you beamed up at him, your voice came out breathless and disbelieving, like you were still waiting for the punchline. “I thought you said you couldn’t—the timing chain, the V6—”
“I pulled some strings.” His dimple appeared. “I finished the timing chain at nine. Drove straight here. Parked on the overpass and watched you absolutely murder that Civic.”
“You finished a timing chain in—”
“Did you forget that I’m very good at my job?” The smile was wide now, unashamed, the kind of smile that belonged in a movie montage, and you were laughing—both of you were laughing, your foreheads pressed together, the crowd still cheering around you like you’d invented something new.
He shifted his grip on you—adjusting, settling, his arm tightening under your thighs—and then he was walking. Carrying you. Back through the crowd, past Yuna who was filming with both hands and sobbing dramatically, past Soobin who gave you a thumbs-up that was mostly champagne foam, past Hongjoong who looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his world-weary composure and failing, past Seonghwa who was watching with the quiet, knowing satisfaction of someone who’d seen this coming from three months away.
Mingi’s mouth found your ear again. His lips brushed the shell of it—barely, accidentally, not-accidentally—and his voice dropped to that register that lived in the space between a whisper and a thought.
“Did you want to give them a show, hm?” The words were warm and teasing, his breath ghosting across your skin. “Because we could. We could stand right here and let them film every second. I’m sure everyone would appreciate the content.”
You shook your head against his shoulder—a quick, emphatic no—and felt him smile against your temple.
“Smart girl, aren’t you.” His arm tightened around you, possessive and gentle in equal measure. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
You reached into your back pocket without looking, your fingers finding the key fob by touch alone, and you pressed it into his free hand—the one not holding the bouquet, the one not holding you. He caught it without looking, the way he caught everything—tools, keys, the particular weight of your trust—and his fingers closed around it like it belonged there.
He carried you to the car. The crowd was still cheering, still filming, still living in the moment you’d already left behind, and Mingi set you down gently at the passenger door—your feet finding the ground, his hand lingering at the small of your back—and opened it for you with the same old habit, the one he never skipped. You slid into the seat, the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, and Mingi closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click.
He walked around the hood—you watched him through the windshield, the way he moved through the champagne-streaked light with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over on the first try, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be, and Mingi pulled out of the turnout with the kind of smooth, controlled precision that made your stomach flip.
The crowd fell away behind you. The LED lights shrank to pinpoints in the rearview. The champagne and the shouting and the bass-heavy music dissolved into the night, replaced by the sound of the engine and the wind through the open windows and the faint rustle of wildflowers in your lap.
══════════════════
The road unwound beneath you, and the city thinned to scattered streetlights and the occasional glow of a late-night convenience store. You held the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, their scent—something green and wild and faintly sweet—mixing with the smell of Mingi’s cologne that still clung to the upholstery. The radio was off. The engine hummed its steady, contented song. The wind through the open windows pushed your hair across your face, and you didn’t bother pushing it back.
Mingi’s hand left the wheel. You felt it before you saw it. The shift in the air, the subtle change in the weight distribution of the car as he turned his body slightly toward you. His fingers found yours on the center console, warm and rough and sure, and they laced through yours with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who’d been waiting to do exactly this and had decided that the waiting was over.
You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckle—once, twice—and then his grip tightened, just barely, and he lifted your hand from the console and brought it to his mouth.
His lips pressed against the back of your hand. Soft, deliberate, lingering. The kiss was warm and dry and over almost before it began, but it sent something electric cascading through your bloodstream, a current that started at the point of contact and raced up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs like a spark catching dry tinder.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t speak. You just watched him—the sharp line of his profile in the dashboard light, the way his jaw worked as he lowered your hand but didn’t let go, his thumb resuming its slow, circling pattern on your skin.
The car turned left. You recognised the road—the one that curved along the riverbank, the one you’d driven that afternoon with the windows down and the silence between you feeling like a promise. The water was dark now, reflecting the moon in long, broken ribbons of silver, and the trees along the bank stood in silhouette against the pale sky. The road narrowed to a single lane, then to gravel, and Mingi pulled into the empty parking lot.
He cut the engine.
The silence was immediate and total—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the river and the sound of your own breathing, which had gone slightly uneven without your permission. Mingi’s hand was still in yours. The flowers were still in your lap. The moonlight came through the windshield and painted everything in shades of blue and silver, and for a long moment neither of you moved.
Then Mingi turned in his seat.
He looked at you the way he looked at engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. His eyes moved from your face to the flowers in your lap and back, and something shifted in his expression—something vulnerable and warm and slightly terrified, the look of a man who’d decided to say something he’d been carrying for a long time and was now realizing there was no taking it back.
“I picked those,” he said, nodding at the bouquet. “From the riverbank. This morning, before the shop opened. I drove out here at five-thirty and walked along the water and picked the ones that looked the prettiest, reminded me of you.”
You looked down at the flowers. Blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in shop towel, slightly crushed from being held between your bodies during the champagne-soaked celebration. They were imperfect—wild, uneven, some of them already starting to droop—and they were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you.
“You drove out here at the ass crack of dawn” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “To get me flowers?”
“Mm.” His thumb was still moving on your hand—slow circles, steady and grounding. “I was going to give them to you at the race. Had this whole plan—I’d wait until you won, and then I’d walk up like it was nothing, suuuuper nonchalant. Like hey, congratulations, here are some flowers I found, no big deal.” He huffed a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “But then you came up and ambushed my whole plan.”
“You remembered the flowers.”
He turned to look at you—really look at you—with an expression you’d never seen on him before. Not the easy grin, not the teasing half-smile. Something quieter. Something that made your breath catch.
“You’re surprised?” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Sweetheart.” His voice was low, almost careful, like he was choosing each word by hand. “I remember your fancy oat milk creamer. I remember that you check your tire pressure four times before a race. I remember the little sound you make right before you shift, and the way your hands shake after, and you shove them in your pockets, so nobody sees.” His thumb stilled on your knuckles. “It’s you. How could I forget all the things that make you, you?”
The words landed in the space between you like stones dropped into still water. You could feel the ripples spreading—through your chest, through your stomach, through the places you’d been keeping locked and quiet for months.
“Mingi—”
“I know,” there was a thread of nervousness in his voice that you’d never heard before—not from him, not from the man who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning with one hand tied behind his back. “I know it’s a lot. And I know the timing is—I showed up at your race with riverbank flowers wrapped in shop towel, that’s not exactly—”
“No, It’s perfect,” you breathed.
He stopped. Blinked. “What?”
“It’s perfect.” You squeezed his hand, and your voice was steadier now, steadier than it had any right to be given the way your heart was trying to escape through your sternum. “The flowers are perfect. Showing up when you said you couldn’t is perfect. Finishing a timing chain in four hours to watch me race is—” You laughed, a little broken, a little giddy. “That’s the most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary thing anyone has ever done for me, and it’s absolutely perfect.”
His eyes went bright—not with tears, but with something close, something that made the gold in them catch the moonlight and hold it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You held his gaze, and the air between you had gone thick and warm and charged with something that had been building since the first time he’d called you sweetheart over the phone, since the first time he’d carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders, since the first time you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room.
“I’ve been remembering things too, you know. The way you talk to engines. The way you wrap cuts in electrical tape. The way you always open the door even though the hinges complain. The way you—” Your voice cracked, just barely, and you pushed through it. “The way you make me feel like I’m worth showing up for. Like I’m worth the overtime and the missed sleep and the riverbank flowers at five-thirty in the morning.”
Mingi’s hand tightened around yours. His jaw worked—once, twice—and when he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges, like something had been sanded down to its most honest layer.
“You are,” he said. “You’ve always been. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding—”
“Like a lovesick mechanic?”
The laugh that escaped him was startled and genuine, and it broke the tension like a window shattering—not violently, but completely, the barriers between you dissolving all at once. “Yeah,” he admitted, still laughing. “Like a lovesick mechanic who picks wildflowers at dawn and drives across the city to watch his girl race because he can’t stand the idea of her crossing the finish line without him there.”
His girl.
Your chest was so full it hurt. You looked at him, at the way his eyes were shining in the moonlight with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like love—and you made a decision.
You swung your leg over the centre console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the back of Mingi’s seat, and the flowers tumbled from your lap into the footwell—you’d apologise to them later—and you were halfway across when your back connected with the steering wheel.
BEEEEP!
The horn blared. One long, deafening, comically loud sound that shattered the romantic tension like a brick through a greenhouse window.
The sound bounced off the river and came back at you from three directions, and a flock of something erupted from the trees along the bank in a flurry of wings and indignant squawking.
You froze. Mingi froze. The horn kept blaring—your weight still pressing against the wheel—and for one horrible, eternal second the only sound in the universe was the aggressive, unwavering beep of your car announcing to every living creature within a half-kilometre radius that two people were having a moment.
Then Mingi laughed.
It started low—a rumble in his chest that you felt through the hand still pressed against his seat—and then it broke open, wide and bright and completely unrestrained, his head falling back against the headrest, his whole body shaking with it. You were laughing too. you couldn’t help it, the absurdity of it crashing over you like a wave. You shifted your weight off the horn, and the silence that followed was somehow even funnier than the noise had been.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I just—I can’t believe I did that.”
“So smooth,” Mingi confirmed, his voice cracking with laughter. “That’s going in the wedding vows. I’m putting it in our wedding vows one day.”
“Stop—” You were laughing too hard to finish the sentence. “This is so embarrassing.”
“To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and that one time you honked the horn with your back—”
You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wrist—easy, instinctive, the way he caught everything—and the laughter died between you like a candle guttering in a draft, and the silence that replaced it was different from the one before. Charged. Intentional. The kind of silence that had a destination.
You were in his lap.
You hadn’t fully registered it until this moment. The solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way your knees bracketed his hips, the way his free hand had found your waist and settled there with the kind of certainty that suggested it had been planning this landing for months. His face was inches from yours. You could see every detail—the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lower lip caught the moonlight and held it.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmured.
“Hi, pretty boy,” you whispered back.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you in with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided. Your chest met his, and through the thin cotton of his tank top you felt it: the hard press of a chain against your chest, cold metal warming fast between your bodies, and beneath it the steady knock of his heartbeat going just a little faster than it should have been. His other hand still had your wrist, his thumb resting over your pulse, and you had the dizzy, helpless thought that he could feel exactly what he was doing to you—every traitorous beat of it.
“Mingi,” you whispered.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice was low and rough, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “If you want me to stop, tell me now, because—”
You kissed him.
You didn’t hesitate. The need in your chest had built past the point of thinking, past the point of planning, leaving you with nothing but the gravitational certainty of wanting him so badly it hurt. You leaned in and claimed his mouth with both hands—one threading into his hair, the other cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble as you tilted his face toward yours. Your lips crashed together, all the trembling restraint of the last few months shattering between your teeth, and you kissed him with none of the gentleness you’d always thought a first kiss was supposed to have. It was hungry, greedy, almost angry—a collision of lips and breath and hands, your pent-up longing poured into the space of a single, shuddering breath.
Mingi met you with an equal, ferocious urgency. His hands found your hips and pulled you even closer, and the heat between your bodies was immediate, as if the months of flirting and 'what ifs' had been gasoline and someone finally struck the match. His mouth tasted like cool mint and something darker, sweeter, and you licked into him without thinking, chasing the sound he made when your tongue brushed his. He groaned, low in his throat, and the vibration went straight through your bones, finding all the places in you that had been waiting for this and lighting them up at once.
The kiss turned reckless almost instantly. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch and his lips part for you. His hands slid up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt at your waist, exposing a strip of skin that tingled in the cool air and then burned under the heat of his palms. He kissed you like he was trying to learn you—memorise you. Take as much as you would give and then ask for more, and you gave it to him gladly, shamelessly, your body moving in the small, instinctive ways that said yes, now, please.
He tasted you, mapped you, his breath coming faster as the kiss deepened, and when you broke away to gasp for air, his mouth didn’t leave your skin—it travelled along your jaw, down to your neck, finding the spot just beneath your ear that made your eyes flutter shut, and your nails dig into his shoulders. You heard yourself make a noise, helpless and wrecked, and felt him grin against your neck, triumphant.
You chased his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip, and he let you, let you take and take until you were dizzy with it, until nothing else existed except the press of his lips, the slide of his hands, and the wild, intoxicating rush of wanting him and being wanted back just as fiercely.
You barely heard yourself whisper his name as you pressed your forehead to his, breathing the same air, letting his hands anchor you while the rest of the world spun out beneath you.
He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him. You kissed him back like you wanted to ruin him too. You lost track of time. Of the river outside, of the moon overhead, of anything that wasn’t the taste of him and the weight of his hands on your body.
When you finally separated, both of you breathing hard, his hands were still at your waist and your fingers were still in his hair. He was looking at you like a starved man, a little wrecked and utterly, unironically smitten.
“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” you heard yourself say, voice shaky but certain.
He grinned, slow and devastating, and pulled you in for another, softer kiss, barely a brush of lips but somehow more intimate than everything before. “You know damn well that I would’ve let you,” he breathed, and you felt the words all the way down your spine.
You kissed him again.
This time it was deeper, hungrier, his hands sliding up your sides with a deliberateness that made your skin prickle. His thumbs hooked under the hem of your shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips.
“Lift your arms for me, baby.”
You did, arms lifting without hesitation, and he peeled the fabric up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the driver’s seat without looking. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you shivered— but not from the cold. His gaze darkened as it dropped to your chest, and his fingers went to the clasp of your bra with the same practiced ease he used on engine bolts. One flick, and the band loosened. He didn’t pull it away yet, just let the straps slide down your shoulders an inch at a time, his knuckles grazing your skin like a promise.
“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough. “Look at you.” His thumb traced the edge of the lace, teasing the swell of your breast before finally dragging the fabric away.
The air hit your nipples first, tightening them instantly, but then his hands were there—warm, calloused, cupping you with a reverence that made your breath catch. He rolled one peak between his fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure as you gasped, then leaned in to take the other into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he teased you, alternating between gentle suction and sharp little nips that sent sparks straight to your core.
“S’not fair I’m half naked, and you’re still fully dressed,” you whined, tugging at his own shirt. He smirked and let you pull it over his head, revealing the lean muscle you’d been thinking about all evening—all week, if you were being honest. His chains pooled against his collarbones, still warm from his skin. Your fingers went to them before you’d made any conscious decision to, looping them gently, feeling the small links drag across your knuckles as you gave a slow, idle tug.
“Fuck… Damn,” you breathed, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.
Mingi’s laugh was low and pleased. “Yeah? That’s all you’ve got for me?”. His hands were already on your hips, guiding you down onto his lap, and the words dissolved into something more primal when you settled against him.
You rolled your hips experimentally, and the sound he made—half groan, half growl—went straight to the blooming heat of your pussy. His fingers dug into your waist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to steer, and you found a rhythm that had both of you panting against each other’s mouths.
“That’s it,” he drawled, his voice dropping into that register that made your stomach flip. “Always so pretty f'me.”
You ground down harder, chasing the friction, and his head fell back against the headrest. His throat was right there, and you kissed it, nipped at it.
“Backseat,” the command in his tone sent a thrill down your spine. “Now.”
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
“Go to the backseat. I’m not doing this half-assed in the front of your car.” His hands were already pushing you off his lap, and you stumbled out of the driver’s side, your legs unsteady. He followed, unfolding his long frame from the passenger seat with considerably less grace.
You both climbed into the back—you first, sliding across the leather—and then Mingi ducked in after you. Or tried to. His head connected with the roof with a solid thunk, and he winced, rubbing the spot with a rueful grin.
“Jesus—Forgot this car is so tiny. Might need to buy you a bigger car if we're going to do this again.”
You burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something bright and giddy. “It’s a perfectly normal-sized car! You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at all six feet of him.
“I’m just what?” He was grinning now too, that lopsided smile that crinkled his eyes. He settled beside you, the space suddenly very, very small. “Don't get shy on me now.”
“Massive,” you smirked, and the word came out breathier than you intended.
His eyes darkened. “Is that so? You know…My height isn’t the only thing that’s massive.” Instead of answering, you pulled him into another kiss, and he let you for a moment before pulling back, his hand on your jaw
“Lie back for me, baby.” He nodded toward the door behind you. “Right there.”
You shifted, letting your back find the door, the handle pressing briefly into your shoulder blade before you angled away from it. Your upper body sank against the cool window, your legs stretching across the seat toward him. The leather was cold against the backs of your thighs. Mingi settled in the footwell—knees at his chest, impossibly folded—and reached for the button of your jeans.
“Lift your hips.”
You did. He worked your jeans down your legs, his hands trailing fire along your skin, then dealt with your boots—one lace, then the other—and you kicked them off into the darkness somewhere near the front seats.
Then it was just you, stretched across the backseat in your panties, propped against the door with Mingi crouched between your knees, looking up at you like you were something worth taking his time with.
“Spread your legs wider,” he drawled.
Your breath caught. “Mingi—”
“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His voice was velvet over steel, and your thighs fell open almost involuntarily. “Good girl.”
His hands settled on your knees, and he just looked at you—all of you, laid out for him. The parking lot light filtered amber through the windows. You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he coos, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh and stopping long before you needed him.
“Please,” you managed, voice trembling.
He flashed that infuriating smile and inched his thumb higher, then paused. “Please what? You’re my smart girl—you can use your words.”
“You know what I want,” you whispered, voice cracking.
He reached up, cupping your face and tilting your chin until you met his gaze. “If you want something, you have to use your words.”
You wanted to kill him—or kiss him. Maybe both. “Touch me properly. Please, Mingi, I need—”
“Shh.” At last his thumb brushed the edge of your underwear and you whined. “Good job, baby. That’s all you had to say.”
He shifted forward, knees braced against your thighs, steam and intent filling the small space between you. His eyes were dark, fixed on the bare skin just above his reach. When you looked down, your heart stuttered—he was entirely present, and you trembled before his touch even arrived.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, voice absolute. You obeyed, so helplessly drawn in that you’d have done anything he asked.
His touch feathered across your knee crease, drifting upward along the line where your skin warmed with anticipation. He watched every shiver, every hitch of your breath, lingering on the inner curve of your thigh. You squirmed; his hands held you steady, grounding you with effortless strength.
When your lids fluttered closed, he cleared his throat, and you snapped them open, mortified by how much it turned you on. He extended each second, building tension until you felt you might scream.
Finally, his thumb caught the elastic of your underwear, teasing the fabric. He leaned in close enough for each breath to scorch your skin. “Want it right here don’t you, baby?”
You nodded, barely able to whisper, “I do, Please Mingi...”
He rewarded you with a devastating smile and hooked both thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He held your gaze as he folded the fabric and tucked it into his back pocket, casual as anything, like he was keeping it. Then his hand found you, fingers gathering your slickness, mapping every gasp and twitch as he traced your clit in gentle, maddening circles.
Your hips bucked, and he murmured, “Easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” But instead of rushing, he slowed, keeping you perched at the edge. Your knees knocked against his shoulders as he leaned back to admire his work.
“You look so perfect like this,” he breathed, voice low and ragged, “alll of this just for me.” He paused, satisfaction in every curve of his smile, as though he’d painted a masterpiece with his own two hands.
“Please, Mingi, p-please,” you heard yourself beg, the words rolling out of you shameless and raw.
He gave in, at last, sliding one long finger inside you, the sensation so intense you almost blacked out. The stretch and the heat and the pressure, all of it hit you at once, and your hands flew to his shoulders, digging in.
He curled that finger, just so perfectly, and when you arched off the car door, he kept pace, never breaking that perfect eye contact, never letting you drift even a second away from his attention.
He pumped his finger with a slow, luxurious rhythm, letting you ride the wave until you could hardly breathe. “So fucking tight, need to get you all ready for me,” he whispered, the pride in his voice made you even wetter. His thumb came up to circle your clit again, this time with purpose, dialling your body up to eleven in the space of a heartbeat.
He added a second finger, stretching you wider, and that was it—you were gone, hips rolling, head tossed back, mouth open in a silent scream. He pressed his face against your thigh, biting softly, and the feeling of his teeth and tongue sent shivers through your whole body.
But even when you tried to hide your face behind your hands, to ride the sensation out in the darkness of your palms, he stopped, pulling his hand away just long enough to force your gaze back to his.
“Don't you hide that cute face from me. I wanna see all of you.”
"Ah! M-mingi, fuck!" You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingertips were already hitting so sinfully against your g-spot. You gripped onto his forearms for purchase, steadying yourself against his promiscuous rythmn.
He kept his fingers moving through it—curling, stroking, finding that sweet spot again and again with devastating precision, the filthy wet sounds of your cunt filling the silence of the car each time he drove his fingers deeper.
"You're taking my fingers so well," Mingi cooed, picking up the pace even faster.
Broken moans left your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he pulled them apart with his free hand, firm and unhurried, spreading you back open without ever breaking his rhythm.
“You’re close, aren't you?” He murmured, not as a question rather as a statement. His voice was low and honeyed, that lazy confidence threading through every word like he’d mapped out every single one of your reactions before you’d even felt them. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so pretty around my fingers, baby.”
You whined, high and desperate, because he was right and he knew he was right and the worst part was that he sounded so goddamn pleased about it.
“That’s it. Don’t fight it.” His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers splayed wide against your skin, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee like it was something sacred. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
The coil in your belly pulled tighter, tighter, and your hands fisted in the leather seat because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing solid in a world that had narrowed down to the curl of his fingers inside you and the rough velvet of his voice.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Right on my hand. Show me how good I made you feel.”
You shattered.
It hit you like a wall of white noise, blinding and electric, and your back arched clean off the backseat as you came apart around him. His fingers didn’t stop for a second. If anything they slowed, drawing it out, wringing every last shudder and pulse from your body until you were trembling and gasping and completely, utterly ruined.
He watched you the entire time. You cracked your eyes open at some point and found him staring down at you with that crooked half-smile, the one that always made your stomach flip even when you were too wrung out to do anything about it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in it. “Look at you.”
He pulled his fingers free slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was bringing his hand up between your puffy folds gathering the remains of your pleasure on his digits.
You watched, still trembling, your chest heaving, as he slipped those slick fingers them between his lips and sucked them clean with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pleasure that made your thighs clench all over again. His eyes never left yours, dark and heavy-lidded, and the sound he made—a low, appreciative hum—vibrated through the small space between you.
“So sweet,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop. He licked the pad of his thumb, slow and thorough, like he was tasting something worth savouring. “So fucking perfect. You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused, searching for the word, and the half-smile that curved his mouth was devastating. “And I've imagined it a lot.”
Your face burned. Your entire body burned. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, from the way his tongue traced the line of his knuckles, from the way his eyes went half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.
You made a noise that was supposed to be indignation but came out embarrassingly close to a moan. “Such a fucking perv.”
“Mm.” He lowered himself over you, bracing his weight on one forearm against the back of the seat, and pressed his lips to the corner of your jaw. Still wet. Still tasting like you. “You love it though.”
You did. God help you, you really did.
He lowered his hand and reached for you, his palm warm against your hip, guiding you with that easy, unhurried confidence that made your knees weak even when you were already lying down.
“Come lie down properly, you know I don’t bite,” he purred, and you obeyed—sliding backward onto the leather seat, letting him guide you. His hands traced your spine like he was tuning something precious. He shifted, smoothing your body until you lay flat, legs splayed, arms above your head, torso exposed beneath the cool leather.
He hovered over you, one hand on your hip to anchor you, the other brushing your inner thigh. The door handle pressed into your shoulders, the stickiness of the leather biting into your ribs, but none of it mattered. Only Mingi’s heat and the slow, hungry gleam in his eyes.
“How flexible are you?” he asked, as casually as if checking the time.
Your mind still foggy, you blinked. “I’d say I’m pretty flexible. Why?”
He hummed, hands sliding beneath your hips with mechanical precision, and lifted. Your lower body left the seat entirely, suspended in the air, nothing beneath your but his grip. You grabbed for something to hold and found his thighs—thick and solid under your palms, the denim warm.
“Is this okay?” he murmured. You nodded as you dug your fingers in his thighs.
Then his mouth was on you.
His tongue was a live wire, tracing a slow, molten path from where you ached to where you burned. The first drag of it—flat, deliberate, searing—sent a jolt through you like a spark plug firing. Your hips jerked upwards in his grasp, a broken sound clawing its way out of your throat. Mingi hummed against you, the vibration a deep, resonant purr that thrummed through your bones, your nerves, your very core. He explored you like he was memorizing a blueprint—each ridge, each sensitive fold, each flutter of muscle beneath his lips. His tongue lingered where your breath hitched, swirled where your thighs trembled, pressed where your pulse hammered like a piston in overdrive.
“M-Mingi—fuck, feels so good!” Your voice was raw, shredded by the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.
His grip on your hip intensified, fingertips biting into your flesh with an urgency that made your spine arch. You could feel the imprint he was leaving on your skin—five points of possession, claiming you as his even as you squirmed helplessly in his hold. The other hand slid up, tracing the natural curve of your back with almost reverent care before splaying wide and holding you there, helplessly suspended, a perfect angle for his tongue to do its damage. The cold air inside the car prickled against the sweat beading along your skin, but the contrast only sharpened the focus of every hot, wet, maddeningly precise thing Mingi was doing between your thighs.
He worked you with a methodical, almost mechanical intensity, the kind you’d seen him use on the shop floor with a stubborn bolt or a seized part—determined, relentless, and utterly sure of himself. His mouth didn’t just tease; it engineered your pleasure, tracing out every sensitive ridge and dip, every stuttering gasp and involuntary twitch. He learned you so quickly it was terrifying—every time you tried to twist away or clamp your knees shut, he countered, easily, like a wrench snapping onto a stripped nut. You had no leverage. No hope. Just the inevitability of what he was building in you.
He alternated, sometimes flattening his tongue and dragging it up your puffy pussylips in one long, slow burn, sometimes isolating the spot that made your vision strobe, focusing the pressure until you were clawing at his jeans and choking on your own moans. There was no rhythm to fall into, no lull; just spikes of pleasure, sharp and unpredictable, wracking through you until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He hummed again, the sound low and smug, vibrating straight into your core like a tuning fork.
Somewhere in the haze, you realized you’d started to beg. Not with words, not at first—just hoarse little whimpers, your ragged breathing an open admission of defeat. But then the words tumbled out, torn from you by the merciless grind of his tongue. “Please, Mingi, please, please, I can’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or more, always more.
He paused only long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with heat and satisfaction. “I thought you could handle more, baby?” he rasped, breath fanning over your swollen flesh.
“I can-fuck, I can handle it.” you snarl back, your words having no real bite behind them. Mingi knows that, hell, even you know that.
He bent to his work with renewed vengeance—faster now, chasing your pleasure like it was something he could catch and pin down. The car’s interior filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your body betraying you, slick and desperate under his assault. The seat vibrated under your head as you started to thrash, your legs locked tight around his shoulders, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the meat of his thighs.
Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, a shrill warble that barely penetrated the cocoon of sensation. The world could have ended around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not when he was doing this, not when he was making you feel like your whole body had been rewired for his touch alone.
He played you up and down the scale, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless, reading every clench and flutter with greedy satisfaction. When he sensed you hovering on the knife’s edge, he eased off, letting you breathe for exactly two seconds before diving back in, measuring out your pleasure in cruel increments. He wanted you to break. He wanted to see it.
And you did.
Then he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard. The sensation detonated through you, a backfire of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You came apart with a cry, your voice fracturing on his name, the seat shuddering beneath your frantic grip. The orgasm wasn’t just a release—it was a full-system failure, white-hot and all-consuming, waves of sensation crashing over you like a blown gasket. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in his grasp as he drew it out, his tongue still working, still demanding, still taking until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess of sweat and tears.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick with small strings of your arousal hung between his lips and your dripping cunt. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving like you’d just run a 10km marathon, your arms limp, your legs still trembling in the cradle of his hands.
He blew warm breath against your thigh and groaned, part laugh, part moan. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re incredible. So good for me, my sweet girl.”
Then he rose, slow and deliberate, his body unfolding from between your legs with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. Your breath still came in short, hitching gasps as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the headrest beside your temple, the other still tangled with your fingers.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said enough—hungry, satisfied in a way that was only temporary, the kind of satisfaction that fueled something deeper. He tilted your chin up with his free hand, thumb tracing your lower lip, and then he was kissing you.
His mouth was hot and wet and you—the unmistakable taste of your own release still clinging to his tongue as it swept past your lips. The flavor was sharp, musky, intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn even hotter. You moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled against his mouth, your body still trembling with the aftershocks that his taste seemed to reignite. He swallowed the sound like it was something precious, his hand sliding from your chin to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.
You could feel the rough texture of his calloused fingers against your jaw, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him filling your lungs with every ragged breath you shared. His tongue moved against yours with the same deliberate precision he’d used between your thighs—methodical, thorough, tasting every corner of your mouth like he was cataloging you. The kiss was filthy and tender all at once, possessive in a way
You couldn’t speak. Still pulsing with aftershocks, you looked and saw him—flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger sharpened, not sated. His hand found yours on the seat, fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently.
“Still with me?” he whispered, genuine concern in his voice, as careful as checking an engine after a hard run. You nodded, something warm and new cracking open behind your sternum.
You squeezed his hand back. “Still here,” you managed, and your voice was hoarse, barely recognisable. “Want… more.”
His eyes went dark—deeper, hungrier, the look of a man who’d been holding himself back by a thread and just heard the thread snap. “More,” he repeated, and the word came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across silk. “Does my baby want more?”
You nodded. “Please. I need—I need to feel you inside me, Mingi.”
The sound he made was barely human—a low, guttural growl that started in his chest and vibrated through the console into your bones. Then his hands were on you, sure and unhurried, guiding you forward until your stomach met the centre console, the leather cool against your bare skin. He arranged you with careful, deliberate hands—chest down, hips tilted back toward him, your ass and cunt angled up and open, completely exposed to whatever he wanted to do next.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. “Don’t move. Keep your hips up, just like that—perfect, sweetheart, perfect.”
You stayed. The hard edge of the gear shift dug into your body and none of it mattered because Mingi’s hands were on you, warm and sure.
His hand left your hip. You heard the rustle of denim, the soft clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of fabric being pushed down—and your heart hammered so hard you were certain he could hear it, certain it was echoing off the windows and the river and the moon. You glanced over your shoulder to watch him, he smirked when he realised you were watching him, then pulled down his boxers.
Precum was already oozing from his pinkish mushroom tip. Mingi wasn’t kidding, he was fucking massive. A good 7 to 8 inches you thought to yourself. You reached behind you and pumped the base of his cock, earning a low groan from him as you traced your thumb across the head. Mingi twitched in your palm and gently bucked his hips into your hand.
Mingi’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek as you squeezed him again, your thumb swirling another lazy circle around his tip just to watch his nostrils flare. His hand closed over yours—large, warm, calloused—and stilled your movements.
“Careful,” he moaned, his voice had dropped into that dangerous register, the one that sounded like a warning label on something flammable. “You keep teasing me like that and you’re gonna regret it, sweetheart.”
You bit your lip, a grin spreading despite yourself. “Regret what, exactly?”
His eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what.”
You didn’t stop. You couldn’t help it. The power of making him twitch, of watching his composure crack, was intoxicating. You gave him one more deliberate pump, slow and tight, your fingers curling just the way you knew would make his hips buck.
“Mingi, I don’t think you’d actually be so big—”
The words died in your throat because he was moving, shifting behind you with that fluid, predatory grace that made your stomach drop. His hand left yours and found the small of your back, pressing you flat against the console. You felt the blunt, hot head of him drag through your slick—not pushing, not entering, just smearing—trailing a path of your own arousal along your swollen, desperate entrance with agonizing precision.
You clenched. Your body tried to pull him in, hips tilting back, chasing the pressure that wasn’t there. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, fluttering, aching, empty.
“Mingi—please—”
“Uh-uh.” His voice was velvet over steel, warm and utterly merciless. “You had your chance to behave. You didn’t take it.”
Then his hand was on your ass. Not gently or tentatively. His palm settled against the curve of your right cheek with a weight that made your breath catch, his fingers spreading wide, and for one suspended moment he just held you there like he was claiming his territory.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, almost to himself, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the crease where your thigh met your ass. “Such a shame, you just had to be a brat, didn’t you?”
The first spank landed without warning.
His palm connected with your right cheek with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the car’s interior like a gunshot. The sound was obscene—wet, resonant, the kind of sound that made your face burn and your cunt clench simultaneously. The pain bloomed hot and bright, spreading across your skin in a wave that crested and broke into something that wasn’t pain at all—something electric, something that lit up every nerve ending it touched and sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
You gasped. Your fingers scrabbled against the dashboard, and Mingi made a sound—low, satisfied, the sound of a man who’d just confirmed a hypothesis and found the results exceeded every expectation.
“Again,” you whimpered at the impact. “Harder, Mingi.”
“Tsk, Greedy girl,” he murmured, but there was no admonishment in it. Only warmth, only approval, only the particular pleasure of being asked for exactly what he wanted to give. His hand came down again—left cheek this time, harder, the impact ringing through your bones—and you cried out, your hips jerking forward, your body chasing the sting like it was oxygen.
He spanked you three more times—alternating sides, each one landing with a precision that spoke to practice, or instinct, or both. The pain built in layers, each impact compounding the last, until your entire ass was burning and your cunt was so wet you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs. You were moaning openly now, embarrassing, desperate sounds that you’d never made in your life, sounds you’d have been mortified by if anyone but Mingi could hear them.
And still—still—he didn’t push inside you. His cockhead just rested there, right at your entrance, hot and heavy and right there, and every time your hips shifted back to try and take him, he pulled away just enough to deny you.
“Min—baby please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—”
“You’ll be good?” he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around. “I asked you to stop teasin' me but you didn't listen, baby. Look where that got you.”
His hand smoothed over the burning skin of your ass, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting even as he stoked it. The gentleness was almost worse than the spanking. The tenderness in contrast to the punishment making your eyes sting.
He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ll get what I give you, when I decide to give it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And right now, I think you need to learn some patience.”
His hand returned between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your arousal before circling your entrance again still refusing to push inside. You whined, your hips bucking desperately against his teasing touch.
“Aww you poor thing,” he chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So wet. So desperate. All because you couldn’t resist being a brat.”
You were beyond words now, reduced to incoherent sounds of need as he continued his torment. The spanks had left your skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alight, amplifying the sensation of his fingers as they traced patterns around your entrance without ever granting you the penetration you craved.
When he finally, mercifully, pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sobbed with relief. But he didn’t push in—he just held it there, letting you feel the heat and weight of him without giving you what you needed.
“Still want to tease me?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“No,” you gasped, shaking your head frantically. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll be good I-I promise…”
He rewarded your submission with a slow, deliberate push—just the head of his cock entering you, stretching you just enough to make your breath catch. Then he stopped again, pulling back slightly.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough with restraint.
“You,” you panted, your fingers gripping the dashboard so hard your knuckles turned white. “All of you. Please, just fuck me, Mingi.”
The sound he made sent shivers down your spine. “That's my girl. Look how easy that was when you just ask nicely.” he murmured, and then he was pushing forward. His fingers were spreading you open, and you felt his cock—hot, heavy, already slick—pressing against your entrance with a pressure that made your whole body clench in anticipation.
“Hands,” he said, the command was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.
You reached back automatically, and his hand caught both of your wrists in one grip and pulled them behind your back. His fingers laced through yours, locking your hands together, and the position pushed your chest forward, your breasts pressing into the console, your back arching in a curve that left you completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.
“Now, be a good girl and stay still for me, okay?” He instructed, and you gripped your own hands, your fingers interlaced behind your back, held in place by the warm cage of his palm. The restraint was gentle but unyielding, and the vulnerability of it—the inability to move, to brace, to control anything about what was happening to you—sent a wave of heat through your body so intense it bordered on vertigo.
Then he was pushing inside you.
Slow. So slow. Inch by agonising inch, his cock stretching you open with a fullness that made your breath stutter and your vision white-out at the edges. You were still sensitive from before, still trembling with aftershocks, and the sensation of him filling you—thick, relentless, every ridge and vein pressing against walls that were already singing—was almost too much. You whimpered against the console, your fingers tightening behind your back, and Mingi groaned above you—low, broken, the sound of a man who was fighting for control and losing.
“Fuck—fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart—” His voice cracked on the last word, and his free hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “So perfect. So goddamn perfect for me.”
He bottomed out, and the feeling of him—fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside you—drove the air from your lungs. You could feel his heartbeat through the point of connection, fast and strong and slightly out of rhythm, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the same impossible, electric space.
Then he pulled back and thrust forward, and the world narrowed to nothing.
The angle was devastating with the console holding your hips at exactly the right height, the position forcing him deep, deeper than you’d thought possible, every stroke hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You couldn’t move. Your hands were locked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, turned every nerve in your body into a live wire.
“Mingi—oh my god, oh fuck—” The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your voice cracking on every syllable, and you felt him shift behind you—adjusting, finding the angle, his hips snapping forward with a precision that told you he was paying attention to every sound you made, every hitch in your breathing, every involuntary clench of your body around him.
“I want to hear you,” he growled, and his voice was rough, wrecked, barely holding together. “Every sound. Every moan. Every time I make you feel good, I want to hear it. Don’t hold back. Don’t be quiet. I’ve been thinking about the sounds you make—” His hips pressed forward, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp. “—for months. So be loud for me, baby.”
He punctuated the words with a thrust that drove the air from your lungs, and the sound you made was loud—embarrassingly loud, the kind of sound that would have carried across the parking lot if anyone had been there to hear it—and Mingi groaned like you’d punched him.
“Louder,” he demanded, and his hand tightened on your wrists, pulling them higher up your back, the new angle arching your spine and pressing your chest harder against the console. “You think I pulled up to this abandoned car park to hear you be quiet?”
You laughed—or tried to, the sound dissolving into a moan as he hit that spot again, that devastating, mind-melting spot that turned your bones to liquid. “You—you’re such an asshole—mmf!”
“Mm-hm.” His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and the console creaked beneath you. “And you love it. Now be loud for me, baby. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He set a devastating rhythm—deep, relentless, each thrust measured and deliberate. His cock dragging against every sensitive point inside you with a precision that bordered on cruel. You couldn’t hold back. You didn’t try. The sounds poured out of you. Moans and whimpers and half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain could still form.
Each thrust pulled another sound from your throat, each one louder than the last, and Mingi fed on them. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his breathing went ragged, in the way his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the particular pitch of your voice that told him he was doing something right.
“So—fuck, so fucking tight,” he panted, and his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your spine. “My pretty little slut to ruin.”
His free hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing flat against your abdomen, and you could feel him through the thin wall of muscle—the thick, heavy shape of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open with every thrust—and the obscenity of it, the visceral, undeniable reality of being filled so completely, made you sob.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. “You were made to take this cock.”
He established a rhythm—steady, unhurried, each thrust deep enough to hit the spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. The console creaked beneath you with every movement, the gearshift vibrating against your hip, the leather squeaking where your skin met it. The sounds were so pornographic. Wet, rhythmic, the slap 'plap, plap, plap' of skin against skin punctuated by your increasingly desperate moans and Mingi’s low, ragged breathing.
You kept your promise. You were loud. Every thrust pulled a gasps, moans, whimpers and broken versions of his name that dissolved into nothing before they finished. When he angled his hips and found the spot that made you see stars. The pleasure was so euphoric you felt fat wads of tears trailing down your face.
“Right there, baby?” he grunted, barely controlled. “That feel good?”
“Yes—fuck, yes, right there, d-don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
He didn’t stop. He shifted his angle, changed the depth, found the exact position that had your entire body lighting up like a switchboard and he stayed there, driving into you with a precision that was almost mechanical in its consistency. Each thrust hit the same spot, built the same pressure, sent the same cascade of pleasure rolling through you in waves that grew taller and closer together with every repetition.
His free hand left your hip and found your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. His mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw. Sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d find tomorrow. The overwhelming combination of sensations—his cock inside you, his hand in your hair, his teeth on your neck—pushed you toward the edge with a speed that was almost frightening.
“Min—Mingi, I’m close, I’m so close—”
“I know, baby.” His voice was strained, the words coming in sharp bursts between thrusts. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so hard—fuck, sweetheart.”
His hand left your hair and slid down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch was electric. A direct connection to the live wire of your pleasure and you completely fell apart.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, no warning, no build up, just a sudden detonation that ripped through your body and turned every muscle to liquid fire. Your walls clamped down around his dick, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves, and Mingi’s breath hitched—a sharp, broken sound that told you he was right there with you. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and his thrusts grew slower, sloppier, the precise mechanical rhythm dissolving into something raw and desperate.
His fingers kept working your clit through your high, drawing out every last tremor, and you could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead and chest onto your back. The ministrations he had on your clit wasn’t his normal teasing ones. It felt like he was spelling something out—S-O-N-G M-I-N-G-I. You gasp at the realisation. The bastard wrote his name on your clit. He didn’t pause, didn’t pull away, just kept moving inside you through the wreckage of your own orgasm.
“Gonna cum, baby,” he rasped, and his voice was wrecked—scraped raw, barely recognizable, the voice of a man hanging by a thread. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you whimper, the word torn from you as another wave crested and broke. You were still coming, still trembling, still clenching around him in pulses that you couldn’t control, and you were pretty sure if he kept going like this, kept hitting your sweet spot, kept his fingers on your clit—he’d pull another orgasm from you before you’d even finished the first. “Want it inside, need it inside. Need you s’bad ohmygod.”
He groaned as his hips snapped forward three more times, deep and deliberate, each one driving the air from your lungs. Then his entire body locked, every muscle going rigid, and you felt him spill inside you—hot, thick, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.
“Wait, baby—don’t do that,” he choked out weakly when your cunt fluttered around him, trying to milk every last drop.
His cock twitched inside you, still sensitive, still spilling, and you hummed—content, satisfied, smug—at the feeling of him filling you up exactly the way you’d asked. He laughed, the sound hoarse and breathless, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.
“You’re greedy,” he murmured, carefully lowering himself until his chest pressed flush against your back. His body was warm despite the sweat, solid and heavy and grounding, and you felt him press a kiss to the nape of your neck—soft, almost tender, completely at odds with the animal intensity of the last twenty minutes.
“Mm,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands were still locked behind your back, still held in his grip, and you made no move to free them. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay exactly like this—trapped between the console and his body, filled and claimed and utterly, completely his.
Mingi’s grip loosened on your wrists. His fingers uncurled from yours, and your hands fell to your sides, tingling with returning blood flow. His forehead was still pressed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat against your back, slowly, slowly beginning to steady.
“Are you okay?” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was wrecked—hoarse and tender and slightly dazed, like he’d just woken from a dream he wasn’t sure was real.
You turned your head on the console, your cheek pressed against the leather, and managed a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Barely.”
He laughed—a warm, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back and into your chest—and his arms came around you, gathering you against him with a gentleness that made your chest swell with love. He pulled you upright, carefully, mindful of the cramped space and the awkward angle, and you collapsed back against his chest, your body boneless and trembling, your head falling against his shoulder.
His arms were warm around you, his heartbeat steadying beneath your ear, and the world was slowly reassembling itself from the scattered pieces the orgasm had left behind. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, his fingers drawing circles that made your skin prickle with renewed sensitivity.
His face was right there—inches away, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slightly parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the moonlight that filtered through the windows. You looked at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, and at the flush still high on his cheekbones, shifted in your chest. You turned your head and found his mouth with yours.
The kiss was different this time. Slower. Softer. The desperate, hungry collision of before had given way to something deeper, something that tasted like relief and wonder and the particular sweetness of a thing you’d been waiting for without admitting you were waiting. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and you felt him smile into the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft and slightly unfocused, the way they got when he was looking at something he couldn’t believe was real, and you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.
Then you moved.
You shifted in his lap, turning your body, swinging one leg over his hips until you were straddling him—facing him, your knees pressed into the leather on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. The position was awkward in the cramped backseat—your head nearly brushing the roof, your knees at angles that would make a chiropractor weep—but you didn’t care. You looked down at him, at the way his eyes went wide and dark and hungry all at once, and something hot and liquid pooled low in your belly.
His hands found your waist immediately. Both of them, warm and rough, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hipbones through the thin barrier of your skin. His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, and the sound he made—low, appreciative—sent a shiver cascading down your spine.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed, and his hands slid upward, tracing the line of your ribs with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact. “Now this is a view I could get used to.”
You rolled your hips. The movement was deliberate. Slow, grinding, your cunt dragging along the length of his cock where it lay heavy and spent against his stomach. You felt him twitch, felt the soft sound he made vibrate through his chest, and you did it again—slower this time, more pressure, watching his face the whole time.
His hands tightened on your waist. His jaw clenched. His eyes went dark—not the playful dark, not the teasing dark, but the deep, consuming dark of a man who was being given something he hadn’t known to ask for.
“Again,” he groaned, his voice was rough, wrecked, the words barely holding together. “Do that again.”
You did. You rolled your hips in a slow, circular motion that pressed your clit against the base of his cock, and the friction—combined with the oversensitivity still singing through your nerves—made your breath catch. You braced your hands on his shoulders and lifted your hips, just enough to shift the angle, and when you sank back down. Taking him inside you in one smooth, devastating stroke.
His head fell back against the seat, his throat exposed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, and you felt his cock twitch inside you—still soft, still recovering, but the sensation of being filled, of being stretched around him even in this state, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through your core.
“Holy shit…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re gonna kill me. You know that, right?”
You smiled slow and deliberate. “Good.” Then, you started to move.
Not fast. Not yet. You set a torturous rhythm. Slow, grinding, your hips rolling in tight circles that dragged his cock against every sensitive wall inside you. You kept your eyes on his face, cataloguing every reaction—the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into your hips when you changed the angle, the way his eyes went half-lidded and glassy when you found the spot that made his whole body tense.
His hands never stopped moving.
They traced your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your lower back. Like he was trying to touch every inch of you at once and couldn’t decide where to start. His hands were everywhere, and each point of contact sent sparks cascading through your nervous system, building on the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly.
Then his hands found your breasts.
You felt the shift in his attention before you saw it. His gaze dropping, his breath catching, his hands moving with a new kind of intention. His palms cupped you from below, lifting, weighing, his thumbs tracing the undersides with a touch so light it made your skin prickle. He squeezed gently—once, twice—and the sound you made was involuntary, a soft, broken moan that escaped before you could catch it.
“These,” he murmured, and his voice was thick, reverent, his eyes fixed on your chest with the same focused attention he gave to engine bays. “I’ve been thinking about these. Every time you leaned over the hood, every time you stretched. I tried to be a gentleman but fuck, baby, you made it so hard.”
His thumbs found your nipples—hard, sensitive, still aching from before—and rolled them between his fingers with a precision that made your vision blur. The sensation was sharp and electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, and you arched into his touch, your hips stuttering in their rhythm.
“Oh god, that feels s-so good!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he breathed, and his mouth was already moving, leaning forward, closing the distance, his tongue finding your left nipple with a flat, wet stroke that made you cry out. He circled it, his tongue painting tight spirals around the peak and then he sucked, and the sound you made was loud enough to echo.
His hand kept working the other breast. Rolling, squeezing, his fingers finding the perfect pressure while his mouth lavished attention on the first. He alternated between gentle suction and sharp, teasing bites that made your whole body jerk, and every time you moved, every time your hips rolled or your back arched, he groaned against your skin like you were doing something specifically designed to destroy him.
You were. You knew you were. The way you moved, the way you clenched around him on every upstroke, the way your hands found his hair and pulled just hard enough to make his breath catch—you were giving him exactly what he’d given you, and then some.
His cock was hardening inside you. You could feel it. You could feel him. The gradual thickening, the way he filled you more completely with every passing second, the way his breathing went ragged and his grip on your hips turned desperate. You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the friction, chasing the building pressure, and Mingi broke away from your breast with a gasp that was almost a sob.
“You feel so fucking good.” His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your tits, your thighs—touching, squeezing, mapping your body with the frantic energy of someone who was trying to memorise every detail before the moment ended.
You leaned down and kissed him. Deep, hungry, your tongue sliding against his, your hips never stopping their rhythm. He kissed you back with equal fervour, his hands sliding up your back and pressing you closer, your chest flush against his, your nipples dragging against the hard planes of his pecs with every movement.
When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing. Mingi’s eyes were dark and dazed and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.
“Ride me like you mean it, baby. Show me what you’ve got.” he whispered, and the words were a plea and a command in equal measure.
You sat up straight, your hands braced on his shoulders, and you moved.
Your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, setting a pace that was fast and deep and absolutely devastating. The angle was different from before. You were facing him, your weight driving you down onto his cock with a force that made the leather squeak and the seat frame creak and Mingi’s hands fly to your hips like he was trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had gone liquid.
“Atta girl, that’s it baby jus’ like that” The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, his head falling back, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping.
His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open with every downstroke, and the sensation combined with the friction of your clit against his pelvis was building something enormous and inevitable at the base of your spine. You were bouncing now, your body moving with a fluid, athletic grace that surprised even you—and every time you dropped down, Mingi’s cock hit that spot, that devastating, mind-melting spot, and the sounds you made were obscene.
“Harder,” he growled, and his hands tightened on your breasts, squeezing, rolling, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you see stars. “Ride me harder, baby. I want you to feel me until tomorrow.”
You obliged. You drove yourself down onto him with everything you had. Every ounce of strength in your thighs, every shred of control in your core. The impact was sharp and bright and perfect. The car rocked beneath you, the suspension groaning, and Mingi’s grip on your breasts turned bruising, his mouth finding your collarbone and biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
“You’re—fuck, you’re so good at this,” he panted against your skin, his voice cracking.
“Shut up,” you gasped, and you meant it fondly, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, your nails dragging down the hard planes of muscle. “Stop talking and touch me.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
His hands moved. They slid up your sides—slow, reverent, his palms mapping the terrain of your body with the same careful attention he gave to engine components. His hands cupped you—both of them, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch and your hips falter. You were still riding him, still moving in that steady, controlled rhythm, but his touch was pulling your focus, scattering your concentration, turning the deliberate pace into something more desperate, more urgent.
You couldn’t stop. You were moaning—loud, unrestrained sounds that filled the car’s interior—and every sound you made seemed to spur him on, his mouth working harder, his tongue more insistent, his hands gripping tighter.
“Fuck—Mingi, I can’t—it’s too much—”
“You can.” His voice was muffled against your breast, his tongue still working, his hand still moving. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me. Oh fuck— This pussy was made for me.”
You found the rhythm again—or something close to it. Your body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure that his mouth and his hands and his cock were building inside you in overlapping waves. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, your nails digging into the muscle, and you rode him with everything you had—every ounce of strength, every shred of desire, every month of pent-up longing poured into the movement of your hips.
Mingi’s mouth left your breast. His lips traced a burning path up your sternum, along your collarbone, to the pulse point in your throat, where he sucked hard enough to leave a mark you’d wear like a trophy. His hands were on your back now, his palms sliding from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine, pressing you closer, holding you flush against his chest as you moved.
“My pretty girl giving me the best ride of my life,” he breathed against your throat, and his voice was shattered, barely holding together.
You rolled your hips harder, faster, your body tightening around him with every downward thrust, and you could feel him swelling inside you, thicker, harder, his control fraying at the edges. His hands dropped to your ass, gripping both cheeks, spreading you open, and the obscenity of it—the way he was holding you, positioning you, watching you take him apart—sent you spiralling toward the edge.
“Mingi, I’m so close again—I’m gonna cum again!”
“Me too, baby.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “Together. Cum with me... I want to feel you cum all over me.”
You kissed him. Messy, desperate, your teeth catching his lower lip, your tongue pushing past his, and your hips didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop. The rhythm had taken on a life of its own, your body moving with a primal, instinctive urgency that left no room for thought. Mingi kissed you back with equal desperation, his hands gripping your ass, his hips thrusting upward to meet your downward movements, and the collision of forces—you riding him, him driving into you—created a friction that was devastating.
The orgasm built from the base of your spine—a slow, tight coil of pressure that wound tighter with every thrust. You could feel it approaching like a wave, could feel the moment the water started to pull back from the shore, and you held Mingi’s gaze through it all—his eyes dark, desperate, fixed on yours with an intensity that told you he was right there with you, hanging by the same thread.
It broke.
The orgasm hit you with a sensation so immense it threatened to strip away your consciousness, leaving you suspended in a single, blinding instant of pleasure that fused every muscle, every nerve, every trembling synapse into a singular electric current. You screamed, a sound that started low and guttural and built into a thin, ragged shriek, the kind you’d never made before, the kind that left your throat raw and echoing in the thick, humid air of the car.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your body seized around Mingi’s cock, the way you milked him, the way every wave of release hit harder than the last, scattering your thoughts to the corners of your skull and leaving you utterly, beautifully ruined.
You felt him come apart under you. Felt the way he jerked inside you, the way his breath stuttered, the way his hands flew up to lock around your waist like he could anchor himself in your wreckage. He was gasping your name, voice wrecked and desperate, his hips slamming up to meet you with a force that jolted your spine, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you with a velocity that bordered on violence. The aftershocks were nearly as intense as the orgasm itself; your body took his, drank him down, and doubled the force of his own release, the sensation so raw and so real it went straight to your soul.
Your legs shook. Your vision went white at the edges. You collapsed forward, your hands flattening against the sweat-slicked muscle of his chest, your hair falling in a tangled curtain around your face as you panted, desperate for air, for sanity, for a return to the world that didn’t seem to want you anymore.
Mingi’s hands were still on your waist, trembling slightly, his chest heaving beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, erratic, slowly steadying—and the wet heat of him still inside you, still filling you, still marking you as his in the most primal way possible.
You shifted. Slowly, carefully, your body protesting every movement, and reached between your bodies. Your fingers found the mess between your thighs. Warm, slick, the mingled evidence of both of you leaking from where you were still joined and you gathered it. Your fingers came away glistening, and you brought them to your mouth without thinking, without planning, without anything but the raw, animal instinct to taste what you’d made together.
You closed your lips around your fingers. Sucked. The taste hit you. Salt and musk and something uniquely, unmistakably both of you. You moaned around your own knuckles, your eyes fluttering shut, your hips clenching involuntarily around his softening cock.
Mingi went absolutely still beneath you. The way his breath stopped, the way his hands tightened on your waist, the way every muscle in his body locked into sudden, rigid attention. You opened your eyes and found him staring at you with an expression you’d never seen before—not hunger, not satisfaction, not even the dark, possessive gleam from before. Something rawer. Something that looked like he’d just been hit by a car he hadn’t seen coming.
“Oh my god.” His voice came out wrecked—not the sexy, post-orgasm wrecked, but genuinely, fundamentally destroyed. “Oh my fucking god.”
You pulled your fingers from your mouth slowly, your tongue dragging across your knuckles one last time, and you watched his eyes track the movement with the intensity of a man watching his life flash before him.
“That,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word, “might be the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life.”
You smiled and as you were about to say something clever when his hands flew to your face and he was kissing you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the remnants of what you’d just licked from your fingers, and the sound he made—a low, broken groan that vibrated through your chest and into your bones—made your entire body clench around him again.
His hands were in your hair, cradling your skull, angling your head to deepen the kiss even further, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. Which wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to make his hips shift beneath you, enough to make him gasp against your mouth, enough to make the world narrow to nothing but the heat of his lips and the taste of you both on his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing like you’d just run a sprint. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted, and you could feel the smile forming on his mouth before you even looked at him.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, and his voice was warm and dazed and full of something that made your chest ache. “You know that, right? I haven't even taken you out to a proper date yet and I'm already dead.”
You laughed—soft, breathless, your hands still flat against his chest. “Would you have it any other way?”
His eyes opened. Soft, shining with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like devotion. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”
Mingi shifted beneath you once more, his arms loosening just enough to let you breathe, and you felt his lips press against your temple.
“We should go and get out of here,” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, still carrying the gravel of everything you’d just done to each other. “Do you wanna come back to mine?”
You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on his face made your stomach flip. Hungry. Determined. The look of a man who’d tasted something and was addicted.
“Your place?” you repeated, your voice still wrecked, still barely functional.
“Yeah.” His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. “Because this car is about three seconds away from being declared a biohazard, and I have a bed that’s significantly bigger and more comfortable than this console.” His thumb traced a slow circle on your skin. “And I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”
The words hit you like a spark jumping a gap—sudden, electric, lighting up every nerve ending you had left. You felt your body respond before your brain caught up, a fresh pulse of heat rolling through your core despite the fact that you were still trembling, still oversensitive, still leaking him onto the leather beneath you.
“Not done?” you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you intended.
Mingi’s grin was slow and devastating, the kind that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, turning them dark and dangerous and full of promise. His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently, and you felt him shift beneath you—felt the unmistakable, traitorous twitch of his cock, still buried inside you, already stirring back to life.
“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word came out like a caress, like a threat, like both at once, “we’ve been in this car for what—an hour? Maybe two?” His hips rolled upward, deliberate, and the friction made you gasp. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. You think I’m gonna call it quits because your backseat’s uncomfortable?”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and he was smiling, and then he was easing you off of him—slow, careful—and you both made a sound at the same time, a soft, involuntary whimper at the sudden cold where there had been warmth, the absence where there had been fullness. He pressed his lips to your temple like an apology.
He helped you dress.
Not in a hurry because nothing about Mingi was ever in a hurry, but with the same methodical care he brought to everything. His hands found your bra first, hooking it closed with fingers that trembled just slightly, his knuckles brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. He smoothed the straps up your arms, adjusting them with a precision that suggested he’d been paying attention to how they sat before, and when his thumbs traced the line where the fabric met your skin, you caught his wrist.
“Mingi.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pleased. “Can’t help it. You’re right here.”
You pulled your shirt over your head, and his hands were there immediately—tugging the hem down, smoothing the wrinkles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so domestic it made your chest ache. He found your jeans in the footwell, shook them out with a quiet efficiency that made you think of him folding shop towels, and held them open for you like a gentleman helping you into a coat.
Before reaching for your jeans, he paused and reached behind him, two fingers hooking your underwear out of his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been carrying them there all evening on purpose.
He crouched down and held them open at your feet without a word, and something about the quiet patience of the gesture made your throat tighten. You stepped in. He took his time drawing them up, his thumbs pressing slow, warm circles into the outside of your hips as he settled the waistband into place.
Then he shook out your jeans and held them open the same way—“ Step in,” he said— and you did, balancing on one foot, your hand on his shoulder. He pulled the denim up after, his palms warm against your calves, your thighs, the curve of your hips, and when he fastened the button, his fingers lingered at your waistband, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric.
“There,” he murmured against your skin. “All dressed.”
“Not all of us are dressed.” You gestured at his bare chest, the leather jacket still draped over the front passenger seat, his own shirt nowhere to be found. “You’re half naked.”
“Am I?” He looked down at himself with mock surprise. “So I am! The absolute horror.”
You found his shirt balled behind the driver’s seat and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that made your mouth go dry all over again. His jeans were already on. You had no memory of when he’d managed that. He reached past you for his jacket, shaking it out with a practiced flick of his wrists.
Then he held it open for you.
The gesture was so simple—so stupidly, achingly simple. You turned, and he draped the jacket over your shoulders, his hands settling on your arms for a moment, pulling you back against his chest. The leather was warm from the car’s interior, and it smelled like him—cedar and engine oil and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d put on after his shower—and it was so big on you that the sleeves swallowed your hands entirely.
“You look good in my jacket,” he said, his chin resting on your crown.
“It looks like I'm being swallowed by your jacket.”
“You look perfect.” His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself lean into him, let the weight of his body hold you upright when your legs were still shaky and your brain was still soft around the edges. “Absolutely perfect.”
You stayed like that for a moment—wrapped in his jacket, wrapped in his arms, the car ticking quietly around you, the river murmuring its endless, indifferent song beyond the steamed-up windows. Then Mingi pressed one more kiss to the top of your head—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a period at the end of a sentence—and pulled back.
“Alright, let's go home.” he exhales.
“Okay.” You tugged the jacket tighter around yourself, the leather creaking softly. “But you’re driving. I can barely feel my legs.”
“Of course.” He kissed you once more—quick, chaste, the kind of kiss that was more punctuation than prose.
Unfolding his long frame from the backseat with considerably more grace than he’d managed on the way in. You heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the gravel, and then his hand appeared through the open door, palm up, waiting. You took it.
He helped you out of the backseat. Steadying you when your knees buckled, his arm around your waist, his body a warm wall of support, and you stood in the moonlight together, the river silver behind you, the city a distant constellation of light beyond the trees. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the smell of him like it was oxygen.
Mingi opened the passenger door for you and you slid into the seat, the leather warm beneath you, the dashboard glowing its familiar amber. He closed the door with that soft, deliberate click, and you watched him walk around the hood—tall and sure and slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, his shirt still untucked, the moonlight catching the line of his jaw and the satisfied curve of his mouth.
He dropped into the driver’s seat, and the car came alive around you. That clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the seat position, and turned to you with an expression so open and warm it made your breath catch.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded your head. He pulled onto the road, and the river fell away behind you, and the city lights grew closer, and you sat in the passenger seat of your own car—wearing his jacket, smelling like his skin, your body still singing with the echo of his touch—and you watched the road unfold ahead of you.
His hand found yours on the console. Not tentative—not the careful, testing reach of someone still figuring out the impossible. This was different. This was his palm sliding across the leather, his fingers lacing through yours. His thumb settled into the groove between your knuckles, and the warmth of his skin against yours was so familiar it made your chest ache.
You looked down at your joined hands. At the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on your skin, the same pattern he’d used that afternoon on the river road, the same pattern he’d use a thousand more times if you let him.
You lifted his hand from the console.
He glanced over—just briefly, just long enough to register the movement—and you brought his knuckles to your mouth. You pressed your lips to the back of his hand and felt the slight roughness of his skin, the faint chemical smell of solvent that lived in the creases of his fingers, the steady pulse of blood beneath the surface. You held the kiss there for a count of three, maybe four, and then you lowered your joined hands into your lap, tucking them between your thighs, his palm warm against your denim-clad leg.
Mingi laughed.
Not the startled, horn-induced laugh from before. Something quieter. Something that started in his chest and came out through his nose, a soft, incredulous huff of sound that carried more tenderness than any word could have. His thumb resumed its circling on your knuckle, and he kept his eyes on the road, but the smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and pulled at the cut on his lip, was doing something devastatingly beautiful to his face.
“You’re so cute, baby,” he coos. The words were simple, almost offhand, delivered with the same casual confidence he used when he told you your oil level was fine. But you heard the weight behind them. The particular, careful weight of a man who meant what he said and was still learning how to say it without sounding like he was about to combust.
“Only for you,” you replied, because you couldn’t think of anything else, because your chest was so full it was pressing against your ribs, because his hand was in your lap and his jacket was on your shoulders and his smell was in your lungs, and you were fairly certain you’d never been this happy in your entire life.
He kept driving. One hand on the wheel, one hand in yours, the road unspooling ahead of you like a ribbon of dark silk under the pale wash of the streetlights. The city rose around you in increments—first the scattered houses, then the convenience stores with their neon signs still burning, then the apartment blocks and the late-night buses and the occasional taxi drifting through the empty streets like a fish through deep water.
The city had a way of falling in love with the people who moved through it at night—the ones who knew its empty streets and its quiet corners, the ones who understood that the best parts were the ones nobody else was awake to see. The racer and the mechanic drove through those streets now, their hands locked together over the center console, the engine humming its steady, contented song beneath them, and neither of them said a word about timing belts or transmission mounts or the particular, terrifying thrill of falling in love with someone who could take you apart and put you back together better than you’d been before.
But the car knew. The car had always known. It had carried you to him and it had carried you home, and somewhere between the starting line and the finish, between the riverbank and the backseat, between the first time he called you sweetheart and the last time you screamed his name, the engine had learned a new song—one about two people who’d been running on parallel tracks for so long they’d forgotten what it felt like to collide, and who were now, finally, beautifully, irreversibly headed in the same direction.
The mechanic’s hands knew every bolt and belt and bearing in the city, but they’d never held anything as perfectly as they held yours. And the racer’s heart, which had spent its whole life chasing finish lines, had finally found the one that mattered—the one that didn’t end with a checkered flag, but with a man in a leather jacket who picked wildflowers at dawn and rebuilt transmissions at midnight and promised you another night in a voice that meant forever.
You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
The city lights blurred past the windows, and the engine hummed, and the road stretched ahead, endless and open and full of possibility, and you didn’t need to say a word, because the car was already saying it for you. In every clean shift, every steady rev, every mile that carried you closer to the place where the racer and the mechanic had stopped being two separate things and become something neither of them had the words for yet.
But they’d find them. They had all the time in the world, and an engine that would never let them down, and a road that went on forever, and each other.
And really—when it came down to it—what else did anyone need?
synopsis: on your 18th birthday, your older friends drag you to a club with a fake id and a dream to get blackout drunk. You run into a man named Seonghwa at the bar and he buys you a drink. You find him attractive, so of course you flirt with him, but in your tipsy ramble you accidentally mention your real age. He doesn't mind though at all though, and your bratty attitude makes him wish nothing more than to wash it away on his cock. I mean, how could how he resist when you just push all the right buttons?
cw: large age gap (10 years), underage drinking (don't freaking do this om gosh), sub/dom dynamics, Sir kink, Sugar daddy dynamics, brat! reader, brat tamer! Seonghwa, idk what else.
i hate this yet I love it so much
Turning eighteen in Seoul was supposed to feel glamorous. At least, that was the lie your friends had told you months ago when they convinced you to spend your birthday overseas instead of doing something ‘boring’ back home.
There had been promises of luxury shopping centers glowing beneath city lights, rooftop dinners overlooking the citizens, pretty strangers, expensive drinks, and the kind of chaotic memories people romanticized when they posted blurry photo dumps online.
But standing outside a nightclub with aching feet and a tight dress that suddenly felt significantly shorter than it had in your hotel mirror, you were beginning to suspect all of them had exaggerated.
The line wrapped around the building, music pulsed so hard through the walls that you could feel the bass vibrating beneath your heels.
Your best friend clung to your arm with the kind of unstable grip that only meant she was already tipsy on just excitement alone. Her glossy lips were stretched into a grin far too wide to trust. "This," she declared dramatically, motioning toward the club entrance, "is where your life changes forever."
You stared at the building.
"It looks like where I lose my wallet."
Your other friend snorts loudly, and yet they dragged you along anyway.
———
The process of standing outside the club was way scarier than actually getting inside. You had memorised your entire fake identity on the flight, and it was still foggy in your brain. Your picture and information were correct, only the name and birth year changed. And after what felt like a marathon of questions that had nothing to do with your actual age or id’s, you were finally allowed entrance.
The club swallowed you whole.
Heat clung to your skin almost instantly. Flashing lights painted everyone in shifting shades of green, red, and electric blue. Bodies moved shoulder-to-shoulder across the dance floor in an endless blur of expensive smells, laughter, and intoxication.
For the first hour, you really tried. You danced even though you thought your feet were going to fall off, and you drank even though your throat still hasn't gotten used to the burn.
You let your friends pull you into blurry selfies, you laughed until your stomach hurt when one of them nearly fell off a platform trying to impress a man who was very clearly not interested.
But eventually, the alcohol settled warmly into your bloodstream while exhaustion crept into your limbs.
Your friends had gradually disappeared into the crowd, speaking to locals like they knew them and flirting with men who politely declined, leaving you alone near the edge of the dance floor.
You debated texting them. Instead, you slipped toward the bar.
The farther you moved from the crowd, the easier it became to breathe, and you exhaled deeply as you slid onto an empty stool. The music was quieter over here, and you allowed yourself to close your eyes for a moment and recollect yourself from the thought of being left alone on your birthday.
"You know, for someone at a club, you look surprisingly calm."
The voice beside you was intoxicating enough to make you turn immediately—and then forget how to function.
He was beautiful. Not in a soft way, no. He looked sharp, expensive.
Dark hair pushed neatly away from his forehead. Silver jewelry gleamed beneath low lighting whenever he moved his hands. His black button-up clung just enough to his broad shoulders to make your thoughts derail.
He looked like someone entirely out of your tax bracket, yet he was staring at you like he found you fascinating.
You subcontinently straightened in your seat.
"And for someone eavesdropping," you replied carefully, "you seem very confident."
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "You were sighing dramatically."
"I was processing betrayal."
"From?"
"My friends. They left me by myself."
He hummed softly, glancing toward the crowded dance floor.
"A reasonable reaction," he said before a hearty chuckle left him
You hated how attractive his laugh was.
Apparently alcohol made you significantly bolder than usual, because instead of speaking back like a normal person would, you tilted your head and openly admired his face.
He noticed—of course he did, and his expression shifted into cocky amusement. (GIMMIE DAT DIHH.)
"You’re staring."
You tilted your head side to side in a mesmerized yet focused way, your pupils getting noticeably larger. "You’re very symmetrical."
That made him laugh harder.
The bartender arrived at your side of the bar, asking how you were doing and taking your orders.
Before you could grab your clutch, he calmly paid for your drink.
You blinked once—twice, then dropped your hands into your lap.
"Oh."
He leaned against the counter charmingly. "Is that approval?"
"It depends."
"On?"
"If you become weird after buying me alcohol."
His eyebrow lifted in a curious state.
"Weird how?"
"I don't know, suddenly talking about cryptocurrency?"
He stared at you for a moment before laughing under his breath.
And that sound—
That deep, quiet laugh—
did dangerous things to your stomach.
Hours blurred strangely after that. One drink became two, and two became more than you could count.
You learned his name was Seonghwa, and he learned you were visiting South Korea with your friends for your 18th birthday.
He seemed endlessly entertained by everything you said, and you were just drunk enough to say things that should have remained internal thoughts.
Like commenting on how unfairly attractive his hands were, or how his voice sounded too sexy and intimidating to be true.
Or—
Your entire body froze.
The realization hit like a glass of cold water.
You stared at your drink on the counter, then at him, then back at your drink.
"Shit."
His brows lifted.
You covered your face with both hands.
"Did I really do that?"
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"What happened?"
Your voice came out muffled behind your palms.
"I told you my real age. I didn’t mean to say that."
That finally broke his composure.
His laughter was warm and low and entirely too attractive.
"It’s alright, darling."
You slowly lowered your hands. Your brain wanted so badly to process the pet name, but you only focused on his approval despite your predicament.
"It is?"
"It is."
You stared at him suspiciously before taking another sip.
Your lips pressed together.
Then—
"We’re still flirting, right?"
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before meeting your eyes again.
That slow smile returned.
"Of course, love."
Your heart nearly stopped.
———
You talked for what felt way too short as the hours still passed. Your friends eventually came around, but left just as fast upon viewing the ‘hot guy’ you ‘scored’.
He was a man of many surprises, yet it still shocked you when Seonghwa asked all kinds of questions; some about your trip, how you even got into the club, and weirdly, your music taste.
By the time you followed him out of the club, Seoul had quieted. The city still glowed, but softer now. Streetlights reflected against damp pavement, the cool night air helped clear your head just enough for common sense to briefly return.
Your friends had left an hour ago to another club while you stayed behind. They told you the location just in case, but they were all sure you wouldn’t be meeting them there.
Now, standing beside a complete stranger, you realized you didn't even know him at all.
"You’re not secretly a murderer, right?"
Seonghwa glanced at you while unlocking his phone.
"That accusation feels sudden."
"Well, you could be dangerous."
"You came willingly."
"That feels like victim blaming."
His laughter echoed softly down the empty sidewalk, which somehow made following him feel far less reckless. He shoved his phone back into his pants and let out a heavy sigh.
"You’re kind of a brat, aren't you?" he moved his head to look down at you beside him.
You crossed your arms and made a face, "Trust me, I can be way worse."
That only earned you another low chuckle and a quiet, "Yeah, I bet."
Not too long into the thickening silence, a long, official looking limo pulled up just off to the side of the street, and you almost lost your breath as he walked towards it.
"You coming?" he glanced back, eyebrows raised.
Your feet moved forward on their own.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
You thought the limo was just for show, something fancy to impress you.
Until you reached his apartment.
Even the outside was captivating, far too luxurious for just anyone living in Seoul. As he led you to his room, your suspicion returned.
"What exactly do you do?"
He looked almost amused.
"I sing."
You blinked slowly—confused at the tone of his voice.
"Like weddings?"
"Something like that." He unlocked the door, taking his shoes off and leading you down a short narrow entrance hallway.
You kicked your shoes off beside his at the door, "What does that even mean?"
Before he could answer, the space opened up, and time stopped for the both of you.
Two men stared at you from the large couch in the front room. You stared back.
One of them nearly dropped his phone, the other looked personally offended.
Both of them slowly turned toward each other with expressions that ranged from confusion to amusement.
Your gaze moved between both of them, then Seonghwa—an awkward interaction that was just warming up the chaos.
The room remained silent for a second.
Seonghwa carefully led you past the group by the small of your back, ignoring the anxious glares while you awkwardly smiled and waved at them.
He led you into his room, a common looking space with a fairly sized bed and desk.
"Sit, I’ll be right back." He motioned around the room before stepping out.
You sat at the edge of his bed, looking around at the plain look of his room. You could faintly hear low voices down the hall in the quiet of the apartment.
"She’s an adult," Seonghwa said.
"Barely!" a voice replied.
"Are you sure?" said the other
"Yes I'm sure!"
You found yourself not really paying attention to their words, thinking about everything and nothing at once.
Suddenly the door clicked shut behind Seonghwa, and the muffled voices from down the hall faded into a dull hum and a door closing. You sat, fingers pressing into the mattress, the alcohol still swimming warm in your veins. The room smelled like him—clean, slightly woody, with something faintly sweet underneath.
He had a glass of water in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He set the water on the desk, then turned to look at you, leaning against the edge of the surface with his arms crossed.
"You look nervous," he said, voice low, teasing.
You tilted your chin up, forcing your lips into a smile even as your heart hammered. "I'm not nervous. I'm just… assessing the accommodation."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Is it up to your standards?"
"Depends. What amenities are included?"
The smile he gave you was slow. He pushed off the desk and walked toward you, each step deliberate. When he stopped right between your legs, his thighs brushing against your knees, he looked down at you with that same dangerous warmth from the club.
"Me." he said simply.
You swallowed hard but refused to break eye contact. "Pretty confident for someone whose friends were just questioning whether I'm legal."
His jaw tightened, but the amusement didn't leave his eyes. "You are legal. That's the only thing that matters."
"Barely," you echoed, mimicking the voice you'd heard from down the hall.
He leaned down, one hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, bringing his face inches from yours. “Barely still counts, love.”
The word hit you straight in the chest. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breath stuttered.
"So what now?" you asked, keeping your voice annoyingly light. "You gonna give me a tour?"
His eyes darkened. "Depends on how well you behave."
"I don't behave."
"I know." His hand came up, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your face up further. "That's part of the fun."
Your skin burned where he touched you. "And if I want to be a problem?"
“Then I'll handle you like one.”
Your breath caught. There it was—the shift in the air, the weight of something unspoken settling between you.
"Stand up," he said, voice firm and condescending.
You hesitated, just to be difficult. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, grip firm but not painful, guiding you to your feet. You wobbled slightly in your heels, and he steadied you with a hand on your hip.
"Good," he murmured.
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly. You listened. That's a start."
You rolled your eyes, and his grip on your hip tightened.
"Careful," he warned, voice dropping lower. "I don't mind putting you in your place, but I'd rather not have to do it this early."
Heat pooled low in your stomach. "And where exactly is my place?"
His hand slid from your hip down to your ass, squeezing firmly through your skirt. "On your back, on your knees, bent over this bed—wherever I decide to put you."
Your mouth went dry.
"That is—" you started, but your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it.
"That is what?" He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Too much for a brat like you?"
"No." The word came out steadier than you felt. "I was going to say that's a lot of confidence for someone who hasn't proven anything yet."
He pulled back, eyebrows raised, something like admiration flickering in his gaze. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
"Never have."
He studied you for a long moment. Then his hand was in your hair instead of your neck, not roughly, but firm enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat.
"Then let me make something clear." His voice was velvet over steel. "You're in my space, on my bed, in my city. I've wanted you since the moment you called me out in that club. So here's how this is going to work. You're going to be my good girl tonight—"
"I'm not a—"
"Tonight," he repeated, grip tightening just slightly in your hair, "you're going to be my good girl. And if you're good enough, I'll make you mine properly. Take you shopping. Fuck you in hotels that cost more than your rent. Spoil you until you forget your own name. But only if you earn it."
Your breath came shallow, heat flooding through you. "You're talking like you're already planning to keep me."
"I am." He said it simply. Certain. "I don't bring random girls home from clubs. I don't argue about legalities. I" don't waste my time. But you—" His thumb traced your lower lip. "You're worth the hassle. So stop being a brat for five seconds, yeah?”
You looked up at him, pulse pounding in your throat, every bratty retort dying on your tongue under the weight of his gaze. Because you did want it. All of it. All of Him.
"Yes, Sir," you said, testing the word. It came out softer than intended.
His eyes flared. "Say that again."
"Show me it, Sir." Your voice steadied. “Prove to me that you're worth my time.”
A dark, satisfied smile spread across his face. "There she is."
He didn't give you time to brace yourself. His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and demanding, tongue sliding against yours as his hands found your waist and pushed you back onto the bed. You fell with a gasp, and he followed, body covering yours, weight pressing you into the mattress.
Instead of continuing the kiss, he pulled back. His eyes traveled down your body—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch of skin your dress exposed.
"You know," he said, voice dropping to that low, velvet register that made your thighs clench, "I've been thinking about how you'd taste."
Before you could fire back a retort, he was already moving—kissing down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone before he continued lower. His hands found the hem of your dress, pushing it up past your hips, exposing your clothed cunt to the cool air of the room.
"You're that wet?," he observed, voice rough with approval.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
"Right." He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs apart. He slipped your underwear down and off your ankles, and the position made your breath catch. Him there, face level with your dripping slit, still fully clothed while you lay spread open beneath him.
"Seonghwa—"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, working his way inward with excruciating slowness. "Let me worship you, love. You've earned it."
"Earned it by being a brat?"
"Earned it by being mine." He looked up at you through his lashes, lips hovering inches from your cunt. "Even if you don't know it yet."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the moment his tongue touched you—flat and warm against your clit—every thought dissolved into a strangled moan.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your nerves.
"Taste even better than I imagined," his tongue traced along your folds, slow and exploratory, like he was memorizing every curve and crevice. He licked up your slit, gathering your wetness on his tongue, then circled your clit with deliberate precision.
"Fuck—"
"Yeah?" He pulled back just enough to speak, his chin already glistening. "You like that?"
You could only nod, fingers fisting in the sheets.
"Good. Because I'm not stopping until you cum on my tongue."
He dove back in with renewed hunger, his mouth latching onto your clit while one hand slid to press two fingers inside you. The stretch made you gasp, back arching off the mattress as he curled them, finding that spot inside you with practiced ease.
"That's it," he murmured against your cunt, the words muffled but clear. "Take it. Take everything I give you."
You were already close, the dual stimulation pushing you higher, faster. But he wasn't done. He pulled his mouth away—fingers still pumping inside you—and sat up slightly, looking at you with hooded eyes.
"Look at you," he said, voice thick with desire. "So fucking wet. All for me." He brought his wet fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. "And I'm gonna have this every day. You understand? I'm gonna wake you up with my tongue between your legs, spoil you with breakfast in bed, take you shopping, fuck you in every designer dress I buy you—but first, you're gonna give me an orgasm."
"Sir—" you whined, hips bucking toward him.
"I know, baby. I know." He lowered his head again, but this time he focused entirely on your clit—sucking, licking, prodding with the tip of his tongue until you were trembling, gasping, crying out his name.
"Seonghwa—"
He groaned against you at the sound of his real name. His tongue flicked faster, and his fingers resumed their rhythm inside you, crooked just right.
"Cum for me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak. "Cum in my mouth so I can taste how fucking good I make you feel."
That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hips grinding against his face as he drank every drop, tongue working you through the aftershocks until you were shaking, oversensitive, crying out for him to stop.
He placed one last gentle kiss to your clit before pulling back, lips swollen and glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Beautiful," he said, crawling up to hover over you. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."
You were still panting, trying to catch your breath, but you managed a weak smirk. "Not bad for a first attempt."
His eyebrows shot up. "First attempt?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, I've had better—"
He cut you off with a kiss, deep and possessive, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Brat." He said it like a term of endearment. "I'm going to enjoy breaking that attitude out of you."
"Good luck."
He went for your neck again, his mouth trailed down your jaw and your throat, teeth scraping against your collarbone before he pulled back just enough to look at you. Hair falling into his eyes, lips swollen, gaze wrecked.
"Last chance to back out," he said, voice rough.
You reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him back down.
"Shut up and fuck me."
He groaned against your body, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your dress up past your hips.
He sat back just long enough to strip off his shirt, and fuck—nothing prepared you for the reality of him above you, golden skin stretched over lean muscle, the sharp lines of his torso leading down to the waistband of his pants.
You reached for his belt, but he caught your wrists.
"Brat's don't get to rush things."
"Sir—"
"No." He pressed your wrists into the mattress above your head, holding them there with one hand. "I'm in charge tonight. You wanted to be a problem? Fine. But problems get handled on my schedule."
You squirmed under him, heat and frustration twisting together. "That's not fair."
"Life's not fair." He leaned down, lips brushing yours as he spoke. "But I promise you'll like my punishment more than you like being a brat."
His free hand slid down your body, palm flat against your stomach, then lower, fingers parting your folds and sinking into your wet heat. You gasped, back arching, but he held you down.
"So tight," he murmured, pumping his fingers slowly, watching your face. "And so responsive. You're going to take my cock so well."
"Sir—please—"
"Please what?"
You bit your lip, shame and desire warring in your chest. "Please fuck me. I need it."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean. The sight made your thighs clench.
"Good girl," he said, and the praise hit you harder than you expected.
He undid his pants with deliberate slowness, letting them fall, and when his cock sprang free—thick, hard, perfect—your mouth went dry.
"You still with me?" he asked, stroking himself lazily with a groan.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"Use your words."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good."
He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he paused, meeting your eyes.
"Tell me you're mine. Even if it's just for tonight. Tell me."
"I'm yours."
He pushed in, and you both groaned. The stretch was perfect—filling, burning, the kind of deep that made your toes curl and your hands fist in the sheets. He gave you a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—Perfect." He pulled out slowly, then thrust back in, deeper this time. "Absolutely fucking perfect."
His pace started steady, each stroke deliberate and deep, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. But it wasn't enough. You wanted more.
"Harder," you gasped. "Please, Sir, I can take it—"
He obliged, grip tightening on your hips as he drove into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Your moans turned into cries, each thrust pushing you higher, closer.
"Yeah? Taking it like a good girl now?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Then cum for me. Let me feel you."
Your orgasm crashed over you, triggered by his voice and the relentless rhythm of his cock stretching you open. You came with a cry of his name, walls clenching around him as he fucked you through it.
He didn't stop. If anything, he drove deeper, faster, his own breathing turning into low, shuddering groans.
"Gonna fill you up," he gritted out, voice wrecked. "Gonna put a baby in this perfect little cunt. Make you mine for real."
The words sent another jolt through you. "Do it. Please. Fill me up, Sir—I want it—"
He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a pathetic whimper, hot and thick, flooding you with pulse after pulse. You felt every drop, every shudder of his body against yours, and it was everything.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. After a long moment, he lifted his head, brushing hair from your face.
"Still with me?"
You laughed weakly. "Barely."
He smiled, soft and genuine. "Good." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Because I meant what I said. I'm keeping you."
"You don't even know my last name."
"I don't care." He pulled out slowly, settling beside you and pulling you against his chest. "I'll learn it tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to hold you."
You nestled into him, feeling his cum slowly trickle down your thigh, a perfect, filthy reminder of what just happened.
"Hey.” you murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Did you bring water for decoration or are you going to give it to me?"
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Demanding even after getting fucked into the mattress."
"Would you expect anything less?"
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Never."
this feels poorly written yet so so good I honestly have lots of mixed feelings for this.
► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - dilf!Hongjoong x fem!reader ◄
► 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎/𝙰𝚄 - mafia au, arranged marriage trope, secret/hidden marriage, slow burn, heavy angst, emotionally heavy, revenge, emotional rollercoaster, power imbalance, age gap (reader is in her early 30s and Joong is in his mid-40s), reader! is resigned to her fate but not for long, enemies-to-lovers, plot twist◄
► 𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - PG-18+ so MDNI!!! depression as in reader! has almost given up on life, implied familial abuse (not described, but be warned!), implied violence, minor car accident, minor descriptions of near death experience, generalized dark themes, eventual smut (short though) lots of kissing, couch riding, creampie, emotional and possessive sex, no protection (do not do this!) ◄
► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 33.5K words (hear me out---) ◄
► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - After your uncle sold you to the mafia to settle a debt, you were forced into an arranged marriage with the controlling Kim Hongjoong and you expected nothing more than a life of silence and control. He was much older than you, much more calculated and cold, and you had no doubt that he was devoid of light. He'd be displeased to know that you have a backbone, however, but what happens when his dark secrets that could potentially ruin your life slowly unravel when the wolves come out to play? You realize that the secrets he held dear were deeper than you thought, and there was no way out. ◄
► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - I am sorry that it took this long. I was sick for weeks and had no energy to write. I am also sorry it's this long, but I don't regret it. This was a request from the lovely @midnightreader-06 (she's an adult.) I will be fulfilling the other requests I have soon. ◄
► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - @0rangemilk @ginger-mingi @ruubyrubes @oddracha @jaytheatiny @roxannecos @juicy-red @cheolliehugs @sunnysidesins @jjongbearshoney @midnightrebel1028 @mallielovssyou @jenluvzen ◄
You were ten years old when you held both of your parents hand as the three of you walked side by side in an open field where the vastness of the green Earth was there for the taking as far as the eye could see.
As your dearest father, whose eyes shone with adoration and his lips split with the fondest of grins, carried you in his arms to point at the bright, blue sky, your innocence and naivety paved way for the natural curiosity that lay hidden in your young mind.
“You, my darling,” your mother lovingly booped your button nose. “You are the prettiest, far more special than anything in this world, and I love you.”
The world felt impossibly vast, and yet in that moment, wrapped in the safety of your parents’ love, it felt perfectly sized to hold just the three of you. Truly, you were loved by your parents. It was the kind of love that would transcend even through the afterlife. Until they didn’t.
You were sixteen years old when you stood under the pouring rain that blessed your parents’ grave, your head down low as your expressionless face stared at the freshly dug soil under your feet. There was blackness all around you - black for the weeping sky, black for the clothes you wore around your frail, shivering body that symbolized your mourning and loss.
Black for the two coffins you had watched sink into the ground, swallowed by the earth as if it could somehow keep your parents safe when you no longer could, black for the words no one could say, black for the warning signals in your head as you were led away from the cemetery.
Everything was black. You were far too young for such a travesty, but since when has this life been fair to anybody? Your parents’ death has definitely taught you better.
The hours stopped flowing, the sands of time floating inside the hourglass in a perpetual cycle of your memories where the images of your parents were slowly disappearing, refusing to flow - refusing to let you move on.
You are the prettiest, far more special than anything in this world, and I love you.
“You call that clean? I could lick the damn thing and get road dust in my teeth!”
Your uncle, your mother’s older brother, barked from the doorway, snapping you out of your memories. His loud, displeasing voice echoed down the garage hallway far before you even laid your eyes on him.
You closed your eyes, taking the deepest breath you could possibly take from the deepest chambers of your lungs. Not that there was anything left, you were a walking entity of nothingness at this point, but you had to remain calm like you had learned to be - like you had to be.
Your uncle stepped into the garage, shoes clicking against the polished tile floor most mechanics would kill for. “That’s your problem. Always doing the bare minimum. You’re useless just like your mother.”
There it was. He didn’t have to mention her often like the mere thought of her slowly decayed his tongue inside his sinful mouth. He didn’t outwardly curse her name, it was just enough to let you know he still thought of you like you were a charity case; a stain on the marble floors of his pristine world.
You tried not to gasp out loud when he titled your chin up roughly. His calloused fingers burned every single hair strand on your face, his eyes could have disintegrated you on the spot with all the unspoken hate you knew he had for you but refused to speak out, but you had to remain calm.
He harrumphed, turning around and beginning to walk off to where he came from, but not before spitting up an unholy amount of saliva on the floor with an obscene smirk on his clean shaven face. “Clean it up,” was all he said.
Through gritted teeth, you had begun wiping the floor, and as the water began to wash away all the grime your pig of an uncle had left, you hadn’t realized that your tears had begun to mix itself in the water like it would rinse away all your troubles.
It was like you were sixteen again. You still remember the day like it was yesterday when he led you to his car away from the cemetery, all without a single word of comfort or condolences at the dearly departed. Never mind your father, but your mother was his younger sister. You were not surprised at the sight of his massive mansion - your family did come from old money - but the moment you stepped through it, you saw the facade quickly. You weren’t there as family, but as a liability. All of this was just for show, not for your comfort.
He walked ahead of you, not bothering to see if you were following him. There was no warmth in his voice, just clipped efficiency, like he was giving instructions to a driver. There was no welcome. No open arms. No kind words.
Your room was barely one. A cot, no sheets. A single window so cloudy with grime it looked like frosted glass. Little did you know, it would be your room for no less than a decade - a decade long of hell reincarnate on an already scorching Earth.
Sometimes he didn’t call for food, most of the time he called to yell. Once, for leaving a cup turned the wrong way in the sink, he threw it at the wall and told you your parents would’ve done the same if they’d had the guts.
It didn’t stop the bruises, but your perseverance helped you survive the nights. No one came looking for you. No one asked how you were.
You were nineteen years old when you started finally accepting that this was your world. You were reduced to moping spit off of the floor, and after another four years of slaving away and just taking all the burnt end of your uncle’s anger, he decided to finally send you into college.
You wanted to scoff, but you will take anything that you could get - anything to get even a sliver of your identity back. He wasn’t doing this for you, you knew he’d use you for free labour after.
“You owe me,” he said, sliding the acceptance letter toward me. “You remember that. Everything you have is because I kept you fed.”
Fed. You saw red. He never mentioned you’d earned every damn underfed crumb like an inbred. But you nodded, anyway, because even a dog learns how to slip the chain if it’s given enough time to watch the master.
And you waited, day by day, for someone to remember you existed, but the ones you longed for were the ones you knew were in heaven by now. And you hoped they weren’t looking down on you.
All you could feel was pain. It hurt to try to move your limbs, it was more reminiscent of bones grinding against each other sharply against sandpaper, it hurt to take the smallest gulp of breath, hell, it hurt to even blink.
The last thing you remembered was coming home from your graduation party with a couple of your friends from the restaurant, but the panicked yet controlled voices of the doctors and nurses surrounding you had you concurring that you were in the hospital.
You want to move, but your limbs won’t listen. You want to ask for your parents, but their names get caught in your throat. That sent a magnanimous amount of pain far worse than you were feeling right now down in the middle of your chest where your heart laid. They were gone, and you were soon to follow.
The first tear that fell from your eyes felt like glass shards. You didn’t know how to tell your parents that you had failed them. You were only twenty-eight, and your short life was slowly slipping away from you. You could feel it.
I don’t want to die. I’m much too young to fall.
But hope was bleak. You didn’t doubt that your uncle was already aware of the car accident you were involved in, and you didn’t doubt that he was happy about it. It would be good riddance for him, there was no way he would pay for your surgeries. You were alone, utterly alone. The thought of dying alone hurt more than you’d like it to be.
Until a warm hand wrapped itself around yours. It was big, rough, and warm. You were too weak to open your eyes, but you mentally thanked the kind nurse who comforted you in your time of need. Or more likely, it was one of your college friends, namely, your close friend Yeosang. He was much younger than you, only being a freshman while you were eight years his senior.
You volunteered as a substitute teacher in your spare time for high school students as a part of your program, and Yeosang offered to be your intern. You were the one to write him his recommendation letter to get into your college last year. You quickly became fond of the kid with the siren eyes who squeezed his way into your heart, who still admired you as his mentor and still stuck by you even after his high school.
He was the only regret in your short life. There were times you dismissed him since you were far from his age and you wanted him to spend time with other people. You wish you had more opportunities to tell him that you cherished the little moments of peace he gave you, and to thank him for letting you know what it was like to care for someone when nobody cared about you.
Time passed. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours, but the hand remained, covering yours in a soothing cocoon, a salve to your aching and hurting heart.
It was just a hand, but it provided you the strength you needed. You might hate your uncle, but if it wasn’t for him sending you to college, this hand wouldn’t be here, helping you sign your own paperwork since you had no family. It must have been a pitiful sight - your soul was nearly gone yet you had to sign your own hospital papers.
Sometimes it would squeeze gently like it needed to be sure you were still holding on as you slipped in and out of consciousness, and you started clinging to it like it was the only real thing in the world.
Because, maybe it was. No one else came - not your uncle, and not the world you thought would notice if you ceased to exist prematurely before you even turned your life around, but the hand stayed.
Against your will, you stood before your own reflection. You always thought you had the prettiest of hazel-hued eyes - you had gotten them from your father, after all - but the hollowness of them scared even yourself.
“Y/N! Come downstairs, or I’m leaving you to walk yourself all the way to the Kim estate!”
You flinched, your fingers pausing from examining the thick concealer you splattered all over your neck to cover your uncle’s purple fingertips. You were still unsure if surviving was a blessing or a curse.
After getting back from the hospital, he had appointed you to fix his business paperworks - all without pay, of course - and he kept you locked away from the world.
Except when it was time to remind you of your place, to remind you of his power. You were thirty-two when he finally decided to get rid of you and sell you off as collateral for his failing business to a man far older than you, because if he didn’t, the business won’t be the only thing your uncle would be losing.
“He’s your last chance,” he reiterated, voice low and full of threat. “You marry him, or you’re done here. I’ll have you on a flight by morning stripped of every cent, every roof, every name. I made a deal, and you’re the damn collateral. Don’t make me waste you.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d threatened to erase you from your own life. But this time, it felt final. “Your face is your saving grace,” he continued arrogantly. “Luckily for you, you inherited your whore of a mother’s pretty face. With luck, that bastard Kim Hongjoong might take a liking to you.”
You tuned out the way he cursed out the said man’s name with words you couldn’t even repeat, focusing on the way your fists clenched tight to control your breathing.
Kim Hongjoong, you thought. That was your future husband’s name, the man who would either be your salvation or be the one to push you into a deeper hell. You’ve given up on the aspect of marrying for love, but still, giving it up like this feels like a punch to your gut.
But there was no way around it, not when your uncle sent you a seething glare that told you that you needed to play along as he forced your arm to link with his as you were both escorted inside the huge mansion that screamed of wealth and dirty money by the stiff-postured butler.
“I welcome you to the Kim estate, you may address me as San,” the cat-eyed butler bowed respectfully before you and your uncle, gesturing forward as he walked on. “I do apologize if I’m the only one to extend the greetings for now, all of our staff is preparing for the bride-to-be.”
He sent you a polite smile, but all you felt was dread. “Shall I make it up and invite you to the dining room? The Master awaits the both of you.”
Your uncle’s fake, booming laughter fills the grandiose dining room. Every inch of this manor screamed of wealth and power, the chandeliers above casting a soft glow down the glossy marble floors, the ornate walls lined with ancestral tapestry partnered with vintage vases.
But none of it reached you, none of it mattered because none of this was for you. As slimy as your uncle was, the fact that this man was even agreeing to the prospect of marrying to settle a debt perturbed you.
You couldn’t help but let your fingers trail along the back of a carved dining chair as you entered the main dining room. Everything looked expensive, it reminded you of your mother who had the finer tastes in life when she was still among the living.
But it was when you looked up that your breath had truly gotten caught in your throat. Somebody was already looking at you, he was already staring at you. Even before you were introduced, you knew in your heart that this was the infamous Kim Hongjoong.
He was seated at the far end of the impossibly long dining table, his sharp eyes already watching your every move. The second your eyes met his, the air shifted, and you froze. All that existed was the intensity of his gaze. For a moment, everything disappeared. It was just you and him. You didn’t know how to feel about it.
Your pulse thudded in your ears as you allowed yourself to stare back. You didn’t even need more than a couple of seconds, it was very obvious from the first glance that this man was undeniably attractive. It was almost devastatingly so.
His face was chiseled to perfection, all without the soft curves of a boy, he held the sharp angles that only belonged to a man of his age. That particular age suited him and you could tell he was years above you, his meticulously styled hair already sporting a couple of whites and greys
But it wasn’t his looks that immediately captivated you, it was his eyes. The way they stared at you heavily as though he was an all-seeing being that could read your every thought and predict your every move. He didn’t smile, he didn’t blink, he didn’t look away - he just observed.
Something in your chest twisted. Your instinct told you to look away, to hide, but you stayed uprooted from where you stood. His stare left you unable to do anything else.
But you had to eventually. Your uncle cut the obvious tension with a small, nervous laugh as he nudged you subtly. “Mr. Kim, it’s an honour and pleasure to be in your presence in this fine evening,” he tried to suck up, though you can tell his bravado was nowhere to be seen in front of a person who was obviously greater than he was.
You forced yourself forward, one step towards the other, graciously sitting down on the chair that San the butler had so generously pulled out for you. As you tried to settle comfortably, you looked up again, only to realize that Hongjoong still hasn’t looked away from you, only giving out a small grunt in response to your uncle’s poor attempt to start a conversation.
You would turn and stare at the way you knew your uncle’s face would turn red in embarrassment and anger at being snubbed, but Hongjoong’s eyes had once again held you captive.
Someone cleared their throat purposefully. Right. You didn’t even realize that there were other people seated towards the end of the table. You couldn’t even afford to be embarrassed for being the other end of the tension.
“You’re staring,” the voice, surprisingly rough and deep, said. It was more of a whisper, but the silence was so loud in the room that anything could be heard.
Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He simply tilted his head, just slightly. Still watching you with those dark eyes. Then, calmly, still without glancing at anyone else, he replied, “Am I?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement in disguise, a graceful way of telling the other person off. It made the hair rise on the back of your neck. You heard an exasperated sigh somewhere.
Even when dinner was served and the conversation around you flowed naturally amongst the other guests deemed important enough to be here, you couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. You barely heard their voices. You knew he was still watching you from time to time.
Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your posture stiff, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Your hands, however, clenched your utensils so tight, you wouldn’t be surprised if they bent from the pressure. You couldn’t stop the tremor that ran through you from all the weight of his eyes.
At first you thought it was fear, but no, this was something else entirely. It wasn’t flattering, it wasn’t lustful, it wasn’t romantic - this was unnerving, darkness at its purest form.
“Y/N, my dearest niece,” your uncle’s voice suddenly broke through your haze, effectively catching everyone’s attention as well. “I trust that you’re enjoying dinner?”
You swallowed, already reading between the lines. He was basically asking you to look alive, a silent threat. You forced a small smile, nodding in effect. “Yes,” you said softly. “It’s quite wonderful.”
An unreadable flicker crosses Hongjoong’s face as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. Somehow, that made him look more intimidating than he already was. He tilted his head, his gaze sharpened, but his body stayed relaxed. It was the posture of someone who knew he was on top of the food chain.
“Great,” your uncle cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s about time to get down to the nitty-gritty of this dinner. Let’s talk business, gentlemen.”
A saddened frown settles itself on your lips. Right, you had forgotten that this was just business for him at the end of the day. You had somehow forgotten that you were treated less than human, a little more akin to produce being sold off to a wanting consumer.
“There’s no need to drag this out,” your uncle continued, failing to read the room. Even you knew that he was in no position to call the shots like he was doing currently. “She’s all yours, for all intents and purposes.”
You looked down, shame and mortification filling your entire body, gripping your dress tightly in your fists. The implication of what that meant horrified you, given that you were the only woman in the room, surrounded by men who immediately understood the sexual insinuation of the statement.
Thick silence followed as everybody waited for Hongjoong to speak. His posture shifted ever so slightly from your peripheral vision as he started to open his mouth to reply. “I’m not here for that,” he said flatly.
The words were quiet, but they carried more force than your uncle’s screaming. The older man let out a nervous laughter, brushing it off. “Of course, still, it’s a part of the arrangement.”
Hongjoong’s expression didn’t change. “I heard you the first time.”
Your knuckles turned white from how hard you were gripping. His voice struck something in you, sending a zing through your body from your toes all the way to your scalp. His gaze, his voice, his complete control over the room; it was all too much. You hated the way it made your stomach turn into itself.
But your uncle’s ego rendered him unable to stop because he always wanted to be the one in control. “She turned out decent, though mostly useless. It could be changed,” he said, degrading your dignity further down to the ground. “She’s an obedient little thing, knows how to close her trap when prompted.”
You froze, as did everybody. You didn’t need to look around the table to know the weight of every eye. It was a different type of humiliation you had to endure, but you didn’t say anything. Years of training had taught you to just take all of his words in without flinching.
For the first time that night, Hongjoong looked away from you. His stare shifted, slow and deliberate, settling on your uncle who chuckled nervously, but also unable to look away from Hongjoong like you did.
It was his turn to be stared at, you could already tell that your uncle was starting to crack under the pressure of that silent, unnerving stare.
Then as if to rub salt on his wounds, Hongjoong let a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t directed towards you, but it sent nasty goosebumps all over your skin. It was nothing short of sinister.
“How compelling,” he drawled out, leaning forward to grab his wine glass, swirling its contents leisurely before he set his dark eyes back towards your uncle. “Though I don’t recall ever asking.”
Your uncle stiffened, but Hongjoong continued, his voice controlled, and flat. “And if I ever find myself wondering, I’ll be sure to consult someone who’s managed to keep his life longer than selling their nieces to the mafia to save their skin.”
Your legs felt suddenly too weak, your numb fingers loosening their tight hold on your dress. The mafia. Your uncle was selling you out to the mafia. The word itself echoed through your mind, a jagged, inescapable truth. Fear, raw and electric, lit up inside you.
Though, an undeniable satisfaction flowed through you at the prospect of your smug uncle finally being put in his place. He opened his big mouth to try and retort back, but Hongjoong didn’t give him the chance.
He sets his wine glass back down, lightly tapping on it with a butter knife. “More,” was all he said. It was just one command, but if you were standing, it would have brought you down to your knees.
It was the end of the conversation, all because he said so without actually saying it. There were no more words needed to be said, the message had been delivered. He turned his gaze somewhere else, not looking back at you. There was no need to.
This entire room knew who held the leash, and it was the man you were set to marry sooner than later. The room had been entirely claimed by him the moment he opened his mouth.
Dinner was an awkward affair. The conversation between everyone was never really the same afterwards, but you didn’t care, you tuned them all out, even when you could finally breathe because Hongjoong never looked your way again, partaking in a conversation with the man nearest to him, the same man with the deep voice who called him out for staring at you.
It was every man for themselves at this very table, that much you could tell. Every clink of cutlery made you flinch, every swallow constricting your throat, every smoke coming out of your uncle’s ears petrifying you, his words still ringing in your head the entire time as you tried to eat.
Marry this man or face the consequences, but at what cost? You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t. There would be no ending where you wouldn’t end up bleeding. Hongjoong terrified you. It was the type of fear that settled itself deep in your bones. He hasn’t even risen from his seat, yet he’s managed to get under your skin far more than your uncle has in more than a decade.
This was a man who ruled in power. There was something in the way he sat, all composed and relaxed. He had nothing to prove, let alone raise his voice. He simply held everyone’s breath in his palms. One squeeze was all it took.
You didn’t realize you’d been staring until Hongjoong’s sharp eyes met yours briefly once more. He looked at your uncle, back at you, then back at the man who was talking to him. You had made your decision then. Anything was better than being your uncle’s property.
By the end of the week, all of your belongings were packed in a small suitcase, ready to be transported to the Kim estate. Not that you needed to pack a lot, there was no single thing that you truly owned.
The manor was just as breathtaking as it was the last time you saw it, dare say, far more glamorous than you remembered it to be now that the invisible collar that your uncle wrapped around your neck like a noose was now gone. It was far much easier to gaze in awe at the splendor that it represented.
Though you reckon that if you closed your eyes, the walls would be crimson red with blood.
Your fingers clutched the suitcase handle with a grip that bordered on desperation, as if letting go might unravel something fragile inside you. The threshold before you wasn’t just the entrance to another home, it was a gate to uncertainty, and that terrified you more than anything.
The last time you crossed into the unfamiliar den of someone else’s house, you were met with a home, but with silent trials and unspoken wounds. But it was too late to ponder whether you should just turn back, run away, and start anew somewhere else - the massive door at the entrance suddenly opened ajar to reveal the familiar face of the Kim family butler, San.
It struck you then, as he was walking towards your direction, that he wasn’t wearing a uniform like the last time you saw him, in fact, he wasn’t like anything you remembered at all even though this was only your second meeting. Gone was the uniform, the gloves, and his rigid posture. Instead, he wore a gray tailored suit and he walked like he belonged in it. He wasn’t performing anymore.
He grabbed your suitcase for you, but before he could take a step forward, he hesitantly turned towards you. “I just wanted to say that there are no shadows in this place,” he said softly, cryptically. “You don’t need to keep looking over your shoulders. He can’t hurt you here.”
You tried to keep your face still, unreadable. You supposed that one eventful dinner was enough for everyone to see how much of a swine your uncle was. You didn’t respond to his strange reassurance. Instead, you studied him again, this time more carefully, more warily. “You’re not a butler, are you?” You said quietly.
His brows raised, but he didn’t say anything; he just smiled at you before beckoning you inside the mansion that would be your new home. Everything looked the same, except that in the morning light, everything looked more marvelous than it did rather than when they were covered by the dark shadows of the night. No matter which direction your head turned, awe struck in every corner.
Then you passed the staircase. Something made you pause, there was a prickle at the back of your neck. Without meaning to, you looked up. It was the man at the dinner, the one that sat closest to Hongjoong at the far end of the table - the one who told the older man he was staring. He also donned a smart suit like San, leaning against the bannister while his sharp eyes watched you.
He was a lot taller than you thought now that he was standing and he was younger, too. It was a surprise given his apparent ease with Hongjoong when everyone else wanted to piss their pants with fear. He didn’t glare at you, the only thing that signalled he wasn’t particularly angry towards you, but his stare still made your skin tighten. He was, by all means, intimidating.
“Did you need anything, Mingi?” San’s mellow voice cut the unspoken tension in the air as he also looked up the staircase. He motions to you with his hands. “You’ve met Y/N during the dinner.”
The man, Mingi, didn’t reply. His presence pressed down like a weight, not loud, but undeniable, as he turned around, but not before swivelling his head back, his side profile sharp and intense. “I know,” his deep voice spoke before he completely walked away out of your sight.
Your voice barely rose above a whisper as you turned to San. “Does he not like me?”
“It’s complicated,” he said simply, continuing the walk towards where was taking you.
Complicated. Somehow, that made you feel like you were trespassing in a life you hadn’t earned. Maybe he didn’t like you, maybe it wasn’t personal, but you understood it. You wouldn’t like you, either, ever since you were reduced to who you once were. Those were the thoughts that plagued your mind as you walked through the lavish mansion, until you stopped directly in front of a door that just screamed doom from the other side.
The feeling intensified when San gave the door a few light taps with his knuckles. You had been mistaken when you thought that this would be your room. There was only one reason why San would knock like he did.
“Come in,” a gruff voice replied from inside.
Coldness washed over you, the slight fear during that one dinner night creeping back and settling itself into your bones when you were met at the sight of Hongjoong at the end of his office behind a desk where there were plenty of papers strewn all over it.
You had to put in effort in your jaws so it wouldn’t fall open. You’ve seen plenty of good-looking men in your life, but none of them hold a candle to the enigma that was Kim Hongjoong. That night absolutely did nothing to justify how immaculate this man actually looked. The worst part was that he wasn’t even wearing a suit like San.
He was clad in a casual white-button up shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing lean forearms that moved with casual precision as he scribbled something across a document. He didn’t look up, not bothering to acknowledge your entrance.
You shuffled your feet awkwardly, your heart beating a little faster, not out of attraction, though it wasn’t out of the realm entirely, but with palpable tension. Hongjoong flipped a page, still without acknowledgement as if he wasn’t bothered by your presence at all. It was San who finally broke the silence, his voice lower, more respectful than you’d ever heard it. “Boss. She’s here—”
“Leave,” the mafia boss cut off, voice hushed in the quietness of the office, but brusque nonetheless.
It was like you were struck with an imaginary hammer straight to your chest with that one single word, but it wasn’t just that - it was the undeniable truth that you were, once again, unwelcome in this shiny, brand new cage you were thrust upon. The silence that followed felt suffocating, even San was rendered speechless, clearly confused.
San cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I’m following, Sir.”
The sound of rustling paper and the pen scratching against its surface resonated in your head. “I didn’t stutter, San,” Hongjoong replied nonchalantly. “Both of you, out.”
There was no room for argument in his tone. He didn’t sound particularly peeved, in fact, he didn’t sound like anything at all, and yet, the dismissal stung you more than you’d like to admit. His utter dismissal was louder than any shout. You didn’t have to spend a minute longer in this room that was slowly beginning to feel like a jail cell - you didn’t matter.
“Alright,” San sighed, conceding, though against his will. “Where will she reside?”
The pen in Hongjoong’s hand stopped moving, and finally, he raised his chin, his eyes lifting slowly to stare at San. You swallowed, it reminded you of a predator being disturbed while it was resting. Your heart almost leapt out of your chest when he turned lazily to you, his eyes half-lidded this time. “Keep her in the dungeons,” he drawled flatly. Your eye twitched at the response.
“Hongjoong,” San’s mouth dropped open in surprise, not being able to stop his reaction at his boss’ reply.
“Apologies,” he said, leaning back on his leather chaise lounge, his tone egregiously insincere as he raised his brows at the butler. “I can’t help but jest at the stupidity of your question, Choi San. What did you want me to say?”
You clenched your fists before they could visibly shake. God, he was beautiful, and it only made it worse, like the universe had handed unimaginable cruelty to the face of an angel just to mock you. You were scared, yes, but you were also annoyed.
You haven’t even been here for five minutes yet he was already seemingly enjoying your discomfort and feeding off of your humiliation. The plan was to keep your head down so you could survive in this battlefield, but if he was going to keep this up, it was only a matter of time until your patience would snap and get you in trouble, or worse, killed.
As if he didn’t just say something outrageous, Hongjoong flicked his pen to start writing again. “I need Mingi,” he said. “And call your Third Master. He should have been back with Seonghwa from Suwon.”
San didn’t say anything as he shut the door behind you both, his steps quick and purposeful as he led you down a dimly lit corridor that felt far too silent for how grand the house looked from the outside. The heavy tension that lingered from the office followed you like a second shadow.
He glanced over at you, as if trying to read your face before turning his eyes back ahead. “I was wondering,” he started clearly just to ease the tension. “I’ve noticed, well, we all did, that you didn’t share a last name with your uncle. Is that on purpose?”
You blinked, surprised by the question. Such a contrast to what had just occurred a couple of minutes ago. But more than that, nobody had bothered to ask you that question before. It wasn't invasive by all means, just unexpected.
It did, however, shoot a pang of hurt through your heart. You haven’t explained this in more than a decade. “He’s my late mother’s older brother.”
San nodded slowly, absorbing the information with interest. Bless this man, you thought. “May I ask what your last name is?”
“It’s Jeong,” you replied softly. Oh, how good it was to say your father's name like this again. “Jeong Y/N.”
When he finally stopped in front of a modest door near the end of the hall, he placed a hand on the knob, but not before pausing. Something didn’t feel right. “D-Did you know my father?”
You frowned at his frozen expression that didn’t last for another second before he snapped off of whatever trance he put himself in.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, turning to face you. “I know this was a horrible start to your soon-to-be life here,” San shook his head, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Hongjoong’s hard headed, but he’s not heartless. Just give it time, okay?”
Your heart wanted to leap out of your chest. He completely changed the topic. “I get it,” you sighed, letting it go. “He’s as much of an unwilling participant in this as I am.”
San opened the door, revealing a clean, minimal room with a bed, dresser, and tall windows draped in heavy curtains. The room was beautiful, not that you expected any less, but this was decay dressed in silk; a trap made to look like a sanctuary to your wounded soul.
“I’ll let you settle in,” he said gently as he left you alone. “If you need anything, please let me know. This is your home now as much as it is ours.”
Indeed, you were alone, but not free. Caged, but not chained, at least, not in the physical sense.
San had said to give it time, but time was a commodity and you feared it - too much of it and it left you rotting away inside your body, and too little of it felt like a countdown.
Days passed from then, and you tried to settle in to the very best of your abilities. It was the only option you had, after all. You explored the rest of the mansion, even going as far as hanging out in the vast garden in the back when you had nothing better to do. It wasn’t home, per se, but it was far better from where you came from.
As suffocating as this mansion felt, at least San was right, nobody has hurt you - not yet at least. But that was always how it went, wasn’t it? Then the shift would be so subtle that you’d miss it if you weren’t already waiting for the sky to fall. You knew the pattern like your own breathing.
So you kept your voice light. You smiled when you needed to, but you always stayed one step ahead. Because San was right, no one had hurt you, but they would. It was only a matter of time.
It was still a step-up from your uncle, his loud voice no longer calling you, but coincidentally, neither had Hongjoong. He didn’t look your way once, he didn’t call or summon you, and didn’t acknowledge your existence very much. Somehow, you weren’t sure if that was a curse or a blessing in disguise.
Nonetheless, you did enjoy it so far, and you had so much to learn. You’ve yet to peek through the library, study how the light filtered through your windows at certain hours, or just the layout of the mansion itself. You were just about to walk towards the garden when you heard the familiar, telltale signs of people talking in one of the rooms. No, rather, you were hearing an argument take place between two men.
“You lied to me,” a man’s voice, deep, thunderous, and absolutely furious, boomed throughout the expanse of the house. “That hit in Suwon was supposed to be mine, and mine, alone. Not anyone's, not Wooyoung’s, mine.”
You froze at the sound, instincts screaming at you to turn around, walk away, disappear. But curiosity dug its claws in. Your feet moved without permission, guiding you down the stairs toward the raised voices echoing from the living room just around the corner.
“I did not lie to you. Your lack of proper planning does not constitute an emergency on my end,” replied the familiar voice of Hongjoong, flat and stoic as ever, like he wasn’t on the burnt end of someone’s anger.
“That little fuck. Always stealing my hits. And you tolerate him.”
Heavy, furious footsteps and you barely had time to walk away unnoticed when you almost crashed into the tall and broad-shouldered form of none other than Mingi. His expression was twisted with the fury of a thousand suns as he glared at you. For a second, he looked like he was going to explode on you, but luckily, he just walked past you with rage he looked like he could barely contain.
“You,” came a voice from the living room.
You flinched, your spine automatically straightening like they did when your uncle screamed your name before he struck his fists. But Hongjoong didn’t shout, didn’t even raise his voice, but the sharpness in that single word pinned you in place like a knife.
He stepped into view slowly, the light from the tall windows casting long shadows behind him. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, gaze unreadable but heavy.
“What are you doing?” Hongjoong asked at last, his tone deceptively calm, but lined with quiet disdain. “Sneaking around corners like a rat.”
Despite your speechlessness in the frost of his tone, you couldn’t help but stare. Hongjoong’s back was turned against the window and little bits of sun rays hit his features just right. You tried to tamp the blush trying to sneak up your cheeks to make way at the vexation flickering inside your chest at his statement.
“I-I apologize, I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quietly, your heart jumping to your throat. “I was just curious—”
“Curious,” he repeated slowly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You were curious.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears, as he stared you down. It was as if he was truly looking at you for the first time. He wasn’t much taller than you, but the way he stood felt like he towered over you by a mile. You felt numbness wash over you, but you tried your best to answer him with honesty. You had a feeling he’d catch you fibbing anyway. “I was told I could explore a little when I came.”
His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile - too sharp to be one. “But did I tell you that you could go prancing around anywhere you damn well pleased?”
Your breath caught when he took a slow, almost bored, step towards you. For a second, you saw the taller form of your uncle stalking towards you, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your mouth to protest. “I’m sorry,” you squeaked. “I just assumed that since I’m staying here that I can—”
“Immaterial,” he interrupted, low and vicious. “This is my house, and you answer to me.”
Hongjoong stuck his finger under your chin, slightly tilting it up. The tips of your ears reddened completely, not because you were flustered, but because it felt degrading. “I’ve been quite busy, you see,” he continued with a sneer. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten your existence. I can never forget the face of someone who was sold to me.”
You didn’t answer. The words stung too much, mostly because you’d dared to hope, even briefly, that maybe this place could become a safe haven. Being remembered like this hurt even more. “You’re right, I won’t do it again,” you whispered, too defeated to even let your usual anger consume you. “I was out of line, I’m sorry.”
“Then, act like it,” Hongjoong’s eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, his tone dismissive and cold.
He turned his back to you, not bothering to wait for your reply as he started to walk away. “You shouldn’t have been here,” he added. “Don’t make the same mistake twice. Stay in your lane.”
You were left standing in the same spot he’d left you even after a long time clenching your fists, shame filling your chest at the minor confrontation, the sharp sting of his words looping in your mind, each repetition sharper than the last.
You dug your nails into your palms until it hurt. Good. You needed something to keep yourself grounded because the rage was almost enough to drown you. How dare he treat you like you were disposable?
The worst part was that you were supposed to marry this man, spend the rest of your miserable days walking on eggshells around this insufferable, arrogant bastard? You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took a deep breath.
San told you no one was going to hurt you. He lied, to a certain extent he did, because hurt here came from humiliation and not the hand that’ll lay itself on your skin.
You didn’t have to like him, especially since love was completely out of the question, and you had absolutely no obligation to please him, but you would survive this. You had to.
You were following San one Sunday morning as he’d promised to show you the private library after you were no longer skittish after the last encounter with Hongjoong. “I’d love to show you the library today,” San turned, a smile blooming on his face. “Master is very fond of them, as is the Second Master. I’m sure you would, too. It’s quite fascinating.”
“I’ve heard a second and third master being mentioned once or twice before,” you started. “I assume they’re family. Would I be meeting them soon? Should I be wary of them?”
“You would be correct, they are family,” San nodded, pausing in front of the library doorway to face you. “Unfortunately, the Second Master is currently on a…”
He cleared his throat, trailing off to find the right wording like you didn’t already know you’d be marrying into the mafia. “Mission, so to speak. And as you’ve gathered, the Third Master is in Suwon so he should be back soon.”
He took a pause, glancing at his wristwatch before glancing back at you. “Right now, actually. I completely forgot about that,” he cursed under his breath as he looked at you sheepishly. “I apologize, would you mind if I left to instruct someone of his arrival?”
You gave San a small, amused smile, waving him off. “It’s okay. Go do what you need to do. I’ll just wait here.”
“Thank you,” he sighed in relief, already backing away. “I promise I won’t take long.”
You rolled your eyes fondly as he disappeared down the corridor, the sound of his quick footsteps fading behind you. Alone now, you took a slow breath, soaking in the ornate hallway. You didn’t mind waiting, at least you had something to look forward to very soon.
If anything, the wait was very peaceful, but that peace was soon shattered when you heard the door to your left at the far end of the hallway swinging open and two voices suddenly filling in the space of the house. They were unfamiliar, as far as you knew. One thing you noticed was that Hongjoong kept a very limited amount of staff going in and out of the manor.
You shifted nervously, looking to where San had left to see if he was coming back soon, not knowing where to go and how to interact with Hongjoong’s possible guests. He always had people over he was constantly talking to and you didn’t know how he’d reprimand you if he saw you talking to them.
“You got me fucked up if you think I’m not getting back at you for this,” the first man who entered snorted, his bright and shameless laughter put you on high alert. You watched as he made a show of stretching his limbs exaggeratedly. “You know I can’t stand economy flights, Seonghwa, why would you subject me to this torture?”
Then came the second voice, calm and firm, but edged with exasperation. “Forgive me for being presumptuous if I say you’re not going to die being a normal person just this once, master,” he said flatly, closing the door behind him with a sigh.
They were quite a pair, you noticed. It was easy to assume that this was the infamous Third Master Hongjoong had been waiting for. His eyes sparkled with mischief, his playful smirk clearly irritating his older, taller companion.
“We had to blend in, you know that,” the taller man - model - Seonghwa continued, gracefully trudging two suitcases behind him. “Hongjoong is going to throw a fit if he finds out we’re being tailed.”
The other man scoffed once more, letting out an obnoxious laughter that frankly reminded you of a hyena. “He’ll be fine,” he waved his hand off-handedly as he started to walk. “I could just—”
He came to a dramatic halt when he saw you standing in the hallway, blinking in complete surprise. He was a lot younger than you thought he was, his boyish charm was impossible to ignore. He observed you from head to toe before he let out a grin that was too wide to be innocent.
Seonghwa almost did a halt, but his was more sudden than his companion. Recognition flashed in his eyes and you would’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention. He was more reserved, after all. If the first man was chaos, this one was control.
“Well, well, well,” the grinning one drawled, ignoring Seonghwa’s pointed sigh. “What’s a beautiful thing like you doing here?”
You blinked, taken slightly aback by the sheer confidence in his tone. “I’m not an intruder,” you said cautiously. “I-I’m waiting for San.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not. I would’ve already known if you were,” he smirked as he stepped forward, confidence dripping with every step, until he stopped in front of you. Shivers ran through your spine. He reminded you of Hongjoong’s predatory nature. “And I wouldn’t be smiling.”
He held his hands up for you to shake. “Jung Wooyoung, and my heart is yours to intrude, if you’d like. You’ll find that I’m very easy to rob,” He gave a unapologetic bow, his smirk widening. “You could do it now if you’d like—”
“She’s not available,” Seonghwa cut in, his tone flat, his gaze flicking to you with a subtle nod of acknowledgement. “Wooyoung, please, contain yourself, you embarrassment.”
Woooyoung backed off slightly, the confusion in his face palpable. “She’s not available?” He frowned. “Why not?”
Seonghwa leaned in slightly, whispering something low against Wooyoung’s ear, voice so quiet you couldn’t catch the words. Wooyoung froze, his gaze towards you no longer flirtatious, the warmth in his eyes being replaced by something so cold and calculating that had you taking a small step back.
You’d seen that look before - on Mingi, of all people. But then, just as suddenly, the light snapped back on. Your sense of danger heightened; Wooyoung and Mingi reminded you of Hongjoong the most. You had to avoid them at all costs.
Wooyoung gasped, hand flying to his chest like he was scandalized. “I don’t believe it,” he blurted out. “You’re marrying Hongjoong?”
Wooyoung looked at you again, a wild laugh tumbling out as he shook his head. “Wow. Poor thing. You’re how old? This’ll be so awkward during dinners when people ask me, especially Mingi. How did Mingi react to Hongjoong owning you?”
You frowned, not understanding Mingi’s significance. “Not well, I guess,” you admitted before you gave him a pointed glare. “And I’m no one’s property.”
“Nuances,” he shrugged. “Well, if you get sick of Hongjoong’s moodiness, my room’s on the east wing, just a few doors away from his office—”
“There will be none of that,” Seonghwa said dryly, voice heavy with the kind of weariness that could only come from years of enduring Wooyoung’s antics.
“I didn’t hear a no from her,” Wooyoung sing-songed.
“Wooyoung, shut up,” Seonghwa whisper-shouted in warning.
“Anyway, I could take you to dinner,” he wiggled his brows, grabbing your hand. You were almost appalled at his audacity and shied away, yanking your hand away quickly.
“Wooyoung.”
He turned to Seonghwa in exasperation. “Why are you messing up my groove, Hwa? God, you’re just like my father at this point-–”
“You fucking fool,” Seonghwa cut in coldly, stepping aside as he jabbed a finger toward the other end of the hallway. “Congratulations. Now you’ll find out what the afterlife is like.”
Wooyoung followed his gaze, then yelped so loud it echoed through the hallways, because at the far end of the corridor, shadowed in the doorway with the light behind him stood none other than Hongjoong. His arms were crossed and his expression screamed death.
Your stomach turned, the blood draining from your face as he stared at you. They were dark, narrowed into slits, filled with a contained fury. This was the first time you were seeing him days after your altercation at the living room and his presence reminded you of how remarkably terrifying this man was.
All the color drained from Wooyoung’s face, his smirk crumbled, replaced by a sheepish half-smile and a muttered, “Ah. Right. Of course. Be right there.”
“And you. Be ready, there will be a family dinner tonight,” Hongjoong turned his unyielding attention to someone behind you. “Brief her, manners included.”
He eyes you up and down, and you blushed in humiliation once more, trying not to look as small as you felt with his judging gaze. “Lord knows you need brushing up.”
You barely heard Wooyoung’s nervous chuckle as he stumbled past you, still trying to mask his own fear. But it didn’t matter, your attention was solely fixed entirely on the man who still hadn’t moved an inch, still standing in that doorway like a judge awaiting a verdict before you felt yourself being pulled back by Seonghwa.
“I am terribly sorry about that,” he apologized, leading you to the side door where he came from. “He’s not that bad, I promise. Just a bit aloof, and Hongjoong, he’s uh, something, but it’ll get better with time.”
You hummed, not knowing what to say. You couldn’t possibly say that their boss spiked a little fear in you somehow. As you were walking, you were pleasantly surprised to see red tulips blooming. You grinned, quickly running off to look closer.
However, you wouldn’t be the only ones to admire them. Mingi turned the tulip in his fingers with surprising care, before he set his eyes on you and Seonghwa before approaching. His walk, alone, screamed intimidation and hesitated. Mingi trained his sharp eyes on you before he set his attention back on the red tulip bud he was holding.
“Since when did we have these?” He murmured absentmindedly. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. Wooyoung? I heard him whining and bitching around here somewhere.”
“Since now, I guess,” Seonghwa curiously grabs the tulips and hums. He turns to you with a soft smile and shows you the tulip up close. “Say, Y/N, may I ask what your favourite flowers are?”
You didn’t answer immediately, not with Mingi staring at you. You tried not to look at him, but you could feel his stare dissecting your every breath and it made your spine stiffen. “These ones,” you answered softly, cradling a nearby petal. “Red tulips.”
A strange silence followed and when you glanced up cautiously, you found the both of them staring at one another curiously. Mingi’s eyes narrowed, and Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, as if they all knew something you didn’t.
“Anyway,” Seonghwa cleared his throat. “You should go to the office. Your dad’s probably tearing him a new one. He, uh, may or may not have flirted with her.”
Mingi’s brows shot up in mild surprise. “God, that stupid fuck,” he hissed, shaking his head before he patted Seonghwa’s shoulder once and walking away. “I’ll catch up later, I need to settle the score with him and Father anyway.”
Dad? Father? Those were the only things circling in your head even as Seonghwa had guided you back into your designated room and sat you down on the bed. Your mouth opened and closed repeatedly, because Mingi wasn’t just anyone, he was Hongjoong’s son.
“I take it you had no idea First Master Mingi was Hongjoong’s son?” Seonghwa asked, amusement dancing in his eyes at your bewildered expression. You robotically shook your head in denial. He let out a short, breathy laugh. “Figures. That’s very Hongjoong of him to not tell you,” he shook his head.
You smiled bitterly. “Why would he? I’m nobody to him.”
Seonghwa’s eyes softened. “That’s not it. You have to understand, you are only about seven or so years older than his eldest son. It might not seem like it, but he does have morals.”
San did mention that the so-called masters were family, but you thought that meant they had a brotherly bond. You weren’t expecting literal family. “I just assumed he was one of higher-ups,” you blurted out.
“He technically is, yes,” Seonghwa confirmed. “He’s set to inherit the title once Hongjoong retires. Wooyoung is the next in line given that the Second Master is not interested in the title.”
You blinked repeatedly. Then it hits you - there was yesterday when San mentioned a Third Master. Wooyoung is also Hongjoong’s son. “Mingi is the eldest, Hongjoong had him before he hit twenty because his father wanted him to have a son before he transferred the title to him,” he kindly explained.
“And his mother was, uh,” he tenses a little bit before shaking his head. “She’s not a good person. Only married a Kim to sell the enemy information. There was no love in the marriage anyway, so Hongjoong kicked her out when Mingi was only three. Haven’t seen her since. They’re all about the same age, but Wooyoung’s the youngest. There’s a reason he gets away with everything,” he chuckled.
“How come Wooyoung doesn’t share a last name with Hongjoong?” You asked.
“It’s because Wooyoung is not his biological son,” Seonghwa answered. “Neither is Second Master, but they’re biological brothers, however. They were his former right-hand’s sons, but he died in a hit gone wrong. They both got along with Mingi even before then, so adopting them was a no-brainer. But that doesn’t matter, they are his sons.”
You took that in slowly. Three sons; one cold and carved from stone, another a carefree spark of chaos, and a third somewhere in between you hadn’t even met yet. No wonder Mingi looked at you like that. You were just a few years older than him and he was probably naturally weirded out about it.
“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, you have to get ready for dinner tonight. Since Wooyoung has been gone for three months, it’s customary to welcome him back,” Seonghwa grabs your hand to shake it gently, smiling at you with that smile that eased your worries for a bit. “Don’t mind Hongjoong. I’m sure you’ll do well. It’s very nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”
You didn’t pay much attention to Seonghwa’s words. It’s very nice to finally meet you. You didn’t bother to dress up too much as you stood in front of the mirror longer than you should have, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your clothes. For a moment, you thought about putting on makeup, but you’d always felt like a child trying to play dress-up.
When you finally stepped out of the room and down the long hallway toward the dining hall, your legs felt hollow. The muted murmur of voices from behind the doors swelled with each step. And you hated how it reminded you of that night - your first time meeting Hongjoong.
Thankfully, he wasn’t ignoring you because he was looking straight at you, arms crossed as he watched your awkward form walk to the centre of the room, as San led to the chair to sit directly to his left. You cursed internally, you were betting on settling in the background and would have chosen to sit on the far end of the table.
Thankfully, everyone was here, though you couldn’t really focus on them. Mingi sat in front of you, Seonghwa and San, respectively, sitting beside him. You were sure you wouldn’t be the only one who couldn’t breathe with Hongjoong’s menacing aura. Still, you were relieved, at least you wouldn’t be alone.
“Howdy, pretty,” Wooyoung saluted flirtatiously beside you, his eyes twinkling with mischief and excitement. You saw the man beside him roll his eyes dramatically, but didn’t say a word. You gave Wooyoung a tight smile out of politeness.
“Scram if you’re going to be insufferable, Wooyoung,” Hongjoong sighed, irritation palpable on his expression before he set his eyes on you. “And you, don’t do that ever again. You’re here to represent me. You know what that entails. I know you’re not as dull as you seem.”
You gritted your teeth, forcing a meek nod as a response. Wooyoung scoffs obnoxiously, ignoring the first statement directed to him. “Relax, nobody’s taking your woman from you,” he teased. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you. You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”
You could tell Hongjoong was close to exploding judging from the vein popping on his temples that protruded so much, it looked like it hurt. Instead, he puts his hands up, gesturing to the stoic man sitting beside Wooyoung. “This is Jongho,” he said, voice flat and uninterested. “He will be your bodyguard from now on. Jongho, show your respect.”
You blinked in surprise. This was the last thing you ever expected, but you welcomed it. You were surprised, however, Jongho didn’t look like he was much older than you. His face was carved with stoicism and impassiveness. “I’ll do my best to keep you safe,” Jongho said plainly, voice deep and steady.
“Right, let's get a few things out of the way,” Hongjoong started, voice still as sharp and astute as if time was running out, the entire time the staff was piling dinner on the table. “When did your parents pass away?”
That question hit you harder than all the insults and coldness he directed towards you. You were expecting something else, even about your uncle’s failing business that you had no idea about, but certainly not this. “When I was sixteen,” you blurted out. “It was sudden, I was told it was a hit and run.”
Hongjoong’s question had sliced through the dinner like a blade, and your answer left a ringing silence in its wake.You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of how cold the room felt. Across the table, Mingi’s gaze sharpened instantly, replaced by something cold and alert. He flicked his eyes towards Hongjoong, a silent communication passing between them. And even Wooyoung let out a slow exhale, his playful demeanor was nowhere to be found.
Hongjoong nodded, his stern face not giving anything away. “Hit and run?” He repeated slowly, like tasting the words. “That’s what they told you? Who told you that?”
“M-My uncle,” you answered truthfully.
“Hmm,” Hongjoong hummed brusquely. “That good-for-nothing leech during dinner?”
You nodded stiffly. A beat passes, something about the way his jaw muscle ticked and his exhale changed. “When did you start living with him?”
“Right after the funeral,” you replied. “He took me before my other family members had a chance to say their condolences to me.”
“And?” he asked, voice clipped. “How bad was he?”
Just like that, memories upon memories of all the hurt, emotionally and physically, started playing in your brain like an old camera film. Subconsciously, you touched your neck. The bruises were gone, but you could still feel his hands wrapped around them. “Bad enough,” you replied quietly, avoiding eye contact.
San’s eyes softened. There was a slight crease in his brow, one of restrained empathy. He leaned back slightly, as if he needed space to process it, or to give you some. “Fucking bastard,” he muttered under his breath.
Hongjoong didn’t respond, his eyes lowering to your hand on your neck. His eyes didn’t soften, but the edge in them did dull ever so slightly. He looked at you for one more second before he leaned back on his seat to stare out the large window that overlooked the entire manor.
"You need to act the part if you're going to stay here," Hongjoong said, voice sharp, still looking out the window. You were thankful for the change of topic, it was hard to pretend the questions didn’t sting.
You glanced wearily at him from where you were sitting. “What part?”
“You are going to be Mrs. Kim very soon, and you will be associated with me,” he said. “That means whatever you do will reflect on me, including both your victory and your defeat. I do not want the likes of you to embarrass me.”
You clenched your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking. Your identity was being stripped down, reshaped into someone he could not even tolerate standing next to. It was next level humiliation.
“I will not tolerate disrespect from any outsiders about what’s mine, hence me giving you a bodyguard,” he continued, casually sipping on his wine. “I refuse my family to be a laughingstock of some sorts. You will be under my name, so you will be under my protection.”
Under his name, not sharing his name. He was basically telling you that you will become his burden and liability. “It is imperative that no one knows about us for now. You will not wear a ring, and you will not speak about our arrangement. ”
You swallowed, throat tight. “So what am I supposed to be, then? Your accessory?”
He leaned closer, and your breath caught in your chest. “Play the game. Or pack your things.”
“Now, hold on a minute,” a voice cut off, one you weren’t expecting. Everybody looks at Wooyoung curiously, the cutlery in the background halting. “Don’t you think this is a bit much, Dad? You’re asking her to erase herself in front of everyone. Hide everything. No ring, no identity, no dignity? You want her to protect your name, but you won’t even give her the same courtesy?”
Your heart thumped. Was someone finally on your side? And of all the people, his own son? The one who you thought was a flirt. Hongjoong shifted his gaze. “Since when did you start calling me Dad?” He asked, tone cold now, sharpened to a lethal edge. “Do not undermine me at my own table, Jung Wooyoung.”
You weren’t that much of an idiot - this engagement was a farce because he was hiding you like a shadow. It was erasure disguised as a strategy. It stung, not that you were expecting him to hold you and show you off, but still.
Your fingers brushed against the gold fork, just drowning out the fight, and you were about to dig in when your plate was suddenly pushed away. Horrified, you stared at Hongjoong who had a passive expression on his face. “Don’t eat anything,” he stated, cold eyes drilling onto your wide ones, his fingers still on the edge of the plate he so callously pushed off. “Not until I say so.”
You froze, absolutely mortified at what he had done. You could accept all the insults and the cold shoulder he’d been presenting you in his house, but this? You swallowed the lump in your throat and kept your head down, your hands curling into your lap like they didn’t belong at the table. Your stomach had long since stopped growling - embarrassment had a way of killing hunger.
“She didn’t do anything. Why would you do that?” Seonghwa spoke, his tone laced with disbelief, his brows furrowed as he looked from the plate to you, then back to Hongjoong. Even Jongho, who had been trying to eat quietly, had stopped.
“No one eats until she does,” Wooyoung muttered suddenly, pushing his own plate away with a sharp scrape. He didn’t even look at Hongjoong. His focus was entirely on you, his eyes softening slightly. “I love you and all, Hongjoong, but we’re not playing these games. If you’re jealous, just say so.”
“Then none of you are eating,” Hongjoong snarled. The sudden sound of a chair scraping violently against the floor shattered the moment. Everyone flinched, heads turning just in time to see Hongjoong push himself up from his seat with a grace so sharp it cut through the hum of the room. “Get up,” he said, his jaw locked, his fists white-knuckled.
Your head whipped toward him in disbelief. “W-What?”
His eyes, narrowed and glinting with something unreadable, didn’t budge. “I said, get up.” His tone was low and lethal; it didn’t leave room for any arguments.
He didn’t wait for your response, not until he just grabbed you by the arm all of a sudden, dragging you away from the crowd and straight to the living room staircase. “What are you—?”
“You,” he spat, voice low and accusing. “What spell did you cast on them? How did you get everyone to turn against me?”
You blinked, stunned by the sudden accusation, but you couldn’t say anything as Hongjoong’s eyes darkened further, shadows flickering in their depths as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Jongho. Take her to her room. No more scenes.”
Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, a mix of frustration and something unreadable in his expression before walking away. It was like Hongjoong ripped your heart out directly from your chest and took it with him, leaving your insides hollow in its wake.
“I apologize on his behalf. Hongjoong’s not good at expressing how he truly feels. You’re not missing much on the food, if it matters,” he assuaged in an attempt to make you feel better as he led you upstairs. “The steak was tough, the dressing was bland, and the avocados were mushy as hell. Our chef was sick, so we had to hire another one. Their last day, it seems.”
You swivelled your head slowly to look at Jongho. “W-What did you say was in the dressing?”
“Huh? Avocados? Yeah, it’s like someone stepped on them and plopped them on the plate. Bleh.”
Your heart rate began to pick up abnormally. You were deadly allergic to avocados. “Really?” Your voice cracked slightly, the information settling in your head like a broken record.
“Really,” he confirmed with a soft smile that emphasized how young he actually was.
Avocado allergies were rare. Even when you were younger, it was easy to avoid them, and even your uncle didn’t know you had an allergy. Not that he gave you avocados, he was cheap on you like that.
But besides that, you definitely screwed up last night. From what you’ve observed, not only was Hongjoong’s fuse short already, but his anger was difficult to dissipate as well. You needed to figure out a way to appease him, you didn’t want him calling off the engagement.
“You want to make Hongjoong’s dinner every night, you said?” San’s brows were both raised up to his hairline. “Are you sure, Y/N? Hongjoong’s quite the picky eater.”
You ignored the voice in your head that bristled at the thought of a man in his mid-forties still picky with his food. “It might not seem like it, but I’m a capable cook, I swear,” you joked. “I’ve had a lot of practice living with my uncle.”
San’s eyes softened significantly, but in the end, he relented. “I’ll instruct the staff to vacate the kitchen come nighttime,” he sighed.
True to his words, the kitchen was all yours by 6 o’clock at night. You didn’t even have time to marvel around the luxurious setup, you had no time to waste. Not when you had to prove yourself useful. When push comes to shove, maybe you could be his chef instead of his wife rather than your uncle’s niece again.
You didn’t make anything fancy, just a simple soup to gauge what Hongjoong might like or might not. You even tried your best to make the vegetables in it barely visible, that’s how much effort you put in it.
You were about to bring the soup up to his office when by sheer coincidence, Hongjoong, himself, showed up to the kitchen, and judging by his slightly raised brow at you holding the bowl with an apron still on you, he wasn’t expecting to see anyone in the kitchen, let alone you of all people.
“H-Hi,” you stammered, avoiding out contact, awkwardly. “I, uh, I made you something.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just blinking repeatedly, before sighing. “Don’t stay up late next time,” was all he said before he moved past you to walk out of the kitchen as if he didn’t want to be there in the first place.
Hongjoong disappeared into his study, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation to the silence he left behind. You let out a shaky breath, the sting of his blatant rejection making your legs shake as you sat on the dining chair.
Maybe tomorrow.
But he still didn’t eat. You did it again the next day anyway, even when the results were the same. You weren’t a master chef by any means, but one thing you were proud of was that you put genuine care on all of the things your hands create.
You patiently waited for Hongjoong, ready to try and spend time with him at dinner even though the both of you never got along since he disliked you. The thought of being face to face made your heartbeat go wilder than the prospect of him accepting your efforts.
By the fifth night after another failed attempt, you asked around to figure out what Hongjoong’s favourite foods were. You tried to ignore the pitying looks San sent you while Seonghwa quietly cleaned another plate of ignored efforts, taking everything with a smile on your face even though on the inside, you felt like crying.
You clutched another plate a little tighter again the next day, heat bleeding through porcelain and into your palms. You wondered if he even knew or if he smelled the spices in the air, wondered if he saw your sleeping form on the couch when you were too tired to wait for him.
Maybe you didn’t need him to eat it, maybe you just needed him to pause - to look at you like you were more than the terms of a deal neither of you asked for. But instead, all he gave you was a sigh and his absence.
And there you were - offering warmth with shaking hands to a man who’d rather freeze.
Hope began to dwindle when you didn’t even see Hongjoong’s shadow anymore by the seventh night. You started plating smaller portions out of humiliation and by the ninth, you didn’t bother waiting for Hongjoong anymore, just quietly making the food and leaving it in the kitchen, not even bothering to check if it was eaten or if Seonghwa had thrown it away.
You decided to stop after another week. You were tired of waking up in the room to Seonghwa’s shaking head when you looked at him expectantly. However, you wanted to make dinner for the last time not just for Hongjoong anymore, but for everyone who’s been nothing but accommodating to you.
You just needed a couple of ingredients to make what you needed, and for that, you wanted to pick them out yourself. That was how you found yourself directly in front of Hongjoong’s office where you knew he always was, steeling your nerves to knock and ask if there was a car that you could use to drive yourself to the market.
You were about to knock when you stopped yourself. There was a heated conversation going inside the office and by the sound of it, it was Hongjoong and Seonghwa. You could hardly hear what they were talking about.
“....can’t keep doing this….giving her the cold shoulder, Joong…she’ll find out….what are you going to do then?”
“Give me time…..so close to caging in Yoo Jaehwan, that bastard…no one can know….make sure he’ll pay….Yeosang.”
Your entire body locked, coldness spreading all over your chest at the mention of your uncle’s name. Those were Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s voices, you were positive, but what were they talking about?
“....won’t be safe forever, you know that. San….intel on the hit and run….was damn impossible to….think Jaehwan knows?”
“There’s no denying it…..will be safer here....never forgive myself if something happens….my everything—who’s there?”
You cursed internally when you accidentally misplaced your foot, causing your body to bump onto the door. You were about to turn and run away, to pretend that you were never here in the first place, but it was too late. The door swung open, revealing Hongjoong’s stern figure, eyes sharp and searching. His gaze landed on you in mild surprise, his chest rising slightly from how fast he'd moved.
“Y/N?“ You saw his hand squeeze the doorknob ever so slightly. Still, you can’t help the shiver that passed through you. That was the first time he’d ever said your name. “How long have you been standing there?”
His voice was low, but it wasn’t calm. “What did I tell you about sneaking around like a damn rat?”
“I-I just got here, I swear,” you swallowed, hard. He stared at you, deadpan. In no timeline or galaxy did he believe you. “I want to go out. I-I know there’s a market near here and—”
“Absolutely not,” he rejected, his voice rising up in pitch ever so slightly in disbelief. “You’re not going out.”
The denial was harsh and brutal - hell, he didn’t even let you finish your sentence - but this was also the first time you saw any other emotion on him other than anger, annoyance, and intimidation. “I really want to go—” you tried again.
“And I said no,” he repeated, his voice a little harsher this time.
You were taken aback. It wasn’t just the denial that struck you, it was the sheer urgency in his tone. It was the look in his eyes that if you stared hard enough, you could’ve found uneasiness and dread swimming in them.
“But I haven’t been out ever since I came here,” you blurted out in equal disbelief. He was the most arrogant and controlling one you’ve ever met and that was saying a lot. “I want to buy some produce—”
“Order it online, I don’t give a damn,” he snapped. He was about to close the door on you, but you put your foot to block it. “What the hell are you—”
“Please, Hongjoong,” you begged. It was a massive hit on your own ego and pride, but you were going to lose your mind if you don’t find fresh air soon. “I-I won’t even stay long, I’ll keep my phone on me.”
He stilled, his gaze faltered. You saw his throat tighten as he looked towards the floor. “Hongjoong,” he repeated under his breath, so soft you almost missed it.
Your breath hitched. He said it so softly that you almost missed it. Except you didn’t. You weren’t even sure if you were meant to hear it. Seonghwa, who forgot was also in the room, cleared his throat, thus breaking that unspoken tension you found with Hongjoong. “I could take her—” he started gently, but Hongjoong cut him off with a look, his neck snapping up so fast that it scared you a little.
Hongjoong’s eyes hardened again, and this time, they were the darkest you had ever seen. “I don’t keep you to tolerate her, Seonghwa,” he barked before turning to you one last time. “You’re not going out. That’s final.”
His gaze lingered a moment longer on you, eyes glinting with something between rage and warning, before he completely shut the door on you. He didn’t slam it, but it still knocked the wind out of your lungs as the finality of his denial settles in on you.
Something shifted in you at the moment. At first, you had mistaken it for fatigue. The stress of constantly trying to walk on eggshells with Hongjoong just so you wouldn’t say the wrong things in case he decided to call off the marriage, the late nights staying up making him dinner he didn’t even want, they were starting to get to you.
It didn’t happen all at once, but now the weight in your chest didn’t feel like fear anymore, it felt like fury - no, you knew it was. The final push was so mundane it almost felt insulting. You could feel your anger simmering and it was only a matter of time until it boiled over.
You were tempted to bang on the door like a madwoman, but you chose to walk away to the one place you knew would give you comfort - the garden. But even the flowers weren’t enough to make you feel better. If anything, they emphasized how infinitely colourless your world was.
You clenched your jaw, jaw tight as you sat down on one of the benches, arms crossed, trying to remind yourself that you were still here. You were still standing and still breathing. You weren’t going to fall apart over someone like him.
“Your energy is so strong that I wouldn’t be surprised if the flowers started to wilt.”
You rolled your eyes, not really in the mood to talk to anybody, but when Jongho sat beside you, you couldn’t help but relax a bit. You’ve always loved company regardless of how you felt. You’ve been alone all your life, so it was always nice to have someone. “How did you know I was here anyway?” You murmured with a small pout.
Jongho chuckled, absentmindedly fiddling with a lone petal. “I’m not your bodyguard for nothing. I’m always watching.”
“That’s totally not creepy at all,” you chuckled a little, shaking your head.
He laughed, shifting his weight before letting out a slow breath. “He’s not mad at you, you know.”
You snorted, giving him an incredulous look, but Jongho just smiled. “I’m serious. Don’t take it personally,” he said softly. “He’s just scared. That’s all.”
You didn’t care what Hongjoong’s intentions were, but in reality, you were starving for anything that made you feel less like a ghost haunting someone else's palace. Yet your mind wandered, uninvited and unwelcome, back to that moment at the door when you’d said his name. But it wasn’t your own desperation that haunted you - it was his reaction. How his gaze had faltered and how he’d gone utterly still.
If there was something to behold about your personality, it was that you were nothing but persistent, after all. It was the reason why you’ve come so far in your miserable life. So you tried again after a couple of days to ask Hongjoong again if you could go out.
Whatever conversation you overheard him and Seonghwa must have set him off that day so you figured you’d let his anger simmer and try to catch him in a good mood. Yesterday, you even saw him in the living room, casually reading the newspaper - you almost smiled at that because it inadvertently showed his age - while chatting casually with Mingi.
Now that you knew the real nature of their relationship, you could clearly see how much Mingi resembled Hongjoong, who honestly didn’t look a day over forty if it wasn’t for reading glasses resting low on his nose. God, you thought, that detail alone betrayed his age more than anything.
So you gathered your courage and waited when you knew he was going to be alone in his office in the afternoon. You took a deep breath, rapped your knuckles on the door before opening it slightly enough to poke your head in.
But he wasn’t here. That surprised you more than anything, mainly because it wasn’t much of a secret how much of a workaholic Hongjoong was. Even if you didn’t hear Wooyoung complain about it a lot, it wasn’t like you couldn’t see it.
Against your better judgment, you entered the room, opting to just wait in his room for his return, but not closing the door to signal that someone was here. Last thing you wanted was for Hongjoong to think you were intruding. You were hanging on your last thread with him as is. His office screamed of him all over.
Admittedly, you balked at the slight mess on his table as you walked towards the leather couches to sit down, but before you could do so, something inadvertently catches your eye amongst the mess that was his desk.
Half-tucked under a stack of manila folders and faded blueprints, barely sticking out like it had slipped by accident, was a photo. You reached for it on instinct - then froze. It was you.
Specifically, it was your graduation photo. You were smiling, though you could tell that it didn’t reach your eyes.. The photo was frayed along the edges and the corners were soft from wear. There was a faint crease running down the middle, as if it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times over. Your heart thudded, your hands shaking immensely. You shouldn’t have looked.
“You have thirty seconds to explain what you’re doing in my office before I lose all civility.”
The way your entire body trembled with uncouth shock was something to be seen. Hongjoong stood there, his sharp eyes trained on the photo you were holding in your hand, his jaw tightening. “Time is ticking, Y/N. You’re twenty-seconds away from having a very, very bad day.”
You put the photo haphazardly back on his desk. “I wanted to ask again if I could, perhaps, go out—”
You were stunned into absolute silence when he banged his fist on the door once but with enough force to shake the whole world around the both of you. “Are you deaf?” His tone sliced the air in half like a blade. “Or just unbelievably stupid? Didn’t I tell you that you cannot go out? How many times do I have to tell you?”
You stood frozen, the heat of his fury scorching your skin, but he wasn’t done. “You’re either acting like an imbecile, or you really are one. And I’m supposed to marry you? I’m already doing your uncle a favour by not shooting him between the eyes, but my God, this is pushing it. ”
His words gutted you. You were used to your uncle calling you all the insults in the book, but this was something else, Hongjoong was basically judging your entire personality from the skin side out, and that hurt more than anything else because he doesn’t even know you.
But you were only human, and even animals bite back when wounded. “You’re no different than my uncle,” you slipped out, unshed tears lining the corners of your eyes. “You’re hiding something from me. Why are you locking me in?”
He scoffed, eyes glinting with something that felt like contempt. “Please. Don’t insult me like that. He sent you to me like a lamb to a slaughterhouse. You just haven’t thanked me for the knife yet.”
You didn’t even know what expression your face was making, only that your cheeks felt hot and your throat burned like you’d swallowed fire. “I hate you,” your lips wobbled, looking at him with indignance in your eyes. “I hate you.”
He laughed bitterly, without humor, without restraint. “Yeah?” His voice was sharp, venomous. “Well, you’re about to hate me more.”
Then he turned, grabbed an envelope from the desk, and threw it at you. Money spilled out like a slap, some bills fluttering to the floor at your feet. “There, this is what you wanted, is it not? Now you can pretend you’re not living inside a cage.”
To say you were appalled would be an understatement. Your heart curled into itself, shriveling behind your ribs. Before you could fully break down, you ran out without another word, not bothering to look at him or the money littered across the room as you ran until your legs gave out in a random corridor of the mansion.
You didn’t bother minimizing your loudness, your hands trembling against the marble as you choked back a sob, quiet and broken. You haven’t cried in a long time, mainly because you refused to for someone like him, but this wasn’t just for Hongjoong.
They were for everything; for the girl you used to be, the child who lost her parents, for the woman you were failing to become, and for the bride you never wanted to be.
The rubber band holding yourself together snaps, so you ran down the corridors, through the driveway, past the gigantic gates, anywhere but there. You didn’t know where you were going, but you needed to breathe somewhere he wasn’t.
It wasn’t until your shoes hit an unfamiliar pavement that you realized that you were far away from the estate. In fact, you were in a small park with a playground. The sight was haunting, the play place devoid of the telltale laughter of children. It was perfect.
The adrenaline that kept you going had long worn off, but you didn’t care as you walked warily towards the swings and sat on it. Your fists clenched around the swing’s cold chains as more tears fell freely now. You didn't bother wiping them away.
Why were you here anyway? To get away from a man who doesn’t want you even when you knew the invisible chains that tied you two together would shorten again?
Pathetic.
You had fantasized about the idea of finding freedom in a marriage that saved your life. You had hoped that maybe Hongjoong would grow on you, and him on you, but those fantasies had shriveled and rotted the moment Kim Hongjoong opened his mouth. And so, you let yourself swing, forward and back, forward and back, as if maybe, just maybe, you could go far enough to leave the hurt behind.
You were there for a while, you didn’t move when the sun started to set. You didn’t move when thunder clapped on the sky above. You didn’t move when the first set of raindrops fell onto your skin, sticking to your clothes like a fever that you can’t sweat out. You didn’t care.
You would’ve stayed there forever, let the ocean take you, but someone else had plans for you that day. At first, you couldn’t hear it above the rain and the thunder, but the unmistakable sound of footsteps hitting puddles was impossible to ignore.
You closed your eyes, willing your mind to focus, but when you opened them again, you froze. Hongjoong stood from afar, drenched to the bone, his head whipping around like a madman. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but when his eyes met yours, his shoulders hunched like the entire world had just been lifted off his back and thrown back on again.
You closed your eyes again, praying that he’d go away if you pretended to not see him, but just like you, Hongjoong was nothing but persistent, after all.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he demanded, his voice losing its sharp edge, making way for an emotion you weren’t sure you were ready to hear from him.
By God, he looked devastating. His breath ragged, chest rising up and down, jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. His usual posh and classy look was missing as water dripped from his hair into his dark, unreadable eyes. And he looked absolutely furious.
“Go away,” you said, voice thin and cold, wrenching yourself from his grip. “Leave me alone.”
You stood up, but your legs wobbled, and he caught your arm before you could fall. His grip was tight, almost bruising. Your heart almost thudded out of your ribs when he pulled you close, both of his hands holding your shoulders now.
“Stop it,” he barked, but his voice was hoarse. He shook his head, closing his eyes before opening them again with a shaky sigh. “Why are you such a fucking pain in my ass? I’m too old for this shit.”
He sighed sharply, his hand hastily pushing his wet hair away from his face in frustration. His other hand lingered at your arm, warm despite the storm, as he stepped in closer, lowering his voice. “I will bring the market to you next time, alright?”
The wind howled around you, but you didn’t even notice. His fingers twitched like they were about to reach for you, but you turned your face away just about when he stopped inches away from your skin before he fisted his hand, his gritting teeth audible in the rain.
“I’ll take you back,” he said, voice sharp again. “Before you get yourself sick and make my life even more difficult than it already is.”
His hand clasped yours tightly as he pulled you along with him through the rain. His hand didn’t leave yours until you reached the car, and maybe he felt bad for you, but when he grabbed your hand again when he started driving, it wasn’t out of pity.
If anything, he held tighter. His hand found yours on your lap, his thumb softly caressing the still damp skin of your upturned hand, not letting go even when he had to swerve and turn. He said nothing. He stared ahead through the rain-blurred windshield, jaw clenched tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel, but he never let go.
And you didn’t pull away either. Because even though your chest hurt from his words, the warmth of his palm over yours was the first thing all day that didn’t feel cruel. It seemed to lull you into a short slumber even.
The soft brake of the car was what brought you back to sentience. You watched Hongjoong press some sort of button on his car before radio static comes to life from it. “Third wing master bedroom. I’m going for a ride,” he said gruffly before he let go and pressed the bridge of his nose.
The chill of the storm probably disoriented you and you didn’t understand, but when your door opened to be face to face with the gentle Seonghwa, you were a bit surprised to find that you were parked directly in front of the mansion front door.
“Come on,” he said quietly, holding onto your shoulders and not caring if you were wet, like he knew what you had already gone through. “Let’s get you warm.”
He guided and helped you get out but you yanked to a stop when you realized that something was stopping you - Hongjoong’s hand still entwined with yours. You turned your head toward him. Hongjoong hadn’t moved, his eyes locked with yours, burning but hollowed out. And for a heartbeat, everything was still. The world, the storm, the ache in your chest.
But he let go, shutting the door softly before driving off to the night to God-knows-where. You wouldn’t know, Seonghwa was already guiding you inside the mansion by your shoulders. His hands were gentle, his movements even more patient.
His eyes dropped into sympathetic comfort, his hand slightly squeezing your shoulders. He gently walked the both of you into the living room where the fireplace was already hot and going.
San was already there waiting for you, eyes wide with panic along with Jongho who handed him a thick blanket. “Wrap up, yeah? Don’t want you getting sick now,” he said, quickly bundling you to warm you up. “You ran out during that storm? What the hell were you thinking?”
“Give her space, San,” Seonghwa said, but the relief in his voice was palpable. He handed you a mug of something warm, ginger tea, you guessed, and crouched down beside you, eyes soft. “We were all looking. You scared us.”
Suddenly, Jongho dropped to his knees, bowing his head low, much to your surprise. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I should have kept an eye, I didn’t guard you enough.”
“W-What? No,” you frowned, hesitantly patting his head. “It’s not your fault. You’re not my keeper–“
Before you could even answer, Wooyoung appeared behind him, surprisingly less loud but just as concerned. “Yeah, you tell him that,” he scoffed softly, arms crossed to his chest, shaking his head slightly. “Hongjoong almost killed him in sheer anger. Seriously, why did you do that?”
It was the most serious you’ve ever seen the man, but of course, he was still as dramatic as ever. His eyes darted from you to the others before dramatically flopping onto the arm of the couch. “I’ve never seen him like that before,” he chortled. “Like, ever. Hell, he doesn’t even react that bad when me and my brothers get shot or something.”
“It can’t be that bad,” you murmured, fiddling with the blanket. “I wasn’t even gone for long. I was going to come back.”
That was when all three of them looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Not long?” Jongho echoed, his brows shooting up in disbelief. “You’ve been gone for hours, Y/N.”
“Hongjoong practically tore the city apart,” San shook his head. “You were gone for over five hours. Five. That’s not just a walk in the park, that’s a goddamn vanishing act. I swear he was about to murder us if he couldn’t find you.”
You blinked, confused. “He was…looking for me?”
“Obviously,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’ve never seen him lose control like that before. But seriously, please don’t do that again. I’m not ready for Mingi to inherit the business in case Dad gets an aneurysm.”
You looked down at your lap, shame filling your lungs along with the thudding of your heartbeat. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”
“But you did,” Wooyoung muttered, but his tone wasn’t offensive. “But I get it. I do apologise on his behalf, though. He shouldn’t have thrown money at you. That was unnecessarily cruel, even for him.”
Seonghwa gave your shoulder a squeeze. “You’re safe now and that’s all that matters. Hongjoong should be back shortly,” he helps you up once more. “Come along. You should wash up so you don’t get sick.”
You thanked everyone before you let Seonghwa guide you into a part of the mansion you’ve never been at, let alone the room he took you in before he bid you a goodnight with a promise to check on you the next day.
You sighed deeply, trudging your feet to the shower. Your heart swells the moment you opened that door, it smelled of Hongjoong. It was hard not to remember the way his fingers had clung to yours, how they didn’t tremble until after he’d let go, the entire time you washed up and got ready for bed.
When morning came, your eyes fluttered open when the first ray of sunshine hit your face, but you didn’t want to get up - the sheets smelled faintly of sandalwood and something distinctly him, and that the pillow cradled your head felt like a welcome comfort.
For a second, you had, perhaps, thought that everything was a dream, but when you rubbed your eyes and made a move to get up, you were completely startled awake to see the last person you ever thought you’d see the moment you’d opened your eyes.
Hongjoong was fully dressed in a crisp black turtleneck and slacks, hair slightly tousled, as he typed something furiously into his laptop. He didn’t look up when you stirred, but you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw.
“I trust you slept well?” Hongjoong asked, lowering his glasses to stare straight at you.
You willed for your heartbeat to stop thumping so much for fear of him hearing it. You stared straight back at him, noticing the faint shadow under his eyes. “I suppose so,” you said. “You didn’t, though.”
“I’ll say,” he shut his laptop off, reaching for a folder beside it, before leaning on the couch, crossing his arms, his sharp eyes trained on you. “You did sleep on my bed, after all.”
You blinked, the words not sinking in your morning-addled brain yet, but when it did, your mouth dropped open in surprise. “I-I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, heat pooling in your lower belly at the information. No wonder the entire room smelled like him. “I didn’t sleep here on purpose—”
“I know,” he sighed. “I asked Seonghwa to bring you here. Lest you already forgot.”
He took his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose like the weight of the world had been sitting there. “Next time, don’t run off in a storm just to prove a point.”
“That wasn’t what I was doing,” you frowned.
He looked at you then, brief and unreadable. “Then what were you doing?”
“Trying to breathe,” you croaked, your voice dropping down to a whisper that you wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t heard it. “Plus, you looked all night for me.”
He didn’t say anything at first. But the shift in his expression, the subtlety of it, was louder than words. “Freshen up and eat breakfast,” he muttered, tapping the folder in his hand twice. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
You weren’t in the mood to argue with him, certainly not after his obvious attempt in shutting down the conversation completely. Unsurprisingly, your body still ached from last night. You opted for a quick brush of your teeth, tying your hair presentably.
The scent of you had me dizzy. I have to get out of here.
You didn’t bother changing out of the pyjamas Seonghwa had provided for you since you didn’t have clothes here. It would give you an out, and you weren’t ready to face Hongjoong out of shame. That’s exactly what you did. You were about to slip out, when he cleared his throat.
“Where are you going?” Hongjoong stared at you, brows raised.
You gulped, feeling like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t. “Uhm. I’d hate to bother you further. Didn’t you tell me to have breakfast?”
“I did,” he confirmed, gesturing towards a particular direction of the room. “With me.”
Your brain almost shut off with the information. With him? He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he stood up and opened the balcony door. Your heart practically leapt out of your chest, you were positive that the breakfast set up there wasn’t present when you woke up. Had he instructed someone to set it up while you were in the bathroom?
This was the first time you were ever going to eat with Hongjoong. Not beside him, not five feet across the room like some barely tolerated shadow. With him. And worse, he was making you so nervous that you felt like you’d forgotten how to walk properly as you followed him out, sitting across him awkwardly, not knowing how to place your stiff limbs properly.
You didn’t even register how your hands trembled until you reached for your fork and nearly knocked it off the table. You were just about to dig in, not knowing what else to do, when he stopped you. “Wait,” Hongjoong halted you brusquely.
“W-What?” You froze, hand still mid-air, wondering if you did something wrong.
Instead of replying, Hongjoong reached over your plate and began digging into your food with his chopsticks. You narrowed your eyes in slight annoyance, ready to mouth at him for possibly controlling what you ate and picking at your food without asking, but your heart dropped to your feet by the time he was lifting his chopsticks back up again.
He picked out a couple of raisins from your plate, setting them on his plate one by one as if this wasn’t the first time he’s done this. You stared, blinking rapidly to stop the sting behind your eyes. “I hate raisins,” you suspiciously pointed out.
He pauses, glances at you once through his lashes, before eating like you didn’t say anything. And suddenly, your chest ached with the weight of all the things he wouldn’t tell you. Before you could open that can of worms, he was already flipping open a folder he had brought to the table, effectively cutting off the topic with the sharp precision he was known for.
“I need you to look at a couple of faces for me,” he said, back in business as usual with his clipped utterrance. He slides the files towards you in one, smooth motion. “It’s imperative that you tell me immediately if you see a familiar looking face.”
You were confused, but you took the folder with ease, flipping through pages and pages of different photos of both men and women alike. Hongjoong staring dead into your soul was distracting, but you were sure you'd never seen these people before. You were going to tell him as such, until you stumbled upon the very last photo.
“Him,” you drawled out, surprised at both the face and yourself for pointing it out. “I’ve seen him before…”
The moment you showed him the photo, the tension in his shoulders snapped into visible rigidity. “Where?” he demanded, his voice sharp and urgent. “Where did you see him?”
Truth be told, you would have forgotten about the man if it wasn’t for this. “I passed through him before I reached the park,” you frowned. “I remember him because he had this weird lip piercing.”
Hongjoong cursed under his breath, making the dread in your chest spread like a disease, before he hastily snatched the folder from your hands, his hands fisting the edge of the folder. “Finish your food, darling,” he said hurriedly, the darkness in his face making you nervous. “We’re going for a little trip downstairs after.”
“I-I don’t understand,” you frowned, doing as he says and stuffing your face with some bread. “You’ve been acting so damn weird lately, I’ve never seen this man in my entire life before yesterday.”
His head turned slightly, those unreadable eyes locking onto you again. “Rather,” he said slowly, voice dipping towards something ominous. “You’ve never paid enough attention.”
You stopped mid-chew to stare at him. This was the longest conversation you’ve had with Hongjoong and the foreboding feeling of potential sinisterness was the first thing he made you think about?
He held your gaze, his fingers curling gently around your chin. His voice dipped to a whisper, low and graveled, brushing across your skin like smoke. "Look closely," he murmured. “I want you to think about why you’re truly here.”
Your brows furrowed. “Because my uncle sold me to you—”
“Think, Y/N. Think,” his tone laced with a cutting sort of irritation. “I know that desiccated, dried-up brain of yours still works.”
You rolled your eyes, the backhanded insult slicing through the tension with a bitter familiarity, but it didn’t lessen the heat brewing behind your ribs. “I owe your uncle absolutely nothing,” he said, letting go of your chin with a scoff. “I could’ve killed him before you even set foot in this house.”
“Have you killed people?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself. He raised a brow like it was a question unworthy of a response. "A-Are you going to kill me?"
“Do you want me to?” Hongjoong countered, tilting his head.
Your blood began to thrum in your ears, anger bubbling up in your chest like acid. “I’m not that stupid, you know,” you whispered, your voice cracking with frustration. “I’m aware there are things I’ve no idea about, but I know what a lie tastes like when it’s shoved in my mouth.”
You looked back at the spread of photos he’d shown you. But something inside you stirred as your gaze landed on the photo again. It was faint, like a memory just out of reach and a sense of recognition that felt older than logic.
“Have you ever wondered,” Hongjoong said slowly. “Why I’ve been so adamant in keeping you here?”
You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand. “No,” he said. “Forget that. Ask yourself this, have you ever wondered why your uncle took you in back then?”
Your heart stopped, but he wasn’t finished. “Surely, he wasn’t the only family you had. Worst of all, of all the people he could have sold you to, it had to be me. I know you’ve done your research on who I am.”
Indeed, you did, and the Kim family was not to be messed around with. Your throat felt like it was closing. You wanted to speak, but your brain was too busy racing through every memory you had, trying to connect dots that refused to sit still. Was your uncle much, much worse than you gave him credit for?
Hongjoong leaned close just enough to make you squirm under the intensity of his focus. The movement was subtle, but it was calculated - a hunter testing the waters, seeing how far he could push without you breaking. “Predators don’t fear prey,” he said. “They fear another predator.”
A scream threatened to bubble from your chest just lying around the surface. His statement echoed in your head far, far worse than a broken record. It was the only thing you could think about the entire time you followed Hongjoong downstairs towards his office. You couldn’t even lament what happened here the last time, the money he threw at you already cleaned up as if they were never thrown at you like dirty rags in the first place.
You didn’t even notice that Mingi and Seonghwa were already in the office, seemingly waiting for the both of you to arrive and such, until Hongjoong started to talk to them again.
“This,” he slammed the folder rather harshly on the table directly in front of Seonghwa, who just took it in stride and opened the file. “That snivelling bastard on the last page. I want him gone.”
“And you,” he turned back to you, eyes ablaze with newfound anger you didn’t even know was already there. You raised a defiant brow, why was he looking at you like this was your fault. “You’re not going out anymore, you hear me? Never let me repeat myself.”
You narrowed your eyes, the simmering tension in your bones finally boiling and tipping over into something far more dangerous than you’ve ever felt. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down on your tongue, and the polite mask you’d worn like second skin started to peel.
Your feet started to march towards the bane of your existence like a bull who found the red spot. You didn’t even care that Seonghwa’s mouth dropped slightly and he was subtly shaking his head, you still poked Hongjoong’s chest pointedly and boy, you were sure that hurt a little.
“You could at least tell me why,” you snapped, your voice low and trembling with rage. He narrowed his eyes in warning, but you were done caring. “Or is it because you can’t keep your dogs in line? Tightening my leash is the only way you won’t lose control over your goods? Maybe it’s not the outside world you’re afraid of, it’s that someone might realize your entire empire is built on fear.”
Silence. A sharp, immediate silence that sliced through the room like a guillotine. Mingi visibly stiffened, Seonghwa’s face paled, but Hongjoong? He started to laugh. At first it was soft, then it turned into a full-blown laughter so sarcastic, you wanted to cover your ears from the grating sound.
“The wolves are at my door, waiting for my empire to fall. I won’t let you destroy it just because you refuse to fall in line, brat,” he sneered.
You laughed, not out of humour. It was cold, sharp, and laced with every ounce of your pent-up exhaustion and rage. “Frankly?” You said, meeting his glare with one of your own. “I don’t give a flying fuck. You want to talk about wolves? Look in the damn mirror, Hongjoong.”
You poked him twice more in his admittedly toned chest, and you did it hard, too, just so he could even an ounce of how heavy he’d made you feel. “I’m not some damsel you could fool around with just because I was thrust here. I won’t roll over just so you can stroke your ego.”
A slow, unreadable flicker crossed his face. His gaze sharpened, but his body relaxed, curious now, as he tilted his head, slowly. His expression didn’t change much, but you saw it, that glint of something deeper. Respect? Amusement? Recognition?
“She bites,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice dropping to a note lower, smooth and quiet like a blade sliding from its sheath. He crossed his arms, a ghost of a smirk fleeting on his sinful lips. “Finally.”
He was still watching you, but it wasn’t the same stare anymore. It wasn’t the same power dynamic. You had shifted something, and he had noticed. “You’ve mistaken my compliance with submissiveness,” you replied, your voice steady, your pulse roaring in your ears. “I’m terribly sorry to tell you that you’re wrong.”
Hongjoong’s lips parted slightly, as if that, too, had surprised him. Or pleased him, you couldn’t tell, but when his smirked widened, you almost faltered. You gritted your teeth, cursing whichever God had molded him for making this demon so devilishly handsome, it was maddening.
“That doesn’t negate the point, little darling,” he continued, still sharp as glass. “I built this kingdom with my soul, and I am the king of this goddamn empire. Whether you like it or not, you are in it. ”
“I’ll bow to your king when he shows himself,” you said, clipped and cut. It was a direct dig towards him, it was a deliberate show of disobedience, but you didn’t flinch. You kept your chin up, gaze level as you started to walk away from him for the first time.
The adrenaline didn’t wear off even hours later as you paced around your room in heated anger. But God, that felt good. You’ve never directly expressed your grievances towards someone else like that and now that you’ve gotten a taste of it, you don’t think you could hold your mouth longer around the menace that was Kim Hongjoong. It might get you killed, but at this point, death might be the only salvation you’ll feel.
One was for sure - something had definitely changed ever since that nasty confrontation between the two of you. If before you’ve barely seen even his shadow, lately all you’ve been doing was butt heads with Hongjoong, and man, are you not happy about it.
“Was it you?” Hongjoong marched towards the living room one day with steam coming out of ears. “Did you set the thermostat at twenty-eight?”
“I did,” you sneered, not backing down. “Not everyone in this house has cold, dead blood like you.”
He scoffed in disbelief, pinching his nose bridge. “This isn’t a sauna, go outside where you belong if you’re so cold.”
You watched him stalk towards the thermostat, cranking the heat lower so roughly, you were a bit concerned it would break. Oh no you don’t, you dictating bastard. You got up from the couch, pushing him away to crank the thermostat back to low before giving him the stink eye.
“Fine,” he nodded stiffly, his glare so intense, it had you backing up slightly. “I’m locking it. Don’t expect me to lower it when summer hits.”
It was the littlest of things that set the both of you off, but if you were being completely frank, you more or less enjoyed his annoyed reaction. Serves him right for all the months he put you down.
“You finished all the cookies,” you glared at him heatedly one afternoon, pointing at the plate of half-eaten cookies that lay next to him on the coffee table as he read his newspaper. “I liked those cookies.”
He didn’t even look up from the newspaper. “That’s just too bad, isn’t it?”
You yanked the paper from his hands. “You don’t even like cookies! They were for me.”
“I bought them for the house,” he glared, snatching it back.
“Yeah?” You snarled, snapping your eyes towards the coffee mug you knew he was very, very particular about before a smug grin fills your face.
He stared in disbelief, his eyes widening at what you were about to do. “You insolent brat, don’t you dare—”
But it was too late, you gulped all his coffee in one go. You tried so hard not to grimace at the bitter taste, or else your pride will tank, but the redness in his face from sheer anger made it oh so worth it.
Everyone had definitely noticed at that point. Even the stoic Mingi would give his own father a dirty look whenever he’d catch that both of you mouth off to one another like you were in a damn competition. Woooyung, of course, was nonetheless fascinated about the turn of events.
“You two act like an old married couple, I love it,” he cackled while he ate dinner with you as you glared at Hongjoong’s turned back when he instructed the chef to put more raisins in your plate just to spite you. “I’m slowly getting over how my stepmother will only be like a decade older than me if this is the entertainment I’ll get for the rest of my life.”
You scoffed, grabbing a piece of raisin with a deep frown. “It’s not my fault he’s a petty bastard,” you said, flicking the raisin towards Hongjoong’s ear with an accuracy you didn’t even know.
Wooyoung laughed with you not-so discreetly while San paled ever so slightly at the scorching glare Hongjoong sent your way. “You are something special, Y/N,” he shook his head. “Boss would have had our heads a long, long time ago for something less.”
Unfortunately, you couldn’t fully finish your dinner. The taste of the raisins were so prevalent in the food even when you’ve removed all of them that the taste of it just permeated all over the dish.
You sneaked in the kitchen at two in the morning where you knew no one would be up just so you could ravage in the cupboard for some midnight snack, but you were so wrong. You squeaked, blinking at Hongjoong who was in the middle of drinking water and he blinked back at you.
“Couldn’t sleep from the guilt?” You asked, referring to you not eating dinner. And you knew that he knew, he was watching you the whole time smugly.
“No,” he muttered. “Just the sound of your attitude echoing through the halls.”
You snorted. “Wow. You’re real original for someone who thinks being emotionally constipated is a personality trait.”
He scoffed, shaking his head as he walked past you towards the exit. “Don’t hog all the snacks,” he brushed with your shoulder and it sent a zing of electricity through your spine. “Money isn’t as easy to come by, yes?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re good at it,” you countered with a snarl. “If being a raging psycho and asshole was your living, no wonder you’re filthy rich. Let’s not even mention your head count.”
You blinked as he walked back toward you. He stopped in front of you, his hands coming to rest beside your waist on the counter, trapping you. “Would you like to know my head count?” He asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I’d love to add you to that roster.”
You tried to breathe, his face was so close, your noses nearly brushed. His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up. “Because I’ve been real patient,” he muttered. “But I’m tired of your mouth lately.”
And as quickly as he’d closed in, he pulled away with a sharp inhale, the smirk curling wider as he turned on his heel. “Sleep tight, darling,” he tossed over his shoulder, voice laced with poison and something dangerously sweet.
And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind blush on your cheeks, the thundering of your heart, and the faint scent of him clinging to your skin.
Usually, your banters were harmless. Dare anyone say that even though Hongjoong got under your skin, you’ve never felt more alive than you did whenever you’d cross paths with him. You didn’t know what it was; maybe it was because that finally, he wasn’t avoiding you like the plague even though nothing nice came from that mouth of his.
But this time, you didn’t know what completely set the both of you off. You just wanted to have lunch like normal, and today was very different, too. Usually you’d eat with one or two people only as everyone’s schedules didn’t quite align, but this time, even Seonghwa and Wooyoung were at the dining table.
You were laughing at something that Jongho had mentioned when Hongjoong’s cutting voice rang around the table. “Can you shut your mouth?” He snapped, cluttering his utensils against his paperwork. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
You rolled your eyes. Ever since he got off a phone call he got before everyone started eating, he’s been in a horrible mood. “Get off the damn table if you can’t handle basic human interaction,” you snapped back.
He stared you down, voice ice sharp. “You’re not clever. You’re a loud, useless distraction and an irritation everyone’s sick of pretending to tolerate.”
“Father, stop it,” Mingi, who sat at Hongjoong’s left, shot back, eyeing the older man with warning. He turned to you and you almost faltered. How is it that his son was more intimidating than him? “And you. You’re not helping.”
“No, let her,” Hongjoong scoffed. “No wonder your uncle gave you away. You’re nothing but a liability.”
Patience was a trait you had that you were proud of, but not today. You can barely contain yourself, because that was a low, even for him. I'm sick to death of swallowing every single thing I'm fed.
You slammed your hands on the table, rising swiftly, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. Everyone’s eyes followed you, wide and stunned.
“Oh, give me a break, you belligerent, deluded, pompous prick,” you barked. The room stilled. You hadn’t raised your voice, but the words hung in the air like glass about to shatter.
Even Hongjoong seemed to falter a bit before his eyes narrowed once more. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” He yelled so loud it echoed through the halls, making everyone flinch. “Watch your tone, you ill-mannered disgrace—”
You scoffed in disbelief. “That’s tough shit coming from you who’s done nothing but make me miserable here.”
“That sounds like a you problem, darling,” Hongjoong’s eyes ticked.
“Well, to that, I say you're a cunt—” you were about to say, but your voice caught in your throat, the fierce words dying on your lips as a wave of dizziness swept over you. You faltered, mid-step, your knees threatening to give out.
He scoffed, the sharp edge of his haughtiness cutting through the silence. “Giving up already?” Hongjoong sneered with a smirk that promised he didn’t believe you had the strength to stand your ground.
No, this was different than anything you’ve felt before. Your breathing became laboured, the suddenness of it threatening the bile in your stomach to rise from your throat. You grabbed the nearest thing you could hold on to, but your grip slipped. “Hold on,” San balked, grabbing your arm in mild concern before his face shifted. “Y/N, are you okay?”
No, I’m not, you wanted to say, looking straight at Hongjoong just as your steps wobbled and your vision blurred. It was when his expression cracked, panic flickered across his face, eyes widening with sudden concern, breath hitching as he reached out instinctively.
But before he could reach you, Jongho was there, his strong arms catching you just in time. “Y/N? Oh, God,” he tapped your cheeks hardly, but to no avail, your eyes were closing. “Stay awake, fuck—”
Hongjoong’s face, the devastated, unsettled look you weren’t ready to see, and the way he grabbed your body was the last thing you registered before darkness swallowed you whole, but not before you heard Seonghwa mutter one word that would have made you faint regardless.
“Poison.”
All you could feel was pain. It hurt to try to move your limbs, it was more reminiscent of bones grinding against each other sharply against sandpaper, it hurt to take the smallest gulp of breath, hell, it hurt to even blink.
It was like that car accident after your graduation all over again. Why did death love chasing after you? And why didn’t you chase it back?
But this time was different. You weren’t in a hospital bed, there were no nurses around, and there was none of that sterile scent you hated so much. Rather, there was warmth - warmth so comforting, you couldn’t help but snuggle into it, burying your head in hopes for the ache to go away.
“Fuck’s sake, It’s been days, why hasn’t she woken up yet?”
Even you could feel your subconscious frown at what you heard. Days. And you didn’t even feel better about it. “Give her time, Joong. I mean, look at her, so frail—”
“Frail, my ass,” a rough, familiar voice snapped just as you felt your arms being squeezed so tight, it would have woken you up if you hadn’t already. “She’s my little fighter, poison isn’t going to break her. Have you not heard the way she talks back to me?”
A deep laughter resonated through the entire room. It wasn’t quite like Mingi’s - not that Hongjoong Jr. would ever act normal around you - no, but this was richer, familiar, even. If you could just open your eyes and see.
“I see she hasn’t changed. Good to know you’re getting your money’s worth, Dad. You should go eat something. Anyway, I need a complete rundown, Hwa. I didn’t fly here for nothing, and I need to go back soon. The longer I stay, the more danger we attract.”
The warmth you had disappeared followed by a door closing nearby. Silence envelops the room and the familiar sigh of Seonghwa fills it. “Well, like we said, it’s poison. Someone who isn’t supposed to be here is here.”
“But how? What are the odds? It could’ve been anyone at that dining table. You think it’s Yoo Jaehwan?”
“Who else? To do it not only in his house, but right in front of Hongjoong’s face…whoever did it is asking for death.”
“Should’ve seen your father’s face,” San clicked his tongue. “I swear something inside him died.”
“Well, fuck, maybe because she could’ve died?” The familiar, deeper voice counteracted with a sass that knocked in your memory. “Because that’s not just a wife he’s protecting, that’s someone he’d burn the world for.”
“Anyhow. We should come back later. I have to check on your father to see if he’s eating or I might have to get your older brother to tie him up or something.”
Half of that conversation went through your head. You weren’t a total idiot, you knew what most of it entailed, but all you could think about was the missing warmth that enveloped you. You forced yourself to come to, your weak arms supporting your upper body as you tried to sit up. It was hell as your eyelids fluttered open against a dull ache pounding in your skull, but you needed to move your stiff limbs before they started to throb from prolonged unuse.
Just then, the door opened. Silently, carefully, like doing so would trigger another bout of faintness in you and you were met with the surprised eyes of Hongjoong. He froze in the doorway like he’d walked in on something sacred.
For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving. Then, the tension in his shoulders released slightly, only to be replaced by something else entirely - pure, unadulterated relief. You didn’t have to touch him to know that he was the warmth that kept you stabilized the entire time you rested.
He started to walk toward you in slow, controlled steps. His glasses were gone, his hair a mess, and there was a tremble in the hand that rolled up the sleeves of his unusually wrinkled shirt like he’d been gripping it in fistfuls.
Most of all, his eyes were tired. He sat on the bed next to you, his eyes never leaving yours, and you thought that was it. You certainly weren’t prepared for the way he lightly gripped your shoulders to pull you into a hug, and just like that, the warmth you’ve been craving for had returned.
“Get off,” you rasped weakly, but your voice betrayed the fight you didn’t have in you. Still, your pride flared, because nothing stung more than collapsing in front of him.
He didn’t budge. “Don’t even try,” he said through clenched teeth, his arms tightening around you. “Stay still and let me have this even for a moment.”
It was in the way he gripped you too tightly, in the quiet desperation of that whispered please. You didn’t even realize he was trembling slightly. His arms weren’t caging you, rather, he was a man holding on to you as if he was sinking at the bottom of the ocean and you were the balance he needed to stay afloat.
Pride be damned. You wrapped your arms around him, silent tears falling from your eyes as you held onto him. This was all you wanted, what you didn’t have back then when you had nobody. The prospect of never waking up was settling into you and you didn’t have enough strength to keep holding it in together.
“I’m still angry at you,” you sniffled.
“Get angrier. The sooner you get your strength back, the sooner you can talk back again like the brat you are,” he shushed, the tremble in his hand now visible at the way he smoothed the damp strands away from your face along with your tears.
“As touching as this is, I believe we have more pressing matters at hand.”
You tried to pull away, but Hongjoong wasn’t letting you - though if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t even really want to - so you opted to look over your shoulder at the source of the voice.
Hongjoong groaned when you pushed him away, your breath caught in your throat. Your eyes widened slowly, your hand flying up to cover your mouth in shock. “Y-Yeosang?” You whispered, like saying his name too loud might shatter the fragile reality in front of you.
The man in question stood from the plush armchair, casual in his posture but carrying an unmistakable grin, one you hadn’t seen in years. “The one and only,” Yeosang said with a lopsided smile, walking toward you. “How have you been, Miss Jeong?”
You stared at him in disbelief, the air knocked clean from your lungs. “I-I haven’t seen you since…” your voice faltered, because the rest of that sentence hung heavy in your throat.
Yeosang seemed to know what you meant without you saying it, because his expression softened as he gently pulled you into a hug. “Y-You’re the last person I expected to see here,” you mumbled against his shoulder, pulling back to get a proper look at him. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
The both of you turned around to look at Hongjoong when he cleared his throat. “You wretch,” he looked pointedly at Yeosang with a bitter scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be down there with everyone?”
Yeosang scoffed, rolling his eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn’t get stuck up his skull. “You were the one who called me and threatened to cut my allowance if I didn’t fly here soon,” he deadpanned as he pulled away from you to stand up. “Relax, she was my mentor. I’m allowed to say hello, Dad.”
Your eyes flew between the two men in shock. “Dad?” You blurted out. “How many kids do you have? Because holy sh—”
“Soon to be two if this one doesn’t shut his trap,” Hongjoong hissed. “I can still cut your allowance, Kang Yeosang. Don’t test me.”
“Oh, please. You need me,” he chuckled sarcastically, tapping on the stethoscope he had around his neck that you didn’t notice was there. You stared at him proudly, remembering the young Yeosang who always told you of his dreams to become a doctor one day back then.
“Anyway, you need to get out of here, Dad,” Yeosang said in urgency. “Mingi will take care of everything. It’s good training for the future, anyway. We need to purge your staff and I need to test every single surface of the manor to see if there’s more antifreeze contamination.”
Goosebumps erupted on your skin. Antifreeze. It was how you found yourself saying goodbye to Yeosang, with the promise of catching up as soon as everything was safe, and then the others before you were dressing up to go with Hongjoong to his supposed safe house.
“I can walk, you know?” You frowned when Hongjoong walked beside you the whole time, steadying you with a firm hold on your elbow. You hated how flustered it made you - how close he was, how natural it felt.
He glanced at you once, opting to ignore you as he opened the car door for you. But just before you could step in, he stilled. Hongjoong plucked a single sunflower and he tucked it carefully behind your ear. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but his touch lingered longer than necessary.
Your heart stuttered so sharply it almost hurt. It fluttered against your ribs, traitorous and soft, the way it always did when he did something gentle without meaning to. The warmth of his fingers near your cheek lingered longer than the sunflower itself.
He helped you into the backseat, settled beside you without hesitation, and closed the door. You thought he’d pull away once the engine started. You thought he’d sit back in his own thoughts like always.
But he didn’t. He pulled you close, gently but without question, and you leaned against his chest. His arm wrapped around you, fingers curling slightly against your side, grounding you. He held you the entire ride. And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest quieted.
“Where are we going?” You couldn’t help but ask, giving in to what your body currently needed and letting yourself lean onto his firm chest for once.
“Must you always ask irrelevant questions?” Hongjoong sighed.
You scoffed softly, thumping on his chest lightly. “How do I know you’re not leading me to my death?“
“Are you stupid?” Hongjoong snapped, his eyes widening slightly in irritation. You met them with an equal force of annoyance. He sighed exasperatedly, already sick of your antics. “One of my rest houses. It’s on the far end of the city, almost near the suburbs. You should sleep.”
“Would you still hold me when I wake up?” You croaked, not knowing what you were thinking when you blurted the words out.
His thumb, which had been idly brushing against your arm, stilled. You didn’t dare look up, didn’t even breathe, until you felt the slow, deliberate way his hand curled tighter around you. “Yes, darling,” he murmured, fixing the flower on your ear before fixing your hair.
It was infuriating, really, how a man who so easily sliced you open with his words could undo you completely with a simple touch. Your pulse betrayed you, and you didn’t dare look at him, afraid he might see just how deeply that one small act had shaken you.
You couldn’t sleep, not after that. Not while Hongjoong held you in his arms the entire time, his hand brushing your hair away from your face every fifteen minutes and he did so until the car stopped moving and he was helping you get down again.
“Easy, there,” he frowned when you took the wrong step and almost tripped.
“Don’t pretend you care now,” you raised a brow, even as your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his shirt.
“I don’t,” he said too quickly, too defensively. But he was still holding you like you were made of glass and you couldn’t help but fist the front of Hongjoong’s shirt. He didn’t push you away and neither did you pull away.
Surprisingly, the rest house was of modest stature, situated in the middle of a small town. It was smart, blending in would be easy. It was simple and cozy, there was the typical small kitchen, a bathroom, and one bedroom with one bed. You stared. Hongjoong stared back.
“We’ll manage,” he said as he set the bags down, looking away and avoiding eye contact. “It’s easier to keep an eye on you this way.”
You opened your mouth to object, but your mouth wasn’t cooperating with your mouth today. “I-I'd love to sleep with you,” you blurted out without thinking.
Hongjoong froze mid-step, one brow raising with almost comical precision. It would’ve been endearing since you’ve never seen the usually poised man this caught-off guard before, but right now, you wanted to dig a hole, crawl in it, and never see the light of day again.
“I mean sleep as in literally sleep–I didn’t, I meant to say I don’t mind sleeping with you, uh, literally—oh my God,” you stammered, hands flying up to cover your face in pure panic.
“Why don’t you, uh, relax on the balcony while I do this?” Hongjoong said, and you didn’t miss the smirk on his face as he turned back to the bag he was unpacking.
You slept facing opposite sides that night. But somehow, the air between you was tighter than before. You lay stiffly on your back, eyes on the ceiling, acutely aware of every tiny shift in the sheets with each of his movements. “Can you stop fidgeting too much?” Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “I’m not going to eat you.”
You scoffed softly. “You don’t hear me complain about your awful breathing sounds.”
“You want me to stop breathing, then?”
“That’s literally not what I said,” you turned sharply toward him, only to find him already watching you. The two of you blinked at each other in silence. Eventually, you turned away again, cheeks burning, pulling the covers over your head.
You tried to find a comfortable position to sleep on, tossing and turning until your body felt right, but when the right angle had your leg up on Hongjoong’s by accident, he didn’t move, and neither did you.
And when you woke up the next day with your arm wrapped around his chest with his own arm cradling your head to his neck, you both didn’t say a word about it, but he didn’t move, and neither did you.
“Hongjoong,” you rasped, half of your brain still dead from the world. “...Joong.”
“Hmm?” He hummed huskily from sleep, the vibrations of his chest traveling straight to your spine.
“I’m hungry,” you said. “Haven’t eaten since last night.”
You felt him turn his head, his lips touching your hairline directly, the warmth of it searing on your skin. “Five more minutes,” he replied hoarsely. “Can you do that for me?”
You nod groggily while he molded you closer to him, your cheek pressing just a little firmer to the warm space beneath his collarbone. “Good girl,” he whispered softly, low, and utterly wrecked by sleep.
Your body tensed like someone had just poured ice water down your head. Your eyes snapped open as you felt your throat tighten, not daring to move or breathe too loud. You just lay there, heart hammering wildly in your chest, trying to pretend like you hadn’t just short-circuited.
“Are you drinking my coffee?” he snapped at you the next day, catching sight of your cup. “Again?”
Just like that, the both of you were back to bickering like normal. “It’s not my fault you bought me that shitty sugar-free crap that tastes like nothing,” you said, sipping smugly. “Plus, your coffee tastes better.”
He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “It’s black with three shots of espresso. You can’t handle that.”
“I can handle you, can’t I? Nothing worse than that.”
He scoffed loudly in disbelief, muttering about how the younger generation was disrespectful before he snatched the cup and handed you a water bottle instead. “Hydrate before you pass out on me.”
You frowned, fully irritated at your caffeine being stolen. “Hey, I wasn’t don—”
“And you call that breakfast?” He looked pointedly at your sad-looking toast. “It’s no wonder why I mistake your brain for an ornament sometimes.”
You didn’t even get a chance to shoot back at his arrogance before he rolled his eyes but took your plate, setting down a neatly packed bento box. “Eat something that’s actually worth eating. Fuck’s sake, do I really have to do everything around here?”
The both of you went on like that for days, and as maddening as Hongjoong was, you were somehow thankful for how normal everything felt, though now, the change between you and Hongjoong was starting to become evident.
“How long would it take for you to clean this entire house?” He asked one day out of the blue. He stared disapprovingly at the phone in your hand. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was riling you up just to get a reaction out of you.
Your eyes ticked, but you didn’t look up at him. “It depends on how many helpers you want me to hire.”
“Why would you hire cleaners?” Hongjoong frowned.
“You asked.”
He scoffed, clearly displeased at the response. “No, I asked you. If you’re going to live here, you might as well do something that lessens the burden you put on me.”
“I did,” you shot back, finally looking up, mildly offended at the insinuation. “I made you dinner every night, one that you refused to eat.”
“Who told you I didn’t?” He raised a brow. Your expression froze, but before you could say anything, he waved a hand. “Anyway, you still need to clean. If I’m paying for your shit, I need something in return.”
Your mind was still reeling at the things unsaid between the lines. “Why the hell would I be doing free labour for you?”
“Well—”
You cut him off, refusing to go down. “I just got poisoned, in case you forgot. I should be resting, for God’s sake.”
“And I took you here to recuperate,” he replied sarcastically. “What now, then?”
“What about the times I had to deal with your grumpy ass? I don’t see you paying for my mental state.” You retorted back, putting your phone away to stand up to him.
He paused, blinking repeatedly in thought. “I could get you a therapist.”
“Yes,” you smiled brightly, a little too brightly. “I could also hire helpers to clean this house.”
His ears and neck redden in sheer frustration, and from here, you could see his mind malfunction slowly. “Shut up,” he muttered, refusing to admit you one-upped him.
“Well, why don’t you shut me up, then?”
You stilled, realizing what you just insinuated. His lips quirked, smug and amused, like he’d won a round you didn’t realize you were playing as he shook his head.
The nighttimes weren’t any better either. It was like bickering was both of yours’ defense mechanisms. “Turn off the light,” you yawn from under the covers.
“You turn it off,” Hongjoong replies from his side, brows raised in defiance. “You got in bed last.”
You groan, swing your legs over dramatically, but just as you reach the switch, the light clicks off behind you. You turn and find Hongjoong smirking, holding a small remote control in his hand. “We’re supposed to be a team here,” you hissed. “There is no “I” in team.”
“No, but there is in idiot,” he grinned.
Your mouth dropped, charging at him to hit him over and over again with a pillow, and he didn’t even let out a single sound as he deflected your so-called attacks. You huffed, trying to push off him, but the sheets had other plans. And truth be told, so did some strange, traitorous part of you.
Eventually, you both gave up, tangled under the blankets, breaths evening out against shared warmth. Once again, neither of you moved. In the hush that followed, you felt his thumb barely brush against your arm where it rested across his chest. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
And it would have stayed like that if it weren’t for the heavy weight that settled on your chest in the middle of the night. Literally. When you opened your eyes, an arm was pressing down your chest and you were met with Hongjoong’s glaring eyes.
“What—”, you were about to say when he covered your mouth hurriedly.
He puts his finger to his lip to shush you and in your peripheral, you could see his arm slowly raising up a gun as he pointed at the door. Your eyes widen and your heart drops - someone was in the house.
Hongjoong didn’t say a word. He shifted, slow and precise, the mattress barely creaking as he slipped off it and tiptoed towards the door. You clutched the sheets to your chest, your breath lodged somewhere in your throat as the door clicked open. It was silent; too silent.
Bang. Bang. Pause. Bang. Bang.
Your ears rang. You flinched with each shot, your hands shaking as you sat in the dark, unable to move, unable to breathe. You shut your eyes, covering your eyes to will all the sounds to stay distant, the reality of who Hongjoong was dawning on you. It was just a couple of weeks ago when you asked him whether he had killed or not.
The door creaked open again, slower this time. You jumped, expecting the worst, but Hongjoong stepped in quietly, expression unreadable, but the blood spattered across his cheek told you more than words ever could. The gun was nowhere to be found.
He didn’t speak as he walked to the bed, just sat down at the edge and looked at you, eyes searching. You reached out, wiping the blood off gently. He closed his eyes at the touch, but it was enough. No words were exchanged, and there was nothing either of you could say that would ease the fear that settled in your gut.
So instead, he slipped under the covers again, pulled you into his chest, arms wound tightly around your body, trembling just a little. You closed your eyes, your hands digging onto his hand so hard, your fingertips might as well embed themselves on his skin.
“I wish my creator would tenderly wrap me in their own clothes to keep me sane and protected,” you murmured in the silence of the night. “God has abandoned us and my uncle was a cruel substitute.”
“Should we choose to remain here together, would you forget the world that’s waiting outside?” Hongjoong’s hand held yours just as tight. ”Would you let the world fall away, if only for a while?”
The world has fallen the moment I set my eyes on you.
You nodded, shivering when he tucked a finger under your chin, pulling your face closer to his to press the softest of kisses upon your lips as if the both of you had been holding your breath for years, and this, it was the first exhale.
If only for a while.
You woke to an emptiness you hadn’t expected. The bed was still warm where he’d lain, but without Hongjoong’s arms around you, you felt oddly cold. But that wasn’t what woke you up. It was the voices that came from the living room, one of which was Hongjoong’s, and you didn’t have to listen in to know that he was in a heated argument with someone.
You tiptoed out quietly, careful not to make a sound, peeking from behind the hallway wall. Hongjoong lounged on the couch like it was his throne, legs spread, an elbow draped over the armrest with a smirk that screamed arrogance, like danger wrapped in lazy elegance.
The man standing in front of him, however, was anything but calm. He was tall, broad-shouldered, about the same age as Hongjoong, and radiating heat like a bonfire about to explode. His fists were clenched at his sides, jaw tight with restraint.
“You’ve got some nerve,” the stranger ground out. “Keeping her hidden this whole time like some secret you planned to hoard. If my men didn’t hear the gunshots the other day, I wouldn’t have known, you sick fuck.”
Your breath hitched. They were talking about you. Hongjoong chuckled, crossing his legs exaggeratedly. “The only regret I have is that I didn’t bring suppressors. We would have been out of here before you knew it. ”
“You bastard,” the tall man gritted his teeth, stepping closer to Hongjoong. “This is my territory, you don’t get to waltz in here with my niece and pretend I wouldn’t kill you for it.”
Your ears rang at two words - territory and niece. This man was in the same business as Hongjoong was, and apparently you were this man’s niece. Slowly, you stepped out from behind the hallway wall, the silence in the room growing razor-sharp with each step.
Hongjoong’s back stiffened, but the other man’s posture tenses completely at the sight of you. “Y/N,” he whispered, as if disbelieving he was seeing you in the flesh. “It’s really you…”
You stared at the man closely. He looked familiar, it clawed at the edges of a memory you didn’t know you still had. It wasn’t the way he moved; it was the way his eyes mirrored someone else’s eyes that you thought you’d never see again after all these years - your father’s.
And then, it hits you. You remembered the way his huge hands held yours every time he offered to babysit when both of your parents worked. His younger, puppy-like features were slowly coming to life in your head.
“Uncle Yunho,” you blurted, eyes wide.
Yunho’s head jerked up, like he hadn’t dared hope you'd remember. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It’s me, kid.”
Your knees nearly buckled, threatening to fall under the weight of the missing family that you could have had instead of your other uncle. Hongjoong was immediately by your side, catching you in his arms and holding you close and sitting you down beside him.
“You can’t just come barging in here like you did,” he hissed. “You’re in my house, I could kill you and no one would know.”
“I’m her blood, you blithering fool,” Yunho’s lips twisted into fury. “You’re the idiot that dragged her into this mess when she had a family - me.”
“And you think you were the better option?” Yunho growled. “You’re like, what? A good thirteen years or so older than her? You’re too damn old to be with her!”
That made Hongjoong stand, slow and deliberate, his stance loose but lethal. “And who the fuck are you to tell me that? You weren’t there when shit hit the fan, don’t get too cocky now.”
“I would have been if you didn’t hide her from me,” Yunho scowled bitterly.
You barely registered your own shallow breathing, still stuck on the fact that your father’s older brother was there all along. All this time, you thought you were alone - that you had no one. Yunho’s eyes followed the sound, and when he saw you, all the anger on his face softened instantly.
He was about to walk towards you, but Hongjoong quickly raised a hand to stop him. “One more step and I swear I’ll end you right here,” he snarled. If you weren’t sitting beside him, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his eyes shifted into something a little more desperate.
Yunho scoffed, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t act like this if I were you, Kim. You’ve had her in your manor all this time. By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month. Why haven’t you? Did you want to keep her locked up like a secret no one else can touch? Or are you just dragging her through the mud?”
You flinched, the implication sinking in like stones in your gut. You immediately locked eyes with Hongjoong whose expression dropped, shaking his head ever so slightly as you stared at each other. That was right, why hasn’t Hongjoong married you yet?
Come to think of it, the both of you haven’t even talked about anything marriage related - the date, the venue, the vows—hell, not even a promise.
Just tension, stolen touches, sleepless nights and a thousand unsaid things hanging heavy in the air. You swallowed thickly, trying not to let the sting of Yunho’s words show, but it was too late. Or worse, was he planning to secretly give you back to your uncle after all?
“Don’t listen to him,” he said tightly, crossing the room in three strides. His arm wrapped around you possessively, like shielding you from Yunho would shield you from the doubt unraveling in your chest. “She’s mine, Jeong. Get lost. It’s not like that, and you know it.”
Yunho’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he relented, lifting his hands in a gesture of peace. “Fine,” he muttered, then turned to you, his expression softening. “I’ll be back.”
You hesitated as you watched your uncle walk away, but something tugged at your heart. You pried yourself free from Hongjoong’s tight, possessive arms, despite his protests, to run as fast as you could to follow Yunho out. The chill of the morning rain bit at your skin as you stepped into the yard. “Wait, please!”
Yunho turned to face you fully. The hardness melted from his face, and in its place was something unbearably gentle. He completely halted in his steps, letting the rain soak through as he watched your pitiful form catch up to him. “Y/N–”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” you murmured, voice unsure. “I-I needed you when I was alone, I had no one. But why now? Why didn’t you ever come for me?”
He sighed, taking his trench coat off to gingerly put it over your head as a deterrent for the pouring rain. “I did,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I did. I never stopped. Even if I didn’t find you here, I still wouldn’t have stopped.”
And that, that was what broke you. Tears filled your eyes, sadness and relief pouring over you in waves. “Are you…in the same business as Hongjoong?” You asked wearily. “Were my parents?”
He pursed his lips, patting your head. It made your tears flow faster. Yunho had your father’s face, albeit older and more rounded. “There are so many things you don’t know,” he said softly. “Things you would have if you would’ve been with me when your parent’s died. It’s better this way. I’m still enraged that that bastard hid you from me, but he’ll keep you safe.”
But what did you know at this point? It was what plagued your mind the entire walk inside the house after Yunho had left after promising to catch up on lost time. You clutched the wet, dripping coat that still carried Yunho’s familiar scent in your hands that wrapped around your senses, nostalgia hitting you full-force.
You didn’t look up at Hongjoong, the haze of all the memories - of what could have been - attacking your mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You began, voice cracking, looking up at him with emotionless eyes. “You knew and—”
“Would you have gone with him if you knew?” Hongjoong cut off, the familiar sharpness in his eyes pinning you from where you stood.
“I don’t know that,” you replied sarcastically. “How could I give you something I had no idea about the entire time?”
“Oh, for the love of fucking God, Y/N. This, this is what pisses me off about you the most,” he snapped, stepping close, his gaze darkening. “Contrary to your belief, I’m not as callous as you deem me to be, and there are reasons for the things that I do around here—”
“And what about me?” Your hands balled at your sides. “What about the life I was robbed of? You don’t know what I’ve been through, you prick, the things that I had to endure. Yunho was right - you don’t want to marry me, in fact, you fucking hate me, don’t you? I didn’t even want any of this in the first place!”
For the first time, Hongjoong’s expression fell, and you didn’t know what to feel about it. He was a beautiful man with a soul full of venom and a heart you weren’t convinced actually beat, but right now, his expression only told you one thing - I do, I do know what you’ve been through.
His hand twitched at his side, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. “Don’t you dare say that.”
“Why not?” You seethed, shoving him backward with both hands. “Because it’s true, isn’t it? You had no plans in marrying me, but then again I was nothing but sold goods to you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up killing me in a ditch somewhere—”
Something snapped in him. He pushed you back until you stumbled against the wall. The air was electric. “Shut your mouth,” he seethed, but his voice was breaking, furious and wounded all at once. “You would have gone with Yunho, I don’t want you to go with him.
You faltered, taken aback by how possessive he sounded. "I don’t need to see you walking away from me when we had just begun. You want to know why I didn’t tell you? I’ve already given up enough and I’m not giving you up again.”
Again? He just stood there, panting, one hand curled in a fist over his chest like the words had ripped something open in him. “You wouldn’t understand,” he snarled, shaking his head vehemently. “You never do.”
The silence afterward was deafening. You stared at him, chest heaving, tears hot and furious in your eyes, the confusion swirling in your head even more. It might be part of why your mouth moved on its own in either the best or worst decision of your life.
“So make me,” you whispered in quiet desperation. “I’m so tired of being kept in the dark, I know you’re hiding things from me, make me understand—-”
He surged forward without warning, cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours like it had been searching, starving, waiting across lifetimes. The kiss was bruising, breath-stealing like he needed to taste the ache in your throat and the anger in your blood just to prove you were real. You gasped against him, and it was his undoing.
Your back hit the wall again, but it didn’t matter anymore. Not when his lips softened slightly, tracing the corner of your mouth like an apology. Not when his breath was hot and reverent against your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His forehead fell against yours, both of you breathless.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shaking as his thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kiss. “Tell me now and I will.”
But your fingers were already curling into his shirt, pulling him close. “I can’t,” you whispered, voice wavering. “Don’t make me.”
And that was all it took. Your lips refused to part from his as he pulled you to the couch, there was no way the both of you were reaching the bedroom, your clothes slowly peeling themselves away from your bodies all the while your tongues clashed against one another.
His hands roamed with reverence, memorizing every tremble, every sigh. You didn’t know where you ended and he began - just that the space between your bodies was no longer enough.
“Oh, fuck,” his lust-addled voice sounded through the hush whispers of the intimacy you both found yourselves in. “You’re beautiful, I knew you’d be, fuck…”
You couldn’t even have the nerve to cover your naked body as you stood in front of him; not when he was looking at you like you were the only salvation left in a world gone mad.
He grabbed your hips, positioning you until you were straddling him as he sat plush on the couch. “You don’t have to do a thing, darling, I’ll take care of you,” he pressed a thumb on your swollen lips. “Would you let me?”
You nodded, feeling feverish in your head as he placed his hand on your hips, his hardness poking you in the spot where you wanted him the most. “Y-Yeah,” you said. “Please, I-I need you.”
The world could wait. Right now, it was just the two of you both bared, bruised, and still reaching for each other in the dark. He lifted your hips up, lowering you slowly onto his aching cock until your foreheads were clashing with each other.
“Y/N,” he whispered, straining, summoning chills through your ears. “I’ll make it up to you next time, I’m not going to last. It’s been a while for me.”
You tilted your head, biting your lips to stop the lewd sounds threatening to come out from you. “W-What do you mean? You haven’t been with o-others?”
Hongjoong shook his head with an earnest smile. “No. Why would I when I have you?”
Your eye contact didn’t break even when Hongjoong pushed your plump ass to grind on him, your eyes fluttering shut as you moaned out earnestly. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his breath warm at your collarbone, and when his name left your lips, it prompted him to snap his hips up to meet your grinding.
“Hongjoong, ngh, fuck,” you gasped out, mouth slacked open at the force of his thrusts, your breasts bouncing their way freely at the pace he set. “H-Hongjoong—Joong.”
You both finally let yourselves feel it all. Not just the passion, but the ache of the longing between you both. You held his face between your hands when his eyes fluttered closed, and for once, he looked unguarded.
“Mmm, ah, yes, yes, yes,” were all the sounds you could make amidst the skin slapping against skin as Hongjoong continuously pulled you up and down on his cock.
“More?” Hongjoong’s voice trembled at the pleasure clouding his brain. “You can’t leave me, alright? Not when I’m making you feel so good like this.”
You nodded, mouth still open, snapping your eyes close in the pleasure of Hongjoong’s nails digging in your hips, scratching a line all the way to your chest until his hands were grabbing onto both of your plush tits.
“So fucking good,” he growled, his other hand traveling to your head, grabbing your hair. “Come here.”
Your lips met into a feverish kiss, your heated moans of lust and longing being swallowed by Hongjoong’s sinful mouth, and when you subconsciously squeeze his impaling cock, it was his turn to groan into your lips and bite onto your lower lip until you opened to let his wild tongue mess with yours.
The moans that fell from the both of you created a dizzying sound in combination of the wet tongue kiss and the slapping of his balls up your ass.
“Touch me, please,” you begged, grabbing onto his hand down to your throbbing clit. “T-Touch m-me, I need to come, Joong, p-please.”
“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned, immediately drawing circles on your swollen bud, instantly drawing a garbled scream from you. “That’s it, baby, fuck me. Ride my fucking cock, yes.”
You had not once paused from bouncing, continues fucking yourself ardently onto his thick, intruding cock until you were nothing but a senseless doll. “You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted this,” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven, his lips kissing and sucking every surface of your skin he could claim.
“I’ve wanted you long before the day you looked me in the eye at that dining table. Each day was a risk I couldn’t afford to take, but God, I wanted you anyway. Every day. In every fucking way.”
He kissed you again, deeper, needier. It wasn’t just hunger - it was reprieve. Years of restraint burning away in the heat of a single truth finally spoken aloud. You were what he wanted. Always had been.
“Joong, a-ah, that feels so good,” you moaned out, all sense of mind gone from the feeling of him finally ravishing you the way you always wanted.
“Just like that, say my name,” he gritted out, cupping your face tenderly in contrast to this thrusts, his eyes lidded and desperate. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say my damn name, baby, please, I’m begging you.”
“Hongjoong,” you let out, loud and clear. His cock twitched in your cunt, but you weren’t done yet. This was a man you had no problem seeing all of you. “Hongjoong, Hongjoong, Hongjoong.”
Soon enough, you exploded. It wasn’t the delicious rubbing of his fingertips in between young legs that or how deep his cock fucked that undid you, though that was a huge factor, but it was the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky for him to admire. “Oh, I’m com—Hongjoong, Joong, Joong—”
Hongjoong didn’t last much longer. With his final thrusts, Hongjoong lifted his hips to fuck into you until all the both of you had was mind-blowing blankness fulled with heat and lust.
Overstimulation coiled in your groin as your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your little whimpers spurring Hongjoong on until he came with a loud groan and spilled inside of you.
Everything slowed down with you slumped completely onto Hongjoong’s rising chest, meeting yours as you both tried to catch your breaths. The sex was fast, but it was all the both of you needed.
“Good girl,” he whispered, turning your face to his for a quick kiss. “My good girl—hey, you don’t have to move yet, stay.”
You pulled out anyway, whimpering slightly at the sensation of Hongjoong’s cum dripping onto your thighs as you bent down to give him a kiss in return before sitting comfortably on his lap and laying your head on his chest, resting your head onto the crook of his neck as his arm quickly wrapped around you protectively.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, your eyes slowly closing, your breath evening.
“You want to stay like this?” Hongjoong asked fondly, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back.
But for naught. Sleep had caught on to you and the last thing you felt was Hongjoong carrying you as he chuckled affectionately at your drowsy state. It was the most peace you’ve felt in a while.
Just like everything in your life, nothing good seemed to last forever. In the beginning, everything was smooth sailing. You and Hongjoong went back to the manor the next day, and it was nothing short of chaos the moment you stepped in the house where everyone was already waiting by the entrance.
Seonghwa was the one who greeted you at the front door and his brows almost reached his hairline with how close you stood next to Hongjoong.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Hongjoong asked sharply. “Why are you looking at us like that?”
Seonghwa raised his hands, blinking innocently. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
You frowned, not noticing the way you linked your arms with Hongjoong’s, but everyone did. Not one step inside the manor and everyone was already looking at the both of you. Jongho bent to grab both of your suitcases, but paused when he took one look at the both of you. “Huh,” he whispered. “Weird.”
Even Mingi who greeted his father, and you albeit stiffly, raised a brow, but opted not to say anything, just walking away while looking back at the both of you repeatedly like he was seeing what he wasn’t supposed to be seeing. You and Hongjoong looked at each other, thoroughly confused, but shrugged it off.
And that’s when San walked by, carrying a tray of cookies you loved so much, only to freeze when he saw Hongjoong gently placing a hand on your back to guide you past a stray step.
He blinked over and over again until all the cookies plopped down towards the floor. “I’m sorry, what have you done to my favourite dysfunctional couple?”
You were horrified, mouth agape as you stared at all the sugary goodness on the floor. “My cookies,” you frowned, tugging at Hongjoong’s sleeve. “Joong…”
It only got worse when Hongjoong leaned down, pressed a kiss to your cheek nonchalantly and murmured, “I have to work for a couple of hours to catch up while we were gone. I’ll be back to spoil you rotten, yeah? I’ll see if I can order cookies after, so be good.”
You blinked, stunned, and so did literally everyone else in the hallway. The silence that followed could’ve cracked glass. You stood there, flustered, a hand over your cheek where he just kissed you in front of everyone.
Wooyoung took one look at you, one look at Hongjoong’s retreating form as he walked away, before letting out a screech so loud and unholy that you covered your ears immediately.
“Oh my fucking God, what was that?” Wooyoung shouted, flailing like a game show host on a sugar high. “Did you just call him Joong?”
But that was it, because after that, it was like everything never even happened. You weren’t sure what you expected. Hongjoong pulling you aside just to hold you again like he did that night?
Instead, life resumed as if nothing had changed. He never really did get you those cookies nor did he spend time with you afterwards anymore.
He wasn’t snarling or glaring at you anymore, that was for sure, but he always kept you close even in the small gestures like sitting beside you or holding your hand, but that was it. You still slept in separate rooms, and there were no more whispers in the dark, no more soft kisses, no more of him asking for five more minutes in bed before he got up. No one questioned it.
It started small, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. During meals, he no longer sat beside you. He’ll speak, he’ll nod, but his body always angles away from you. That was when the absence of touch came next.
Once, Hongjoong’s hand would find your lower back or brush yours when passing you a glass, but now, he didn’t reach out, didn’t accidentally graze your skin.
One afternoon, you entered the library. You hadn’t even called out his name, but the moment he saw you, he stood, gathered his things, and left. It was when his cold formality started again, never with warmth, and when he gave you instructions, he didn’t say your name. When you responded, his eyes would flicker, but he never truly looked at you.
By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month.
Yunho’s words sank deeper than you wanted to admit. They curled under your skin like thorns. What if he was right? What if Hongjoong had never planned to marry you at all? Your eyes burned, and you blinked furiously to push the sting away. He had kissed you, held you, had made love to you. And now, he was walking around as if he hadn’t touched every inch of your soul.
You rubbed at your chest as if you could soothe the ache building there. What if this was it? What if this cold civility, this silence, was all he thought you were worth? Maybe he didn’t want to marry you. Maybe he never did.
Then came the locked doors. You never really hung out with him when he worked, but the locked door was suspicious. He also began sending people in his place. Hongjoong no longer filled your space, he ghosted it. You couldn’t even remember the last time he told you something directly.
You weren’t stupid. You knew how this world worked, how alliances were made and unmade at the flick of a wrist, at the spill of a secret. Maybe you had just been another deal. A piece of a war you weren’t meant to survive. Which was why you barged into his office one day without bothering to knock or close the door.
He didn’t seem at all surprised at your intrusion. He sighed, lowering his glasses and looking at you with tired eyes. “What’s this about, darling?”
“Do you regret us? Touching me? Kissing me?” You started, unable to stop the spiral now. “Or are you just pretending it didn’t happen so I don’t get any stupid ideas l-like marriage or a future?”
He didn’t answer. A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely a sound. “I can’t believe you,” you murmured, your voice cracking around the edges. “Are you telling me what I felt was nothing? You almost had me fooled there, Hongjoong. I thought for sure hope wasn’t just a word anymore—”
“Can you not? How about this,” he sighed, placing his hands on your cheeks to cup it like he did before, and your traitorous body leaned onto his touch. “I’ll take you out later, okay? Let me just finish working. Sounds good?”
“Are you going to marry me?” You blurted out instead. He stiffened. You felt it immediately his arms didn’t fall away, but his hold loosened just enough for the space between you to feel colder than it had before. “Hongjoong?”
It spiraled. Your brain wouldn’t stop spinning. You didn’t remember pushing him and running away to the comfort of your room after locking the door. All you remember was his refusal to answer and look at you. And the way he never did take you out after.
And the worst of all, everyone had noticed. You had lost your spark, that light in your eyes, that drive in your walk. The anxiety, the paranoia, was slowly eating you alive. You were falling apart at the seams, and no one dared to say it out loud. But you could feel it; this immense pressure building in your chest like a ticking bomb.
Another thing was you were also starting to notice the way everyone was looking at you. It wasn’t quite pity, no, but it was akin to the end. To be fair, if Hongjoong was to keep acting like this, the end was nigh, indeed. What if this was all a game? What if he was keeping you close for power? Or pity?
You were thirty-three when your heart had failed you in a way that stayed. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t even look like you anymore. It looked like someone trying to be worthy of being chosen. Marrying Hongjoong was a want now, not a necessity, and that broke you.
And then, one day, it all seemed to shatter. You were passing by Hongjoong’s office, an excuse you’ve been telling yourself just to see if you were going to have a small glimpse of him, when you heard it. Voices low, urgent, and hushed. One of them was Hongjoong’s.
“It’s being finalized, then?” Hongjoong’s sharp, business-like voice asked.
“Yes,” Mingi replied, serious and deep. “I reckon we’ll be able to make a move soon and then everything will be settled. You could let her go after.”
You froze in place, feeling like ice has been poured over you. Seonghwa sighed. “It’s just…are we really doing this? After everything? Won’t it destroy her?”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, it’s not knowledge she deserves to have, anyway. I didn’t go this far just for her to know. It’s better this way,” Hongjoong said curtly.
“Does she even know?” San’s voice now asked. “I’m confused. You both looked like you almost had it going, Joong. Why didn’t you tell her then?“
“No,” Seonghwa replied, sighing. “Hongjoong’s keeping her in the dark until all the loose ends are tied. Her bastard uncle did sign a contract after all, so technically she’s with us. It’s a good thing.”
Mingi clicked his tongue. “It shouldn’t have gone this far, Father. You’re lucky she’s still loyal after everything. You should’ve told her from the start this engagement was a fraud.”
Your heart stuttered. You covered your mouth, willing yourself to stay silent as tears started to pool on the side of your eyes.
“I still think it’s cruel,” San murmured. “Are you ever going to tell her, Hongjoong? You’re really gonna let her go? Just like that?”
There was a beat of silence that stretched for far too long before Hongjoong spoke again. “There was never supposed to be an ‘us’ anyway. It was a mistake that should have never happened.”
You couldn’t take it anymore, taking off as soon as that conversation ended. You sat on the floor of your room, knees tucked into your chest, the ache in your bones eclipsed only by the quiet, creeping devastation hollowing you out from the inside. Yunho’s words echoed in your mind like a curse you couldn’t shake.
By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month. Why haven’t you? Did you want to keep her locked up like a secret no one else can touch? Or are you just dragging her through the mud?
But now? Now, after hearing that conversation, after watching him pass you in the hallway like a stranger, after everyone’s pitying glances and whispered silences, it all felt so grotesquely clear - you weren’t something he was building a future with, you were someone he was using.
You tried to breathe, but it came out ragged, your chest too tight. The truth clawed at you with wild, unforgiving hands. Yunho had been right all along, and now you were stuck in a house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home with a name he would never give you and a heart he would never claim.
You spent days like that, refusing to see anyone who noticed they haven’t seen your face in a while, leaving the trays of food placed on your door untouched, and only going out to use the bathroom. It was how you had accidentally left the door ajar for someone to find you, face blotchy and swollen when Jongho came in, eyes widened at your messed up state, as he helped you up to sit on the bed.
“Y/N, what happened to you?” He let out in concern. He stood up, and you thought for a second that he was giving you the space you clearly needed when you didn’t answer, but you were wrong.
“I’m calling Hongjoong,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “I don’t know what happened, but you clearly need him.”
Something in your mind snapped into a quiet haze. Jongho was handsome. He was kind, and he was always there for you. For one breathless second, you wished that you could feel something, anything, other than the emptiness Hongjoong had left you with.
“Don’t call him,” you murmured, voice cracking as you reached for his hand. You looked up at Jongho, his brows furrowed in confusion. And before you could stop yourself, before you could think, you whispered, “Kiss me.”
Jongho’s entire body froze. His lips parted slightly, eyes widening, not with desire, but with shock and pity. He roze, the blood draining from his face. “Y/N, I don’t—”
“Please,” you begged. “I need to feel like I’m not losing everything—”
“Y/N?” Hongjoong’s voice suddenly crackled on the phone. “What’s going on? Jongho, what in God’s name are you doing?”
The call had connected after all, but you were done caring about Hongjoong. You grabbed Jongho’s shirt, lowering him to your lips. “I-I need to feel something, Jongho, please pretend I’m wanted,” your voice cracked.
“What the fuck is going on?” Hongjoong's voice roared through the speaker, frantic now. “I am going to skin you alive and drain your blood if you do it, don’t you dare, Jongho—”
But Jongho didn’t move. He respectfully held your shoulders, keeping you at arm’s length with utmost care. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice soft, heavy with pity but unwavering. “You don’t need more lies right now.”
On the other end of the phone, Hongjoong’s breathing was ragged, silent, tortured, like he was ready to rip through space to get to you before the line went dead. It was when you broke down, sobbing in Jongho’s arms apologizing through and through for your utterly shameful behaviour, thanking him for not taking advantage of your momentary weakness.
And then, the anger settled in. How dare Hongjoong act like that after what you overheard? What’s it to him that you wanted to kiss someone else’s lips besides his filthy ones? You remembered the way his voice sounded when told you that one dinner night that you were not to wear a ring. You should have known.
You made up your mind then - you were leaving him. You weren’t going to live trapped in the unknown. You’d spent years chained under your uncle’s care, and now under the illusion of Hongjoong’s protection, but no more. Maybe you’d stay with Yunho to start again and figure out who you really were outside of the Kim manor’s walls.
But first, you needed that damn contract. The one that bound you to Hongjoong as his property. After much deliberation, the easiest way would be to drive him out of his office long enough for him to not come back.
So you picked a fight, purposefully targeting his tendency to get possessive of you like you were his property. It spurred you on, and at first, he wasn’t budging, but when you mentioned off-handedly about the kiss you wanted from Jongho, he bit.
The effect was instant. Hongjoong instantly stopped what he was doing, his entire frame taut with tension, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “What did you say?” He asked coldly.
You bit your lip to hold your smirk back. “I said,” you drawled. “Maybe I should’ve asked Jongho to kiss me again.”
That did it. His steps toward you were slow, deliberate, dangerous. He growled low under his breath, shoving past you, practically vibrating with possessive rage. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but don’t test me, Y/N,” he snapped. “I’ve killed for less without blinking.”
Your heart beat erratically as you listened to Hongjoong’s furious commands to hand him his keys so he could drive off that were sounding further and further until you heard the front door slam so hard, you could practically feel it vibrate from where you were.
Perfect. Now all you had to do was find the damn contract - and whatever other secrets he’d been hiding.
Luckily for you, Hongjoong didn’t lock his cabinets. To be completely fair, nobody in their right mind - except you, apparently - would even dream of digging through his files while he wasn’t present. It was like finding a needle on a haystack, but whenever you’d recall the conversation you overheard here, it gave you a newfound sense of determination.
Finally, you found it. With trembling hands, you gingerly took the contract that basically held your uncle’s life and bound you to Hongjoong. You hated your uncle for selling you, but at the same time, you couldn’t imagine not meeting Hongjoong at all.
This was it, you were done, and you were leaving. You had already packed what little you brought here and all that was left now was to burn the bridge behind you and never look back.
Tears welled in your eyes, however, as you willed Hongjoong’s fond eyes as he looked at you out of your mind. Your story with him had happened, but now, it had to end.
You folded the contract resolutely. Just as you turned to leave, something fluttered from between the pages. It was a thinner piece of paper, tucked behind the contract, and it fell towards the floor, face up. You blinked in confusion, was this another part of the contract?
You crouched, hand shaky as you picked it up, but before you could touch it, you froze. Your pulse skipped, heart sinking the moment your eyes caught the title - it was a marriage contract and it had Hongjoong’s unmistakable signature on it.
You blinked once, twice, but the name didn’t change. The blood drained from your face, a sudden rush of nausea coiled in your gut with bile that started to burn your throat as you backed away from the fallen paper as if it had a contagious disease of some sort.
Was this it? The secret he’d been keeping? Your chest felt like it had caved in. No wonder he didn’t want to marry you - he literally couldn’t. He already belonged to someone else and you seeked comfort in his arms like you belonged in it when, in fact, you did not. You never did.
You ran out of the office, your pathetic tears finally falling from your eyes as you felt your heart starting to break. You didn’t bother stopping for Wooyoung, who looked genuinely worried for your state, and you pushed past a surprised Seonghwa, who was the last person you ever wanted to see besides Hongjoong.
You shoved the contract hastily in your luggage, trudging it silently towards the back door you knew nobody passed or guarded, each movement mechanical, like your soul detached itself long ago. The suitcase was filled with your clothes, but really, it's all the things you never meant to carry - bitterness and heartbreak.
You barely made it one step outside when a hand grabbed your arm from behind, spinning you unceremoniously. It was someone you never expected in a million years, and he was already waiting by the door like he knew you’d come out here.
“Running away again, I see,” Mingi eyes your luggage. “Though it seems you have no plans of coming back.”
His features are etched from the same ice as his father's - cold, unreadable. He’s never spoken to you beyond what's necessary. You pulled your arm away harshly from his hold. “Not that it would matter,” you scoffed. “Hongjoong has no plans of marrying me, what’s the point?”
Realization seemed to dawn on him. “You found the certificate. Is that why Wooyoung said you’re crying?” He sighed, long and breathy, as if he wasn’t prepared for what he was about to say next. “I have to give it to you, you’re clever for driving him out of his office, but whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re dead wrong.”
You laugh once, bitter and sharp. “I saw it with my own two eyes, and the facts speak for themselves, don’t they? All he’s ever made me feel was that I was an inconvenience to him.”
“You’ve only seen what he’s allowed you to see,” Mingi says quietly. “You think my father doesn’t care about you, but Y/N, he’d sell his soul for you. For what it’s worth, we all think it should’ve never gone this far.”
“Yeah, well,” you exhaled sharply, turning to leave again. “It’s a little too late for that—”
“Don’t leave,” Mingi said, almost a whisper, almost a plea. You faltered, stunned at how he wasn’t letting you pass. He rubs his face between his hands in distress. “How about this, let me show you something, and if that still doesn’t change your mind, I’ll even help you walk away.”
“Why?” You asked coldly, but followed him back to what seemed like Hongjoong’s office anyway. “You made it clear that you never liked me from the beginning.”
“Because I’m not going to let him lose you, not like this,” Mingi opened the door for you to enter. “And I never disliked you. You are my father’s one shot at the happiness he never got before, I could never dislike you for that.”
San was already there. He looked up as you entered, and your breath caught. In his hands was the very marriage certificate that had shattered you just moments ago. He eyed your luggage, resignation clear in his eyes.
“Y/N, I am so, so sorry,” his voice cracked when you refused to meet his eye. “You deserve to know the truth before you walk away, at least.”
Mingi sighed and walked over to the far side of the desk. He reached under the edge, clicking something underneath. “This,” he held out a small recording device. “Is for protection and insurance whenever he invites people over here. It never stops recording. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this.”
And with that, he presses play. You didn’t speak, just listened. At first, you heard nothing, just pure static and a couple of movements before San fast forwarded it, stopping when he was satisfied.
“She’s beautiful, Hwa, my goodness. Her photos don’t do her justice,” Hongjoong’s familiar voice sounded all over the room, slightly startling you. “I-I must’ve looked like a fool during dinner. How am I supposed to pretend that I’m not head over heels in love with her?”
“You did look like a fool,” Seonghwa’s voice said next, deadpanned. “It’s embarrassing, Joong. Your own son had to tell you to stop staring.”
Head over heels? It didn’t make sense. Not when he avoided you for the longest time, not when he stood silent while you begged for clarity. San started fast forwarding again.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” The voice was unmistakably Hongjoong’s sharp, furious, and barely restrained. “Flirting with her in front of me? Do you want me to ship you back in Suwon, you uncultured swine?”
Wooyoung’s familiar laughter shrieked all over the room so loud, Mingi rolled his eyes. “My God, Dad, you are so down bad. I’ve never seen you so jealous in my life. I have no plans to steal your wife, relax.”
“That’s not the point,” Hongjoong snapped. “Don’t touch her like that again. Don’t talk to her like she’s anyone but mine. Do you understand me?”
You stood there, frozen. Your hands trembled slightly as you remembered that day so clearly in your head. San gave Mingi a glance before silently playing the recording again.
“I fucked up,” Honjoong started, but it was in a voice you’ve never heard on him before, and for some reason, it hurt your heart to hear. “I shouldn’t have shouted at her during dinner, she looked at me like I’d hit her. And I-I hate myself for it, she probably hates me—”
“You think?” Jongho’s voice responded, unusually sharp. “She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Seriously, what were you thinking?”
“I shouldn’t have pushed the plate like that, but it had avocados in it,” Hongjoong’s voice faltered, like he was trying to rein himself in.
There was a pause in the recording, and in your head as well. You felt like you were about to faint. “Avocados?” San in the recording asked, clearly confused.
Hongjoong sighed heavily and you could practically hear him pacing in his office. “She’s allergic to avocados. Allergic enough for anaphylactic shock.”
“You could’ve just said something,” San replied, dry and disbelieving. “That wasn’t just over the line, Joong. It was humiliating.”
“That’s why she reacted like that when I told her about the dressing,” Jongho commented off-handedly. “But still, you scared her. Hell, you scared all of us.”
“I was scared as well, that’s why I’m furious,” Hongjoong snapped. “I clearly told the staff to not put avocados in her food. How was I supposed to tell her without arousing suspicion of the fucker that did it?”
That night, you’d gone to bed wondering if he hated you. Meanwhile, he was probably pacing the floor in this very room, wondering if you were still breathing, wondering if he should have just shouted your allergy across the table rather than risk letting you eat what could’ve killed you.
“You okay to keep going?” San asked softly. When you nodded stiffly, he pressed play again.
“Did you order food out?” Wooyoung’s voice sounded out this time. “Oh, that actually looks good, can I have some—”
A loud smack can be heard in the background before Wooyoung’s yelp. “No,” Hongjoong’s light, almost boyish tone, smugly denied. “My love made this for me. Can you guys believe it? She’s literally perfect in every way, she even cooks well, too. A literal angel in every sense, I tell you.”
“Hold on, is that why she’s been hanging around the kitchen late?” Wooyoung asked, confused. “But she looks so down everytime—she doesn’t know you’re eating them, does she?”
There was a pause before Seonghwa spoke next, his voice quieter. “You have to tell her, Joong. Me and San have to carry the burden of seeing her tears the next day every single time we pretend to throw away the food the next day. She makes them with love, you know?”
Silence. Then Hongjoong sighed, deep and hollow. “God, I want to, but not yet. You know there’s a mole in the staff. If I let on that I care too much, it puts a target on her back. It’s the only way to protect her without tipping my hand.”
There was a pause. “She’s so bright when she cooks, and I never tell her,” he continued heavily. “I said nothing, like I always do. So for now, all I could do is savour her food, you know? It keeps my longing away for now.”
Something in your chest cracked. You remembered those nights. You never imagined he cherished every bite in silence, keeping up a mask to protect you from shadows you didn’t even know were looming. Suddenly, it transitioned into a conversation you knew far too well, the one you heard before you ran away to the playground.
“But you can’t keep doing this to keep giving her the cold shoulder, Joong,” Seonghwa clicked his tongue. “She’s too perceptive and you know she'll find out, what are you going to do then?”
“Give me time,” Hongjoong’s tone shifted into something darker. “We’re so close to caging in Yoo Jaehwan, that bastard ruined her life. Please, no one can know for now. I have to make sure he’ll pay for that car accident that almost cost her and Yeosang.”
You gasped audibly, almost tripping at what you just heard. There was only one car accident that had Yeosang and you in it, did this run deeper than you initially thought?
“She won’t be safe forever, you know that. San’s working on Mingi’s intel for the hit and run. It was damn near impossible to find who hit her parents back then. You think Jaehwan knows?”
“There’s no denying it. That bastard killed them. She will be safer here, so please, watch over her for me. I will never forgive myself if something happens to her. She’s my everything—who’s there?”
And all this time, the man you thought didn’t care,the man whose cold shoulder and distant silence had crushed you, had been carrying the weight of it all in secret. You shook your head in denial, if this wasn’t enough, your uncle had something to do with your parents’ death as well.
“Make it stop,” you begged. “I-I can’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Mingi apologized, and you could see he was genuine this time. “We have to keep going. This is why Father was the way he was with you. You have to know.”
You heard a glass clink against another, followed by the unmistakable sound of Hongjoong’s tired hiccup, more human than you'd ever heard him, before the familiar sigh of Seonghwa followed. “That’s enough,” he gently coaxed. “You’re drunk, Joong. You’re half gone–”
“Half gone? I haven’t been whole since I lied to her,” Hongjoong’s drunk and pained voice slurred. “She ran away from me, Hwa. And I deserve it. I was prepared for her hate, but not her absence. When I couldn’t find her, I was so damn scared, none of you even understood.”
Hongjoong swallowed more alcohol. “I love her, Seonghwa. I love her more than this house, more than the empire, more than anything. But if she knew what I’ve done, she’d never stay.”
You clutch the edge of the table like it’s the only thing holding you upright. “There’s still time to tell her,” Seonghwa advised. “Mingi still thinks you shouldn’t hide this.”
“What if she realizes I’m the reason her life turned to hell?” Hongjoong cried out in melancholy. “I’m terrified she’ll disappear for good when she finds out what I’ve done and made the selfish decision to make her mine—”
“But she doesn’t know that,” Seonghwa said softly. “She doesn’t know you held her hand the whole time in the hospital. You did it to protect her. You married her, for God’s sake.”
Your knees nearly gave out. That hand - warm, calloused, unmoving but steady - had been the only thing tethering you to life. That hand was the only one that stayed when no one else did. Tears sprung to your eyes, that hand had been your lifeline, and after all this time, you had been his.
“I married her to settle a score. But somewhere along the line, I just,” Hongjoong sniffled. “I just loved her. Every day I don’t tell her, she drifts further from me. And I-I don’t know how to fix it.”
You swallowed audibly when the recording paused. There was only one question lingering in your head, one that San read on your face but refused to acknowledge. Instead, he reached forward and pressed play. The room was silent again, except for the soft static of the next recording beginning to play.
“I’ll bow to your king when he shows himself,” your voice played out this time, clipped and cut. You cringed internally. You remember how liberated you felt after that day, but now you were about to find out what happened after you stormed out.
Seonghwa and Mingi were in the room that day and you were expecting the three of them to talk about your utter disrespect, but you were not expecting Hongjoong’s laughter, loud, bubbly, and full of mirth after a few seconds of you walking away.
“Well, would you look at that,” Mingi snorted, but even through the recording, you could hear the subtle fondness in his voice. “You’ve finally found your match, Father.”
“God, I’m so proud of her,” Hongjoong said through his laughter, his voice breathless and utterly thrilled. “Did you see the way she stood up to me like a champ? I’ve never been that close to finishing on the spot.”
Mingi let out a sound of pure, exaggerated revulsion. “Please, never let me hear that again. That is fucking disgusting, this is why I get drunk often.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” Seonghwa chortled. “Did you see the way he looked at her? He was looking at her like he wanted her to break his neck and thank her for it. It was sickening. I wanted to bleach my eyes.”
“Shut up,” Hongjoong muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. You could hear the smile in his voice. It was small, secretive, a little lovesick.
“No, you shut up,” Seonghwa shot back with playful disbelief. “She literally insulted your bloodline and told you that you are not the king of your own empire in her eyes and you look like you’re ready to carve her name onto your chest.”
“Well, he just might,” Mingi answered dramatically. “You two make marriage look fun. My money’s on her, you know? Hell, everyone’s is at this point.”
Hongjoong laughed again, sounding more genuine, if that was possible. “So is mine.”
You’ve barely let that settle before the next recording sounded. You froze. This was the most recent, the catalyst that set this whole thing in motion. “I still think it’s cruel,” San murmured. “Are you ever going to tell her, Hongjoong? You’re really gonna let her go? Just like that?”
“There was never supposed to be an ‘us’ anyway. It was a mistake that should have never happened,” Hongjoong sighed and you were confused. You didn’t remember him sounding this torn about it. This was when you ran away crying to your room utterly heartbroken.
“That’s my wife, San. I don’t want to let her go, but it was cruel for me to take her secretly. I have to let her go if she doesn’t want to stay even if it hurts me. We go for the kill, but leave Jaehwan to me. I want to kill him, myself.”
The recording ended there, for good this time. You just stood there shaking, lips parted, eyes glassy. He hadn’t just tolerated you, he adored you - no, he loved you hopelessly with a hidden love that he kept choking down behind layers of silence and strategy.
You feel your knees weaken not from pain, but from the crushing, beautiful truth that maybe you were never unloved. “I-I don’t understand,” you blurted, tears blurring your vision. “T-There has to be a mistake. He’s married to someone else—”
San started to show you the marriage certificate again, but you didn’t want anything to do with it. “Y/N,” San said gently, catching your hand before you could shove the paper away. “Just look closer, please. At the bottom.”
Your gaze dropped, unwilling at first but your breath stopped, your mind stilling into chaotic silence when you saw it - your name and signature right beside Hongjoong’s. You blinked hard, heart thrashing in your chest. “I don’t remember this. I never - how could I not know I was married?”
“Our job is done. We shouldn’t be the ones explaining this. You need to hear it from him,” Mingi said as he stood and with a final glance, the door clicked shut, and you were left alone with your thoughts, the weight of the paper, and a heart that no longer knew what to believe.
You were shaking your head violently, eyes already welling up with tears you refused to acknowledge. One by one, everything started to make sense, even the little things you ignored for fear of falling too hard - your avocado allergy, how he picked raisins out of your food, your photo on his desk you now knew for sure he kept staring at every single day.
And everyone knew too, there were also the telltale signs of everyone slipping by accident - the way San froze when he found out your name was Jeong, Seonghwa telling you it was finally nice to meet you, overhearing Yeosang say you weren’t just a wife, you were someone Hongjoong would burn the world for.
You should’ve been angry, and you were, but underneath all of that was grief not just for yourself, but for him too. Your chest ached as you imagined all those nights he must have sat awake, planning, hiding, hurting.
All those moments you begged him to speak, and he couldn’t not because he didn’t want to - but because he loved you too much to risk everything.
A sob clawed its way up your throat. You wiped your face with shaking hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop now. How long had he carried all this alone? How long had he loved you silently, forced to cage every affection? How could you hate someone for hurting you when all they ever wanted was to protect you? It must have been crushing.
Your heart was a tangled, desperate mess in your chest by the time the door finally opened. Hongjoong stepped in, his brows pinched together in confusion when he saw you there. When he saw the marriage certificate crumpled tightly in your hands, it was like the ground vanished beneath his feet.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes blown wide, his breath catching audibly. It was like you also held his heart in your hands. All the color drained from his face, but somewhere in his eyes, relief shone through. And you knew why - all the pretending has to stop now and you both knew it.
Hongjoong slowly closed the door behind him, eyes never leaving yours, and for once, he looked afraid, vulnerable and human. “We need to talk,” he said hoarsely, and there wasn’t a trace of command in his voice, only quiet pleading as he slowly approached you.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” You cried out, heart aching and throat tight, the paper trembling in your hands like the storm inside you that was finally meeting his. “Everything hurts, Hongjoong. I can’t breathe.”
Without another word, he knelt in front of you, like the wind had been knocked out of him, and reached for you with trembling hands. You collapsed into his chest, sobbing openly as he cradled you to him. His warmth surrounded you, his scent grounding you, and for the first time, his arms didn’t feel like a prison - they felt like home.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, his lips brushing your temple. “I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this, and I never wanted to hurt you. But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
You shook your head against him, trying to make sense of the chaos in your chest. “I wanted so desperately for you to care for me, Hongjoong,” you confessed angrily, lamenting for all the times you spent yearning. “I wanted it so badly that I never blamed you for how you treated me, no matter how bad, I never blamed you.”
He clutched you tighter as if the very fabric of his soul depended on your forgiveness, his breath shaky, his words barely held together. “Blame me, Y/N. My soul can’t be saved if I sell you my sins and the scars in your heart are mine to atone, but don’t think for a second that I never loved you,” his voice cracked. “That I don’t love you now.”
Rage sets in as his words wrapped around your heart like a chain, heavy with the weight of long-buried truths. “You’re cruel, you know that?”
You thumped your fists on his chest repeatedly. “After all the things you made me go through? You tell me this now?”
You could feel his tears now, each one a testament to the pain he had buried beneath the armor he wore for too long. “You think I’m cruel, but I’ve been your husband longer than you’ve known. And I’ve loved you every single day of it,” he whispered, his hands trembling.
Your breath caught as his words sank in, deeper than any wound he’d ever left behind. Husband. You wanted to scream, to cry, to pull away, to collapse into him all at once. How could he say it like that? So stripped of pride and power, like a man offering up the last piece of himself and hoping it would be enough?
It was too much. It was everything.
He pressed his forehead to yours, lips barely apart from yours. “If you want the truth, I'll give you that. If you want to leave, I will never stop you."
But somehow, all you could do was hold him tighter. “I don’t want freedom from you, Hongjoong,” you whispered, breaking apart in his arms. “I just want the truth.”
Hongjoong didn’t speak at first. You felt his body tremble as he held you, as though the truth itself was too heavy to carry alone anymore. “I’m not the right person to tell you this, it would be Yunho, but to put it simply for now, your parents both served my father, and in turn, me after he passed away.”
You pulled back slightly, your breath catching in your throat. “M-My parents were in the mafia?” You asked, heart pounding with the realization already forming. Somehow, it made sense - they were absent throughout your teenage years and they did keep their career a secret.
“They were. Yunho took over your father after, but we didn’t get along much, but that’s another story,” Hongjoong said softly. “They were good people. One day I got myself into something I wasn’t supposed to. I would’ve been dead if it weren’t for them and my sons would be fatherless. I was young and stupid and they saved me. I owe them my life, I still do.”
He paused, voice tightening with grief. “I didn’t have much power back then, so I did the best thing I could. Assets, lots of them. I gave your parents millions, Y/N, but before I could fully ever thank them, before I could protect them…” Hongjoong looked away, sighing heavily.
“They died before they could use the money. My uncle wanted their money, didn’t he? Did he kill them?” You blurted out. His silence confirmed it and you shuddered, anguish and clarity warred within you as the weight of your stolen past pressed down on your chest.
“At first I didn’t have proof it was him,” you felt Hongjoong’s hands holding you steady, his warmth anchoring you to something real. “I was investigating their deaths for years. It was my way of getting back for them for saving me. It wasn’t until your car accident with Yeosang a couple of years back.”
You swallowed. This was it, this was the part you weren’t sure you were ready to hear. His face turned dark before he continued. “Yeosang was suspicious of the accident. We both thought the hit was for him at first since he’s my son. When I investigated, it was how I found out who you were. It felt like the universe just punched me in the gut.”
“W-What does this have to do with marrying me?”
“Everything,” his expression twisted, like it physically hurt him to relive it. “When your parents died, all that money went to you automatically. Do you remember that day when I asked you why your uncle took you in when Yunho was losing his mind looking for you all this time?”
You nodded, your stomach sinking. “He took you in to drain every cent out of you. He was bleeding you dry,” his jaw ticked in concealed anger. “He got impatient, that car accident back then would speed up the process.”
You shook your head, denial flaring. Your lungs were too tight, your heart racing painfully in your chest as you tried not to throw up. “So, what, you married me to stop him?”
“Not just that,” he said hoarsely, and then, softer. “I had to make it legally binding. As your husband, I could legally control your funds. It was the only way I knew how, so I married you in secret, in the hospital, while you were unconscious. And I held your hand while you signed.”
Your head snapped up at that. Your blood ran cold, because you remembered that day. The warmth of a hand in yours, grounding you while the world spun wildly. You thought it was just hospital consent forms.
“That was the marriage certificate?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “But that was years before my uncle sold me to you, Hongjoong, that doesn’t make any sense—”
“I had to let you go back to him after,” he explained, eyes shut tight with regret. “He was desperate, and desperate men get dangerous. I needed time. I needed him to think he was still in control, still bleeding you dry while I worked behind the scenes.”
You stood there in stunned silence, your hands trembling with the weight of a truth you never asked for but now couldn’t ignore. “I watched you for years,” he continued, voice hollow but steady. “Always from a distance. I told myself it was enough.I kept telling myself I was doing it for your parents, that I owed them everything. That’s how it started. But then…”
His voice cracked, and for a moment he didn’t go on. “Then I fell in love with you,” he whispered, trembling. “Without even realizing it, I fell. Hard. And for that, I’m sorry. I will regret taking that choice away from you for as long as I live. The plan was to annul the marriage when I was done compiling evidence against him, and believe me, I tried to do it quickly. I didn’t want you to stay with him for long.”
Your breath caught when he smiled faintly, and it was the saddest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. “You were always strong, and I hated that I couldn’t tell you how proud I was. I’m sorry I got selfish because the thought of annulling the marriage just hurt me on the inside.”
You looked down, heart racing, remembering the moments. All that time you resented him for being locked in his office instead of being with you, he was working to finally set you free. “Then why keep it a secret?” You asked, voice fragile. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared you’d hate me. Scared that if you knew the truth, you’d want nothing to do with me. I didn’t want to rip open old wounds by making you relive the past. So I just… watched and made sure you were doing well.”
“But everything changed. One time I sent Jongho,” Hongjoong went on, voice turning sharp with memory. “We didn’t know he was violent with you. He caught him hurting you. That fucking bastard,” his cracked slightly. “Not only was he stealing from you, he was beating you up the entire time, I-I wanted to die when I found out—”
A lone tear escaped his eyes when you shushed him, putting your finger on his lips gently. He cracked a bitter smile, kissing your finger before continuing. “So I bankrupted his business. I had Seonghwa pose as his client, made him plant the seed that Kim Hongjoong was giving money for something in exchange. It worked, that’s how I got you into my house.”
You froze up, suddenly breathless. Your whole life - every twist and turn, every unexplained pain, every confusing encounter - was beginning to piece together like a puzzle you never knew existed.
“You were never a liability used to pay a debt,” he growled. “Once you were under my roof, I knew you were safe. I could fully start making my move on your uncle. I sent Wooyoung to Suwon to start—”
“Suwon?” You blinked in surprise, remembering the very first time you met Wooyoung. “He went there…because of me? Because you told him to?”
He nodded. “The man your uncle hired who hit your parents were both hiding in Suwon. Mingi wanted to do it since he was the one who found them for me, but Wooyoung…let’s say that son of mine is a little trigger-happy. Trust me, he was more than glad to do it.”
You felt your chest caving in. All this time, everyone - San, Seonghwa, Jongho, Wooyoung, and even Mingi - had been watching, protecting, quietly fighting battles for you that you didn’t even know existed.
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at the man who had haunted your days and nights with confusion, rage, longing - only to discover that, all along, he had loved you in silence.
“What now?” You sniffled. “What are we going to do?”
“I was going to kill him and then come clean to you,” he admitted ruefully. “But death is a salvation that he doesn’t deserve. I have all the evidence I need to send him to jail, because there’s one more thing your uncle cost me, ” he said, voice low and rough. “Yeosang.”
You felt your chest twist. “I had to send my own son away,” he spat the words like poison. “Because if your uncle ever saw him around, he would’ve figured it out that Yeosang was the one who called me, panicked, sobbing, begging me to save you.”
You knew that Hongjoong called Yeosang in a panic when you were poisoned to wherever he was hiding from to come and treat you. He risked all of it to save you. “Your uncle didn’t just steal from you,” he growled. “He didn’t just beat you, he stole from me too. He robbed me of time with you, your parents, and my son.”
He dropped to his knees again. “I did terrible things to keep you safe,” he said quietly. “And I can’t undo them. But if there’s anything left in your heart for me, even just a piece, I swear to you, I will make it right.”
Hongjoong was a man weighed down by guilt, someone laying every wound bare before you. You looked at him, this broken, bleeding man who had shielded you in ways you never even saw. And now, maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop surviving and start living. You gripped his hands tightly now, because for the first time, you understood.
“I hated you,” you whispered. His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes like your words were blades, but he took it like he promised he would. “But I think I hated myself more for still loving you anyway.”
His eyes snapped open, wide and raw and shimmering with a hope he tried to suppress. “Y-You still do?” His broken voice stuttered.
“I don’t know how not to,” you said, your lips trembling. “I didn’t realize how much I fell for you until you started pulling back. Even when you pushed me so far away I thought I’d disappear, I kept looking for you.”
His breath hitched, and then he was kissing you, not out of possession or dominance, not like a man taking what he believed was his, but like someone starved for something he’d already mourned the loss of. His lips trembled against yours, and you tasted your shared sorrow, your silent tears, your aching, stupid, impossible love.
Hongjoong exhaled shakily, as if the weight of everything unsaid was finally buckling his knees. Now that you were in front of him, there was no more holding back. “I never meant to ignore you,” he said, voice rough and uneven. “These past few months, I-I know I’ve made you feel unwanted, like you were nothing but a pawn to me, but you never were.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “We were so close to getting your uncle. I could taste it, that justice. And I lost myself. I thought, just a little more time and I could finally give you peace.”
You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he shook his head. “No,” he whispered with a bitter smile. “It is my fault. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t supposed to love you, I was supposed to distance myself because your uncle’s mole was watching us. But how could I not?”
“Hongjoong,” you tried to coax him out of these thoughts, but to no avail. Your vision blurred as his words sank in.
“How could I not hold back when you looked at the world with eyes that still trusted even after everything?” Hongjoong continued. “Every time you touched me, I felt like I was being forgiven for sins I hadn’t even confessed yet. Every night you were in my house, pretending not to care that I was cruel, pretending it didn’t hurt, I wanted to fall to my knees and curse every God out there for doing this to me, to us.”
He took your hands, his thumbs brushing your knuckles, and he held you like you were something fragile. “I even got you poisoned,” he said, pressing your hands to his chest, where his heart thundered violently. “Because I let my guard down. I’ve lived every day terrified that loving you would be the death of you, but it turns out, not loving you openly was killing me.”
Tears welled in your eyes again, thick and hot. When he finally pulled back, it was only just enough to whisper. “I married you once to protect you and I’d marry you again just to love you. Marry me, Y/N, please.”
You looked at him, the man who had fought in silence for you, bled in shadows for you, and lost you just to keep you alive. And for the first time, you saw him as the only person who had ever loved you enough to break his own heart to save yours.
“You already have me,” you said softly, hands rising to cup his cheeks.
His exhale of relief and wonder, grief and gratitude all at once. No more pretending, no more secrets. Just the two of you, finally choosing each other in the light. You were already his long before you knew it and he’s always been yours.
“Let me get this straight,” Yunho uncrossed his long legs, his upper body leaning forward ever so slightly as his sharp, glaring eyes trained on Hongjoong’s flat, expressionless ones. “You’re telling me that you’ve been married to her this entire time? That you made her suffer in your slimy presence for the grand scheme of catching Jaehwan when you could’ve just left her with me?”
He removed his glasses to put it on top of the coffee table in front of him, its reflective surface and visual lightness made it a striking centerpiece while keeping the room feeling uncluttered and elegant, very befitting of someone like Yunho who exuded an exorbitant amount of grace. The way he scoffed after was anything of, however.
“You fucking bastard,” he seethed, banging his fist on said table with a sarcastic laugh that left his lips in a disbelieving pace of staccato. “I ought to kill you on the spot, Kim Hongjoong. I cannot believe you thought that this was normal, you’re not right in the head, I’m telling—”
“Now, now Yunho,” Hongjoong - or should you say, your husband - smirked smugly, snaking his arm around your waist to pull you closer. “In front of Y/N, really?”
“You won’t get away with this, also you mean my niece—”
“Don’t you mean my wife?” Hongjoong grinned, all of his teeth bared out in a daring show of possessiveness that was not to be messed with, clearly not even Yunho. “And I already have,” he turned to look at you, his eyes softening significantly as he smiled. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
Yunho balked at the blatant display of Hongjoong’s disrespect towards him. He looked at you expectantly, but all you could do was give him a sheepish smile as you toyed with the ring on your finger.
“Sorry, Uncle,” you giggled. “You heard my husband.”
Hongjoong whispered ‘that’s my girl’ softly on your ear as Yunho let out the most undignified squawk you’ve ever heard a grown man do.
Yunho covered his face with his hands and groaned. “You love him,” he deadpanned. “And you, you manipulative, delusional, leather-wearing tax fraud—”
“Tax fraud?” Hongjoong raised a brow, a slow grin spreading across his face like ink in water. “Really, Yunho? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“---you love her. Oh, Sungho is probably rolling in his grave right now,” he groaned, and you laughed at how he whispered his grievances in your dad's name.
He sat up, reclining back with one arm thrown over the couch. “Well, if you ever come to your senses, I know a great divorce lawyer,” he said dryly. “My door is always open for you, little love.”
You bit back the urge to laugh when Hongjoong rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’ll keep it in mind, Uncle,” you grinned. “But you should know by now that I have a type.”
Hongjoong only smirked from his seat, one arm slung lazily over the backrest behind you like this was his damn throne. “You’re just bitter I won,” he snorted at Yunho.
“Oh, I’ll be bitter until my dying breath,” Yunho snapped. “You married her and didn't even invite me to the wedding. I was supposed to walk her down the aisle.”
“Then die—”
“Fuck you,” he retorted. Yunho waved his hand, the humor in his eyes dimming slightly as his tone shifted, more measured now. “Alright, jokes aside. What happened to the motherfucker that is Jaehwan?”
Hongjoong’s arm around you tightened as his entire posture changed. “We got him. He’s in jail.”
The words dropped like a stone in the room. You looked down, purposefully grabbing the mug to take a sip, your mind flashing with the bright lights of one shot that gradually turned into two, three, four shots.
Yunho’s brows furrowed. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Hongjoong tried not to smirk, side-eyeing you with intent. “Nothing crazy, really. He doesn’t deserve anything theatrical for everything that he’s done. I had my men watch him for a couple of days, ambushed him when he least expected it, and that’s that. You recall that car accident from a couple of years ago, yes?”
You closed your eyes, the faux splatters of sticky red coating your face feeling realistic enough if you concentrated. Lifeless, hollow eyes stared back behind your eyes before you opened them again. Hongjoong’s fingers massaged yours with purpose back then, too. You kept your mouth from curling too far at the corners.
“How could I not? You took her that night,” Yunho scoffed, sitting forward again, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I was this close to finding Y/N at that time. I dislike talking about this, but it was hard. Years of failure meant I failed her father.”
Hongjoong hummed, ignoring Yunho’s pointed look. “My son was also there, you remember my middle son? He’s a neurosurgeon now,” he replied softly, his fingers playing with yours. “You could say I had a different drive back then. I had my reasons.”
Yunho’s brows shot up in mild surprise before they softened ever so slightly. “I didn’t know, I’m terribly sorry that your son got caught up in this fiasco,” he murmured, his soft eyes landing on you. “I suppose everything that happened was like a trigger set in motion, wouldn’t you say, Y/N?”
You shrugged as you gave Hongjoong a look. You let your lashes lower slightly and adjusted your posture, just like you did when after the kickback from the trigger that had made your shoulders ache. “Perhaps.”
“Anyway, it’s over,” Hongjoong said with a clipped edge. “There’s enough evidence now to tie him to the attempted murder, fraud, and embezzlement. Stalking as well. The bastard didn't even stop at the mole in my house, he always sent his sleazy men around the area in case she went out. He’s done, I'll make sure of it.”
“Good riddance,” Yunho said with an unsurprising amount of venom. His shoulders sank, years and years of burden lifting off of his shoulders. Relief settles in his expression, and though it made him look a decade younger, the faraway look of a thousand suns in his eyes told you otherwise.
“I knew your father would be proud of you," he sighed. "That bastard took everything from our family. But you…you gave it back.”
The man who haunted your childhood, the one who used your grief as a tool to strip you of everything, was finally out of your life. You squeezed Yunho’s hand, hoping that it said everything you couldn’t say out loud. You stayed quiet for a moment, trying to absorb the weight of what Yunho was saying.
There was no reminiscing on your end, no smirk, no memories; just the hurt between two people who have lost their loved ones. He held your hand, holding it tight.
“And your mom,” he added softly. She would’ve held you so tight. You look like Sohee, you know? Same fire, same goddamn backbone. Perfect for your father.”
“I hope they’re at peace now,” you said quietly.
“They are,” Yunho replied with a surety that only blood could lend. “Because you’re finally safe. And I can finally breathe again.”
You took in his words, the finality of them. The war was over now, justice had been served. And it sounded like a dull thud of a body hitting the floor, the heaviness of it almost satisfying in your ears. The conversation shifted into something lighthearted, with you and Yunho reminiscing about how he babysat you when you were younger, how your own father was when they were both teenagers, to all the mundane things like how your father would have reacted to your marriage with Hongjoong.
And Hongjoong was just there, laughing and smiling along like he’s always meant to be there with you. He would quip once or twice with his own accounts about your parents and you fell a little harder for the man, for the way he spoke about your parents with unparalleled fondness was something to behold. He truly adored them, and it just made you miss them even more.
“We should go,” you said gently, standing up, smoothing your dress daintily with a small smile. “I want to visit my parents today. It’s a good day and I haven’t been to ever since I was in college.”
Yunho, ever the gentleman that he was, walked both you and Hongjoong all the way to the door to see you out instead of sending his right-hand man like a man of his status should. The shift in his demeanor was immediate, but you tried your best to not pay attention to it as he hugged you goodbye.
“She’ll be back, Yunho,” Hongjoong rolled his eyes, noticing the small tension, subtly pulling you away back to his side with a curt chuckle. “Stop smothering her.”
Yunho didn’t answer with words. He just stared long, quiet, and with enough weight behind his gaze to make most men sweat as both you and Hongjoong speed walked all the way to the car to try and get away, but of course, there was no escaping. You were a Jeong, after all, and so was he.
“Stop,” he spoke out, firm and absolute.
You halted from walking, giving Hongjoong a knowing look, who only squeezed your hand supportively. “Hmm?”
“I know what you did,” Yunho said, his voice just a touch lower than before. He swept his gaze on you from head to toe, stopping lightly at your shoulders. "Your sore shoulders tells me everything."
Your spine straightened, barely enough to notice, unless someone was trained to notice. You turned your head over your shoulder, lips curled into an innocent, almost amused smile. “Oh?”
He smirked, his body stilling like a predator catching scent. You faltered, suddenly reminded that Yunho wasn’t just your uncle - he was mafia, just like Hongjoong. Worse, perhaps, more patient and more precise. Hongjoong took pride in the brutality of it all while he was the kind of man who could make a death look like a ghost story.
For a moment, he looked overtly threatening, his intelligence sharper, and his confrontation carrying a much colder, calculated menace. He tilted his head mockingly, willingly playing your game. “Must’ve felt good,” he chuckled. “I bet you looked him in the eye.”
You had to laugh out loud at that one, not confirming nor denying what he was insinuating. “Maybe I just found peace,” you said innocently.
“I see. Say, what jail is he in? Might have to pay him a visit,” Yunho smiled, truly smiled, wide and cold, but still, it was impossible to miss the adoration and pride in it. “Let me guess - it’s two feet wide and six foot deep.”
Hongjoong, who’d been watching you both with amusement simmering just beneath the surface, finally spoke. “What vivid imagination you have,” he mused, smirking with dark intent, his eyes shining sadistically as he looked at you with faux curiosity. “Don’t you think, darling?”
Yunho nodded slowly, pursing his lips in a poor attempt to stop himself from smiling. “Not vivid enough,” he shrugged playfully. “Humour me this, if someone were to, say, shoot someone…would it be better to aim for a quick kill or prolong the agony? Hypothetically.”
You tapped your chin thoroughly, pretending to think. “ I’d prolong the agony. Shoot them four times on pressure points. Hypothetically, of course.”
“Next one,” Yunho said, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re standing over the body, hypothetically, and he’s looking at you, what would you say?”
“Hypothetically? You pondered, tilting your head as if you were really thinking about what to say. “I would have said ‘you should have killed me when you had the chance.’”
Hongjoong exhaled, something like reverence in his breath. “God, I love you.”
“Just one more,” Yunho said softly, his voice losing its teasing edge, now carrying the quiet weight of someone who’d once held you as a child, who had once promised your father to protect you. “Was it clean?”
You met his gaze evenly, nodding very subtly with a serene smile, one that he returned with all the love and unwavering support only someone who truly cared for you would do.
You wanted to tell him that it was so clean that after your hands didn’t even shake as you pulled the trigger and that the air smelled sweeter. Instead you said, “Like it never even happened.”
Yunho stared at you for a long moment, his eyes melting into something rawer, wearier.
“If anyone asks,” he said lowly, the gravity in his tone undeniable now. “You were with me that night. Both of you were the entire time.”
His gaze cut to Hongjoong, who for once, looked struck silent. The air between them simmered with unspoken understanding. He nodded deeply with reverence. It wasn’t flashy, but it was sincere and genuine enough that Yunho didn’t mock him for it. “Thank you.”
Yunho just waved a hand, though his voice cracked slightly when he said, “Don’t thank me, you bastard. Just keep her safe or I swear, I’ll drag your sorry ass down and make you wish you’d stayed single.”
Hongjoong chuckled low in his throat. His hand settled gently on the small of your back as he led you forward. “Don’t worry, she married a man who never stopped watching her back.”
“God help us all,” Yunho rolled his eyes in mock disgrace, staring at the two of you as you both got in the car before he called for the last time. “Tell your parents I said hi.”
You looked back to see him watching you as Hongjoong started to drive away, arms crossed, but eyes glassy. And though he didn’t say it, you understood. You were safe, you were home, and he’d go to hell and back before anyone took that from you again.
The car ride was quiet at first, not from discomfort, but from something softer. Reverent. Hongjoong kept one hand on the wheel while the other was placed on your lap. It reminded you of that one stormy night when he sought out to find you in that lone playground. He turned to look at you, knowing that he was thinking the same as you were.
“I love you,” he said, pulling your hand up to kiss your knuckles. His eyes searched your face like he was memorizing it all over again, as though he still couldn’t believe you were here. “I should’ve said it a long time ago, I feel for you so much that it almost hurts.”
You blinked back the sudden tears, the sincerity in his voice cracking something wide open inside you. You laughed wetly. “That’s very sweet of you, I believe you, but why now?”
“I wanted to wait until everything was said and done,” he continued, pressing another kiss to your fingers. “I want to give you everything. A house to grow old with, a bed where you always feel safe, dinners where I burn the rice and you make fun of me for it. I want lazy Sundays and soft arguments and kisses, just like we’ve always done it.”
You looked at him, heart aching with how badly you wanted to believe in all of it and how, against all odds, you did. “You’re serious?” You asked softly, squeezing his hand back.
He placed a hand over his heart in a rare show of insecurity. “I would place a piece of my soul in every time and place you’d ever felt lonely, just so you wouldn’t be alone. I love you enough for the both of us, and there must be something about me worth loving if you would just see–”
You leaned in and kissed him the moment he parked, slow and sweet and full of the kind of hope neither of you had dared to hold onto before. When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “I want that too,” you whispered. “I want everything with you, Hongjoong.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. “Then we start today,” he smiled as bright as the brightest star. “We say hello to your parents. We tell them you’re safe, then we build a life that’s entirely ours, okay?”
You nodded, your smile trembling. You finally look up at the sky after all these years, tearing up as the clouds seem to part way for the sun to finally shine, the rays beaming down at your parents’ tombstones. Finally, justice has been served, they can rest in peace now. You couldn’t help but stare if only for a little while.
Hongjoong approached the stones first, his head bowing low between them. He placed one hand gently on your mother’s grave, the other on your father’s. He didn’t speak loudly, but you saw his lips move, whispering something too quiet for even you to hear. It could’ve been anything - a greeting, a promise, or perhaps maybe even a thank you.
You didn’t ask what he said. You didn’t need to. For the first time, the cemetery didn’t feel like an end. It felt like a door closing softly behind you because the weight of grief was gone now. They could rest and so could you. You stood by Hongjoong’s side smiling at him as he gave you a small kiss on the forehead, coaxing you to talk to your own parents just like he did.
You brought your hands to your lips, kissed your palms, and pressed them reverently to each stone. “Rest easy now, Mom, Dad,” you whispered full of love and release, voice catching as you tried not to tear up. “I’m safe now, and I’m very happy. Happier than I’d ever been.”
You turned to look at the man standing just a few steps behind you - your husband, your protector, your love - watching you with a smile so soft, it nearly broke you open again. “I’m married now. It’s Hongjoong, remember him? Please bless our marriage, I really love him,” you paused, taking a deep breath. “I-I wish you were both here, I miss you…”
Then, slowly, you stepped back and began to walk away, hand in hand with Hongjoong. But before, you glanced back one last time, your heart feeling lighter at the sight of the wind blowing from the tombstones to your face lightly. You couldn’t help the serene smile on your face.
Hongjoong will take over now, he’ll take care of me like you would’ve wanted.
You were thirty-four years old when you finally found your peace that didn’t feel like a surrender this time and instead felt like home, hand in hand with the love of your life.
18+ MDNI. fun fact; minors will explode if they touch my blog
♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, ANGST, smut
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DEAD DOVE. DARK FICTION. listed more specifically on each chapter: step-dad hongjoong, featuring uncle bumjoong doing his best + best friend hiyyih being an angel, reader calls hj dad on accident / jokingly + he likes it a little too much, age gap (reader young adult, hong in his late 30s), serious daddy issues, soul crushing grief + survivors guilt (reader survives a crash that takes her parents), flashbacks give a glimpse of them before the accident, depictions of deep depression, medication, emotional manipulation (lowkey going both ways), unhealthy attachments + extreme taboo relationship, hardcore daddy / ddlg kink (wow shockerrrr), hongjoong is a freak with a corruption kink and likes making virgin reader: squirm / cry / call him daddy / suck on his fingers, honestly dubcon (she shouldn't be making these decisions in her headspace to begin with + hong blurs the lines of consent)
✫彡wordcount: 22k (AND COUNTING)
➯a/n: siiiigh when will i learn to keep things as simple one shots— IIIIN MY DEFENSE... eeeh i got nothin lmao just daddy hongjoong stuck on the mind 😪
taglist ? ➾ open !
♡masterlist + navigation !♡
────୨ৎ────
"I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need."
"I need you to hold me."
────୨ৎ────
Teaser
────୨ৎ────
Chapter One
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: brief hospitalization, attempted suicide, emetophobia, non sexual nudity, no smut
In Which: After the untimely death of your family, your step-father steps up and takes care of you.
────୨ৎ────
Chapter Two
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: alcohol, possessive behavior / jealousy, there's nowhere hongjoong's tongue doesn't go: making out + cunnilingus + hickeys, body worship, fingering, pussy + thigh job
In Which: Navigating your day-to-day becomes increasingly less difficult with your step-dad proving, time and time again, he always has your back.
────୨ৎ────
Chapter Three
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: virginity loss, kim "just the tip" hongjoong, epilogue included
In Which: You've finally reached some level of stability, and life isn't so bad with Hongjoong by your side.
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Thankful ಠ_ಠwarning/content: self harm
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Hard Times
⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻
ılıılıılıılıılıılılıılıı
♫Hard Times - Ethel Cain♫
1:43 ━━━━●───── 5:03
"A little girl who needs her Daddy real bad."
"In the corner, on my birthday, you watched me. Dancing right there in the grass."
"Too tired to move. Too tired to leave."
♫Now this house ain't a home - ATEEZ♫
0:58 ━━━━●───── 3:44
"You never know what's around the bend."
"The world is cold to me, so cold. The world is dizzying to me, so dizzying."
"I endure one day, then one more — hoping someday I'll reach that place."
♫Home - Daughter♫
2:10 ━━━━●───── 4:18
"Keep the nightmares out, give me mouth-to-mouth — I can't live without you."
"I don't stand a chance in these four walls."
"Now he's moving close; my heart in my throat."
♫Devil On My Back - Chrissy♫
0:35 ━━━━●───── 3:13
"And when you're crying, are you lying about who you're crying for?"
"While I'm not getting better, you're waiting patiently. You're being strong for me."
"He used to touch himself to photographs of me..."
♫Skin - Marika Hackman♫
2:10 ━━━━●───── 4:18
"I'm jealous of your neck — that narrow porcelain plinth of flesh... It gets to hold your head, and I'd rather preform the task instead."
"I am too naive."
"To shed some light, the fire must get in."
♫Watch You Sleeping - Blue Foundation ♫
2:25 ━━━━●───── 6:33
"I want to carry you, but you won't get up. It's really killing me, you know it's killing me."
♫Jupiter - Flower Face♫
0:24 ━━━━●───── 4:31
" 'Til my body overflows in the summer afterglow. I love you more than you will ever know."
♫Work Song - Hozier♫
2:31 ━━━━●───── 3:49
"In the low lamp light I was free — heaven and hell were words to me."
♫Daddy Issues - The Neighborhood♫
1:18 ━━━━●───── 4:19
"And if you were my little girl, I'd do whatever I could do. I'd run away and hide with you."
♫Francis Forever - Mitski♫
1:02 ━━━━●───── 2:29
"I don't know what to do without you... I don't know where to put my hands."
♫Cinnamon Girl - Lana Del Rey♫
"If you hold me without hurting me — you'll be the first who ever did."
The two senior idols finally claim your innocence during a private holiday escape in a luxury hotel suite.
The dorm was chaos. A symphony of zippers, laughter, and rolling suitcases. The air tasted of anticipation and cheap instant noodles. You sat on the edge of your narrow bunk, your own half-empty duffel bag a silent accusation. The other girls chattered about hometowns and families, about home-cooked meals and familiar beds. You had none of that to go to. Your family is in another country. It would be to expensive for you to go home for just a couple of days. The almost-failed evaluation was a cold stone in your gut, and the cost of a train ticket to a place that wasn’t really home felt like an impossible mountain. You were going to spend the holiday alone, in this empty dorm, with your shame.
Your phone buzzed on the thin mattress.
A text from Mingyu.
Pack something light. Will pick you up at 6:00 PM. Don't tell the other girls. - M & H
Your heart did a funny, lurching thing. The stone in your gut dissolved, replaced by a fluttery, electric heat. You didn’t question it. You didn’t overthink. You just moved, folding a single change of clothes, a toothbrush, stuffing it into a small backpack. At 5:58 PM, you slipped out the back stairwell, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs.
At 6:03 PM, a sleek, dark sedan pulled up to the curb, its windows tinted. The passenger door opened, and Hoshi’s bright, gummy smile beamed out at you. “Get in, little one,” he said, his voice warm. You slid into the back seat, the leather cool and smelling of citrus and cedar. Mingyu was behind the wheel, a silhouette of broad shoulders against the fading city light. He glanced at you in the rearview, his dark eyes crinkling. “Seatbelt,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
The drive was a blur of neon and twilight. You sat in a comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the soft melody from the speakers wrapping around you. They didn’t ask about the evaluation. They didn’t ask about your family. They just let you exist, and in that quiet, the knot of anxiety you’d carried for weeks began to loosen. Hoshi pointed out landmarks, told a silly story about a fan encounter, made you laugh until your sides ached. Mingyu drove with a focused calm, his large hands steady on the wheel.
After about forty-five minutes, the cityscape began to thin, giving way to darker hills and the silhouettes of luxury high-rises nestled against the mountain. Hoshi was dropped off at a grand, illuminated hotel entrance, giving you a quick wink before he vanished through the rotating doors. Mingyu drove on, up a spiraling ramp to the upper-level parking. The click of the car door locking when he parked felt final, significant.
“Discretion is a habit,” Mingyu said simply, his hand finding the small of your back as he guided you to a private elevator. The ride to the 16th floor was silent, smooth, and too fast. The doors slid open directly into the suite.
It stole your breath.
The entire far wall was a single, seamless sheet of glass, a cinematic frame for the sprawling, twinkling galaxy of Seoul at night. The city lights were like scattered diamonds on black velvet, endless and mesmerizing. The air was perfectly chilled, carrying a subtle, expensive scent of lilies and something crisp, like chilled champagne. Plush, cream-colored carpets, low-slung modern furniture in charcoal and silver, and a breathtaking void of space and light.
“Welcome, baby girl.”
The voice came from the shadows by the window. Hoshi stood there, having arrived via the main elevators, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand, already changed into soft, black lounge pants and a grey tee. He looked like he belonged in this penthouse world.
Then Mingyu was behind you, his solid warmth enveloping you from behind. His arms wrapped around your middle, his chin resting on the top of your head. His voice was a vibration against your spine. “This will be your home for the weekend.”
You turned in his arms, hugging him tightly, burying your face in his chest. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. He just held you, one large hand cradling the back of your head.
The night blurred into a soft, golden haze. You changed into the soft shorts and tank top you’d packed. You three lounged on the enormous sectional, eating exquisite room service—seared scallops, truffle pasta, delicate fruit tarts—and sipping on sparkling water that tasted of elderflower. The conversation was easy, full of laughter and teasing. They asked about your training, your dreams, listening with an intensity that made you feel seen, important. The vast window slowly turned from twilight to a deep, starless black, the city lights burning brighter against the darkness.
Eventually, Mingyu stretched, his muscles rippling under his shirt. He excused himself with a soft kiss to your temple. “Be right back.” You heard the distant sound of a shower starting.
You stayed with Hoshi, curled against his side. He played with your hair, his fingers gentle. “Nervous?” he asked softly.
You shook your head against his shoulder. “No.” And you meant it. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a liquid, warm anticipation that pooled low in your belly.
“Good,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead.
When Mingyu returned, he was a vision. A white towel was slung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to the carved planes of his chest and stomach. His dark hair was damp, pushed back. He smelled of clean, masculine soap and his own unique, musky scent. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, a statue of pure, potent masculinity. He didn’t speak. He just looked at Hoshi and gave a single, slow nod.
Hoshi’s arm around you tightened. He stood, pulling you up with him. “Our turn,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He took your hand and led you not to a guest bathroom, but through the master bedroom—a room dominated by a massive, low platform bed with charcoal linens—and into an ensuite that was bigger than your entire dorm room.
It was all marble and sleek chrome. A sunken tub big enough for five, double vanities, and a walk-in shower enclosed by two walls of textured glass and one of pristine, clear glass. Hoshi didn’t turn on the main lights. Instead, he hit a switch, and hidden LED strips glowed a soft, warm amber, making the marble look like honeyed gold.
“Arms up,” Hoshi said, his voice gentle but firm. His fingers found the hem of your tank top. You obeyed, raising your arms, and he pulled it off over your head. His eyes drank in the sight of your bare chest, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them peak instantly. He knelt, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties, sliding them down your legs in one smooth motion. You stepped out of them, naked before him in the amber light.
He stood, his own clothes joining yours on the floor in a silent heap. His body was lean, all taut muscle and smooth skin. He was already half-hard, his cock a promising weight against his thigh. He took your hand and led you into the shower. The water came on with a hiss, instantly hot and cascading from a rainforest showerhead above. It sluiced over you, warm and heavy.
Hoshi took a bottle of body wash, pouring the clear, citrus-scented gel into his palms. He started at your shoulders, his hands firm and sure as he massaged the slick soap into your skin. He worked in slow, worshipful circles, down your arms, over your back, kneading the tension from your muscles. He turned you, his soapy hands sliding over your chest, cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples until they were hard, aching points. You leaned back against his chest, your head lolling on his shoulder, a soft moan escaping you as his hands drifted lower, over the flat of your stomach, down to the crests of your hips.
“So beautiful,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. His hands slid around to your backside, squeezing and kneading the flesh there before finally, finally, moving between your legs from behind.
His fingers parted your folds, slick with more than just soap and water. He found your clit with unerring accuracy, a slow, circular pressure that made your knees buckle. He held you up, his other arm banded around your waist. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice a rough, sexy murmur lost in the sound of the water. “Let me feel you.”
He played you like an instrument he knew intimately. One finger, then two, sliding inside you with a smooth, stretching fullness. His palm ground against your clit as his fingers curled, finding that perfect, devastating spot inside you. You cried out, the sound echoing off the marble. Your hands braced against the cool glass wall in front of you, your forehead pressing against it.
That’s when you saw it. The clear glass wall of the shower… it wasn’t a wall at all. It was a window.
On the other side, in the shadowy bedroom, Mingyu was lying on the massive bed, propped against the headboard. Completely naked. The sheets were pooled at his waist, and the hard, thick length of his cock lay against his stomach, already fully, impressively erect. He was watching you. His dark eyes were locked on the spectacle of Hoshi behind you, his hands between your legs, your face contorted in pleasure. A slow, possessive smile spread across Mingyu’s face.
Hoshi’s lips were at your ear again. “Let’s give your oppa a show,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. His hands on your waist tightened, pulling you back more firmly against his own hardening length. One hand stayed busy between your legs, his fingers pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm, while the other came up to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. He kissed your neck, sucking the sensitive skin there, marking you.
You were on display, and the knowledge sent a shocking, delicious bolt of heat straight to your core. You met Mingyu’s gaze through the glass. You saw his hand move, wrapping around his own thick shaft, giving himself a slow, languid stroke as he watched Hoshi work you open.
“Come for him,” Hoshi commanded, his fingers twisting inside you, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Come for your Mingyu oppa. Let him see what he’s going to get.”
It was too much. The visual of Mingyu watching, the feel of Hoshi filling you, the relentless pressure on your clit—your orgasm ripped through you without warning. It was a silent, screaming thing that tore the air from your lungs. Your body bowed, your back arching against Hoshi’s chest as you came, your inner walls clenching violently around his fingers. White light flashed behind your eyes. You shuddered, gasping, your legs turning to water.
Hoshi held you through it, his own breath ragged against your neck. He gentled his touch, his fingers still inside you, coaxing you through the last tremors. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips. You tasted yourself on them, salty and sweet, as you sucked them clean, your eyes still locked on Mingyu through the glass. He was stroking himself faster now, his expression one of rapt, hungry focus.
The water began to cool. Hoshi turned it off, reaching for a large, impossibly fluffy towel from a heated rack. He dried himself off first then you with a tender thoroughness, patting every drop from your skin, before briskly rubbing himself down. Wrapped in another towel, he took your hand and led you, still trembling slightly, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
Mingyu hadn’t moved from the bed. He watched your approach, his eyes dark and smoldering. The sheet was gone now, and he was fully on display, a god of muscle and intent reclining on charcoal silk. His cock stood thick and heavy against his lower stomach, the head a flushed, ruddy purple.
Hoshi’s towel dropped. He guided you to the foot of the bed. “Kneel,” he said softly.
You sank to your knees on the plush carpet, the world narrowing to the two magnificent cocks before you. Hoshi’s was long and straight, a beautiful, veined weight. Mingyu’s was a different beast entirely—huge, thick, and long, with a prominent vein running along the underside.
Hoshi stepped closer, his tip brushing your lips. “Open, baby.”
You did. You took him into your mouth, savoring the smooth, velvety skin, the salt-precum taste. You bobbed your head, using your tongue the way they’d taught you, hollowing your cheeks. He groaned, his hands tangling in your hair, not forcing, just holding. “So good. Fuck, your mouth is perfect.”
You worked him, your jaw stretching, until his thighs began to tremble. With a choked gasp, he pulled back. “Not yet,” he panted, stepping aside. “Your turn, gyu.”
Mingyu didn’t speak. He just crooked a finger. You crawled onto the bed, settling between his spread thighs. The sheer size of him up close was daunting, intoxicating. You leaned forward, nuzzling the hot, silky skin of his inner thigh before taking the broad head into your mouth. You couldn’t take much of him—he was too big—but you lavished attention on what you could, licking and sucking, your hands stroking the base. Mingyu’s hand came to rest on the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a possessiveness that made you wet all over again. A low, guttural sound of approval rumbled in his chest.
You traded back and forth, taking Hoshi deep until he was moaning, then worshipping Mingyu’s imposing length until his abs were clenched tight. The room filled with the sounds of wet sucking, ragged breaths, and their muttered praises. You felt powerful, desired, needed.
It was Mingyu who finally stopped you, gently pulling you off him with a soft pop. His eyes were black with need. “Enough,” he growled, his voice rough. “It’s time.”
He guided you up the bed, laying you back against the mountain of pillows. Hoshi moved behind you, sitting against the plush velvet headboard, his legs spread. He pulled you back against him, your spine flush with the solid heat of his chest. He wrapped his arms around your middle, his hands coming up to gently cup your breasts, his thumbs stroking your nipples in a calming, rhythmic motion. He was your anchor, his breath warm against your ear.
“Don’t fight it, little one,” Hoshi whispered, his lips brushing your temple. “Lean into me. I’ve got you.”
Mingyu knelt between your splayed knees. The sight of him there, so big and focused, sent a fresh thrill of fear and desire through you. He leaned over you, one hand bracing himself by your head, his face inches from yours. His other hand came to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking your lower lip.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice deep and impossibly gentle. “I want to see your eyes when you finally feel how much you belong to us.”
You held his gaze, your breath coming in shallow pants.
“Do you want this?” he asked, every word deliberate.
You nodded, unable to speak.
“Are you ready?” His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt. There was none.
You nodded again, a firm, sure movement.
He smiled, a beautiful, tender thing that softened his intense features. He kissed you then, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of promise. Then he kissed his way down your body—your jaw, your neck, the valley between your breasts, your stomach. He paused at the juncture of your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive, soaked folds. He didn’t use his mouth. Instead, he kissed your inner thigh, a soft, reverent press of his lips that made you shiver.
He reached for a bottle on the nightstand. The click of the cap opening was loud in the quiet room. It was expensive oil, smelling of sandalwood and vanilla. He poured a generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands before smoothing it over his own hard, massive length, coating himself until he glistened. Then he poured more, drizzling it directly over your core, the warm liquid trickling down your slit.
His fingers followed, spreading the oil, circling your entrance. He was slow and meticulous, watching your face as one, then two thick fingers slipped inside you, stretching you, preparing you. Hoshi held you tighter, murmuring sweet, filthy encouragements into your ear, his hands on your breasts providing a constant, grounding pleasure.
Mingyu removed his fingers. He positioned himself, the broad, oil-slick head of his cock nudging against your entrance. The sensation was immense, a pressure unlike anything you’d ever felt. You gasped, your fingers digging into Hoshi’s thighs behind you.
“Breathe,” Hoshi soothed. “Relax your hips for him. That’s it.”
You focused on his voice, on the anchor of his body against yours. You looked into Mingyu’s eyes, dark and full of a fierce, protective love. You nodded, once.
He pushed forward.
It was a slow, heavy stretching. A burning, fullness so intense it stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, a sharp, guttural sound, and Hoshi’s arms banded around you, his grip tightening, holding you together as Mingyu filled you, inch by impossible inch. The sting was sharp, bright, but beneath it was the overwhelming sensation of completion, the fullness you’d been craving since that first drunken night in his condo.
He didn’t move. He was fully sheathed inside you, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He let you adjust, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the incredible intrusion. Hoshi kissed the back of your neck, your shoulders, whispering how good you were, how perfect, how you were taking him so beautifully.
“Look at me,” Mingyu repeated, his voice strained with restraint. Tears had sprung to your eyes, but you blinked them back, keeping your gaze locked on his. “You’re ours now. Every part of you.”
He began to move. A slow, deliberate withdrawal, then a gentle, rolling thrust back in. The initial sting began to fade, replaced by a deep, dragging friction that sparked something electric in your core. He set a steady, deep rhythm, each thrust a claiming, each withdrawal a sweet torture. Hoshi’s hands never stopped, pinching and rolling your nipples, kissing your skin, his own hardness pressed against your back.
The sensations built, layer upon layer. The stretch, the friction, the deep, grinding pressure against a spot inside you that made you see stars. Your breathing turned to ragged pants, then to soft, constant moans. You were climbing, your body coiling tighter and tighter, pleasure mounting on the foundation of that initial, shocking fullness.
“That’s it,” Mingyu gritted out, his pace increasing slightly, his thrusts becoming more urgent. His control was slipping, his own pleasure evident in the clench of his jaw, the sweat beading on his brow. “Come for us. Let go.”
Hoshi’s hand slid down from your breast, over your stomach, through the slickness of oil and your own arousal, finding your clit. He pressed, circling in time with Mingyu’s thrusts.
It was the final key. Your orgasm broke over you like a wave, violent and all-consuming. You screamed, your back arching off the bed, your inner muscles clamping down around Mingyu’s cock in a fierce, rhythmic pulsing. The pleasure was blinding, wiping out every thought, every fear, leaving only pure, radiant sensation.
Mingyu groaned, a deep, shattered sound. He drove into you once, twice more, his rhythm faltering. Then he pulled out of you with a slick, wet sound, his hand flying to his own cock. He spilled himself over your stomach and lower belly in hot, pulsing stripes, his release mixing with the oil on your skin, marking you. He watched his own release paint you, his expression one of primal satisfaction.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your shared, ragged breaths. The scent of sex, sandalwood, and vanilla hung heavy in the air.
Hoshi was still holding you, his lips against your ear. “Perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You were so perfect, my brave girl.” He kissed your shoulder. “Tomorrow will be my turn.”
Mingyu, breathing heavily, leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, post-coital kiss. He tasted of sweat and salt and himself. When he pulled back, he looked at you, his eyes soft. He reached for a clean corner of the sheet, wiping gently at the mess on your stomach, his touch tender.
A heavy, warm sense of belonging settled over you, dense as the down comforter beneath you. You looked past Mingyu’s shoulder, out the floor-to-ceiling window at the endless, glittering Seoul skyline. You were no longer the shy trainee. You had been thoroughly mapped, claimed, rewritten by the two most powerful men in your world.
Mingyu shifted, pulling the rumpled covers over all three of your entwined bodies. He settled behind you, his big body spooning yours, while Hoshi is in front of you, a protective cocoon of warmth and muscle. Mingyu’s arm draped over your waist, his lips brushing the nape of your neck.
woke up in a cold sweat craving dilfjoong so bad my chest was hurting
dilf!hongjoong x f!reader
content: older man, deep fuck, manhandling, like ONE daddy (i felt it was necessary just this once)
wc: 2.1k
thinking about hongjoong...
he smelled like tobacco, and leather, and sex. and god you've never wanted a man so badly in your entire life, which at your age? wasn't saying much.
you had no premonition of the hurricane that was about to tear through your life, lounging comfortably on your best friend's couch, chatting idly about nothing while a movie played on the living room television, ignored.
you both do this often, relaxing in each other's company at her home, she seemed to always have the house to herself, and the quiet was nice in contrast to the bustling, loud of the apartment that you shared with roommates.
she was telling about a seminar she had been working on for class when you heard the jingle of keys and the sound of the front door opening. you turn to look at her in question, and she rolls her eyes.
"my dad," she deadpans, and when you turned to look at the man who had just walked in, you felt your entire body stiffen.
"you're home early." your friend sighs, and you watch the neatly combed head of hair pop out from behind the wall, clad in a dark brown suit, daintily framed glasses sitting on the bridge of a pretty nose. sharp cheekbones, and bitten lips that part when he speaks.
he turns to face his daughter, but his eyes stop, and snag on you. curled up on his couch, your legs tucked under your body and your eyes wide and curious, subconsciously chewing on your inner cheek, your fingers nervously pulling at a string that flays from the cushion.
his eyebrows raise, and his lips spread into a wide smile.
"ladies." he acknowledges politely, his eyes never leaving yours. he catches the way your shoulder twitches when he speaks, and it intrigues him in a dangerous way.
"didn't know you were having friends over, honey." he drawls lowly, and then he's turning to shed his blazer and finally gives you a moment free from his burning gaze.
you find yourself letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"i didn't know i needed to tell you," she replies, a playful yet annoyed tone in her voice.
"you don't." he replies matter-of-factly, turning and locking his eyes on you once again. "but at least introduce your dad, yeah? haven't i taught you manners?"
he reaches out a hand for you to shake. "hongjoong. pleasure to meet you, sweetheart. i raised that brat over there." he smiles wider and his little canines poke over his bottom lip. you swallow the dry patch in your throat and force your hand to unstick from your side to take his.
his hand swallows yours, rough skin, warm flesh. it makes your neck tingle. you blink dumbly when his hand squeezes yours, before he's leaning down, landing a chaste kiss on the top of your knuckles.
your friend scoffs next to you, and hes pulling away before you could think of anything to say in response.
"dad, please. its the 20th century, you've gotta start acting like it."
hongjoong laughs softly, adjusting his glasses as they've begun to slip down his face. "it's the respectful gesture for when a gentleman greets a lady. maybe you should read a book, dearest."
your friend snorts and pokes your side, rousing you from your stupor. "oh please, (name) is the farthest thing from a lady, and you are certainly no gentleman dad."
he laughs again, pure whipped honey in your stomach, and he cranes his head to the side, his eyes swimming over your face, his expression painted with blatant captivation.
"is that so?" he murmurs under his breath, and something inside you flicks alight.
so when he's got you backed into a corner in the far left wing of his home mere days later, he's made you promise to keep that pretty voice of yours down so he can prove to you just how much of a "gentleman" he can be.
he kisses you stupid, his warm mouth molded with yours, his tongue curling and mapping out the length of your teeth. his hands slip around the back of your head, craning your neck upward so he can help himself to the maw of your mouth, greedily kissing you like he was starving.
your back pressed to the hallway wall, his thigh slotted between your thighs, pressing up against your clothed cunt just enough to have you teetering on that mouthwatering promise of bliss.
he pulls from your mouth with a slick pop, trailing his kisses along your jaw with wet 'mwahs' that make your stomach coil. his fingers scrape against the nape of your neck like he is trying to slither your spine out from your body.
“hi pretty girl.” he moans between kisses, slipping one hand from your neck and finding a home at your hips, pressing your body down to help your grind against his thigh. you gasp when your clit catches the rough denim of his pants, and he shushes you, hovering his lips over your mouth, his low breaths brushing against the soft skin.
his eyelids lowered beneath his fogged-up glasses, the darkness of the hallway making him all the more alluring.
“i can’t fuck you the way i want right now, but i think if i go one more day without having you, i’ll start tearing up my own house.”
the desperation in his voice makes you whimper. he pulls his body off of you, turning you around so your front is pressed hard against the cold wall. he pressed against your back, his hand curling around and gripping the front of your throat, his blunt nails digging into the thin skin.
his other hand slips under the waistband of your pants, slipping them down just far enough to pool at your knees. next you hear him fiddle with his belt, the metal clacking loudly in the empty hallway. your face is smushed against the wall, his hold on your throat making you dizzy. he litters wet kisses along the back of your shoulders, along the side of your neck, and then, when you feel him slip the crotch of your panties to the side, all coherent thoughts fly out the window.
you moan wantonly, and he clicks his tongue. keeping his hand on your throat, his index finger slides up and slips into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue.
hongjoong feels your drool start to drip down his fingers, and it makes his cock twitch as he pulls it out from his pants, immediately slotting it between your soaked thighs and coating himself in the wetness that drips from your cunt.
he cranes your head back, just enough so he can see your expression, your head lolled back over his shoulder. not an inch of space between your melded bodies, his breath hot against your neck as your stomach coils every time the fat tip of him slips over your clit.
“not a sound, baby,” he whispers against your skin, and you choke back a groan when his tip breaks into you, followed by the slow, agonizing drag of each inch he slides into your pussy.
his breath shivers against your cheek, a low purr slipping past his lips when he feels you clench around him so tight he can’t move.
“dammit, baby. pussy’s too tight, can’t move.”
“b-big…” you slur around his finger, and he laughs so low it sends a fresh gush of arousal between your legs.
“i know pretty, sorry. didn’t have time to loosen you up.” he pushes into you a little more, and you can feel every vein slide against your warm walls. his groans come broken from his throat, and the hand on your neck only squeezes tighter each inch he manages to slip into you.
“almost there, relax beautiful.” he coaxes, kissing the shell of your ear, before finally feeling his hips press flush against your ass, buried as deep inside of you as he could go.
“ff-fuck…” he moans under his breath, the scent of his fading cologne making your brain fuzzy. “your pussy sounds so messy, it’s going to echo down the hall, baby.”
to prove himself right, he slides his hips back, the deep stroke of his cock hitting all the right spots makes lights flash behind your eyes, and the sticky sound of your cunt makes you tighten around him even more.
he eases into a torturous rhythm, thrusting nice and slow and deep, pulling back as languidly as he could manage so you could feel every inch of his dick inside of you, pushing back inside with a low groan next to your ear to make you wetter for him, grinding his hips against your ass so his tip rolled against that sweet spot in your tummy.
he knew what he was doing, and fuck was it making you utterly stupid. your drool dripped down his wrist the harder he pressed his finger against your tongue, his own pleasure-ridden breaths and groans filled your head with sick fantasies and thoughts of him. you wanted to see him, you wanted to touch him.
but he was in control at the moment, holding your body to his like your flesh belonged to him, keeping your voice down while he pounded your cunt deep against his hallway wall. his free hand slips around the front of your body, his rough fingertip tips gently ghosting over your puffy clit, and you choke around his fingers as the pleasure rocks your bones.
“oh she likes that. responsive little one, aren’t you?” he teases by your ear, and he starts to fuck you with rougher, deeper strokes, every thick inch of his cock gliding against your walls with little to no resistance, and you start to feel like you might start melting into the wall.
“mm, h-hongjo- ah!” speaking was useless, his cock dissolving your brain inside your skull, the finger in your mouth making your words garbled.
“don’t try to talk.” he bites out, licking up the back of your neck with a whispery coo. “mm-mm, pretty little thing like you doesn’t need to talk. nooo… she doesn’t. she just needs to feel, yeah?”
to emphasize, he pulls his cock out of you just until the tip threatens to slip out if you, before grinding back into you with one deep, heavy thrust. your groan comes out low and shivery, and hongjoong grins mean and toothy at the way your body falls apart around him like you needed him to breathe.
“feel me doll, every inch of me. show me how badly you want me to ruin you.”
he eases back into that bullying, deliberate pace, working your cunt out like he was trying to mold his shape into you. you heard the sound of his glasses falling off his face and clattering to the floor in his bliss-stricken haze.
hongjoong’s moans shatter into something uncontrolled, obsessed with your willingness to bend for him. deep down, he wished he never met you, because he just knew that this could not be good for either of you. but god, he couldn’t push the fantasy out of his head, the one that told him you would look so pretty when you cum.
“focus, sweetheart. focus.” he instructs, pinching your clit between his fingertips as he rolls his hips into you, his lower stomach flowing smoothly like a practiced dance.
“need to feel this sweet little cunt cum for me. be nice baby, please? focus on cumming for daddy. okay? concentrate.”
your entire world flipped upside down, and then you shattered. like he’d dropped you on pavement, your entire body shakes and twitches, his thick cock dragging you through your orgasm with every rock of his hips.
“oh god, there she goes. that’s it, baby. good job. goooood job…” he kisses up the side of your neck, finally detaching his hand from your throat and cupping over your mouth to muffle your noises as your cries started to get louder as he continued to fuck you through the throes of your overstimulation. “doing so good for me…”
he doesn’t stop, because of course, he hasn’t cum yet. and hongjoong is a selfish man. plus, he wouldn’t mind forcing a couple more pretty little orgasms out of you; he’s sure you wouldn’t mind either.
if he hasn’t scared you off by time he’s done with you tonight, he’d be more than happy to shed that so-called self-appointed “gentleman” title once he can fuck you properly.
and if this wasn’t proper? god forbid you found out what is.
♡ˎˊ˗ content: +18 content, mdni, smut, established relationship, petnames, oral sex (both receiving), face fucking, degradation, praising, dumbification, masturbation, daddy kink (junmyeon really loves it when you call him daddy), hair pulling, junmyeon used a whip, dirty talking, cum eating, aftercare, dom!junmyeon x subf!reader
♡ˎˊ˗ word count: 2,473 words
♡ˎˊ˗ summary: after you found your boyfriend trying on his new clothes, junmyeon, clad in leather, seized control of you, leaving you completely at his mercy.
♡ˎˊ˗ a/note: oh my gooood !! cowboymyeon is back, and of course i couldn't let the opportunity pass to use this important information a lovely anon sent me, hehe
“Jun, are we late?” You left the bathroom with a single towel clinging to your body.
“Hmm,” Junmyeon checked the watch on his wrist. “No, love. We have time.” He adjusted the brim of his cowboy hat.
That was when you saw him in full, supple leather, the cowboy suit hugging his form. A braided whip rested casually in his hand. You swallowed hard, a heat blossoming instantly between your legs. You watched him smooth the jacket over his shoulders in the mirror.
Junmyeon turned slowly, noticing your stare, his eyes heavy with amusement. “You like it?” he teased with a grin touching his lips. “They sent it for the next show. I was only making sure it fits... you know, perfectly.”
Your gaze wander from his jaw down to the dark leather. You took a slow step toward him, then another, until you stood just inches from the metallic sheen of his belt buckle.
“It does?” you purred while your gaze traveled to his eyes again.
Your hand rose to the lapel of his jacket, the leather cool and smooth under your fingertips. You leaned in, breathing in the scent of him—leather and his cologne—before your mouth found his. The kiss started soft before he deepened it, your fingers tightening their grip on his jacket, pulling his body against yours.
Junmyeon groaned softly into the kiss, his arm sweeping around your waist. With that single, deliberate move, his thumb found the edge of the towel, and in slow motion, he slipped it down your lower back, unfastening the knot. The fabric fell at your feet, and the kiss broke just as Junmyeon’s hand settled on the bare skin of your hip, tracing a burning path upward.
“Not sure,” Junmyeon whispered, his voice low and rough. Junmyeon’s lips curved, his gaze dropped to your exposed body and then back up to meet yours. “I hear it gets much more flexible when it’s wet.”
You bit your lip, your fingers digging slightly into the leather under his collar. “We should test it.”
Junmyeon brushed the back of his fingers across your ribcage, his touch gentle but possessive. “Then kneel.”
You ran your hands down his chest, tracing the line where the leather zipped closed, before letting your fingers drift to the prominent buckle at his waist.
The braided whip snapped down hard against the wooden floor right beside your form. The crack echoed sharply in the room, making you jump, and gasp—a small, involuntary sound of fear and eagerness.
“I said kneel,” Junmyeon rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned down, his gaze locking with yours—heavy, demanding. “I’m not playing, love.”
You knew he wasn’t. Completely blinded by arousal, you obeyed instantly, dropping to the carpeted floor. The movement felt instinctive, a complete surrender. You looked up at the imposing figure he made in the leather.
“Good girl.” Junmyeon’s words were like a caress. “Unfasten it.”
Your fingers flew to the heavy metal closure, undoing the belt, button, and zipper. As the fabric slightly fell open, his hard, stirring length sprang free, already slick and pulsing with need.
Junmyeon let out a satisfied sigh. He picked up the whip, and brought the supple tip up to your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, the coolness of the leather against your skin made you moan softly. “You want my dick, baby?”
There was no need to ask. You were eager to finally taste him. “Yes—please,” you breathed, looking at him with those pleading eyes he loved.
The teasing amusement snapped away, replaced by a sudden, intense demand that made your breath catch. His voice dropped to a dangerous register. “Please, what?”
You knew the look. The shift was absolute. You met his gaze, your throat tight with anticipation and submission. “Please, daddy,” you whispered, the term feeling hot on your tongue.
A dark, primal satisfaction flared in Junmyeon’s eyes. He pointed the handle of the whip down toward his cock. “Now show me how you use your mouth,” he groaned. He nudged your chin up with the tip of the whip. “Lick it, bunny.”
You hummed and parted your lips, your tongue darting out quickly to capture the glistening tip of him. The salty taste flooded your mouth as you obeyed the order, your eyes darting up to watch his reaction.
Junmyeon shut his eyes, a sound of pleasure caught in his throat. “That’s it,” he breathed, his voice now a strained command. “Take it. Take all of daddy’s cock.”
“Yes, daddy,” you gasped, eager, aroused, feeling already wet.
Junmyeon groaned at the feeling of your tongue curling around the tip. “You deserve it, bunny. Open wide for me.”
You responded by drawing him deep into your mouth, the full, demanding heat filling you, your gaze locked on his rigid face as you began to suck him off.
A low, guttural moan tore from Junmyeon’s throat. His free hand reached for the whip, the braided leather cool against your skin as he wrapped the end of it gently, but firmly, around the back of your neck. He used the grip as leverage, and just as it encircled your neck, his other hand shot out and clamped a firm, unforgiving grip on your hair. He used both as reins, commanding every motion, ensuring you couldn’t pull away.
“Deeper,” Junmyeon hissed, his voice raw with need. “You’re going to take every inch for me, you little slut. That mouth was made for daddy.”
The sudden, brutal depth, combined with the pressure, forced a sudden, distressed gag from your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity, yet you fought to maintain the rhythm he dictated.
Junmyeon kept the pressure steady, leaning down close, his voice a vibrating threat. His eyes were dark as he watched your struggle, a profound pleasure radiating from him. “My sweet angel,” he purred. “You love being forced, don’t you? You love knowing who’s in charge.”
You fought for air, your head held captive by his hand, completely lost to the pleasure and the domination. “Yes,” you managed to gasp out, the word strained and broken. “Please, daddy—don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he shot back, his fingers tightening their grip on your hair. “You’re doing so well, bunny, swallowing every bit of daddy’s cock. You’re the best little whore I ever got, hmm?” Junmyeon chanted. “Keep that pretty mouth busy, bun.”
Your body trembled, your mind fogged with arousal and the sting of his words. You obeyed the painful pull of his hand, diving down again, desperate to please him, even as the sting of tears wet your cheeks. Driven by a raw, immediate need, you tried to press yourself closer, shifting your weight until your bare body wrapped around his leather-clad leg, whimpering, rubbing your eager folds against the hard leather of his boot.
Junmyeon noticed the sudden, desperate friction immediately. Releasing the whip, he grabbed your jaw with his hand, forcing your eyes up to his. His own eyes glittered with dark amusement.
“So needy,” he murmured. “Wetting yourself for a piece of leather.” Junmyeon held your head steady, while his booted foot flexed slowly, grinding the leather into your cunt. The rough contact sent a shock of agonizing pleasure through you, a sensation that made your hips buck instinctively, gasping. “Pathetic,” Junmyeon taunted, his voice low and cruel. “Feel better than me?”
You groaned softly, completely exposed and helpless under his gaze and his pressure. “No,” you choked out. “You’re better, daddy… always you,” you gasped into him, the agonizingly limited friction of the boot sending a shock through you. You whined and pleaded desperately.
Junmyeon watched your face, his expression shifting from cruelty to a dark, deep enjoyment as he witnessed your desperate state: your lips glossy with spit and precum that dribbled onto your chin, and tears wetting your cheeks. He loved the sight of your submission.
“Such a desperate little slut,” He held your head captive, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Whatchu want?”
“Lemme ride it, daddy—please,” you choked, the word barely audible.
With a slow, deliberate turn of his ankle, he released the pressure on your hair just enough to allow movement. “You earned it, bun,” he murmured. “Show me what a good girl you are.”
You groaned in immediate relief, pulling back slightly from his cock to drive your hips fully against the thick leather of the boot. The sensation of friction finally hitting your aching pussy was explosive, and you moved desperately against the hard constraint, while still holding him deep in your mouth, crying, moaning, drooling.
Junmyeon threw his head back, groaning. His fingers clenched tight in your hair, now an anchor, not a restraint. “My filthy little thing,” he purred, his voice ragged with desire. “Your little pussy is so needy, huh?”
You whimpered as your climax began to claw its way up, your voice lost around his length, tearing up. “Yes—I’m so close—”
“No, you’re not—you have to earn it!” He pushed his hips forward, plunging deeper into your mouth while simultaneously pulling away his soaked boot from your cunt. “I didn’t say you can cum.”
“Please, daddy!” you cried, the word barely comprehensible over your desperate movements and the heavy pressure, pulling out from his cock breathless. “I’ll do whatever you want—let me cum, please!”
Junmyeon laughed—a harsh, triumphant sound. “Crying out just because you need to cum, huh?” he taunted, his voice full of savage pride. “My dirty little pet,” he purred. “Want daddy to let you cum?”
You could only answer with a whimper, nodding, feeling pathetic, eager for his touch.
“Open up, and... I’ll think about it.” He kept his hand locked in your hair, dictating the pace and depth, forcing you to stay buried around his rigid length, sucking him off completely desperate.
“That’s right, swallow it!” he commanded, his voice shaking with the effort of control. “You filthy little slut. Trying to take me deeper even though you can’t breathe, aren’t you?”
Your throat clenched in a distressed gag, the feeling raw and overwhelming, yet you fought the reflex. You strained your neck forward, using the controlled grip in your hair to drive yourself onto him as much as possible, desperate to obey and please him. Tears ran down your cheeks, mixing with the saliva and the sweat, but you didn’t pause. You continued to move your mouth against him, while the aching, desperate need throbbed against your pussy.
“Fuck—gonna cum, bun,” Junmyeon groaned, “wanna take every drop?” He wasn’t really asking; he was commanding.
You were entirely at his mercy. Driven only by the raw commands, surrendering fully to the sensation of being owned, used, and filled, straining every muscle to accept more.
Junmyeon’s body suddenly went rigid, a sharp sound ripping from his chest. His orgasm hit him with devastating force, and he thrust his hips hard, filling your mouth completely. He came with a shuddering intensity, his hand loosening its painful grip in your hair. You took him in, doing your absolute best to swallow every hot, thick drop, even as the gag reflex threatened to overwhelm you. Your entire body trembled, aching, screaming for the release he still withheld.
He knew it; the dark amusement in his eyes confirmed it. He didn’t take a second to compose. Junmyeon freed his grip completely. “Bed. Now,” he panted, his voice still rough with spent pleasure.
You clumsily scrambled onto the edge of the mattress, lying. Your legs fell open wide, your body trembling, completely exposed, your need so raw it pulsed visibly. Junmyeon stepped closer. He picked up the whip, and with a familiar, terrifying sound, he cracked it hard against the mattress, making you gasp and arch slightly against the sheets.
“Fuck… you’re so wet,” he murmured, kneeling, giving you a wet kiss in your aching pussy. “Just waiting for daddy, huh?”
The whip changed character. Junmyeon gave you an effortless lashing, teasingly, across your inner thighs. The cool, light touch made you cry out, your hands flying up to clutch the sheets in anticipation. The leather advanced, brushing softly against your swollen, sensitive folds, making you moan.
You felt completely vulnerable on the soft white expanse. “Please, daddy—” you choked out.
“Please, what?” Junmyeon commanded, his voice a steel rod. “I wanna hear you.”
Tears streamed down your face, your hips thrusting uselessly against the mattress, unable to find the friction you craved. You choked out the words, raw and pleading. “Need you—please!” you cried, utterly defeated.
Junmyeon smirked, the pleasure of your total surrender flooding. “You deserve it for being a good slut,” he growled.
He tossed the whip aside and leaned in between your wide-open legs. Then, Junmyeon buried his face immediately and completely in your cunt. The intense, shocking suck of his mouth made you whimper, a high, desperate sound. Junmyeon tormented your sensitive clit with a merciless tongue, providing the exact friction you had been begging for.
“Oh, god” you shrieked, your voice already breaking. “Yes!”
Junmyeon’s hands flew up to cup and massage your breasts roughly. “That’s what you wanted?” he mumbled, the sound vibrating against your skin. “To be taken completely?”
“Yes, daddy—I’m yours!” you cried, tears streaming as you clutched his head, curling your fingers against the sheets.
Junmyeon latched on with a ferocious suck, and the explosive feeling hit you hard and fast. “Don’t hold back, bunny,” he grunted, his mouth never stopping. “Let daddy taste you.”
You convulsed violently, your hips bucking against his mouth as you flooded his face. “Ah—yes,” you sobbed, the words shattered by the intense orgasm, your body trembling in the aftershocks of his dominant pleasure.
Junmyeon remained between your legs, lapping you up, drinking every drop, cleaning you completely. And then, he lifted his head, his mouth slick and his eyes full of deep satisfaction. Removing his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, he lay down beside you, immediately wrapping his strong arms around your spent body, tugging you over, settling you gently on top of him.
Junmyeon peppered soft kisses across your forehead and temple. “You were so incredible, bun.” His voice was now smooth, a gentle hum against your hair. “Did I hurt you?” He brushed the tears from your cheeks with his thumb while you shook your head. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
You nodded weakly, nestling your face against the cool leather of his chest. “I’m tired… but I still want you.”
A relieved smile touched his lips. Junmyeon held you even closer, stroking your hair. “Later, bun.” He kissed the crown of your head, a deep, comforting gesture. “Rest for now.” He gave you a soft peck. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” You sighed, completely exhausted, sinking into the warmth of his hold. “Don't move,” you whispered.
“I’m right here, angel. Always.” Junmyeon murmured back
Lesson Learned | cw: 18+ mdni, country!simon, cursing, excessive spänkíng, angry sêx, sèx against the wall, dâcryphília, dégrègàtíon, (slight) edging, pet names (lil girl, Lucky, darlin, baby).
Truthfully, he wouldn’tve been so angry if you’d didn’t show up so nonchalant. Gave him that pout you do when you’re upset, and explained why you’d disappeared off the face of the earth for two days without telling him.
Well not disappeared, you’d gone to your side of the family two days ago, it was just supposed to be lunch. But you didn’t do much as call to tell him what was going on, he knew you were a “free spirit.” You needed space to do as you wanted, but this wasn’t fucking city anymore, and Simon was gonna be your husband soon.
You’d showed up to the house in a car, a different outfit on and a couple shopping bags in hand, waved a ‘hi’ like nothing was wrong. He’s waited all fucking day for your ass, was gonna call the police if he hadn’t heard from one of the farm hands hadn’t seen you in town. Simon lazily took a sip of his beer from the rocking chair he sat in.
“The hell ‘ve you been [+]?” His voice barks out, voice booming over the open land.
Your eyebrows furrow at the tone, shrugging, “Was out Riley, I told you.” The other day. In your head.
Wrong fucking answer.
Simon clenched his jaw, another swing of beer down his throat. He stands from the chair, “Have you lost your god damn mind [+]?!”
“I don’t hear from you for whole a day Lucky, a full 24 hours! Not a call, not text, a god damn letter from the sky— do you not know where you’re gonna fucking live in the near future!? We’re in the fuckin back country where anything can happen! ‘Nd then another 24 rolls by and I think you’ve gone ‘nd died! And you show up with not a care in the world?! Use your fuckin brain and communicate where the hell you are!” He yells.
Your mouth opens once, processing everything, then closing, then opening again, looking at him like he’s the god damn idiot. You do a take a look around the nearly empty property, flabbergasted—
“Who the fuck are you talkin to?!”
“[+]—“
“I’m not a little fuckin bitch, I’m my own woman! I do what the fuck I want when the fuck I want! I don’t need your stamp ‘f approval for what the hell I wanna do! Shit, maybe I should get back in the car and go have fun, again!”
“[+],” he drawls deathly low, eyes glaring down at you, “Get on the fuckin porch. Now.”
And suddenly, it’s like your feet are rooted deep in the dirt road, throwing your shopping bags back in the car. You fold your arms over your chest. “No!”
Stubborn little city broad, Simon was gonna sort you all out.
Boots heavy with every step down the porch, he’s quite as a mouse and swift as ever getting over to you and throwing you over his shoulder. You gasp, hitting his back, “Put me down you ass hole! Put me down right now or I swear to God!”
Sure, he puts you down. right in his lap once he got to the top step of the porch, ass up. He used one hands behind your back as you try to wiggle out his grasp, the other yanking your jeans down.
“Count em.” He grumbles.
Before you can even get another word out, there’s a heavy smack! to your ass.
“Riley—“ SMACK!
“Mr. Riley!—“ SMACK!
And you let out a yelp in pain when another ache from his heavy hand lands on you.
“Told ya t’count. That’s three, or should we start from the beginnin?”
You didn’t even bother saying a word, just putting your head down and letting out cry of, ‘four’ when you felt his hand come down once more.
“Such a god damn brat [+], all you had t’do was apologize, but youre a fuckin hardheaded brat.” His teeth clenched, adjusting you after the tenth are so spanking.
“I-“ you hiccup, tears blurring your vision as you grip onto his legs, “I’m not a brat.”
“Bitchin at me when you’re dead fuckin wrong is bein a brat Lucky.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!
“Ya want respect? then use that brain ‘f yers and show me mine. What I say goes, I’m not doin this back ‘nd forth shit over you runnin off when ya want to. I’m your husband. And I don’t mind straighten you out over and over till you fuckin get it, ya hear?”
You let out a sob, nodding your head and clawing at his jeans.
Simon huffs. “Use your fuckin words.”
“Yes sir, mmph- I understand.” You wipe your nose, looking back at the blonde to see if he was done. But his eyes were low, flickering between your tears stained face and yout the wet spot in your underwear. His calloused hand grabs the back of your neck, guiding you off his lap and having you stumbling up the steps to meet his strides like a stray kitten gripped at the neck.
“Come on, ain’t done with you yet.”
The screen door slams behind you once you get inside the house, Simon pushing you into the nearest wall face first. You can feel him panting in your ear, hands sliding down your body after yanking down your pants along with those blue panties he likes to your ankles. Your hands lay flat against the wall trembling all from the burn coming from below.
“Spread ‘em.”
And you do, widening your legs as you tremble.
He cursed, dipping his thumb in your drenched hole, “Shit baby, ya don’t change. Spanked ya fuckin raw ‘nd ya still yearnin’ for it. A little slut for it yeah?”
You get so god damn mouthy, your pussy does too, soaking his fingers as he slots two inside you, working them in and out roughly. You claw at the wall, hips bucking for more movement then he’s giving you. You’re delirious, from the stark difference of Simon giving you the second whooping he’s ever given you to him finger fucking you right in the houses entryway. You don’t even realize your chanting a ‘please, please, please’ as he thrusts fingering inside you.
“Heh- Almost fuckin pathetic how fuckin needy you are right now. Should be greatful your husband is willin t’ help you, take care ‘f ya like ‘m ‘posed to.” He hisses once you clench down on his fingers, pulling his fingers out just as you felt your stomach tightening.
“M-Mr. Riley-“
He lays an Another smack to your ass, laughing at you, “Aht- aht- ahh darlin, that’s where you go it wrong. Why would ya even think ‘f cummin first when this is a punishment?”
You let out another whine, pushing your pump ass against him as he strokes his hardening length. You feel the cockhead push into the globe, Simon smearing his pre-cum. You groan, so desperate, “Please Mr. Riley!”
“Keep it up ‘nd you won’t get shit lil girl.” He grumbles, circling the strawberry tip on your hole. This was already hard enough trying to keep you in check, but edging you was just edging himself— all to have you dumb on his cock.
And that you were, as soon as he slid into your gummy walls. He perfectly stretched you out and filled you to the brim, you could every ridge and bein of his pulsing dick.
“Jesus baby, fuckin chokin me here.” He hisses, his hips pounding into you mercilessly. You trembling in his hold, head thrown back as you moan so loudly you’ll spook the chickens that are just across the yard.
Simon hikes your leg up higher, strokes getting faster, meaner, the loud ‘fwop, fwop’ fwop’ filling your ears everytime he slams back into your oozing hole. His jaw is clenched, seething at how good you feel, “Fuckin pissed me clean off Lucky, was- shit- was worried ‘boutcha ‘nd then you just had to act all big ‘nd bad. Like you run shit.”
Simon tilts your head up, scuffing at your fucked out face, your eyes glazed over as you while you keen his name.
“I bet you ain’t even thinkin, poor thang, been drunk since I been in ‘er.”
“Shit- uugh! Mr. Riley you’re just- it’s so biiiig!” You croon so sweetly. He can’t help the smirk on his pink lips, kissing your shoulder blade.
He lets out a snicker, finding your lips and sloppily kissing you, spitting in your mouth and making sure you swallow it. “ ‘Posed to be a punishment, hckk- but you always get what you want, huh Lucky?” He teases.
You finally catch his ocean blue eyes, your lips purse, looking up at him with those pretty puppy dog eyes, slurring, “No- I- hmm- hngh fu- I’m sorry Mr. Riley. Was wrong. I really am sorrry.”
God damn it, you really are the cutest person on the planet. Simon kisses you again, hitting your g-spot with a thwack that makes you sob.
“Yeah baby, I know. ‘S okay, such a good girl for ‘pologizin.” He coos, kissing you all over.
You can feel it, your orgasm building as he ruts into you wild as ever. You gasp, pushing at his thighs and inching closer to the wall, hardened nipples brushing agasint it, “Wait- wait- it’s- I’ll cum-“
“Nooo, don’t run, fuck darlin, ya can’t run. You g-gotta cum on it.” Simon rasps. He can only push deeper inside you, your face flesh against the wall as you have to take every down right nasty stroke of his cock inside your velvety walls.
“O-oh shit!”
Your orgasm knocks into like a harsh wave, hard and unforgiving. Walls tightening as Simons milky cum paints the inside of you.
“That’s my girl.”
a/n: atp call me “can’t-write-a-simple-Drabble-teddy.” I love plot too much. This request *chefs kiss*
or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.
cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation, lucky!reader
a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot
part 2!!! <3
You were running like your life depended on it.
It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.
You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.
It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.
Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.
Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.
The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.
They called him Ghost.
There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.
No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.
You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.
Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.
They’d do it again.
But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.
Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.
No fucking way.
Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.
You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.
Well duh, babe. Move those feet!
And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.
Oh you were definitely in for it now.
You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.
Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”
Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.
Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.
“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”
Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.
And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.
He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,
“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.
“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.
“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.
You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”
He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.
It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.
What other option did you have?
Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.
“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.
You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.
Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.
“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.
“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”
With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.
“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.
You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.
And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.
Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.
Oh— you're crazy.
You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.
He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.
“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.
But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”
You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.
You whine, “Mr. Riley-“
“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”
Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.
He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.
“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”
And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.
“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.
You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.
“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.
He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.
“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”
“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”
Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.
“I do.”
And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.
He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”
He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”
“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”
“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.
A baby.
You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.
“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.
“Wha-“
“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”
He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.
Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.
“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”
You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.
“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.
“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.
So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.
“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.
“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.
“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”
God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“
“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”
All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.
The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.
Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”
It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,
Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.
“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.
“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”
a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon
cw: 2.1k words (omfg), mdni 18+, smut with tiny plot, harddom!simon, dub-con, brat taming, edging, dacryphilia, p in v, vibrator, spanking, daddy kink, ddlg dynamics, (lite) degradation, dumbification, squirting, pet names
a/n: I didn’t have a title for this, my bad. There was a chunk of words missing double my bad.
Simon doesn’t do brats.
Plain and simple.
Truthfully there was only enough room for one brat— him. He knew but he was kinda shitty, lovingly shitty (only to you, everyone else didn’t get it) and Fish on Simons good days (the dog that he swore was yours and yours alone because he truly was an annoying little shit).
Simon didn’t have the temper for them.
The blonde didn’t know where the little attitude came from, your period was weeks off, and the man himself (who admittedly had a track list of making you cry ((in the past-ish)) hadn’t done it this time.
But Jesus, you’d spent so long cursing up a storm at him, rolling your eyes and doing the exact opposite of he told you to do— looking back, he let you. He’d let you huff and puff like you’d blow that brick house down, you of all people, his precious Princess, would never get the reaction you wanted out of him.
It’d go on and on, and on till you’d finally notice the silence radiating off of the blonde and the large mahogany front door of the house locks with a ‘click.’
There’s a bone chilling, ‘snap’ as you two stood in the foyer, Ghost pointed his large index finger towards the couch, “Sit.”
“Simo—“
It’s quick, he’s grabbing your forearm, dragging you to the living room and placing you on the couch. A pout forms on your lips, you already know you’re in for it. Internally cursing at yourself, your big brown eyes follow his movement to the steps upstairs.
“I-I don’t want to.” You squeaked out. And Simon stops in his tracks, eyes squinting at you.
“ ‘S it ‘bout what y’want? The fuck did I tell you to do?”
Without another word, he’s up the steps and you can feel the lump in your throat build. He’d let you sit in fear for a few minutes, restless, heart beating louder than the house creaking. You hear Simons heavy footsteps as he comes back downstairs, your brown eyes on him again, and this time his hands aren’t empty.
A little vibrator with a remote in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. He sat on the couch and looked over at you, “Gonna get in daddy’s lap or am I gonna ‘have t’make you?”
Most didn’t know unless you were on an opposing person, Simon was ridiculously heavy handed. Calloused & large hands that were good with multiple weapons of destruction were also good at keeping things in order. Keeping you in order. And the first smack is like a strike of thunder. Egregiously loud, painful, “It hurts!” You yelp out trying to get out of his hold.
“‘S meant to,” he grunts, his lips in a thin line, pulling you back on his lap, rubbing your bottom, soothing it.
The next couple smacks has you thrashing around, trying to apologize ‘I’m sorry’ ’I didn’t mean to’ and trying to get out of this man’s grasp so much he pinned your arms behind your back, smacks down to your thighs now—
Letting out a sigh through his nose, “Make it worse f’y’self, don’t give a shit kid.”
And you sob, body jerking with every swat, then resetting itself properly over Simons lap. Your ass was raw by the time he’d decided to stop, something the older man knew he’d have to take care of later because it would be purple from how bad he bruised it.
Simon almost wants to ask if you’re the crazy one here because despite him making sure your ass was busted and blue— your panties were soaked. To the point it’s starting to get his jeans wet. It’s almost laughable. Almost.
He slides your panties to the side, dipping a thick finger inside the wet ocean that was your hole then replacing said finger with a devilish little vibrator Simon only brought out to fuck with you. And you despised the little thing. Simon lifted you off his lap and to sat you on the ground, right on your aching bottom so he’d see you cry a little more.
You looked so gorgeous crying for him.
He gave you a devlish grin, sucking your remnants that was left on his finger. “You stay like that till I say.”
You frantically shake your head, wiping away the tears, “Daddy I- hicc- I can’t. I can’t do it.”
Simon thinks for a moment, taking a cigarette out of the pack. He cracks his neck, lighting the cigarette after a few ‘flick’s of the lighter that sat it on the coffee table, raising two fingers as he rests his elbows on his knee.
“Got two options, you know ‘em don’t you?” or was your brain already fizzled out?
You’d either: take the vibrator out yourself and make this whole situation ten times worse or you’d handle it.
Good girls handled it, didn’t they?
The blonde had turned the tv on, a burning cigarette hanging from his mouth, nursing a glass of whiskey. His eyes were on the monitor, fully laid back like what was happening to you wasn’t happening, but he’d kept you in the corner of his eye. Observing, watching as you withered to a complete, fucked out mess.
“Pa, I wan- I wanna stop. I’m sorry.” You keened, you were fully laid on the floor. Your body trembling on the carpet.
But all Simon did was lift his pointer finger to his lips, shushing you.
“Hear that?” and your eyes are shaky following his gaze as he gestured to the quiet of the room. The only thing heard was the murmur of the tv and your soft mewling as that damned vibrator humming inside you. “It’s what it should always sound like when you don’t piss me off. I don’t think you understand that yet though.”
“I do! I do pa-“
“Shut your fuckin mouth [+].”
Slowly but surely turning the vibrator up, up, up and that fatherly sixth sense kicks in because he knows you, and I mean really knows you. The way you moan, the way you squeeze your legs together for friction, closing your eyes shut because you’re about to cum and at the exact right moment, he turns it all the way down so you won’t.
And every time you beg, plead for forgiveness, you whine, sob, roll around on the floor like a god damn animal. You’d reach out to hold on to him, he’s pushing you off, right on your tender bottom, and turning up the tv.
Simon doesn’t want to hear it. It gives him a headache.
And it goes on like that, for hours.
It could’ve been days and you wouldn’t have realized. edging you to completely dumb you down and sub you out, till you’re on the brink of insanity.
Shaky breaths, and a tear stained face, face laying on the couch and drool & snot wetting the cushions, mumbling incoherent words.
And then you hear it, God speaking, “Come here Kitty.”
And it takes everything in you to pull yourself off the floor, legs just about ready to give out with every little step you made towards Simon. You stood in between Simons thighs, flopping down on your knees and full on weeping into Simons thigh. Oh the dramatics.
Your chest rapidly moved up and down, choking on your on tears. Ghosts large hand came down from what seems to be heaven, taking your face in his hand. You immediately leaned into it, your eyes finding his.
“You understand doin this shit is annoyin don’t you?”
“I- I understand.” you hiccuped, biting your lip to hold in whatever cries were still left in you.
“I don’t like beatin you but you have to understand. You don’t curse at me and bitch all fuckin day and think I’ll let it slide. Didn’t raise you like that, have I?” Simons huffs, going through the end table in search of something, then places it in your hands. “Wipe your face doll.”
“No sir,” you sniffle, wiping away whatever mess was on your face has been left there with the tissues Ghost gave you. “I- I was- I wasn’t bein smart.”
“No, no you weren’t. You were a dumb little brat. You use your words when you’re annoyed at me, think it’s quite a simple thing I ask of you and still you went and threw a tantrum. Almost gave me a headache from that whinin… but it’s just a little fuck up huh, honey?” He lifted your chin in his fingers, still his pretty baby, just a little absent minded.
“Yes sir, I- hmm- hicc- I wanna be gooood,” you slurred, gripping his hand in your own. He hummed, gently pulling you into his arms. Your body immediately melted against him, rubbing your face in his neck as his hands rubbed your back. You hadn’t even realized you started humping his thigh, soft whines leaving your plump lips.
He chuckles, “Damn, you’re fuckin trouble, thinkin with your fuckin cunt. Such a slut. Think I should help you? Hm, let you cum once?” One of his hands trail from your neck, down the valley of your breasts to your ruined underwear, bucking his hips against yours.
You moaned just from his touch, “Need you- need you shoo bad daddy. Only you. I’ll be good- promise! I’ll be good!”
“Turn around then, you know what to do.”
Like instinct, you got your hands and knees on the couch. Gripping the back of it and lifting your ass in the air. Simon ripped your panties off, sliding two fingers inside your cunt to fetch the vibrator that had hiked up inside you. You moaned, lashes fluttering shut and body finally going limp from exhaustion once he pulled it out. Simon caught you though, gripping onto your cheeks from behind and squeezing them together.
“Ah, ah, ah, stay with me now doll, gotta give you what you asked for.”
And all you can do is take it because it’s truly what you need after he’s out you through the wringer. Daddy’s cock giving you a nice and hardy K.O.
“Biiiig stretch, come on baby, fuckin chokin me ‘ere.” He’s rocking into you, slow. Making sure you’re stuffed and every vein of his pulsing dick that was splitting you in half.
As soon as he’s fit himself fully inside your pussy, a smack lands on your bruised ass. You look back at him with those big doe eyes, so fuckin sexy, “Hurts pa.”
“I’m sorry doll,” Ghost crooned, hands trailing up and down the sides of your hips. “Didn’t mean to.” Force of habit.
Your bottom lip stuck itself out, eyebrows furrowing, “You’re lyin.”
That damned smirk can’t help but form on his lips, chuckling before slamming his hips into yours, “Fuck, you’re my pretty girl for a reason. Know me. so. damn. well.”
Simons jackhammering into your cunt, fast and incredibly rude thrusts into your velvety walls. So fucking big, you could see the budge forming in your stomach in your low eyes with every kiss Simon gave your uterus with the tip of his dick.
“I can- I can feel it, alllll the way in my throat pa,” your fucking blabbering whatever was coming to mind, drool starting to come out of your mouth. “ ‘mazin, so amazin daddy. Thank you, thank you,” Hearts were forming in your eyes.
“Tch, So fuckin stupid on my cock, a brainless kitty. You love it, don’t you sweetheart?”
You moaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head “Love it soooo m-much nnngh!”
Ghosts hand cums down to your puffy cunt, giving your clit a little flick with his fingers before slowly starting to rub it.
“ ‘M sensitive. It’s sensitive Daddy.” You mumbled, trying to push his hand away but all he did was rub harsher, cooing, “Shhhh, I knooow kid, it’s okay, lean into it.”
Your breath hitched, eyes widening as your stomach turned, you knew that feeling. Too strong, to powerful, too much— “No, ‘s too much-”
“-Cut it out [+],” Simons voice is sharp, it drops lower. the slouching of your sopping cunt and his precum getting louder by the second with every movement.
“The couch’ll get messyyy!” You mewled, You were kicking your legs, as if that would do anything with the position you were in.
Ghost grabbed you by the hair, tight, pulling you you into him, growling in your ear, “Then get it fuckin messy you filthy. bitch.”
And it’s like a guns gone off, you see every single white star forming in your eyes, your whole body shaking, fucking spraying the couch with your juices as you scream. Creaming all over Simons length, dripping down your thighs.
And Simon holds you against his chest, a tender kiss meets your forehead, “good girl, princess.”
a/n: celebrating 2k!!! Thank you everyone so so much!! I love youuuu stinkas🥺 I’m not all that confident in my work but at least one of you reads it. I’m greatful. In the words of Marge Simpson, “whoever you are, thank you🥺😘”
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
