#Industrial Door Company
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just saw some youtuber critique star wars outlaws and say that because of the main character in this game is a girl, men gamers would’ve have hard time liking this game and also that girls don’t usually play games as kingdom come deliverance, god of war, spiderman etc and that’s it’s more of a boys games. who’s gonna tell him
#i actually fun fact or not played all of what i’ve mentioned#when i tell people i play video games they’re like oh like the sims right#um….. no. more like rdr2 for the sixth time spiderman 2018 for the third time etc#i am a HUGE nerd when it’s come to the gaming industry and gaming companies#you should’ve seen how many times my mom opened my bedroom door just to see me fishing in rdr2#anyway i totally despise that take that games are only made for boys
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did not have reylo ya author goodreads scandal on my 2023 bingo card but maybe i should've
#i do not run in professional author circles and i've never been published by a big publishing house#and you still need like. one friend who's interacted with these publishing companies#to tell you how difficult it is to even get your foot in the door#the pettiness. this is an opportunity so many people want but can't have. that's already massive. believe in the quality of your work#i recognize i'm biased here because eventually i would like to get a book published professionally#even if i'm only at the start of my fiction career rn#i just know so many talented writers who still can't make a living off their art bc the publishing industry is so bad rn#ren speaks
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Hearing more about the omega x situation, not reading the twitter thread cause I do not want to go there, and knowing that they are going through what ateen did and similar in abuse to trcng ugh. I’ll never understand why the industry is like this. Can’t people just be kind and respectful? Ugh it gives me such a pit in my stomach like when I found out why they decided to make Snuffy visible in Sesame Street :/ it makes me skin crawl. And ateen member had to had therapy and counselors and member were straight up having nightmares. No one should have to go through shit like this it’s not fair. I’m just thinking about my lil Jinwoo over this I don’t even want..ugh these poor guys :(
#shame on spire#I thought they were a good company#:( shame on every industry that does shit like this#and there’s fucking literal child in the industry#idols should not be under 18 they should be at least 21 or something#fucked up#i can only think about the new jeans girlies and how young they are#makes me want to throw up and then kill these people doing this#makes me want to commit arson and murder#and cut them up and pour lemon juice in their wounds#I know it’s bad hope they rot in prison and burn in hell#tie their limbs to sled dogs and yell mush#watch their limbs get yanked in different directions#like it’s this bad when shit hit the surface#it’s worse behind closed doors ugh#ugh ugh ugh I have a rotten taste in my mouth#and a sick feeling in my stomach#makes me want to commit scooter ankle#tw: abuse#tw: death#tw: violence#omega x#:(
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#trying to organize my thoughts about the 911 crew member who lost his life#becuase there's something to be said about the working conditions we dont know about until something bad happens#or you know someone in the industry#it's 16 hour work days for those crew members#it's.. god i want to say 17 for Disney Cast Members who bring the magic to life in the parks#AND they can be scheduled exactly 8 hours between shifts#it's *most* major US airlines being in contract negotiations#and one certain company trying to make 18 hour duty days part of the contract#FAs are supposed to be on top of their game to handle in air emergencies and you think they can function for 18hrs#oh and layovers only have to be 10hrs (and mandatory 8hrs behind the hotel door)#anyway the American Dream sucks#and CEOs have no respect for their workers
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Trust Transcends Time: Legacy of the Best Flush door and Block Board manufacturing company in India
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To Have a Heart
CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader
Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance … then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down
Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer
Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.
His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. “Sir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.”
Max doesn’t bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.
Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. “Send him in.”
A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead.
Good.
He should be nervous.
“Mr. Henderson.” Max says, his tone clipped. “Do you know why I called you here?”
The man — Henderson — fidgets with his tie. “Y-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...”
“The $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.” Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. “A deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firm’s history.”
Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.
“Because of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.” Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. “Please explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?”
“I … I missed it in the final review.” Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. “The numbers, they all start to blur together after-”
“Do not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.” Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. “Because of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a ‘B’!”
Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It won’t happen again, I swear-”
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Henderson’s ashen face. “Because you’re fired. Effective immediately.”
The words seem to take a moment to register in Henderson’s mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.
“No, no, please! You can’t fire me!” he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. “I-I’ll work double shifts, triple shifts! I’ll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just don’t fire me, I’m begging you!”
Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch … almost.
“This conversation is over.” Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. “You have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.”
“B-But I have three kids!” Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. “A mortgage. Alimony payments! You can’t just-”
In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.
“I am Max Verstappen!” He bellows, his face flushed crimson. “I do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.”
The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.
“One hour.” he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. “Get out of my sight.”
Henderson doesn’t need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor — pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.
Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of … not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.
Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Max’s cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.
The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.
“Clara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.” he says, his voice steady once more. “We need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.”
“Right away, sir.” comes the reply, his assistant’s voice tightly professional.
Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly won’t be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.
There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.
“Come in.” he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better — he respects discretion.
“I have Mr. Evans on line two for you.” she says crisply.
Max gives a succinct nod. “Thank you, Clara. That will be all.”
As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.
Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.
***
You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR director’s office. “Come in.” a flat voice calls out.
Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ah, Y/N. What can I do for you today?” She asks in an overly saccharine tone.
You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I … I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.”
Janet’s perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. “I see. And how much time were you hoping to take?”
Your throat tightens as you force out the words. “At least a month. Maybe more, depending on … on how things progress.”
The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy — no extended leave during crunch periods unless it’s a valid health emergency.”
You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! “But it is an emergency! My daughter, she’s ...” Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. “She’s very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.”
Janet’s face remains stubbornly impassive. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.”
The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave — it’s standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when you’ve been spending every waking moment by your little girl’s hospital bedside?
Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughter’s tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...
You’re vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if you’re underwater.
How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.
No. That’s not how companies like this operate.
They don’t care about you or your daughter’s life. All they care about is the bottom line, and you’re just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.
You’re jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. “Well? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?”
Is there anything else? Oh, there’s so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.
But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. There’s only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.
Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.
The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girl’s sake, you have to try.
So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. “Thank you for your time.” you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.
You don’t look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a mother’s desperation.
The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughter’s life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, you’re practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.
As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?
No, you can’t afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughter’s sake, you have to be brave.
The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like you’re going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor — the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.
You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Max’s assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment for next week ...”
“Please.” you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. “It’s an emergency. I … I need to see him. Just for five minutes.”
Clara’s manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. “I extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to-”
“It’s about my sick daughter!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.
For a split second, Clara’s expression flickers with something that might be pity. But it’s quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while he’s-”
“Please!” You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I’m begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, I’ll leave, I promise. But I have to try!”
Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”
The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.
Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. “This had better be good. Send them in.”
Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Max’s corner office. “Good luck.” she murmurs.
You don’t need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.
There’s no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle … or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.
***
Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Clara’s hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous “personal” disruptions.
“This had better be good.” he growls into the intercom. “Send them in.”
With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. He’s already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a “personal matter.”
Then you tentatively step into the room and Max’s words die in his throat.
Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.
An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Max’s chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.
“Well?” He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. “You’re hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.”
The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.
“I … I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.” you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.
But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It’s about my daughter, sir. My little girl … she’s in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I don’t have!”
Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. “Please, Mr. Verstappen! She’s only three years old and I’m a single mom. I’m all she has right now! I’m begging you … please just give me some time to be with her before … before ...”
You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.
Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. He’s seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But there’s something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.
Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.
But another part of Max … a part he barely recognizes … feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.
Perhaps it’s the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps it’s the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.
Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.
“I did not realize the full severity of the situation.” he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.
Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him … an ancient ghost of an emotion he can’t quite place.
“I’m sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.” Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. “Perhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughter’s condition, instead of being so oblique ...”
He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.
“Here.” he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. “Allow me to make things right.”
Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.
“Janet? Yes, it’s Max Verstappen.” he says crisply when the line picks up. “I’ve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.”
He pauses, glancing over at where you’re clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but you’ve gone utterly still — hanging on his every word.
“One of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.” Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. “A matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the … nuances of the circumstances.”
There’s a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesn’t give her the chance.
“The decision has been made to grant the employee’s leave request, effective immediately.” he cuts her off. “They will be excused for … two months, with full pay and benefits.”
His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you can’t quite process what you’re hearing.
Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janet’s flustered response filtering through the receiver. “B-But sir, we have very strict policies about-”
“Which is precisely why I’m instructing you to make an exception.” Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. “This leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?”
There’s a meek murmur of assent from Janet’s end. Max can’t resist a tight smile of satisfaction.
“Good. I’ll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.” He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.
As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.
Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.
“Thank you!” You’re whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. He’s not accustomed to such … warmth.
But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.
“You have no idea how much this means, sir. I … I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.”
He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen — merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.
But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.
So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.
But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.
For the first time in years — perhaps his entire adult life — Max feels almost … human.
It’s a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesn’t have to dwell on.
Because in the next breath, you’re sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.
He doesn’t have words — or perhaps doesn’t want to admit to any words to describe what he’s feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, you’ve well and truly upended Max Verstappen’s world.
***
Max remains rooted in place long after you’ve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that … emotional encounter.
Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.
The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...
Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Max’s skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.
He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years — grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same … response within him.
None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Max’s chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.
Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.
So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.
Perhaps that’s the core issue — that for once in his life, Max’s motivations weren’t born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.
The realization causes Max’s steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.
He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been … affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.
Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappen’s carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.
It’s both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.
Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.
“Come in.” he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.
Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. “You asked to see me right away, sir?”
“Yes.” Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. “I need you to do some … discreet digging for me into a personal matter.”
Clara’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesn’t comment on his evasive phrasing.
“And what exactly am I looking into?”
“The employee who was just in my office seeking leave.” he explains curtly. “The one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can — where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.”
Clara’s perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “You’re aware I can’t exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...”
“I’m fully aware.” Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. “Which is why you’ll have to take a more … unconventional approach. I don’t particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.”
His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.
Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. “Consider it done, sir.”
With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.
Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.
What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths he’s going to, all for the sake of some random underling’s personal crisis ...
A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a fool’s errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.
And yet, he can’t seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mind’s eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.
It’s almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he can’t fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to … to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?
The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?
He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.
He’s in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.
“Clara.” he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. “I trust you’ve made progress?”
“Indeed.” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. “Though I should warn you, some of these details are … concerning.”
Something tightens in Max’s chest, but he quickly tamps it down. “Just lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.”
“Very well.” Clara acquiesces. “So the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-”
“Let me stop you right there.” Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. “What’s the official diagnosis then?”
“Grade IV glioblastoma.” Clara replies flatly. “One of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.”
A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV … practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.
“And her prospects?” He finally prompts gruffly. “What’s the … prognosis for her case?”
Clara doesn’t answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.
“From what my contact at Lennox Hill said … if we’re talking full disclosure?” Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. “They’ve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.”
The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Max’s neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.
Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their child’s death sentence with any measure of composure?
An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Max’s throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isn’t the time for such indulgences.
“Thank you, Clara.” he manages in a rough baritone. “That will be all for now.”
He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.
Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.
Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.
That’s unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.
No child should have to suffer like that … and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.
And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.
An idea begins to blossom in his mind — one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he can’t quite explain.
Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought he’d use outside of donor galas.
“Roland? Max Verstappen here.” he says gruffly when the line picks up. “I need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology department ...”
Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.
“Dr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.” Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. “To cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a … sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.”
Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter — the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.
“So in your expert opinion.” Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. “What would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?”
There’s a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. “Based on what you’ve told me … I’m afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.”
Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a fool’s hope.
“However.” Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. “We do currently have an … experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.”
Something akin to hope flutters in Max’s chest. “I’m listening.”
“Well, to put it simply, we’ve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.” the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.
“By modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of … controlled payload, if you will.”
Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. “Some kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?”
“Precisely.” Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. “Only we’ve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, we’ve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.”
He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Max’s head. Not that it matters — his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulson’s voice.
“Of course, this is all still highly experimental. We’ve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.” the doctor cautions. “And we have no idea if the viral vector we’ve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.”
Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. “I appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But let’s cut right to the heart of the matter.”
He draws in a fortifying breath. “If you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these … gene therapy regimens of yours … would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?”
There’s a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, “If she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions … and we get a bit of luck on our side ...” Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “Then I’d say we would have a fighting chance, yes.”
Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.
A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.
After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.
“Say no more, doctor. Whatever it costs — money, time, logistics — none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, I’ll take care of the bill.” He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.
Because in this moment, it doesn’t feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child — ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?
It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.
***
You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitor’s chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.
She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how you’d regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.
Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.
One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.
The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.
Because this morning, the doctors came to “discuss options.” As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.
“We’ve run every available scan and lab test.” Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. “I’m so very sorry, but the tumor isn’t responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...”
You hadn’t let him finish, couldn’t let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could “comfortably” slip away.
The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust. You’d screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.
In the end, they’d sedated your daughter fully so you could “calm down” and “process things rationally.” You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.
So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if you’ll ever truly feel anything else ever again.
Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughter’s bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before … before ...
A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.
The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.
You aren’t sure how much time stretches in that manner — minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.
So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.
A stranger stands in the doorway — a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.
You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.
“Please, don’t be alarmed.” he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. “I know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting you’d want an uninvited visitor.”
Now that he’s closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. There’s no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.
“My name is Spencer Paulson.” the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. “I’m actually a doctor, Ms ...”
“Y/N.” you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. “Y/N L/N. And this is … this is my daughter, Olivia.”
Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.
“Well, Ms. Y/L/N.” the man — Dr. Paulson — says, tone measured. “I realize I’m intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.”
His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughter’s limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.
“Then if you don’t mind my asking.” you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. “Why are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Olivia’s bedside unannounced?”
He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.
“I was recently contacted by … an interested third party about your daughter’s case.” Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis — glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?”
You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The man’s crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.
Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. “Right, well, I’m actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.”
The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.
But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.
“I’ll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, holding up a forestalling hand. “My team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, we’ve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol — a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Olivia’s brain tumor.”
You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and “controlled payloads” being essentially the extent of modern medicine.
“... And while the trial is still in its early stages, we’ve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.” Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. “Which is why we’re reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.”
He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But you’re frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.
After all, you’ve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you can’t afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.
But another part of your wearied brain — the part that’s grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness — recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.
So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.
“How ...”
Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. “I’m sorry?”
You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. “How much would … would a treatment like this cost?”
For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulson’s aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.
“Unfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy … the baseline costs do run relatively high.” he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. “If approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, we’re looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.”
The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four … million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesn’t seem real.
You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.
But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.
“However, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some … special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughter’s case.” he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. “You see, there’s an anonymous benefactor who’s agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a … philanthropic basis, let’s call it.”
The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what he’s saying through the roaring static in your ears.
“I … I don’t understand.” you manage to stammer out. “Someone wants to … pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-”
“Hey now, none of that.” Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. “The why doesn’t matter right now — only that it’s been arranged at no cost to you or your family.”
He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.
“I know this is … well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think it’s enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?”
Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.
After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girl’s life slowly ebb away before your very eyes … there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything won’t end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.
And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs — only this time, they’re threaded with the catharsis of relief.
Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Olivia’s bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though you’re being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.
Through the storm of your breakdown, you’re dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.
“We’ll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?”
You can’t even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulson’s murmur.
“There’s a fighting chance now. That’s all any of us can really ask for ...”
***
Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.
456 … 458… ah, there — 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.
Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside — your voice, he recognizes with a start. “Come in!”
Max’s brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes that’s only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.
Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. You’re seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitor’s chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans — by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.
Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.
Olivia.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up — and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. “M-Mr. Verstappen?” You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. “I … I didn’t realize you were-”
Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.
“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. “I admit I hadn’t warned you about my visit in advance.”
He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isn’t entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.
And now that he’s here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely … unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didn’t even begin to equip him for handling.
But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. “Who’re you?” She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Max’s usually implacable defenses.
Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Olivia’s inquisitive gaze.
“You can just call me Max.” he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didn’t even realize he was capable of. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
It occurs to him then that he’s been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand — an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a month’s rent for most families. He had ordered them from the city’s most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.
This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Max’s stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Olivia’s large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.
Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.
“These are, ah, for your mother.” he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. “A small token of … of appreciation, one might say.”
He isn’t quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition — perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.
“Thank you, Mr. Versta-” You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. “Er, Max. They’re absolutely lovely.”
You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.
Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.
And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity he’s accustomed to projecting. Not when Olivia’s sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.
Your daughter still hasn’t looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. It’s … disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.
“I, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.” he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.
He’s not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still can’t understand.
But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.
“Ohmygosh, thank you!” The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.
On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Olivia’s waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Max’s very soul.
He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, he’s forced to admit.
Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughter’s cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize you’ve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.
“I trust the medical team has kept you informed of Olivia’s progress so far.” he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. “I don’t have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what I’ve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?”
You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. “Y-Yes, you could definitely say that.”
Something sparks behind your gaze then — some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. “In fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that they’re actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-”
You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.
Then, almost in a whisper, “Max … are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?”
The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max can’t find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.
For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Max’s jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.
But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bear’s paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Max’s formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.
So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, “Yes.”
He doesn’t have time to brace himself before you’re suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.
The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact — perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.
But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.
“Thank you.” you’re whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you ...”
With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.
Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesn’t pull away, doesn’t extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.
Instead, in a move even he can’t fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.
“It’s … quite alright.” he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. “No thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughter’s full and complete recovery … at whatever cost required.”
He isn’t sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him — he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.
Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.
“I … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” you murmur throatily. “For giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.”
Tenderness isn’t something that often breaks through Max Verstappen’s shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life he’s allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.
But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he can’t quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.
“The only form of repayment I’ll require.” he says finally, “is your permission to take you to dinner.”
He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.
“Dinner? But … I haven’t left Olivia in weeks.”
At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if he’s regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. “Of course I don’t expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together … here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.”
Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like … excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.
“I … yes, of course.” you murmur, sounding almost bashful. “We would be honored.”
Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.
“Very good then,” is all he finds himself able to say in response. “I shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. You’re already back in your chair at Olivia’s bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughter’s hair.
And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.
A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.
Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.
Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.
Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...
Denial doesn’t appear to be an option anymore.
***
Two Years Later
The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Max’s gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.
A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.
“What are you up to over there, kleine muis?” He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.
Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. “I’m having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.” she explains, brandishing the dolls. “Would you like to join us, Maxie?”
Max chuckles softly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.”
“Okay.” Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.
You had dropped Olivia off at Max’s office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.
He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.
After a while, Olivia looks up again. “Maxie, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, lieverd. What is it?”
Olivia fidgets with one of the doll’s dresses. “Today at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.”
Max’s heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. “Did you have fun with that activity?”
Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.”
The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.
Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, “But then Timmy said that you’re not really my daddy since we don’t have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?”
Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.
Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.
“Olivia.” he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. “Even though we don’t share the same name, and I didn’t ...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.”
Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. “So, I can call you Daddy?”
The simple question unlocks something deep within Max’s core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesn’t fight.
“Yes, kleine muis.” he whispers, his voice wavering. “I would be honored if you called me Daddy.”
Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Max’s neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Olivia’s tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.
They stay like that for long minutes, Max’s shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Olivia’s hair as he buries his face against her.
At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. “I love you, Daddy.” she says simply, the words reverberating through Max’s very soul.
He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “And I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.”
Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.
Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men … yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.
“Here it is!” Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. “For you, Daddy.”
With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures — stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.
“It’s beautiful.” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. “Thank you.”
Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.
Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Olivia’s artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.
Because Max is many things — a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.
But most importantly, he is a father.
And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Olivia’s daddy.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#max verstappen#mv1#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#max verstappen fic#max verstappen fluff#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#max verstappen x female reader#max verstappen x y/n#red bull racing#max verstappen one shot#max verstappen drabble
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Danny always knew tax evasion ran in his veins. His parents hadn’t been the most… morally sound of people, and less so as ecto-scientists.
He just didn’t think their lessons would ever result in a criminal empire that spanned the entire city and then some. Danny hadn’t seen it coming. His parents definitely wouldn’t have.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Fox.”
Danny ‘the Phantom’ Fenton sat down across from a rather tense looking (to Danny’s enhanced senses, anyways) Brucie Wayne and his right hand, Lucius Fox. He smiled pleasantly, matching Brucie’s vacant smile with that touch of Midwest suburban mother smile.
With his acquisition of multiple Gotham companies, his rather newly established Fentom Co. became one of the largest holding companies in Gotham, the first being Wayne Enterprises and the second being Drake Industries. After months of constantly working his butt off while fending off assassins, reforming Gotham’s slums and cleaning up some of the streets, and taking care of his nest of street kids, Danny garnered enough power to even stand close to Wayne Enterprises in terms of financial powers.
The topic of this meeting was, of course, the proposed merger of Wayne Enterprises’ Medical R&D division with Fentom Co.’s pharmaceutical department. Usually, Wayne Enterprises wouldn’t even consider such an offer, as their Medical R&D division was the most well funded and least likely to be part of a Rogue’s scheme- and therefore most beloved- department of the same nature in Gotham. However, Danny had something the other offers didn’t.
Blackmail.
His overly polite smile widened as Bruce’s mask twitched. His eyes slid over to Lucius Fox.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve heard much about your genius in… research and development.”
By that, Danny meant that he knew Lucius Fox helped develop Batman’s tech.
He did a lot of stalking that week. It felt rather… invasive, even if he did get a bunch of juicy secrets.
You know what they say: dead men tell no tales… but halfas are generally blabbermouths.
“Is that so? It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Fenton.” The man quickly glanced between the youngsters, accurately predicting that this might have something to do with Bruce’s active nightlife.
“Yes, it is such a pleasure to meet you.”
Wow, Danny didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone sound both so perky and dead inside at the same time, except for Susan at Gotham High’s bake sale.
Bruce wishes he could be a Susan. He’s at best a Becky.
“Will you be staying, Mr. Fox? You’re the head of the R&D department, correct?”
“Ah, yes-”
“Oh, Lucius! I think you had an appointment with the finance department right now! I heard Sally talk about it, you know!”
Lucius Fox sent an unreadable look at Bruce before rallying.
“Oh, it must have slipped my mind. My apologies, Mr. Fenton, it seems as though I can not skip this appointment.”
“That’s alright. I suppose it gives you… plausible deniability… should things go wrong, haha!” Danny allowed his smile to widen a little further than natural. Bruce tensed but Lucius Fox simply politely smiled and left the room.
Ignorance is bliss and all that, Danny amusedly thought.
As the door shut with a click, Bruce dropped the vacant Brucie smile and sighed.
“What do you want,” he gritted out. Danny wasn’t about to let that slide, not after he spent the better part of this month wrangling Bruce’s problem children.
“Ah, it must be because I’m from the Midwest, Brucie, but where I come from, we value these things called manners.”
You uneducated jerk, he doesn’t say.
Danny leaned back in his chair, loosening his smile into something relaxed and sharp.
“…” Oh, boy, Danny could just hear the other man’s blood pressure rising. “What is the purpose of your visit, Mr. Fenton?”
“Relax, Brucie,” Danny sing-songed in a non-relaxing way. “I’m just here to discuss a possible merger that I’m sure you’ll agree to, and give you a couple of updates on your… wayward bird.”
He heard Bruce take a slow, controlled breath. “Very well. Where. Would. You. Like. To. Start.”
Danny ignored the gritted out sentence. He passed a contract to Bruce, who took it like he was handling a live bomb.
“Here’s the proposal, Mr. Wayne. Please, look it over.”
He watched as Bruce looked over the contract with an eagle eye before lowering it, scrutinizing Danny.
“This is… very fair.”
Danny raised an eyebrow. Of course it was fair. Danny wasn’t interested in exploiting the Waynes, despite them being very able to afford it.
He’d brought fifty manufacturing sites for pharmaceuticals, and offered up a building where both companies could send their workers. He provided top notch security- that definitely didn’t have any talons on staff, what were they talking about?- that came from his own security division. Granted, most of them were reformed and trained goons, but hey, creating jobs can only help Gotham’s economy and help break the cycle of poverty, right? Guaranteed by the Wayne name and, most importantly, uncompromised medicine that was accessible to everyone would be a damn good start. He’d also have Penguin’s empire to distribute it to those who couldn’t make it to a clinic or a store, and there were plans in there to work with and establish contracts with Gotham’s welfare department. Well… once Danny finished replacing them with people who wouldn’t try to take a cut of the funds and actually cared about the people. He was thinking… the multitudes of poor grad students and parents that need income. He’s in the process of building childcare centers and…
It’s a good thing he managed to save money from the taxes (thank you, Gotham’s morally ambiguous tax experts that were in desperate need for clients! He could do it himself but having a team of accountants at the ready was seriously so helpful.) because ancients knows the government weren’t about to step into Gotham and help the people here. He needs so much money to pull all of this shit off and a lot of it has to be clean.
Danny inwardly sighed and marked another thing onto his to do list.
Make money laundering fronts.

“Of course, Mr. Wayne. You didn’t think I’d come in here demanding money, did you?”
“I considered it.”
“I am, in fact, trying to help Gotham. You might not agree with my methods, but I’d rather not damage Wayne Enterprises when it’s doing so much to help the people.”
Ugh, he was doing too much work. Danny just wanted to- hah- chill at home and read bed time stories to his kids.
Bruce Wayne, the specific blend between Brucie and Batman, regarded him silently. Danny felt like he went up a few notches in the respect ladder.
Nice.
“You’re a criminal.”
“Says the man in the bat-suit breaking into places and assaulting people.”
Bruce’s hands spasmed around the contract. Danny smiled at him, taking a sip of the coffee they’d prepared. Oo, nice!
“Ah, I heard you’re adopting- pardon, fostering- Tim Drake. Getting empty nest syndrome, Brucie?” He slipped back into using Bruce’s first name. The proposal was formal. This… was very much not.
“What about it?”
“That’s very kind of you. Speaking of which, well, of your birds, I was wondering if you remembered what I asked you to do.” Danny continued, not giving Bruce a chance to reply. “Didn’t I ask for you to keep your birds in line, Brucie?”
The CEO straightened even further, form filling out to be Batman’s imposing figure. “I did.”
“No, you didn’t. Do you know where your charge is, right now? No, not the formerly dead one,” Danny tilted his head, smile shrinking.
“Don’t you dare do anything to Tim. I swear, if you even lay a hand on a strand of his hair, I’ll-”
“Sit your Armani clad ass down, Bruce.” Danny snapped. “Your son’s in your office. I don’t harm children, and your assumptions are deeply insulting. Threaten me again, Bruce, and I’ll make sure you know exactly how much I know about your birds, your cousin, and the commissioner’s daughter.”
Bruce snarled but leashed his anger just enough to sit back down. He itched to go check on Tim, but leaving a threat like Phantom unwatched felt inherently wrong.
“Your other son,” Danny continued. “Is doing quite well. He’s learning that he has hobbies again. He’s actually working under me, you know.”
“He’s what.”
Oh, yeah, that tracks. It figured that Jason wouldn’t tell Bruce about anything. He’s still conflicted about his death. Danny got it.
“Ah, that’s precious information. You’ll have to offer something of equal value if you want to know. There is, on the other hand, a piece of information I’ll give you for free.”
Danny paused for the dramatic effect. It was lost on Bruce, the ultimate drama queen of this world.
“The League of Assassins are hanging around Hotham lately. It’s getting tedious, getting rid of them. I suggest talking to your old flame, you know, with words and what little communication skill you’ve got rattling around in your noggin to get them to pull back. Her interest is… unnaturally focused on Jason.”
Danny read the dark agreement swimming about Bruce’s face and inclined his head. “Should negotiations fail, rest assured that Jason will be protected.”
“…Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Go ahead and discuss the contract with Mr. Fox, I am sure you’ll find little problems with it. Ah,” Danny stood up, fixing his suit jacket. “And you should probably check up on Timothy. He’s probably having a great time in your office, Mr. Wayne.”
“I’ll see you out.”
“Of course.”
Having Batman escorting him out should probably be more intimidating.
Danny stood in the elevator, waiting for Bruce’s contemplative silence to put itself into words.
Sure enough, “What… what kind of hobbies does Jason have now?”
“I’d tell you to ask him, but you two aren’t on speaking terms, are you? He likes books, of course, but recently, he’s found an interest in glass blowing. He made quite a bit of progress on his attempts at sun catchers.”
“I see.”
Well, Danny’s not about to step on that landmine any more than he has to.
——
“Danny.”
“Oh, hey, Jason. Sit down, we were about to have dinner.”
Jason clambered into the window. Danny sighed. He had a door, but by the way Jason never used it, it was like the door didn’t exist.
“Mind telling me why the old bastard showed up on my rooftops with a bunch of glass and glassblowing tools?”
Danny smiled. “No idea.”
“Uh huh.”
Danny placed a hand on his chest and put on his best woe-is-me expression. The teen’s face twitched in annoyance. “Doubt? At me? Why, I never!”
A bread roll thwacked him in the face.
#dpxdc#danny phantom#batman#bruce wayne#jason todd#tim drake#dc x dp#red hood#bamf danny phantom#crime lord Danny#accidental crime lord Danny
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Everyone gets “The 90s” look wrong and I hate it
Couple years ago I saw these two board games at the store back to back. Well, not saw them per se, but ya know. Spied them out of the corner of my eye. And for a moment without reading the text, I couldn’t tell you which was which decade at first. Funny. Either they were in a rush to get these out the door or they wanted their throwback trivia game boxes to look uniform. I didn’t think too much of it.
Only, from then on I started seeing it MORE. Every time someone markets a 90s or 80s throwback...
Goddammit they’re identical! What??! How did we let this happen? As a 90s survivor and a designer, this drives me up a wall.
Look, I know I’m late to the party to complain about “the 90s look” when we’re just starting to get sick of the Y2K nostalgia train. But c’mon, the 90s were not The 80s: Part Two™
Trust me when I say that we weren’t all wearing neon trapezoids up until the year 2000. The 90s look being peddled is so specific to the tail end of the 80s and an early early part of the 90s - a part of the 90s when it wouldn’t stop being the 80s. This is Memphis design being conflated with the wrong decade.
Keep reading for a long ass graphic design history lesson and pictures of old soda and fast food.
Specifically, the look is Memphis Milano, self-named by the Italian design house Memphis Group. Starting in the early to mid 80s, they made all sorts of furniture, fabrics and sculptures that were like a Piet Mondrian grid painting under heavy radiation. Their whole deal was defying the standards of existing industrial design up to that point on purpose. Chairs had weird arches, bookcases would be in strange alien colors, unusual materials like plastic or elastic were used in place of metal or wood, that sorta thing.
Memphis quickly became the signature look for the decade. You can tell something’s influenced by Memphis design from it’s telltale trademarks:
Clashing, neon colors.
Use of diametric shapes.
Contrasting patterns like zebra print stripes, confetti squiggles and checkerboards.
It wasn’t long before Memphis Milano-inspired design was everywhere in 80s pop culture:
It was a special time, yes.
I was a kindergartener at the tail end of the 80s, so I knew Memphis mostly through the lens of kids media. Toys, clothes, games, tv shows used it like candy colored catnip. Cable channel Nickelodeon more or less adopted the Memphis aesthetic as their signature in-house style and practically built a monument to it at a Florida theme park:
I think this is why folks mistake what decade Memphis is representative of - 90s staples like Nick, Saved By The Bell, Fresh Prince - they all stayed around much longer than the design trend’s expiration date.
Couple that notion with the fact that companies are slow followers to design trends. Something gets popular and they want to get on the bandwagon? Gotta wait for the ink to dry, gotta wait for the production molds to be made. It would take a few years for them to completely work Memphis outta their system.
Now, this is not to say Memphis is bad! Personally I’m a fan of the aesthetic, if my neon-drenched artwork wasn’t a tip-off already. But it is a trend, and trends never last forever.
So what took the Memphis Milano look down for good? This part’s up for debate, but I personally think it had something to do with this dude:
It’s that grunge music from Seattle that’s so popular with the kids these days dontchaknow.
Once Smells Like Teen Spirit hit in 1991, the Nirvana tone drove the rest of the decade. Clean geometry became weathered, grainy and organic. Bright neon pastels became more bold. Bubblegum pop music sounded fake and manufactured. Attitude and apathy was authentic. Whatever.
Things got grungy. Things got grimy. Olestra was invented.
I think the best way to visualize this transition is how Cherry Coke entered the decade and how it left it:
1992 Memphis on the left, 1998 grunge junkie on the right. Fitting that the 90s would end with a design that looked like Darth Maul’s lungs.
Okay, so what should 90s retro design look like?
Continue on to PART TWO! Spoilers: No VHS filters or vaporwave needed, but maybe bring an antacid.
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REPUTATION ft. Minji
minji x male reader smut
9k words
“So, you’re the one,” Minji says, an accusation to make you look up from your drink. “The one they warned us about.”
Firstly, you didn’t plan for this (you never do).
The night began, as always, with the best intentions. You promised your manager that you would follow his instructions to the letter: show face, smile for the cameras, and then slip out before the real party kicks in and you find yourself knee deep in scandal. Again.
And (if you were extra good) you would end the night by scrolling through the greatest hits on your contacts list, looking for a fellow insomniac needing to past the time, needing a bed to share.
A normal, everyday kind of night.
But yet, here you are now: cornered by the girl on everyone’s playlist, all fierce determination and pouty lips wrapped up in a tight black dress.
She doesn’t bother with an introduction—no, that would be silly—instead she just stands there, looking pretty, expecting your full attention.
You quirk an eyebrow. “I require a warning?”
There’s a smile there, just a hint, playing at the edges of Minji’s mouth, like she’s in on a secret that you’re not privy to. “Beware of male seniors. Specifically,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, raising her hand, peeling one finger off the drink she’s holding so she can point a single glossy nail at “you.”
“Hm,” is all you have to say, playing coy, like this is all news to you. Like you’re not aware of your own reputation, of the things you’ve been accused of, the things your company has scrambled to cover-up, the things you’ve actually done.
“So,” she says, so carefree, so easily charming. It’s all an act, of course, a meticulously curated ‘cool girl’ image, something well-rehearsed and played a thousand times before on a thousand lesser men, a tightrope walk between relatable and unattainable. “Should I be worried?”
You know what she’s really asking for: an assessment. Do you find me attractive? Do I tempt you? Am I the type of girl worth risking your career over?
And so, you take her invitation and do the one thing that always gets you in trouble. You look. Look at her legs, long and toned and smooth, begging to be wrapped around your waist. Look at her thighs, creamy-white and barely covered by the hem of her dress. Look at her chest, the soft swell rising and falling with every breath, her collarbone glittering with the sweat of excitement.
Look higher—at how effortlessly perfect she looks, as if she wakes up every day looking like the ideal type of every man and woman in Korea. Oh, there’s make-up, it’s subtle but it’s there, playing up her best features: the height of her cheekbones, the almond curve of her eyes, the fullness of her lips.
She’s so undeniably, obviously gorgeous: a bombshell wrapped in the guise of a girl-next-door.
It’s no wonder she’s so fucking popular.
You give her a non-answer, “Depends what they’ve been saying about me.”
Minji takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours, her full pink lips curling around the straw as she sucks in the sugary liquid. It’s a deliberate move, so casually erotic—borderline pornographic, in fact—designed to make you want to grab her and kiss her and prove everything they’ve been saying about you right.
But she’s busy assessing you, you can tell, trying to reconcile the rumours with the reality—Can you really make a girl like her lose control? Make her beg? Make her forget about her image, her obligations, her entire life outside of your cock?
“Word gets around HYBE quick.” Minji’s eyes narrow just a smidge, she’s biting down into her bottom lip, and it has you imagining all sorts of things you’d rather she was doing with her mouth. “The girls at SM can’t stop talking about you. The guys at JYP hate your guts, so that says a lot.” She smiles at that last point, before listing off, “fuckboy, heartbreaker, group-wrecker, industry villain.”
It’s funny, hearing your dirty laundry aired out like that, and you can only shrug, give a casual smile as if to say ‘who, me?’. It’s admittedly a practiced move, one you’ve used to get out of sticky situations before (you may have even used it as an ending pose once). “Is that what they told you?” You ask, nodding in the direction behind her.
Minji follows your gaze, glancing over her shoulder, the wall of noise and flashing lights of the club framing her face, painting her skin with a rainbow of neon shadows.
There’s her bandmates, doing a terrible job of spying, a trio of worry and concern and gossip: they’ve found their little bunny, and she’s been caught speaking to the big, bad wolf.
She muses, “we’ve all heard the same rumours…”
“And so you came to… what?”
Minji takes a step closer, close enough for you to get a whiff of her drink; one of those sugary mixes, deceptively sweet, but just as strong as the one in your own hand. “To find out for myself,” she answers, “to see if you’re really as bad as everyone says, to see if it's all hype, or if there’s actually some truth to the legend.”
“Legend,” you repeat, trying the word out on your own tongue (it sounds sweeter on hers). “That sounds a bit much, don't you think?” you ask, trying to ignore the way she’s leaning forward now, letting the top of her dress dip, revealing just enough cleavage to stimulate your imagination. A simple gesture, so perfectly choreographed that you'd think it was incidental if you didn't know better, if it didn't have you picturing what it would be like to rip that dress off her, to expose her bare tits, to grab, lick, kiss, and—
She’s giggling out loud now, like she can hear every single filthy thought racing through your mind. “I think I'd like to be the judge of that.”
There’s an alarm bell going off in your pocket, the vibration of your phone buzzing with messages—who else but your manager, demanding to know why you haven't gone home like a good little idol yet, begging you to please, please not make another mess.
But you ignore it and take another sip of your drink, savouring the burn of the cold liquor down your throat, giving you a moment to consider. You’ve got Minji figured out, you think. It's nothing you haven't seen before (nothing you haven't dealt with before). The dream girl, the ‘ideal type’ who’s growing tired of maintaining a perfect image, looking to see how far she can push, how much she can get away with (how much you’ll let her get away with).
Because she’s probably never been told no in her life. Because she's used to getting what she wants with a bat of those lashes or a pout of those lips.
In a way, coming to you is safe, because if the worst were to happen—if you were to get caught—no one for a second would believe that one of the nation's precious daughters was the instigator.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, cutting through the din of the club like a knife, making you believe that she just might be telepathic. “You're thinking: she’s just another innocent idol playing at being naughty for just the night, but the second things get too wild, she’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘Dispatch’.”
“Because you’re not like other girls.”
“Please,” she scoffs, dismissing the idea entirely. “I always see things to the end.”
“Alright then,” you say. She’s thrown down the gauntlet, and you’re going to pick it up, if for nothing else than to see just how far she’ll go. "Shall we do this here? I'll rip off your clothes, nail you in the middle of the dancefloor in front of all our friends and peers?"
She’s grinning now, not backing down, in fact she’s moving closer, like yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. “From what I’ve heard that would be tame for you. Is it true, what you got up to at Inkigayo?”
“That was in a parking lot.”
“And at M Coundown.”
"Under the stage.”
“Music Bank?”
“The staircase, of course.”
“See,” Minji’s whispering now, close enough that you can hear her over the thumping bass of the music, her breath warm against your ear, “you are a man-whore.”
“I have a name,” you reply, dryly.
“That’s nice.” She’s touching you now, her hand sliding up your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. “Wanna hear me scream it?”
Your phone is still buzzing, and you know that you should be walking away. It would be the right thing to do: it’s far too public, she’s far too popular, and getting caught leaving hand in hand with her would be nothing short of an announcement that will hit the top of every social media platform by sunrise.
But it’s too late—it was over the second you locked eyes with her from across the dancefloor, when she caught you staring, blatant and unabashed, lingering on the way her ass bounced, mesmerised by how her hips swayed to the beat.
You just had to let her know she was wanted.
"Look," Minji says, her hands sliding higher now, fingers idly adjusting the collar of your shirt. "There's no angle here, no game. I'm not looking to get caught or land in a scandal, and I'm definitely not looking for love or a boyfriend or whatever fairy tale shit you sing about. I just want what all the other pretty idols are getting."
She's forward, no shame in saying exactly what she wants, daring you to dispute it, but all you can do is cock your head to the side, and flash a smirk of your own. "And what makes you think you're my type?"
Minji laughs, her teeth glinting in the neon lights—you both know it's a very, very idiotic question. "Please," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm everyone's type."
Another glance over her shoulder, where her bandmates have been pretending not to hover, and now there’s a new face in the mix: Yunjin. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her arms folded, and her jaw is clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding from here. Unlike the other three, she’s not playing the concerned friend card; she’s the pissed off mother bear, ready to pull Minji away from the walking, talking red flag.
And so adds to your stellar reputation.
Minji notices your eyes flicker in that direction, and looking back at the group with amusement, she takes it as the cue she's been waiting for. "We better get out of here before they take your head off."
It's inevitable, really, this is how it always ends up: the sweet, innocent idol lured into the jaws of the industry monster. But you can’t help it, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she wants to be eaten alive.
You know the score, you’ve danced this dance before, and you’ve got a role to play. The only thing left to do is to take her hand and lead her out of the chaos—through the throngs of familiar faces, not giving them a chance to register what you're doing, or who you're with, or what's about to occur, again.
Not like anyone could stop it now, anyway.
"So, this is how it happens," you hear Minji murmur as you lead her out of the club, through a hidden metal door, and into the cold, night air.
-
Minji tastes like gin and lime cordial, her lips sticky and sweet against yours, her arms around your neck, her back pressed up against the back-alley wall. There’s something in the way she’s kissing you—giggling between breaths—like she can’t believe this is happening, like she’s getting away with the crime of the century.
Her hands are in your hair now, tugging gently, the cool metal of her rings pressing into your scalp, begging you to kiss her harder, to burn the memory of your lips onto hers. Your tongues meet in a dance that’s more battle than ballet, and she’s matching you move for move, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip, her nails scraping down your neck.
She’s eager, she’s pressing her chest against yours, making you feel just how hot she is. But yet, there’s still that annoying voice in your head, the last shreds of your conscience, telling you to give her that final out, to let her walk away with her dignity intact, go back to her members and tell them she just had to get some fresh air.
So, you pull back, tearing your mouth away from hers, giving her room to gasp for air, to let the world come back into focus, and you ask her, loud and clear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Minji’s panting, breaths coming in short gasps, little puffs of steam out into the winter air, and she smiles. It’s a wicked little grin, equal parts surprised and thrilled, like you’ve just passed some kind of test she didn’t think you knew existed. “Are you asking for my consent?”
You balk at that. Your reputation can't be that bad. “Is it so unbelievable that I'd ask?” Even though you already know, deep down, she’s not going anywhere, there’s a power in hearing her say it. Saying that she wants you, specifically, to ruin her.
“No, it’s just…” Minji starts, looking up with those big, dark eyes, and you can almost see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out how to play this, before ultimately landing on the word, “nice.”
She pulls you back towards her, kissing you again, those soft, pillowy lips of hers meeting your mouth in a kiss that’s so inappropriately sweet, like she’s sealing a deal with sugar rather than ink.
“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice steady, sure. “I want to do this. More than anything.” Minji tilts her head back, exposing the column of her throat, inviting you to kiss it, to suck, to bite. “I want you."
You don’t need any more convincing than that. Your hands are on her body, running over the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist, the swell of her chest. And she’s leaning into your touch, needing to feel more of you, wanting you to explore her. And you do, greedily, feeling her breath hitch when you graze her nipples through the fabric, feel her hips jerk when you trace the line of her panties.
“Are we going to—gah—go back to your place?” Minji tries to ask, her question punctuated by a moan as your fingertips dance over the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the hem of her dress whispering against your skin.
You’ve already made your decision—you're not taking her home, you're not taking her anywhere with a bed, or even a chair. You're going to have her right here, right now. There’s no need to answer her, you just let her work it out for herself when you push her back against the wall, when your thumb finds the slick, wet heat between her legs.
“Here?” She gasps, turning to look down the darkened end of the alleyway, at the distant streetlights, at the crowds of people oblivious to what’s about to happen beneath the shadows.
“It’s not the dancefloor, but it’ll have to do,” you murmur, leaning into her, pressing your lips against her cheek, her jaw, her earlobe.
“B-but, what if—” Minji stammers, but you’re busy toying with the lace of her panties, nothing more than a mere formality at this point, only existing to get wetter, to be unavoidably ruined by you.
“What if someone finds us?” You finish her question, nibbling at her ear. “Then we’ll just have to make sure we leave them something to talk about, won’t we?”
She’s shivering at the thought of it—the headlines, the think pieces, the whispered scandals that will follow you both for weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. But you can feel her resolve hardening, her spine straightening, her body arching towards yours, and she replies, “Then don’t hold back.”
The challenge is clear: she’s embracing the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of potential disaster, the heady feeling of need overshadowing the fear of getting caught.
You don’t disappoint. Your fingers slip under the soaked lace, and she’s sensitive, so, so sensitive. She’s staining your fingers, needing only the smallest amount of pressure to garner a reaction. You tease her, drag your finger across her tender folds, dare to skim over her clit, torture her with anticipation.
Whatever concerns she has evaporates as you kiss down to her collarbone—you’re going to leave a mark—and she’s already asking for more, “Please.”
She’s whining, parting her legs, desperate for you to do more than just touch her, needing you to rip through her panties and take her.
“You're right—I don’t care,” she sighs into the wind, handing her fate over to you. “I need you. Now.”
That's all you need to hear, everything you've ever wanted to hear someone as seemingly untouchable as Minji say to you. You pull down her panties, needing an extra tug as her slickness sticks them to her thighs—she’s so fucking wet for you—and you draw a circle around her entrance with your finger.
“Right there,” she cries. She’s much more honest when she’s desperate—gone is the posturing, the taunting, the act—she’s just a girl who needs to feel something real. So, you give it to her—push your finger inside, gliding in smoothly, a perfect fit around your digit.
Only knuckle deep but she’s already got you like a vice, squeezing around your finger like she’s trying to keep it captive—so wet, so tight, so fucking good. Her nails dig into your shoulders as you push in another finger, stretching her just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her fulfill her promise to cry out your name, “Fuck—!”
Her pulse is racing like a runaway train, hammering against your lips—you’re pushing both fingers all the way inside her now, sawing them in and out of her, making her groan, making her repeat your name over and over again.
You’re in her ear, “you’ve got to be quiet, Minji.”
But she’s not having it. “Make me,” she laughs, daring you, another challenge she’s putting down.
You kiss her hard, replacing the laughter in her mouth with your tongue, muffling her cries as you fuck her with your hand, you’re going to ruin her now. You curl your fingers up to hit that spot that makes her toes curl in her sky-high heels, making her gasp, her head thunking back against the wall.
She’s trying, she really is, to keep it in, but she still needs you to keep her standing, to hold her up as your fingers delve deeper; to keep her from melting into a puddle all over your hand.
Still, you’re relentless, feeling her out, learning her rhythm, her reactions, the spots that make her sigh and fall apart. You know you’ve found it when her breaths turn harsh and ragged, and she’s rolling her hips against your hand, and there’s that noise—the sweet, slick sound of her pussy swallowing your fingers whole—and she’s whining into your mouth, “This feels so—”
“Hot,” you finish for her, watching as her cheeks flush a delicious shade of pink, her pupils blown wide, those angelic features of hers contorting with every thrust of your fingers. “You’re so fucking hot, Minji.”
And she is, she’s hot, she’s so hot around you, against you, her hips bucking at the praise, and she whimpers, your name a staccato prayer on her lips. “More,” she demands, but she’s tripping over her words—“more—please—how does it feel so—”
“I’m going to make you cum now, Minji,” you state, your voice low and sure, your fingers continuing their persistent rhythm inside her. She nods, panting against your neck. “And after that, I’m going to fuck you and make you cum all over again. Until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget every other name but mine. Do you understand?”
Her eyes flutter closed, and she nods again, a whine escaping her throat, and she’s biting her lip so hard it’s going to bruise—another mark she won’t be able to explain tomorrow.
You lean in closer, whispering, “Good girl.”
You’re finger-fucking her in earnest now, her body moving in sync with your hand, the alleyway walls echoing with the slap of skin and the wet sounds of your digits plunging into her, your knuckles smacking against her clit. She’s trying to keep it together, trying not to scream out loud, her eyes squeezed shut tight as if that could hold back the orgasm that’s barrelling down on her.
Her breaths are coming out in little pants, and you know she’s close, so close, she’s nearly crying. “Just your fingers—fuck—it’s just your fingers,” she’s repeating it in disbelief, like it shouldn’t feel this good, not yet, like she needs the mantra to keep herself grounded as your hand lights up every nerve in her body.
She’s there, right on the edge, only needing that extra push, that pressure in just the right place, just waiting for your word to send her spiralling over. “Cum for me now, Minji.”
And that’s all it takes.
You hold her steady, fuck her hard with your fingers, rub at her clit, and she’s clenching down, all tiny shakes and choked gasps, her eyes snapping open and then squeezing shut as she reaches the precipice.
"God—fuck—I can't—"
It hits her hard and fast and all at once—her whole body seizing around your hand, her cunt tightening, her hips thrusting forward, needing more friction. Her mouth opens wide, but you trap her lips before she can make a sound, kissing her fiercely, tasting the sweetness of her release on her tongue, feeling the tremors of her orgasm travel from her core to the tips of your fingers.
Her hands are all over you, her nails digging into your shoulders, leaving little half-moons in your skin as she clutches you closer, her tongue dancing with yours as if her life depends on it. You keep going, not letting up until she’s fully ridden the wave, and it’s a sight to behold—Minji coming apart against a dirty alley wall, her legs trembling like they might give out at any second.
When she does finally go still, when her breathing starts to even out, you break the kiss, pulling away to look into her eyes, searching for the usual signs of regret or embarrassment that often follow these kinds of moments. But she’s looking at you with something else entirely: a mix of awe and excitement, like she’s just experienced something she never knew existed.
“You okay?” You murmur, the question more of a formality than anything, because she looks absolutely anything but okay. She looks fucking amazing, a breathless, boneless mess against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly with every inhale.
Her eyes are still glazed over, wide and dark, her mouth slack and swollen from your kisses. You can see her trying to process what just happened, the reality of it all, but she’s still too lost in the aftermath of her orgasm to form coherent thoughts.
“Yeah,” she breathes out finally, nodding shakily. “I’m—yeah, I’m good.”
You withdraw your hand, giving her pussy one last gentle squeeze before pulling away, and she whines, a high-pitched noise that makes you twitch.
She’s flushed, her hair a mess from your hands, her lipstick smudged, her dress hiked up around her waist, panties around her ankles. The way she’s looking at you now, it's worship, like you're a secret that she’s just discovered and is desperate to keep to herself. “I fucking knew it,” she says. “The rumours were true.”
You smirk, wiping your hand on the side of your pants, watching her struggle to stand straight. “Ready for round two?”
Her gaze flicks downwards, to the bulge in your pants, and she nods, swallows hard. “Yeah, I—fuck yes.”
There’s no hesitation now, no pretending she doesn’t know what she’s signed up for. She’s all in, and you want her, here, now, because that’s what you do—you take what you want.
You kiss her again, deep and greedy, one hand on the wall behind her head, the other gripping her tight, keeping her in place as you grind against her, letting her feel the hardness of your cock, everything she’s been waiting for.
“Please, don’t stop,” she pleads, and you don’t—you can’t.
Not now, when she’s letting you tug down on her dress, letting it pool around her ankles like a discarded secret. She’s a vision, standing in the cold, stark alley in just her heels and her underwear—and there’s her tits, perky and perfect, begging to be touched.
You don’t even bother with the bra, you just yank it down, the straps snapping and the fabric falling away to reveal her nipples—pink and stiff and so fucking tempting. You can’t help yourself, they’re practically calling for you to taste them, so you draw one into your mouth, feeling her gasp against your ear, her hand sliding into your hair, holding you against her chest.
Her skin is hot against your tongue, and you suck, and bite, and lick until she’s whimpering, until she’s pushing herself into your lips. Your hand is exploring the rest of her naked body—running down her stomach, tracing the lines of her abs, feeling her stomach muscles clench with every breath she takes. She’s so tight, so toned—it’s like you’re touching a sculpture, or a personal playground made just for you.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers, “so good, so, so good, how does it feel—?”
Her words cut off as your teeth graze her nipple—she’s so reactive to every touch, and it has you wondering—has she ever been touched like this before? Has her body every truly been explored like this, pushed to these heights?
“You want more?” You murmur into her chest, your fingers returning to her wet folds, your thumb reintroducing itself to her clit.
“Your cock,” she says, sucking a harsh breath through her teeth. “I want it, I need it—please—I’m ready for it.” It’s that word—please—how it rolls off her tongue, the desperation in it, how it makes her sound so needy and vulnerable.
“Then take it,” you command, breaking away from her chest, stepping backwards to give her room to do exactly what she's been begging for.
Minji doesn’t miss a beat, hands gentle but determined, her fingers at your belt, fumbling with the buckle, loosening the zipper. She’s hungry for it, for this moment of truth, to verify for herself—what’s been talked about in whispers and rumours, what’s been taunting her all evening.
Your pants hit the ground, and she’s staring at your cock with wide eyes, and for a second you can almost see the doubt creeping in. But she swallows it down, and with a soft grip, wraps her small hand around you, stroking you from base to tip.
“So this is it,” she says, taking the full measure of your length, her thumb smearing the pre-cum over your head. “This is the cock that ruins idols. They said it splits women in half.”
You chuckle, but she’s completely ignoring you, well, ignoring all parts of you that isn’t your cock. Her hand is tentative at first, working its way up and down, feeling you grow harder by the second in her palm. You can feel her wonder, her excitement, a hunger matched only by the ache in your cock.
It's the way she’s not saying anything, just touching, feeling. Not that you mind the quiet—it's intimate, just the two of you, the sound of her breaths, your heart beating in your ears, and the distant thump of the world you left behind.
She’s gaining confidence now, her strokes more deliberate, a smug smile gracing her lips as she watches how you react to her touch. You bite back a groan, not wanting to give away how much she’s getting to you, but fuck, she’s getting good at this. She’s clearly learning on the job, eyes keen to see just how you like it—how fast, how tight—how to make you fall apart in her hands.
It’s time to reign her in, you’re heading into deeper waters now. You grasp her wrist, stopping her, ignoring her pouts and whines. “Not yet,” you say, “I’m going to split you in half with my cock now.”
That makes her grin. She does this thing, this cute little twirl, spinning around on her heels to face the wall, and posting herself up against it. Her legs spread wide, giving you a perfect view of her splayed pussy, glistening under the dim neon light. She’s got her hands above her head—she’s putting herself on display for you, like your own private Mona Lisa.
A look back at you and she catches you gawking—eyes glued to her ass, her pussy—and she winks. “Are you just going to stare, or do I have to make you fuck me?” She says it so casually, like she’s back at the bar ordering another drink. “Hurry up, please. I need it. Inside me. Now."
No more waiting, no further invitations needed—there’s teasing, and then there’s both of you craving it, dying for this.
You’re behind her in an instant, pressing her into the wall, her cheek against the cold brick, her juicy ass up in the air. You guide your cock to her entrance, the head nudging against her—she’s soaked, pussy drooling on your tip—and she gasps, looking back at you with those doe eyes, all wide and innocent—like she hasn’t been begging for this since the moment she looked in your direction.
“Fuck Minji, you're so fucking wet for me,” you say, running your cock down her slit, coating it in her juices, “so needy for me, aren’t you?
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice strained, like every moment without your cock inside her is torture. “I want it all. Every fucking inch.”
The first push is a slide into heaven—she’s tight, so fucking tight, so, so wet, like she’s never had anyone else—like she’s been waiting just for you. She’s teary, gasping, and you feel her body tense, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dare ask you to stop. Instead, she arches her back, pushing herself back onto you, urging you deeper.
“God,” she’s chanting now, feeling inch after inch sliding into her, “it’s so—it’s already making me so—”
It’s slow, deep, fucking, stretching seconds into an eternity, stretching her pussy out with your girth, stretching her to fit you, to keep you, to never let you leave. It’s careful, almost tender at first—let her set the pace, let her show you how much she can take.
She’s moaning, low and guttural, and you wrap one hand around her waist to hold her steady as you thrust into her, let her get comfortable with your size, make her tits bounce with every pump, make her legs shake beneath her. And then there’s that lip bite again—she’s trying to keep quiet, but little moans are escaping her, getting lost in the night.
You ease out, then push back in, setting a steady rhythm that’s got her rocking back onto you. Minji seems like a delicate little thing, but there's a strength to her, a suppleness—she’s meeting you thrust for thrust, her pussy like pure velvet around your cock, gripping you tight, trying to milk you.
Hand finds her chin, tilting her head back so you can kiss her again—long, deep, tongue-filled kisses that make her whine and buck against you. She’s slowly, but surely adjusting to you now, her body learning the rhythm of your cock, getting used to being so completely filled.
It's in the way she's moaning into your mouth, like she's never been fucked like this before, never had someone so big, never had a cock so demanding of her tight little cunt. But she's so eager for it, her pussy so warm and welcoming, swallowing you up with every thrust.
It’s not normally like this—you’re not normally like this—but something has you asking between kisses, “You okay?”
She laughs, pushing herself back against you, pushing her cunt down on you, taking you deeper, burying your cock to the hilt. “I’m not going to break, I promise,” she says, looking over her shoulder, needing this. “I need you to fuck me—no holding back—I can take it all—everything you’ve ever given anyone else, all those other girls. I can handle it.”
“Show me.”
It’s throwing gasoline on a fire—she's asking for it, burning for it. You fuck her like you mean it—pull out all the way, force it all the way back in, hard, deep, rough. A shriek and she's wailing now, true to her word she’s taking it, taking it all, utterly lost in each perfect push into her cunt. She’s so beautiful like this, so open and raw—gone is the perfect idol, she’s just another girl getting fucked in an alley by some guy she just met.
Both hands are gripping into her hips, holding her in place, holding her upright, feeling her walls clench and release around you. Marks are going to be left there too, your fingerprints on her skin, bruises that she’ll have to hide with makeup tomorrow.
“So good—so fucking good—just—“ Minji can barely make out full sentences, let alone words as you fuck her, as you own her. “Harder! Fuck! Rougher!"
It’s like a drug, this power, watching her come apart for you, knowing you’re the one making her feel this way, knowing she’ll let you do whatever you want, whatever you need as long as it makes her come apart. And you’re feeding off of it, her words pushing you closer to the edge, letting her need for you drive you, unlock that primal part of your brain. Fucking her like this, so filthy and wrong and everything you love about this life.
You pick up the pace, driving your hips forward—"harder—fuck—harder"—until she’s shaking, her legs giving out, and the only thing keeping her on her feet is your cock and your arms.
“Fuck—I know what they said but—fuck! Is this what they all felt?” She gasps out, “is this how it always feels?”
Your lips on her neck, her hair sticking to your face, the scent of her perfume, of her, intoxicating. “It doesn’t always feel like this,” you answer, you grunt. “But you do. You feel so fucking good, Minji. So fucking perfect for me.”
“You're so big,” she says, her voice trembling, “I feel so—fuck—full.”
It’s not just the way she’s clenching around you, how she’s now able to take every inch of you like she’s been fucking you her whole life—it’s how she says your name, like you’re the only one that could ever make you feel this way, like you’re the one who ever will.
You grab her tits, squeezing them, seizing them, pinching and twisting her nipples between your fingers. All it does is make her beg, “fuck—I love it—how rough you are—” needing more of everything you have, “your hands—your cock—please don’t stop, don’t ever stop—I can take it please—rougher please—fuck!”
Something cracks inside you, and your hand comes down on her ass, the sound bouncing off the walls like a gunshot. Minji jolts, yelps, but the noise is quickly swallowed by a moan, a squeezing of her cunt around you.
“Fuck that felt—”
You do it again, and again, each slap a little harder, a little more punishing, the sting making her flesh jiggle deliciously with every impact. She doesn’t retreat, she’s slamming her ass back down on you, slapping her cheeks against your waist, needing to feel more.
“Gah—fuck—harder!”
She can’t help herself, minutes ago she could barely handle your size, now she can’t hold back from crying out for more pain, more excruciating pleasure.
Each smack, each groan, each breath that’s ripped from her lungs is a declaration of your power, of her need. And you revel in it, your hand coming down on her ass, leaving a trail of red marks against her creamy-white skin.
“More, please, more,” she calls for it, calls for the sting, the heat, her pussy clamping down on you, walls pulsing with every hit, her body needing the release that’s building up, inevitable and intense.
Her ass is nothing but a canvas painted by the strokes of your hand and the relentless pounding of your cock, and you can’t help but admire your handiwork, you're struggling to suppress the urge to lean down and kiss each spot you’ve marked.
“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” you say, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear.
“I know,” she answers, her voice a whine, a plea, a moan. “But this is what I wanted—to feel—to remember this—this moment—getting fucked like you own me—because you do—so don’t hold back—don’t ever hold back.”
You’re both sweaty, panting—you can feel her orgasm building, like a storm in the distance, thunder rumbling closer and closer until it's right above you, ready to break. And there’s your own, too, that delicious pressure at the base of your spine, the promise of release, coming at you just as quick.
But you’re not going to let her get there—not yet—not when you’ve got her like this, pliant and open and so in need. You lean forward, your chest pressing against her back, and slide your hand down, reaching around to find her clit.
It’s slick and stiff and wanting, and Minji screams—a high, keening sound that you want to hear again and again. You’re playing with it, swiping it with your thumb in tight circles, feeling her clench around you with every pass.
“I’m almost—God that feels so good—I’m almost!”
But you stop, pull out of her, abruptly, making her cry out, making her turn around, a mess of emotions on her face—desire, confusion, awe.
“What are you—” Minji tries to ask, but you’re spinning her around and pressing her back against the wall. Her leg comes up, wrapping around your waist, but you take it and lift it higher, testing the extent of her flexibility, throwing it over your shoulder.
She’s right on that edge, you can see it—her pupils dilate, her mouth opens in a silent scream, her body tenses, her cunt melting around you. But you weren't going to let her cum like that, not without watching her face, not without seeing the moment she cracks and shatters.
Now you’re face to face, chest to chest, her eyes needing yours to anchor herself to, needing to know what you’re going to do to her. No time for breaks—in one, deep thrust you're all the way back inside her, making her scream with the suddenness of it, the shock, the bliss of being so perfectly filled.
She groans, weeps with each pump into her, and she’s smiling through it all. “So—” she asks, struggling to form intelligible sentences. “How do I—fuck—how do I—mmmph—compare to the others?”
You grunt, barely registering the question, your mind clouded by the spasms of her cunt around you. “What others?”
“The other girls—God—the other idols,” she says, strained. “The ones you’ve fucked before—the ones you’ve ruined—how do I—aah—compare?”
You kiss her again, a bruising, punishing kiss that steals the question from her lips. You don’t need to answer that. You’re showing her. You’re fucking showing her how she compares, how she’s the best, the tightest, the wettest, the most eager. You’re showing her how she’s going to be the one they whisper about in the halls of HYBE and beyond, she'll become the story that will be told as a warning, about the sweet, innocent idol ruined in a dirty alleyway.
Your world is spinning around you now—there’s your hand on her throat, a gentle squeeze, just enough to make her eyes water, to make her breath catch. But she’s not scared, not with the way she’s grinning, not with how she’s grinding her hips to meet yours.
“Fuck—make me scream—” It’s a plea, a demand, she’s so stunning, so tortured in her need for it, “do whatever you want to me, whatever you need—just—make me cum harder—God please—harder than any of them ever did.”
Any care you had for getting caught, about the consequences of what you're doing—where you're doing it—dissipates into the ether. Nothing exists outside of the race to her orgasm, outside of your hips recklessly pounding into her, reducing her to moans and shakes and trembles.
“Cum for me,” you growl, “right here, right now, Minji—cum for me again—show me that you’re mine.”
“I was made for you,” she says, and it’s not just the heat of the moment talking, it’s something else, something deeper. She’s not just saying it to get off, she’s saying it like it’s a revelation, like she’s been waiting for you, for this exact moment.
“Prove it.”
It hits her like a fucking truck, and Minji’s screaming, filth belted from her mouth and into the night, her pussy quaking around your cock, her whole body entering into seizure. You keep going, riding out her orgasm, feeling her cum on your cock, feeling her body go rigid, her muscles tense, it’s those abs, so tight, it’s those absurdly strong contractions that have you falling after her.
“God—fuck, I—can’t believe—can’t believe—”
You’re fucking her through it, not giving her a moment’s reprieve, not letting her come down from that high, because you’re not ready for this to end, not when she’s so helpless. You hold her tight through it, let her shake, rattle against you, let her nails dig into your arms, let her cum drench you.
“Fuuuuuuck!”
It’s too much for her to take, and once the storm has finally subsided, Minji is just a ragdoll in your arms. Her legs are limp, held up by your grip alone, still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her makeup is ruined, a mix of sweat and your kisses, leaving dark streaks on her cheeks. Her hair, plastered to her forehead, her eyes half-closed, and there’s her body—marks of your teeth on her chest, her breasts, the bruises of your fingers around her hips, the mottled red of her ass, a map of your dominance painted on her perfect skin.
It’s not just the physical marks you’ve left on her; it’s the way she’s looking at you now, awe, desperation, realisation that it’s all true, every rumour, everything they’ve said about you—and she’s the latest filthy chapter in your story.
But you’re not done yet, you haven’t finished. You’re pulling out, and she’s whining, making your cock throb with her pleas. You guide her to the floor, to her knees, her dress puddled around her, the cold concrete biting into her skin.
You’re standing over her, looking down at her like she’s a prize, your prize. “Open your mouth,” you tell her, and she does, without hesitation, without question.
You grab your cock, still slick with her juices, and stroke yourself, watching her tongue dart out to lick her lips, watching the anticipation build in her eyes.
It’s the sweetest, most erotic sight you’ve ever seen—Minji, the girl that's everyone's type, the girl who could have anything she wants, anyone, on her knees for you—tongue out, mouth wide open, waiting eagerly for your cum.
And then you do it—you let go, shooting ropes of hot cum, painting her face, letting it dribble down onto her chin, onto her chest, onto her toned stomach, covering her until she’s a sticky mess of lust and desire. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—she loves the feeling of it, shivering as your hot cum hits her skin.
She holds position through it all—knees on the ground, eyes closed, a serene smile as if she’s just been blessed. And when you're done, when your cock is finally spent, she looks up at you with a grin that's pure sin.
Minji takes a finger, dips it into the mess on her chin, and tastes you. It's a bold move, it’s messy, it’s wrong, it’s perfect. There’s the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, the knowledge that she's made you do something so raw, that she made you lose all control.
For a second there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the come down from your euphoric high. Minji speaks, still shaky from the orgasm that ripped through her. “That was—” she pauses, searching for the right word. “—incredible. Fuck!”
There’s a rush of arrogance, a smug smile of satisfaction at her confession. “So, do I live up to the legend?”
Minji wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing your cum across her cheek. There’s a glint in her eye, like she’s got a secret that she’s dying to share. “More than I could have ever imagined. You’re not just a man-whore, you’re a fucking artist.”
You laugh at that, as you tuck yourself back in, smoothing down your shirt, trying to compose yourself, pretending like her words don’t mean anything to you, like you don’t take pride in the validation of every girl you fuck.
“How do I rank?” she asks, the question coming out of nowhere, and you blink down at her, your brain trying to catch up. “I mean, out of all the idols you’ve fucked?”
“Rank?” you repeat. "I don't keep a list, that would be..." You trail off, realizing what you're about to say, and now it’s her turn to laugh.
“Crass?” she supplies. “I know, but I’m just curious.”
“You’re fucking fantastic, that’s for sure,” you reassure her, making her giggle, the laughter bubbling up from her chest like it’s the best compliment she’s ever heard. “Why—do you keep a list?”
Her smile falters for a moment, but then she’s grinning again, looking even more wicked with the cum pasted across her face, and it makes you want to bend her over and fuck her all over again. “Of course I do. And you’ll be happy to know that you’re number one.”
“That’s good to know.”
But then she says, “Of one.”
And you freeze. The air around you turns to ice, and she’s looking up at you with those big, dark eyes, and you realise what she’s saying, what she’s just admitted to you. You’ve taken her virginity, and she’s looking at you like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
“You were…” you start, but she cuts you off.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice firm. “Don’t make this something it’s not. I wanted this, and I wanted it to be with you. I told you: I can handle it all.”
But that doesn’t stop your mind from racing, trying to process what she’s saying. You had your suspicions—she was so tight, so new, so untouched—and now she’s yours, in a way that no one else can claim. You wiped away her innocence, and she’s not running, not crying, not regretful.
The weight of it settles in your stomach, a strange cocktail of pride and guilt. You’ve ruined her, in the best way possible. You’ve claimed something precious and pure, and she’s given it to you willingly, eagerly.
“Fuck, Minji,” you start, trying to find the words. “If you had told me, I would’ve—”
“You would’ve what? I lost my virginity by having filthy, mind-blowing sex in a dark alley with the best cock in all of Korea,” she says, pridefully, with her entire chest, fully believing every word she's saying. “Can you really tell me your story was any better? I bet whoever it was with didn’t scream like I did. Or cum so hard she couldn’t see straight.”
You cast your mind back to the past, and you have to concede the point. “I see what you mean. But still—” You feel like you should say something, but what? It’s not like you can apologize, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she’s just won the fucking lottery. “How does it feel?”
“A-ma-zing,” she draws out, rising to her feet. “Everything I’ve ever heard about, multiplied by a million. You might’ve ruined sex for me completely.”
You watch as she puts herself back together, sliding her panties back on, tugging her dress over her head and down her hips. She’s smoothing her hair back, trying to fix the mess you’ve made of her; wiping at the cum on her chin, her cheek, trying to erase the evidence of your encounter, trying to put the mask of the sweet, innocent idol back on.
But you know better. You know what’s hiding beneath that polished exterior.
“Come home with me,” you find yourself saying before you can think better of it.
Minji turns to you, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and there's that hint of challenge again. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “You want to cuddle and fall asleep together? Wake up, have breakfast in bed?”
“Yeah,” you nod, honestly. “After I’ve fucked you senseless again, of course. But yeah, come home with me.”
“That would be nice,” Minji says, a soft smile on her face. It's surreal, this moment, so at odds with the grimy alleyway and the smell of sex sticking to her skin. She looks so pure now, in complete contrast to how roughly you were fucking her just moments ago. Her innocence wasn’t lost, it was just painted with a fresh coat of your sin. “But—you know I can’t. They’re waiting.”
“Worth a shot,” you shrug, not bothering to hide your disappointment.
And then she produces your phone, holding it out to you. “You need to be more careful with your things.”
“When did you—”
“Now you’ve got my number,” she says. “You’re welcome to do whatever it is you want with it. But I’m hoping you use it.”
You take it out of her hands, swiping away the string of missed calls and messages, the digital proof of how much trouble you’re going to be in come morning. But for now, it’s irrelevant. For now, there’s only Minji, and the way she’s standing there, looking up at you, smiling like she’s just stepped off the stage.
“You’re going to go back to them?” you ask, gesturing towards the club entrance, to where the rest of her group are probably still gossiping, plotting your downfall.
“Of course,” Minji says. “They’re my friends. They care about me. They’ll want to make sure I’m okay.”
“And when they find out what we just did?”
“Oh, they’re going to want to kill you,” she answers, with a giggle. You’ve had enough of these types of conversations to know she’s not joking. “Except Dani, maybe. She’ll probably want a shot at you too. If I let her.”
"Noted," you say, trying to keep the image of Danielle, splayed against the wall like Minji before her, out of your head. "What exactly are you going to tell them?"
Minji pauses, thinking, before landing on a succinct summary. "I’ll just tell them that you fucked my brains out and then ditched me in an alley.”
You sigh, “sounds brutal.”
“Well, it is what it is,” Minji says, and she’s pressing a kiss to your cheek, her lips still sticky with the residue of your cum, the last traces of what's just happened.
You watch her go, watch as she turns away, walking back towards the club, a little stumble, a little trouble keeping steady. You should be feeling guilty, you should be regretting this, but all you can think is how good it felt, how right it felt. And you know you’ll do it again—you know it deep in your bones.
Minji turns back to you, catching your eye, catching you staring again, and she smiles. “You better go now. You do have a reputation to maintain, after all.”
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pairing: boss!wonwoo x model!mingyu x f.reader
genre: smut, slowburn, poly!relationship
summary: after being happily single for years, when you develop a crush, you don't know what to do. you think your closest friend (with benefits) can take your mind off things. but when you ask for his help, you certainly didn't imagine this kind of help from him.
word count: 15k words
rating: NSFW 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE!!!
warnings: mentions of workplace sexism, minor sugar daddy x sugar baby dynamics, fwb dynamics, wonwoo and mingyu are both depicted as bisexual in this story and this does not imply anything from real life, asymmetric power dynamics (boss and employee), open relationship (not really but-), slight possessiveness, minor age gap (wonwoo is four years older than reader and mingyu).
smut warnings: sub!mingyu, dom!wonwoo, switch!reader, threesome, sir kink, usage of petnames (baby, pretty baby, darling, love, baby boy, doll), praise kink, degradation kink, minor (?) objectification, heavy descriptive mlm action, anal sex, usage of butt plug and cock ring, use of lube, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (pls do not do this irl), oral sex (m. receiving, f. receiving), nipple play (with both male and female), usage of traffic light system during sex, spanking, usage of degrading petnames (cockslut, whore, plaything), spitroasting, squirting, multiple sex scenes, PLEASE LMK IF I MISS OUT ON SOMETHING.
a/n: does anyone know how to get out of corporate!wonwoo brainrot? if yes, pls pls pls lmk i need it ^^ comments, reblogs, and feedback are so so much appreciated!! would love to hear your thoughts on this dynamic so beloved to me- i have some headcanons in mind too, could share if anyone wants!
(i)
You slowly sip the whisky on your glass, on the rocks, the liquid burning through your chest. You embrace the burn, as your mind wanders away from the beautiful night skyline in front of you. It’s been a couple of hours since you’ve returned home, the night edging towards midnight, but you can’t get it out of your mind.
You can’t get him out of your mind.
His voice, his scent, even hearing his footsteps give you sheer goosebumps.
God, you thought you were better than this. After spending so many years in the ruthless corporate world, you pride yourself on becoming a woman made of steel. Nothing affected you anymore. Disobedient juniors? Your reputation of being the most unforgiving boss in the entire building has permeated to everyone in the industry. Sexism? There’s a rumour that you once stabbed your stiletto into the hand of a man trying to grab your ass, and since then, no one’s dared to look down at you for being a woman. Disrespectful bosses? They knew better than to get their top employee against them, especially when you had a record of toppling over bosses and taking their position sheerly through merit.
It hadn’t been easy. Fighting into the corporate world as a woman with no contacts and no fancy universities on your CV had been tough, but it had made you strong enough to not let anything faze you anymore. It certainly helped that you were not interested in anything except your career, so you had every reason to keep fighting on without giving up. It also helped that you were married to your work- the way you regularly return home late, even in your tenth year at the company, was testimony to that fact.
And yet, he had managed to faze you. Your face grows red with shame just thinking about how your heart and body reacted when you see him, and you take another hurried gulp from your glass, eager to divert your mind away.
The door unlocks itself.
“You came.” You turn around in your swivel chair to see a tall man, wearing a long black trench coat enter your house, his cap and sunglasses not giving away any of his face. But you know damn well who it is.
“You called. You never call first unless it’s urgent.”
Mingyu steps out of the shadows, taking away his coat, cap and sunglasses, and you see that he’s wearing a fancy blue button down with jeans.
“Did you have a schedule before this?”
“Yes. Y/N, please tell me you have something to eat, I’m famished. I’ve been eating nothing but chicken breast for the last week because of this shoot today, but now I’m ready to break my diet. Do you have ramen?”
He makes himself at home in your open kitchen, as you watch on from your prime spot next to long glass windows which make up the wall of your living room. There are dim lights on, but Mingyu looks perfect even like this. “Of course I have ramen. Can you make some for me too?”
“Sure, I’ll add eggs too. I’m really hungry.” You smile at the way Mingyu quickly found his way through your house. This isn’t the first time he’s cooking in your kitchen, and you hope it won’t be the last time certainly.
You finish your glass and walk up to him, just as he’s pouring out the ramen into two bowls. “Thank you for the food, Mingyu.” You sit on the kitchen counter and he pulls up the stool next to you, your bare legs hanging next to him. He pecks your cheek, before handing you chopsticks and the two of you instantly begin inhaling the ramen which is made just perfectly. You’re silent while eating, and Mingyu finishes first. Once you’re done, he cleans up the dishes too.
“Mingyu, you’re my guest, stop doing all the work.” You swing your legs over the counter, and pull his hand until he’s locked in between your two legs. His hands land over your shoulders, and you lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away-
“Wash your mouth, baby. And wait for me in the bedroom.” You make a face, not looking forward to waiting because you want him now. He seems to read your mind, so he continues, “I won’t even take 2 minutes.”
So you do wash your mouth, brush your teeth too and dab some serum on your face.
“What happened that you had to call?” Mingyu comes and stands behind you in the ensuite bathroom, his face in your neck as he inhales your scent.
“I can’t call my friend from time to time?”
His giggles are warm against your bare skin. “Y/N, as much as I love you, you know it wasn’t just a call. Although I don’t mind,” he carefully begins to untie the straps at your shoulders, “you know I am always at your service,” then he lets the dress drop to your feet, and places his hands on your hips, his gaze scanning you through the mirror. You’re not wearing anything underneath, and it’s a treat for his eyes.
You turn around before he can touch you where he really wants to.
“I know we stopped after you…”
“God, don’t make it sound so sad. You know my boyfriend is okay with this.”
“Yes I know, but I thought it was a matter of principles?”
Mingyu’s canines are out as he giggles. “Darling, you do know what an open relationship means?”
You sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. Do you not get jealous? Does he not get jealous? Of me?”
Mingyu doesn’t say anything, bending down to kiss on the sensitive spots of your neck. “He does, sometimes. And then, he fucks me hard enough to remind me who I come home to, after all.” You shudder against his touch. “So, please Y/N. Don’t hesitate.”
He stops kissing you as you take his face in your hands, feeling the smooth skin under your nails. The hunger in his eyes, softened by his affection for you, are all the confirmation you need.
_
Mingyu is, for all his height and glory, no dom. He’s a service top at best. But you like it better if he’s pinned underneath you, squirming against the way your nails tease his nipples, his cockring tight, as you ride him, gifting yourself with endless orgasms. His hands are tied up above his head, leaving his arms left bare for you to savour. So you do so, biting, licking and sucking his arms which seem to have grown since the last time you did this, although admittedly, that was over six months ago. You know Mingyu is especially sensitive at his nipples, so at least one of your hands never leave his chest, holding on to the rock-hard muscle for both support and also to keep him down. Even with his hands tied, he’s strong enough to flip you over, but you know it’s not really necessary. With the way he’s drooling all over your pillows and begging you with his soft, puppy eyes, to let him cum once, you don’t think he’s aware of just how strong he is.
“Baby’s doing so well, hmm?” You whisper into his ear, leaning down to hear his moans and whimpers clearer. “Can you give me one more orgasm? Do you want to?” He nods feverishly, but you gently tap his lips. “I want words, pretty baby. Colour?” But he still doesn’t reply. So you sit up, and lift your body away from where you’re seated on his cock, wondering if you’re doing something wrong. But he instantly thrashes his feet and words come flowing out. “No! I’m sorry- all green, I swear.” “I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard-” “No! Y/N, please. Just zoned out for a second. Please. Green.” So you gently push his cock back inside, still red, weeping and imaginably hard.
“Can you give me one more? Mingyu? You’re doing so well.”
“Yes! Yes I can!” He moves his head forward, and you kiss him. Softly, unlike how you’re bouncing on him. The kiss is sloppy, leaving strings of spit between your mouths, but that’s how Mingyu likes it, you know. You also know he likes your tits, so you sit up, and let his mouth fall to your breasts. And he devours them, like a hungry man. Sloppily licking, kissing and sucking at your nipples, until they’re swollen.
And when you cum again, your warmth floods Mingyu’s still-erect cock, his head lolls, eyes rolling back, as you feel spent and tired. “Baby, you did so well. So good for me. You were made for me, I think. Made to give me heavenly orgasms,” you see the way his gaze becomes unfocused at all the praise. He eagerly kisses you, moaning when you suck his lip too hard, all while you untie the knot of his hands. When his hands are finally free, he gently flips you over into the bed.
“Let me clean you up-” you offer. But he shakes his head, pushing you down on the bed now, as he bends down towards your stomach. In spite of the five orgasms of the night, a spike of arousal shoots through you, as you realise what’s going to happen.
“I want my dessert, Y/N. Let me worship you for being so patient with your good boy all night. Please? Haven’t I been a good boy? ”
And he has been a good boy. Such a good boy, the way his skillful tongue laps all over your ruined, messy folds, licking the remnants of your cum still in you, and making out with your pussy. He drives you on the verge of overstimulation, so you yank his hair up and remove his face from your cunt.
“Let me take off your cock ring. You’ve been such a good boy. Cum with me as you eat me out?” It’s too good of a reward for him to not smile widely, his canines out and his eyes bright. He doesn’t care that he has to rut against the bed to chase his high. He does it fast, just how fast his tongue moves in your cunt, and he holds back to time it such that you both reach your climax at the same time, and you’re moaning out loud.
“Wonwoo!”
You don’t realise that Mingyu hears that too, as you pass out for a long second after squirting all over Mingyu’s face.
_
That night doesn’t end there. There are quick breaks from time to time, but it goes on until you’re positively sure the first rays of the sun are coming up in the sky, and you both are tired as fuck. Spent, wasted and high on all the hormones, you snuggle into Mingyu’s warm body, as he cages you into him with one arm on your side. His cock is finally flaccid after going all night long, and your body is too sore to move. It’s just a miracle that Mingyu smells good even after all night.
“Who was that whose name you called out earlier?”
Fuck. You’d forgotten about that.
At least Mingyu doesn’t sound mad. He just sounds mildly amused, and a little curious. You purse your lips and turn up to face him. Well, it would come out sometime or the other. And better if you admit your secret first to Mingyu than anyone else. At least you don’t feel that embarrassed in front of him, because of how you’ve both been friends.
“My new boss.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Was appointed a month ago. He used to manage the overseas operations first, but apparently he’s been wanting to come back and settle down for a permanent position here for a long time. Six months earlier, he shifted back with a temporary position to headquarters, and our CEO was so impressed with him, he got promoted to our branch as the Director.”
“And you like him?” Mingyu’s voice has a lilt to it, as if he finds it a bit funny.
He might as well. You yourself find it funny. “I- I don’t know. I think I’m a little infatuated with him? Fuck, Mingyu, this is so embarrassing but-”
“It’s not embarrassing. Even if you’re all steel outside, I know you’ve got a soft core. And who will you admit crushes to if not to a friend?”
You gently slap his chest, and he laughs. “You’re mocking me.”
“Am not. It is a crush, or is it more?”
“God, no! He doesn’t even know I like him. I mean I hope he doesn’t. It would be so embarrassing. God, I’m going to lose the entire image I’ve made in front of my peers and subordinates!”
“Why? Does he make you act irrationally?”
“Oh so irrationally. He makes me distracted during meetings. He makes my mind wander during work. I’ve lost focus, and I’ve lost my concentration. One time he put his hand on my thighs, and I swear I got wet. I don’t even get that wet during foreplay usually!”
Mingyu bursts out laughing. “Y/N, I think this is a pretty bad case. I’ve never seen you have this kind of an infatuation in all the eight years that we have been friends.”
You nod. You know that well enough.
“But the question is, why don’t you make a move on him? Why only hide? Is he married?”
“Nah. It’s worse. He’s not into women.”
Mingyu shifts a bit, turning his head towards you. “Are you sure?”
“He has a boyfriend. And as far as his record goes, he’s never dated a woman. Always rejected advances from females.”
Mingyu hums, before wrapping an arm around your waist. “But a girl can dream, hmm?”
“Don’t mock me, Mingyu! I called you here to get my mind off him but…”
“But you still called out his name when you came.” There’s a smirk on his lips. “What’s his name, you said?”
“Wonwoo. Jeon Wonwoo.”
In the darkness of the night, you don’t notice Mingyu’s smirk widening, because you’re too busy yawning. And as soon as you close your eyes, basking in Mingyu’s warmth, you’re out like a light.
_
(ii)
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Miss Y/L/N, I’ve spoken to my secretary to rearrange your schedule to accommodate the trip to Tokyo. Have you checked it?” Wonwoo asks you in the weekly meeting, and you have no option but to recollect your calm as you reply, because everybody’s watching. “I have, Sir. But I have to tell you, I hardly have any experience in dealing with international investments-”
“Then this is the perfect opportunity for you to get that experience.” His eyes are cold and fixed on yours, glaring at you from across the table. His gelled hair lifted off his forehead reveals slightly furrowed eyebrows.
You bite your lip. Any other time and you would jump on the opportunity. But this time, you have to hesitate because you’re afraid you’ll jump your boss on the trip and that would be enough to end your career then and there. But you have a point to prove, especially to the seven other men sitting on the same table. Even in the bright sunlight of the morning in the boardroom, their eyes glint like wolves, waiting for you to make the slightest mistake. They’re waiting for Wonwoo to disapprove of you, so that they can remove the single infiltrator in their male-dominated corporate world.
“Then I won’t disappoint you, Sir.” Wonwoo nods curtly. “Miss Y/L/N, please meet me in my office after the lunch break.” You nod and take his leave as the meeting comes to an end.
Fuck. Less than two days left for the trip, and somehow your confidence has weakened already. You take a seat in your office, staring at your open computer screen, wondering what has come over you. It’s shocking just how much your mind has started behaving and reacting to everything Wonwoo does or says. He’s just four years older than you, but there’s something in his aura which has you second-guessing your every move. Perhaps it's the way he dresses in nothing but the darkest shades of black every day. Perhaps it’s his horn-rimmed glasses, which do nothing to soften his piercing gaze. Perhaps it’s the way there are rumours floating about, but nothing seems to disturb him. In the three weeks you’ve met him, you’ve never seen him lose control even for a second. Not one loud voice, not one expression of unease, not one flicker of anger. In all of your life, you’ve never met a man with such force of character. Character that does not divert, that does not decrease. It intrigues you and excites you in equal parts.
You don’t bother to knock because Wonwoo’s blinds are up and his eyes have been on you since you left your own cabin to walk to his office.
“Sir?”
“Have a seat, please.”
So you do, but he stands up. He comes around the desk to sit on the desk next to you, and his scent engulfs you. Your body has an almost Pavlovian reaction to it- every time you smell his cologne mixed with his naturally masculine scent, you feel intoxicated. The hairs on the end of your skin have risen, as his eyes never leave yours.
“There’s a document on this tablet. I will send it to your email as well. Take a good look at it, I doubt you’ll face any difficulties at the conference in Tokyo.”
“I will check it.”
Wonwoo nods. He’s a man of few words. You secretly think he does it on purpose, to remain more mysterious, to leave you craving for his voice.
“How many days will we be away?”
“One. We’ll be back the next day in the evening. The conference is going to take up your whole day, but you’ll have some time to yourself, if you want.”
“I’ve been to Tokyo before, so I don’t particularly want to sightsee. I’ll treat it as a paid vacation,” you smile, before standing up. “Is there anything else you want to talk about, Sir?”
He doesn’t smile. “Sit,” there’s a pause, and your breath hitches, “please. I also want to talk about your new project. There’s been plenty of talk about the deal with the Spanish, but I want to ensure that it’s a safe source.”
His obsidian eyes burn into you as you sit down again. You couldn’t really deny him when he asked so nicely, could you?
_
If you thought spending all those days in a glass cabin ten metres away from Wonwoo’s office was torture, the trip is absolute hell, with no chance for redemption. This is the first time you’re on the company jet, thanks to Wonwoo. There’s no one else on this trip, except Wonwoo’s secretary, Jeong Yunho, a scarily efficient man who’s been with Wonwoo since before his transfer to your branch. Wonwoo and Yunho seem busy discussing something about the conference, so you stick to your laptop, avoiding eye contact with the man in question. But soon, Yunho leaves the compartment (room? segment?) where you two are sitting (you realise there must be seats beyond the curtain too).
And then it’s just Wonwoo and you. You keep your eyes on your laptop, although he’s sitting diagonally opposite to you, but oh, the only thing on your mind is him. The way his jaw tightens as he reads something on his tablet. The way his blue trousers fit him like second skin, stretching the right way near his thighs. The way his form-fitted blazer must be custom-tailored because there’s no way a commercially sold blazer would match the proportions of those shoulders and that slim waist.
Oh, how you envy his boyfriend.
“See something interesting, Miss Y/L/N?”
Your mouth goes dry when you realise you’ve been staring at him through your side glance, and Wonwoo has caught you in it, without even lifting his eyes once.
“No, I- I was wondering if you’d taken a look at the other companies interested in this conference.”
He still doesn’t look up. His voice is a dry, lazy drawl, but so sharp it cuts through your skin. “Did you? Was there anything you observed?”
“I did. In fact, I’ve also mailed you a report on them. They’re mainly tech giants spread across the world, looking to expand their investment in the AI market, like us. But they’re also top companies in their respective countries, so I’m a little concerned whether our offer will be enough to secure this deal. I understand that the other potential deals will also be substantial, although the chance of a big difference isn’t much considering the current global recession. There’s been few companies who have picked up pace with as much speed after the pandemic as ours, and I think that’s where our edge lies. But at the same time, I thought it best to warn you that the deal will not be easy. It will be a long, competitive negotiation.”
Wonwoo does look up now.
“I see you’ve done your research well, Miss Y/L/N. Do send me a portfolio of the other potential investors you’ve found.”
“Noted, will do so.”
“Good girl.”
And then he goes back to whatever he was reading on his phone, leaving your lungs sans air, and your heart racing. You surely didn’t imagine that- and if you hadn’t known better, you’d think he was encouraging the way you were reacting to him. Did he get off on that kind of thing? Knowing he had his employee squirming for him, begging for his attention?
You excuse yourself to the washroom to take a moment to recuperate. It felt embarrassing and exhilarating at the same time- a feeling you’d never felt yourself, but also a dangerous, forbidden zone of life you’d never explored. Is this how all the men you fucked and didn’t call back feel like when they asked you out on dates? Is this how your sister had felt like when she’d run away from home to marry her professor? Is this how Mingyu felt for his boyfriend?
God, no. This was not happening to you- your mindset, your work spirit, your concentration was not going to be ruined because of one man. You were not, are not that weak. He’s just a man, you tell yourself. At the end of the day, he thinks with his dick. Even if he may not be cishet, he’s probably an enabler or a silent acceptor to sexism and everything you’d fought your entire life for, because how could he have survived in the corporate world for so long?
You wash your face.
That is it. This is the end to your ‘crush’ or infatuation or whatever the fuck this has been. It’s just hormones, it’s just attraction. Nothing fatal, nothing rare. You know well enough that Jeon Wonwoo has got every female employee in the company swooning after him, so there’s no need for you to think his attention is unique to you. So even if your body may be weak to his charms, your mind is stronger.
You’re going to fake it till you make it.
_
Your confidence stays pretty much intact throughout the conference, especially when you put on your femme fatale face the moment you set your foot in Tokyo. It’s a city that really calls to you- with its modernity settled neatly in its heritage, nature and nightlife, it’s one of the cities in the world that you really admire. And you feel like you’ve come home, because the city truly is made for you. Fast-paced and unstoppable.
And so, you take your mind off Wonwoo and focus only on your work. You ignore the way he insists you sit next to him through the conference, you ignore his hot, raspy whispers in your ears whenever he wants to tell you something, you ignore the way his eyes never leave your figure even during lunch when you’re free to mingle with everyone, you ignore the way he’s booked connected rooms for the two of you at the hotel. You ignore the way he’s the first to applaud when your presentation at the conference is complete, you ignore the way he insists on introducing you to every big shot at the dinner party after the conference, you ignore the way he doesn’t leave your side through the night.
And in spite of your astute ignoring, you know you’re fucking lying to yourself. And even if you can hide your heart to the world, you can’t hide it to yourself. You cannot ignore the way your panties are just a tad bit sticky by the end of the night, you cannot ignore the way his smell lingers on your skin because you’ve spent the entire day beside him, you cannot ignore the way your body is running on overdrive and you absolutely need to cool yourself down. Your shower is not enough, so you head down to the swimming pool, with a bloody mary in your hands and lounge near the shallow end of the swimming pool in your skimpiest shorts and tank top because you didn’t bring a bikini.
Your eyes are shut, your head leaning against the metal rails near the pool, so you don’t notice how the other guests at the swimming pool dissipate and you’re lying there as it gets later in the night.
When you open your eyes again, feeling calmer after spending an hour in the water, Wonwoo stands in front you. He’s changed from his three-piece suit to a casual tank top and sweatpants tied low at his hips, a beanie over his hair, and for the first time, you have a clear view of his collarbones and the way his arms and chest are undulated with muscles.
Is this appropriate boss-employee interaction?
There’s no time to wonder, because Wonwoo sits down on a chair behind him, his eyes still on you.
“Relaxing after that long day?”
Oh, he’s really here to make conversation with you, is he?
“If I’m staying in a seven-star property, might as well treat it like a vacation.” You smirk. This is your third cocktail of the night, so you’re feeling slightly heady. It doesn’t help that the cold night is making your nipples pebble over the water.
“You did so well today. Did not disappoint,” Wonwoo hums as his eyes rake over your figure. You gently sip down the rest of the cocktail, before placing it on the side and floating over closer to him. “Really? You think so?” “So good. Everyone was so impressed. Someone even asked me if you were looking to shift jobs somewhere else.” You smile. “Did they, now? What did you say?” You know this is tipping away from your professional relationship, the way you’re swinging your hips as you get up from the pool. It’s definitely a violation of professionalism, when you walk right up to him, ignoring the water droplets dripping behind you, and bend almost over him to retrieve a towel from a stack behind him. There’s a warm current of passion running through your veins when you see the way his tongue sticks out slightly to lick his lips as he unabashedly checks your figure out as your thin clothes cling to your body. When you finally wrap the towel around your body to soak up the drip, he replies, “Why? Are you looking to shift away? Is our company not enough?” “I don’t know, sometimes it can get boring.” You harden yourself to not whimper at the way his gaze pins you, forbids you from moving. There’s a long pause, before he stands up and replies, “Then, as your boss, it’s my responsibility to ensure you stay. Make sure there’s enough spice in your job to keep up your interest. Wouldn’t want to lose my best girl a month into the job, would I?”
Fuck. He’s got you. Your heart skips a beat as you think of a quip to reply with, but you can’t. My best girl. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He smirks when you don’t respond, you jaw slightly agape.
“Goodnight, Miss Y/L/N. Don’t sleep in till late. We have a meeting at 8.”
_
Because you have some time until your company’s jet is scheduled to depart, so you’re roaming through the duty-free stores. You’re walking out of a chocolate store when you notice Mingyu’s life-sized poster, modelling for Calvin Klein. You smile and grab your phone to take a quick photo, before admiring the advertisement. It must be a recent shoot, because his hair is cropped short like you noticed when he last came over. His muscles look well defined in the photograph, where he’s posing shirtless with a single black tie tied loosely to his neck, and black jeans hung low on his lips. There’s a wildly sensual look in his eyes, as if begging to be taken as you pleased, and it makes you smirk. Now you have something more to tease him for, when you meet him the next time.
“Pretty, isn’t he?” You haven’t realised when Wonwoo’s sidled up to your side, and you notice a Bulgari bag in his hands. So that’s where he’s been shopping while you were busy browsing through chocolates. Wonwoo’s eyes are fixed on the poster in front of you, an appreciative glint in his eyes.
“Pretty indeed. For as long as I remember him.”
Wonwoo turns to look at you, his eyebrow raised. “Are you a fan? Or a friend?” “The latter. Mingyu and I have been friends since high school.” “How interesting.” Eager to impress him, you elaborate, “I was the one who pushed him to get into modelling. Couldn’t have let looks like that slip, could I?” Wonwoo chuckles. “Indeed not. I’m sure many must thank you, including myself.”
Wonwoo takes out a small box from the bag he’s carrying. Opening the box, you see there’s a bracelet inside. Set with at least sixty 24k diamonds. It makes your mouth water and your eyes shine, and you cannot help but envy his boyfriend, if he’s the one on the receiving end of such gifts. “What do you think?
You wonder if it’s too personal a question, but you’re also sure a lot of lines between professional and personal have gotten blurred over this trip. So you bravely ask him, “Is that for your boyfriend?”
Wonwoo doesn’t show any sign of displeasure, if he feels it. His eyes still focused on Mingyu’s poster on the glowing display in front of you, he says, “Hmm. Do you think it’ll suit him?”
Your throat goes dry. If he’s bought it for his boyfriend, why are his eyes fixed on Mingyu? But you don’t think about it. Mingyu’s looks are, after all, captivating.
“I’m sure it will. He’s very lucky to be receiving such a pretty gift. He must be really precious to you.” You laugh lightly, trying to hide the bile of jealousy rising in your throat.
Wonwoo puts away the gift. “He is, indeed.” His eyes now shift to yours. “Any favourite of mine is bound to be the most precious to me. And worthy of the prettiest of gifts, whatever they want.”
You fight the blush creeping into your cheeks, trying to stop your heart from racing on. This is ridiculous. Why on earth are you getting into your feels when he’s clearly thinking and talking about his lover? God, Y/N, get a grip on yourself. He’s not yours, and by the look of love and yearning on his face, he never will be.
It’s his voice that breaks you out of your trance. “Miss Y/L/N? The jet’s arrived. Don’t wanna miss it, do we?” You can’t help but nod dumbly and walk behind him to keep pace.
_
(iii)
After the trip, everything goes back to what it was earlier. To the outsider, that is. But you know that behind closed doors, so much has changed. It doesn’t have to be something tangible, but there’s something different in the way you’re behaving around each other. For one, you notice him checking you out more than once, and the fact that you’re catching him in the act means that he intends to be caught. He’s more reckless in the way he talks to you. More reckless in the way he picks you out to lead projects, asks you exclusively to accompany him to conferences and clients he’s meeting, wishing you good morning by looking you straight in the eye even when all eyes in the office are on him.
But then the rumours begin. Favouritism. Must be sucking his cock under his desk.
And it kills you. It poisons any joy you could enjoy under his attention. You’ve made it a point to not just avoid, but also fight against any such rumours about you, because you don’t want anyone else to get credit for your hard work and success, especially not a man. But you don’t want to confront him about this. For the first time, you know these rumours are absolutely false, because you know he couldn’t have any bad intentions towards you- a man who’s so loud and proud about having a boyfriend and has never even had a rumour with any woman before this, could not be looking for sexual favours. So you quietly keep your distance from him. Trying to finish work over emails instead of meeting him in his office. Trying to avoid eye contact and sit at least half the table away from him during meetings. You don’t want to embarrass him with these rumours, and you certainly hope the rumours haven’t reached his ears.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jeon, I won't be able to accompany you to this meeting with the Chois. I’m not feeling well tonight, and I really would like to go home and rest.” You keep a straight face when he comes to your cabin asking you if you’re ready to leave with him. His back is towards the rest of the office, so he misses the way everyone looks up from their work to look at the two of you.
“Unwell? You should’ve told me earlier. I would have cancelled the dinner meeting tonight.”
“No, of course you don’t need to do that on my account, Sir!”
He shakes his head, one gelled lock of hair falling into his eyes. “How do you travel home?”
“I have my car.”
“And a chauffeur, I hope?”
“No, I drive myself.”
“Well, then Yunho’s going to drive you home tonight. You’re in no a state to drive home yourself if you’re feeling unwell.”
Your eyes widen, “No- I don’t want to impose. How are you going to go to the meeting, then? You’ll need Yunho with you.”
He narrows his eyes, his gaze piercing. “You underestimate me. I do not need anybody for a meeting with a client. Especially not a secretary.”
You maintain his gaze. “But I don’t want to inconvenience you on my behalf.”
“I will be more inconvenienced if I worry about you going home alone in this state.”
God. Who’s gonna tell the man that you’re in the fucking pink of your health and you don’t need him to fuss over you like this? Maybe you should’ve just gone with him to the dinner, because this is going to create more fodder for rumours. But you can’t argue any more with him, he’s too stubborn.
“Alright. If that’s what you want.”
His lips tilt upward at the edge. “Good. Take tomorrow off too.”
“No-”
“That was not a suggestion, Miss Y/L/N. Don’t disobey me.”
And then he turns around and walks out of your cabin, leaving you speechless, and at least ten pairs of eyes staring at you. You can only hope the thin glass walls of your cabin prevented the conversation from floating out.
_
You must really be married to your work, because one day off and you’re fucking losing it. You realise, as you wake up at six in the morning, like any other work day, that you’ve not taken a single day off this year. The last time you took leave was last year when you’d visited your parents. You can’t even fall asleep again, which is awful because you slept fitfully last night. Because of him. He invaded your dreams, leaving you sweaty under the blanket, and an uncomfortable wetness between your thighs. But you still get out of your bed, intent on making it through the day, and not becoming unproductive.
All your work is completed within the next three hours, so by the time people your age are actually waking up on a holiday, you’re sitting on your sofa feeling listless because you have nothing to do. There’s no new books you need to read, no new recipe you want to try out. You don’t really watch movies or dramas. You ask Spotify to play a random song for you, but it turns out to be a sex song trending right now. The moans in the background of the track don’t help. The lyrics about someone older clutching your throat while taking you to heaven also don’t help. You turn off the song immediately, and again fall back on your couch, debating whether you should go out for a jog in this cooler weather, when your phone dings.
It’s a photo from Mingyu. When you open it, you burst out laughing at the caption. It’s just a picture of him eating a cupcake, but the caption says I feel like I might die if I eat this. Seemingly normal to anyone else, it’s incredibly funny to you because it’s a red velvet cupcake. And you both swore on red velvet cupcakes back in high school that you’d be best friends forever.
You type back, You’re still my best friend.
You can see that he’s started typing, but then he stops. A second later, your phone rings.
“People don’t go MIA on their best friends for weeks. I would not know even if you lay murdered in your apartment. In fact, no one would know. Not even your family or the police.”
“Well, I haven’t been murdered in my apartment. I’ll ask the murderer to let you know if they do murder me.”
He groans. “Don’t mess with me. Why are you checking messages and answering calls so early in the morning?”
“You have a problem with me checking your texts too?” You giggle.
“No, Y/N, I’m just- I don’t know, worried. Did you resign because of your boss?”
“God I could, actually. He forced me to take a leave today because I told him I was sick last night to avoid going on a meeting with him.”
“You lied to him and got a leave? That’s a win in my books, love.” He cackles, and you wish you could laugh with him.
“Not if it fuels rumours of favouritism, Gyu.”
He sighs. “Oh fuck. Not that shit again. But, really, are you well?”
“No. I’m just horny and mad, both because of Wonwoo.”
“Do you want to rant?”
“I could do with a ranting session. But are you free?”
“I am, the entire day. I could come over. And you could sit on my face and rant. How does that sound?”
You giggle as a spike of arousal shoots through you. “Sounds like my best friend.”
_
Mingyu arrives half an hour later, a little bit of stubble on his jawline. As soon as he steps into your apartment, you pull him to yourself, grabbing his collar, and he smiles against your lips as you press a kiss against his jaw, eager to feel the stubble against your lips. “God, you’re really horny, hmm? Did you touch yourself while I was coming?” He flips you and pins you against the wall, his hands straying down to your breasts as he finds your nipple already hardened. “I did, what took you so long?” “Didn’t know office traffic is so bad. I don’t get out of my house this early, you know?” You hum against his lips, his warm cherry lips which taste like iced americano and the red velvet cupcake he had earlier. “Let’s get you back to bed then, baby.” He pulls away and giggles, “You’re so impatient, Y/N.” But he follows you to the bedroom, as you tug him away. On the way he pulls off your top and shorts, and he lies down first in your bed. “C’mere. Give me a taste of that red velvet, baby.”
Oh, he looks good. Your mind goes back to the first time the two of you had fucked, back in your college dorms. You’d been so heartbroken that day- your crush had turned you down after one date because he’d wanted to have sex, but when you’d told him you were a virgin, he’d laughed at you and left you midway through the date. But Mingyu, forever your cheerleader, had shown you that you’d fallen for the wrong guy. When he’d gone down on you, giving you your life’s first orgasm using his tongue, you’d seen stars. You deserve the best, Y/N-ie. He’d left you speechless when he’d begun thrusting inside you, nothing on your mind except him and just how perfect he was, and how you were such a fool to not have realised it before. I love you, Mingyu. He’d smiled, the post-nut glow on his golden face, I love you too, Y/N.
But you were late. Mingyu started dating someone else within a week. And you’d suppressed your feelings forever, as you realised they were not mutual. You were better off as best friends, even better as best friends with benefits. You didn’t want to lose him.
Those feelings right in your throat again, right now, as he pulls you on top of him and kisses you gently. You’re moaning his name as he pulls you on your face in one go, kissing your thighs, his breath heavy on your core where he’s purposely not touching, leaving you whiny. But you’ve had enough of his teasing, so you tug his hair and pull him towards your bare pussy.
He dives in headfirst, and you grab the headboard as a scream escapes your throat. His tongue laps up your juices, and you see the way he sniffs your pussy, making you clench as his tongue enters you gently. “God, you’re such a tease, baby. Making me forget what I wanted to say.” You tug harder at his hair as he licks faster, and you grind down on his nose. He alternates between flattening his tongue at your clit and using his tongue to thrust into your cunt, already loose from your arousal. But his technique is top notch- just the way it was back in college, when twenty-year old nerdy you had lost your virginity to him. And you climax within a few minutes, your essence coating his smooth face, making his skin shine.
When you look down at him, his eyes fixed on you, he places a soft kiss on your folds, before whispering, “I thought you wanted to rant.”
You push yourself down on him, waiting for him to continue eating you out, but he moves his lips away. Clearly he wants you to start talking before he restarts. So you do start.
“Do you know I went on a trip with my boss?”
“Mmhm? Did not know that. What happened?” You forget your words for a second as Mingyu’s raspy voice sends shocks through your body. You have a wild urge to tug his face away from your cunt just to punish him, but you can’t help but give in to him.
“He…”
_
“Do you want to go out tonight?”
“Tonight?” You’re opening your mouth less because your jaw still hurts from how wide it stretched to deepthroat Mingyu’s cock earlier. You’d forgotten how much of a monster it was, but it was nice to be reminded again. Especially when he came all over your tits and licked it all off you, turning you on again because of how he eagerly nipped at your nipples. But you’re too sore to get up now, so you’re both casually lying across each other as you surf through work emails on your phone and Mingyu watches something on YouTube.
“Yes?” He props his head up on his elbow and looks down at you.
“Tonight?”
“You heard me the first time.”
“I did, but I’m buying time to make up an excuse against it.”
He laughs and kisses you on the corner of your mouth.
“If you don’t want to come out, then you can just tell me.”
“But I should be wanting to go out. I am free all day today, and it should be technically fun. Help me get my mind farther away from Wonwoo if I can snag a date.”
“Hell no. You’ll be my date. Think I’ll let another man flirt with you when I’m taking you out?”
You take a deep breath before looking away from your phone and looking up at him. You notice how pretty his red lips look, and how much you want to kiss him. How hard it is right now to remember that he has a boyfriend, and all this- whatever fragments of intimacy you get- is because his boyfriend is miraculously accepting of Mingyu fucking you and then going back to him. You’d never understand it, even though Mingyu’s said multiple times that it’s totally fine, but you won’t judge him for it. You take what you get and you won’t complain.
So you take one hand and cup Mingyu’s jaw to pull him down.
“Let’s go out this weekend, then? I need at least one business day to mentally prepare myself.”
He kisses you as your breath mingles with his. “Whatever you want, baby.”
_
(iv)
You step out of the elevator dangling your car keys on your fingers when you notice a strangely familiar car pulled up in front of your own smaller car. The window rolls down.
“Mr. Jeon?” Your mouth gapes in shock, when the man gives you that characteristic smirk of his, which is reflected more in his eyes than in his lips. “Good morning. Are you sure you’re well enough to be attending work today? I’m okay with you taking another day off.” Your eyes widen, as you wonder for a second if he’s caught your lie, but then you quickly regain composure. “No Sir, I’m feeling perfectly fit. I’ll drive myself, so there was no need for you to come all the way here-” “No, no. Yunho will drive us to work.”
He steps out of his seat, opening the door for you to enter the car. When you hesitantly take a step forward and are on the verge of entering the car, he says, his voice an octave lower, “You are of top priority, do you not realise, Miss Y/L/N?” With the way his gaze is trained on you, and with him coming all the way to your doorstep for no reason at all, you do somewhat realise now. But why he’s doing it is going all over your head. So you wordlessly enter the car’s backseat, and he joins you from the other side.
The journey is spent in silence, but you can feel the way his eyes flicker to glance at you through the back view mirror. The company car is comfortable in every way possible, and Yunho is a great driver, but you still can’t breathe through the entire journey because you’re on your toes. You quietly regret wearing a pencil skirt with a slit reaching up to your knees, because as you sit in the car, the slit rides up to your thighs and you have goosebumps all over. You can just hope that Wonwoo doesn’t notice.
The two of you entering the office together doesn’t do anything to reduce the rumours. There are even more eyes staring at the two of you now, but you realise it’s a futile effort to try and quash the rumours. People will gossip if they want to, even if there’s no grounds for their gossip. So you let Wonwoo walk you down to your cabin, and before leaving he tells you to check your schedule. “I will, Sir. Have any changes been made? I have just one video conference today in the evening as far-” “Yes, you’ll be accompanying me to lunch today. There’s a follow-up meeting with the Chois, so I want you to be there.” And then he doesn’t wait for you to reply before he struts out of your cabin.
Wow. Lunch too. Now you really can’t stop the rumours.
_
Thankfully, lunch is a solemn affair. You’re too busy looking at figures and prospective business plans for the success of your collaboration with the Chois to question why Wonwoo insists you sit as far away from Choi Seungcheol, the CEO of Choi Enterprises, as possible. So you end up sitting next to him, and there’s nobody else at the table except Yunho and Mr. Choi’s assistant. As the food gets served, you get started with the short presentation you prepared on your way to the lunch meeting, but Wonwoo quickly places a hand on your exposed thigh and stops you from speaking. “Let’s enjoy the lunch first, shall we? Seungcheol doesn’t need to be convinced any more, Miss Y/L/N.” Your lip twists when you wonder why Mr. Jeon is on first name basis with Mr. Choi, but Seungcheol quickly tells you the reason. “We’re old friends, Miss Y/L/N. We’re not here to discuss business, are we, Wonwoo? We’re just here to enjoy a meal at our favourite restaurant.” Wonwoo chuckles, and you open your mouth to say something, but his hand on your thigh squeezes once before moving away, as he whispers slowly in your ear, “Relax for a minute, Miss Y/L/N. You don’t have to always work your pretty brain all the time. Just enjoy the meal.”
To say that you’re stunned is an understatement. You don’t understand what’s going on, but there’s an unspoken conversation happening between Wonwoo and Seungcheol, and you don’t end up talking about work throughout the meal. Seungcheol is good enough to make you feel at ease as he asks questions as far away from work as possible. But nothing today seems to be going as expected- starting from the way Wonwoo came to pick you up, to the way his hand touches your exposed thigh more often than necessary. You eventually let it go- not questioning it, but just enjoying the attention, and the lasagna because when else will you eat at such a fine dining restaurant any time soon?
_
Thankfully, the rest of the day and the next passes by in a better fashion, without any unexpected incidents. It’s late on Saturday evening when you’re just finishing your workout at the gym near your apartment that you get a text from Mingyu. Coming to pick you up in an hour. Hope you’re ready to let loose tonight <3
Fuck, you’d forgotten about your plan about going out with Mingyu. For a minute or two, you debate the pros and cons of cancelling the plan last-minute. But then Mingyu’s whiny, puppy voice flashes in your head as you remember that in the last few months, you’ve cancelled more plans than him, and you’ve only gone out for once in every two months. Fuck it. You deserve to let loose too. You deserve to give a break to your heart and your mind. And you deserve another evening of pure fun with your best friend.
So by the time Mingyu arrives, you’re dressed in a black silk bralette paired with high waist black jeans- the most casual outfit that exists in your wardrobe right now. You tie your hair up, exposing your neck, and wear a simple necklace to finish the look.
“Damn girl. Did I tell you that you look hot?” Mingyu’s whisper is hot near your ears when he comes to hug you, and you giggle. “You’ve cleaned up well yourself.” That is sarcastic, and he knows it, because the smug look on his face says it all.
When the two of you enter the club, Mingyu’s arm is in yours, and you can see how people perceive the two of you as a couple, wearing matching all-black outfits. You don’t care, wishing to live your fantasy for a moment, and wondering what it really would be like to be Mingyu’s lover. To have him to yourself all the time, without sharing him with a boyfriend you’ve never met, and you probably don’t want to meet. To show him off to all the people in your office who straight up ask you why you don’t date even if you’re not getting any younger. To hold him close all night, his warmth acting like your personal weighted blanket, and not feel the ache in your chest every time he leaves in the morning.
As the first round of shots go down your throat, you head to the dance floor, Mingyu’s hands wrapped around your hips and you two move on your own beat. There are people around you who recognise Mingyu, but he doesn’t even look at them. His eyes are all focused on yours, so you maintain his gaze. Getting lost in his eyes, you want to lean in and kiss him. But it would be inappropriate. It’s one thing to sleep with your best friend in the privacy of your apartment, another thing to kiss him publicly when he has a boyfriend. So you just smile hazily as you stare at him to your heart’s content. If you’re just his dirty little secret, you’ll take it. Mingyu has more than enough love in his heart for you and whoever his mysterious boyfriend might be. You’re satisfied with just a place in his huge, beautiful heart.
You’re really getting into your feels now, as the songs change to more upbeat songs which you like dancing to. Right then, Mingyu bends down and whispers near your ears, to ensure you hear him. “Y/N-ie? I want you to meet someone.” You look up towards his face, mouthing a silent who, before he whispers again, “Turn around, love.”
And you do.
At first, you’re sure it’s an illusion of the flashing lights of the nightclub, increased by the effect of the alcohol running through your veins. But then Mingyu’s voice is again breathy near your ear, “Meet my boyfriend, Jeon Wonwoo.”
Time stops around you.
_
(v)
When you come back to your senses, you’ve somehow moved to one corner against the bar, far away from the din of the dance floor.
The man in front of you smiles, a dazzling, beautiful smile you’ve never seen before, and your head reels. You fall back into Mingyu’s arms, who swiftly catches and steadies you. You can’t believe the sight in front of you. You emit a loud gasp as Mingyu’s touch makes you realise this is, in fact, reality. “Your boyfriend?”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Wonwoo’s voice is unbearably deep, and he’s so close that you can hear him even in the noise of the club. But you still can’t register his presence, so you reach behind to grab onto Mingyu’s hands. “Gyu? Mingyu- is this a joke?” But the man you’re talking to merely giggles and lowers his face near your neck, so that you can feel his cheeks against yours.
“Mr. Jeon-” Wonwoo takes another step forward, trapping you in between the two men. “Wonwoo, please.” “Oh. Wonwoo- I- I’m sorry-” He smiles, and Mingyu giggles again against you. “Sorry? For what? God, she’s cuter than what you told me, Mingyu.” His eyes flicker to the man behind you before falling to you again. “Mingyu also told me that you have a lot to complain about me?” “No! No, I didn’t mean any of that? Mingyu!” It must look pathetic, how you’re leaning back towards Mingyu and grabbing to his hands from behind you, because you want him to be on your side. But Mingyu indulges you, as he says, “I’m here, baby, I’m here.”
But it’s clearly not enough, so you turn around to see him. “Is this real?” Mingyu’s smile is bright, “Yes, Y/N-ie.” “Why didn’t tell me before?” “What’s the fun in that?”
It really sinks in for you now. You turn back around, to see Wonwoo still standing there, the gentle smile still on his face. He lifts his hand to touch your hair, then your cheeks and finally cups your jaw. “Do you want to get out of here, Y/N?” God, he even makes your name sound pretty. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk more, hmm?” You nod your head, “Yes, please.”
_
That’s how you end up in Mingyu’s car, his long red sedan, which he’s currently racing off the streets of the city, the night air making you sober as you reach Wonwoo’s place, where Mingyu has moved in, as you learn. Through the journey, Wonwoo and Mingyu hold hands over the console, and somehow pieces connect in your more sober mind. Fuck, how did you never consider this possibility before? Bits and pieces from what Mingyu had told you comes back to you now. The boyfriend was initially a sugar daddy sort of thing because he didn’t live in the city- he would come around in between work schedules and pamper and spoil Mingyu for entire weekends or longer, during which Mingyu would not even check his texts. You’d thought it must have been some celebrity guy, if he’s so busy with schedules and so rich. But you were wrong. So, so wrong. Mingyu had officially started dating this boyfriend six months ago, coinciding with exactly when Wonwoo had moved back to the city permanently.
“What are you thinking in your pretty head?” Wonwoo looks at you through the back mirror as Mingyu’s pulling up near Wonwoo’s home.
“This still feels unreal. Why didn’t you tell me before, Mingyu? God, I can’t believe I said all that to you.”
Mingyu laughs, but doesn’t respond. It’s only when you three enter the house and get seated on the couch, you in between the two boys, that he starts talking. “What do you want to know, Y/N? Right from the beginning?”
“No, I get the beginning. I pieced it together in my head.” Somewhere from behind you Wonwoo chuckles, and mumbles smart girl. But you don’t dare to look at him, trying to ground yourself in reality. So you stay turned towards Mingyu. “Did you know he’s my boss even before I told you?”
“I did. After Wonwoo and I got together, I told him all about you. I showed him your photos, told him you’re my best friend, told him we also sleep together sometimes.”
“And you were okay with that?” You finally develop some courage to look into Wonwoo’s eyes, his beautiful black eyes that are so much sexier up close.
“Of course I was. How could I not be, when you made my baby boy so happy? You and I both know that Mingyu has too much love to give, so I knew that him loving you wouldn’t take him away from me.”
“Lo-loving me?” Your voice is feeble, and you look back at Mingyu. Your eyes drift to his cherry lips before looking back at him, and he smiles, his canines out on display. “I do love you, Y/N, you know that, right? I’ve meant it every single time I’ve said it.” “But as a friend…?” “That’s only because I didn’t want to lose you by confessing. And also because I had no idea how I was falling for two people at the same time. You and Wonwoo.” Your eyes drift to his lips again as you sigh. It’s so strange, how conflicted your heart had been just earlier this evening, but now your body is radiating with a slow-flowing joy. Noticing your gaze, Mingyu leans in and gently kisses you on your mouth, a chaste, soft kiss, but it’s sweet like nectar. “You want me? Mingyu?” “So much, Y/N-ie. And Wonwoo wants you too, you know.”
You finally turn around to look at the other man beside you, his patient smile beautiful. “Did Mingyu tell you everything?” He grins, “Yes, everything.” You close your eyes in embarrassment, but Wonwoo’s hands gently cup your cheeks, holding your face in his hands, upturned towards him. “How could he not? I pried every little detail from him.” “Was this the reason why you took the job at our branch?” “Yes. I came to the posting at the headquarters for Mingyu, but I shifted for you. Because I fell for you too whenever Mingyu described you to me. And after meeting you that first time at that meeting at the headquarters, I knew it was a lost case. My heart was yours before you even saw me.” “Oh, I saw you alright. You looked so handsome that day.” You can feel your cheeks heating up in a blush, and Mingyu coos at you from behind. His body somehow moves closer, trapping you between the two boys, and you feel hot with the attention from the both of them. Mingyu’s hands weave through your hair, untangling your hair at the scalp, making you almost purr with pleasure, but you don’t move your eyes from Wonwoo’s face.
“I want you so much, Y/N. I have wanted you for so long.” Wonwoo pauses and then chuckles, “Mingyu’s wanted to tell you for so long. But I wanted to wait, because I wasn’t sure of how you felt towards me. I’m still not sure… are you still mad at me?” You giggle, even more embarrassed by the second. “I could never be mad at you, Wonwoo.” “I genuinely, really wanted to take care of you, you know. Just take care of you.” Wonwoo’s smile is so gentle, so mature, and so warm. This is a new side of him that you’re seeing, and you realise you’re falling for him even more. “Wonwoo… you know my feelings already.” “But I want you to tell me, please. I need to know that it is the truth.” You pause for a moment, eyes taking in all the beauty of Wonwoo’s features. “I do want you. I want you so much I think I’m losing my mind over it.”
And that’s all the confirmation it takes. Wonwoo leans down, his grip tightening on your jaw, as he kisses you with all the affection he has. You can’t help it but melt into his mouth, and the kiss deepens. You’ve been so curious for so long to find out what touching Wonwoo would feel like, so when he explores your mouth with the intense kisses, you roam your hands all over his body. Feeling the hair near his nape, the skin along his collarbones, his biceps under his button down shirt, his sculpted back that feels so broad to you. From behind you, you can feel Mingyu’s hands wandering around your body, near your hips, the skin exposed at your stomach below the bralette, inching towards the bottom of your breasts. You shiver at all of the contact, all of the attention.
It’s only when Wonwoo breaks the kiss and you see Mingyu kneeling down on the carpet next to you, both the men facing you, that you realise that you want them both. So bad.
“Do you want us both, Y/N?”
“Yes,” Your voice comes out in a rushed squeak because you’re breathless. “Yes, but… can we take this to your bedroom?”
No more words are needed. Mingyu immediately lifts you up in his arms, and you latch your legs around his waist, as he begins to feverishly kiss you as Wonwoo leads the two of you to his bedroom. You’re dropped gently on the bed and Mingyu gets in right next to you. Mingyu makes quick work of taking off his clothes, and Wonwoo stands in front of you, at the edge of the bed, cupping your face with his hands again. “Are you sure?” You nod. “Never been more sure of anything in my damn life.”
Wonwoo bends down to kiss you again. But this time, the kiss is no longer sweet, or exploratory. It’s the kiss of a hungry man eager to devour what is his. He doesn’t let you do anything in the kiss, except match his tempo, and it’s shocking how easily you’re letting in to him. It helps that Mingyu’s also kissing your neck, making you arch your back into him as you lean your neck to give him more area to kiss. Mingyu’s big hands grope at your bralette, and Wonwoo breaks the kiss to let him tug it off. Finding that you’re wearing nothing below it, Wonwoo curses and kisses you again, hard, pushing you on Mingyu’s big body which is all muscles now that the clothes are off. Mingyu’s hands come from behind to fondle your breasts, moaning low in your ears as you wriggle between his spread legs on your either side. You feverishly grip onto Wonwoo’s hips, who’s still standing, and his hands weave into your hair.
“My turn,” Mingyu whispers before attempting to lift you away from Wonwoo, but the older man swats his hands away. “Baby boys don’t demand. You don’t want to get punished yet, Mingyu-ah.” Your head tilts back on Mingyu’s shoulder as you feel the shiver run through his body at his boyfriend’s words. The crystal black in Wonwoo’s eyes becomes unimaginably darker as Mingyu whimpers in your ears. You reach behind to rub your hands over his thighs, his strong, thick thighs, and you can feel his hard length twitching through his boxers near the small of your back. You arch your back to give more access to your tits to Mingyu, who abuses your nipples by pinching and twisting them recklessly. He really loves your breasts, so you let him play, but you can’t stop yourself from moaning out loud now that Wonwoo can’t muffle you any longer with his kisses.
Wonwoo takes a step away and takes in the sight in front of him. You can see the way his chest heaves with desperation, but his resolve is unbroken. You can see the way his cock is straining through his jeans, but you know his patience is crazy. He’s not going to break so soon.
And he doesn’t. A slow smirk spreads over his face when his eyes meet yours. “So pretty, my little sweethearts. Pretty baby, are you having fun? Playing with my doll?” A spike of arousal shoots through you at the pet names, and Mingyu whimpers at being called pretty baby. “So much fun, Sir, I swear.” Your body reacts on its own, as you feel another gush of wetness flow into your panties at the way Mingyu calls Wonwoo sir. Fuck, their dynamic is so hot. “Then take off her pants like a good boy.” Mingyu leans in and you help him to get you out your jeans, leaving in nothing but your soaked panties. They’re white which means your arousal must be so evident through the lace, and Mingyu groans when he sees it. But he doesn’t touch you- he knows better.
Wonwoo grins and coos at you. “So pretty in white.” He leans in to kiss you again, before quickly flipping you over until you’re on your hands and legs. His hands gently grope your ass, making you giddy with his large hands patting your soft skin. But then you hear the sound before you feel the impact. The loud smack, a ghost of a touch on your ass, before it starts burning and it’s only then that you realise he’s spanked you. You’re still processing it, when he smacks the same spot again with incredible precision, and you jolt at the touch. He doesn’t give you time to recover- he keeps smacking the same, sensitive area, and you’re sure the spot of arousal on your panties have spread into a larger spot now and he can see it. Because you’re all but whimpering and screaming in Mingyu’s arms now, who’s ravaging your neck with nips and bites, his fingers still pinching your now sensitive nipples. Your body is hanging on the brink of overstimulation, and you’re so wet you think you can come untouched.
Wonwoo seems to read your mind, because he says next, “Are you come from this, doll? Just a few spanks?” He smacks your ass again, and you jolt again, but Mingyu’s arms hold you in place. “Should I stop? Or should I make you come untouched like this if you like it so much?”
You don’t respond.
You can’t respond.
Your body shakes uncontrollably as you let go of yourself and give in to the first orgasm of that night. Wonwoo spanks you right through the orgasm, but once your shaking reduces, he gently pulls you up and takes off your panties. From how you’re pulled up against Wonwoo’s standing body, you can see how flustered Mingyu looks, his bulge straining through his boxers, the stain big and drops of sweat falling off his beautiful body. He looks gorgeous like this, and you’re dying to kiss him. Once your panties are off, Wonwoo loosens his grip on you, and you seat yourself on Mingyu’s lap, his legs still spread, and you both moan when your bare pussy comes in contact with the bulge in his boxers. You grind down on the hard length as you capture his lips in a kiss, your fingers leaving impressions on his shoulders with how hard you’re gripping him. He gropes your ass, still sensitive from the spanking, but his touch soothes you. You grind down on him harder, and it’s only when he breaks away from the kiss with a hiss that you realise he’s come in his pants as you feel the wetness from his boxers stick to your own wet cunt. “God, that’s so hot Mingyu.” You praise him, as he looks at you with unfocused, desperate eyes, and you kiss him again.
But then you feel a weight on the bed behind you, and you turn around to see Wonwoo joining the two of you on the bed. His clothes are off, except his boxers, and you gasp when you see how well-built his body is. He’s much leaner compared to Mingyu but his build is so impressive, and your eyes trail down to where his abdomen gives way to his dick, which is very much visible through his boxers. Your hands immediately reach out to grab his shoulders, which are so wide, but he doesn’t let you touch him, instead grabbing your hair and pulling you into a kiss as you’re seated, trapped between Wonwoo and Mingyu.
“Did you make my baby boy come without touching him?” He asks you between sloppy kisses, before his lips trail down to bite your neck, while Mingyu’s mouth is focused on your tits now, sucking at the nipples, soothing any abrasion from his pinching earlier. You nod unable to form words with all the attention, and Wonwoo understands as he laughs lowly. “Turns out both my playthings are little sluts for each other. So hot for each other, aren’t you?” Mingyu moans next to you, and you can feel how turned on he is by the dirty talk, as his dick twitches after having just orgasmed a few minutes ago. You grab his head and push his face into your breasts as he laps all over your tits.
Once Wonwoo’s left hickeys all over your neck, he extends a hand to cup Mingyu’s jaw and lifts the younger boy’s head to look at him. There’s an intense look shared between them- you can see Mingyu’s jaw slacken at the touch, as he bends forward for more attention from his boyfriend, so he gets it. Wonwoo leans in to kiss him, and his hand moves from his jaw to his neck, slightly grasping it and choking it while he sits up on his knees to kiss Mingyu out of breath. Mingyu’s back arches as Wonwoo towers over him, and you move backward, leaning against the headboard, turned on even more at the sight in front of you.
You’ve never had a threesome, and never imagined you’d be so okay with Mingyu being shared with someone else. He’s always been yours even if just as a friend with benefits. But you find that sharing Mingyu with Wonwoo gives you no problem at all- perhaps it’s because you know they’re already a couple, but also because you can see it in their eyes how much they’re in love with each other.
You pull your legs towards yourself, and Wonwoo soon pulls Mingyu into his arms, the younger man’s legs spread around Wonwoo’s legs, close enough that their dicks brush against each other through the clothing barriers, making Mingyu whine out loudly and Wonwoo hiss at the contact. They feverishly kiss each other, almost as if you’re not there in the room. But you don’t feel out of place. You feel somewhat like a voyeur, but a welcome one, because soon, Wonwoo makes eye contact with you even while kissing Mingyu and sees the way you’re flicking your own clit. He breaks the kiss, and says, “Y/N- I thought you knew better than to touch yourself without my permission.” He takes your hand in his own, away from your body. “Please,” you whisper, but he shakes his head. Mingyu turns to look at you two, his chest heaving. “She looks so pretty like that, Wonwoo.” Wonwoo’s head turns towards Mingyu, a smirk on his face. “You like it?” “Yes, so much.” “Then I guess I can’t be mad. But-” he breaks himself off, getting out of the bed to open the bedside drawer. “I’ll still have to tie you up.” You notice that he’s brought out a tie and a bottle of lube. He leans in to tie your hands away from you, and a part of you gets embarrassed that Mingyu’s seeing you like this, because you’ve never let him tie you up, because you didn’t know you were into it, you would rather tie him up. But your pussy throbs when your hands are tied behind you, leaving your breasts arched out towards the front, and Wonwoo extends one hand to enter two fingers into your wet pussy as he goes back to position and resumes kissing Mingyu, his other hand holding on to Mingyu’s hips.
It’s funny to see how quiet Mingyu is with Wonwoo, all pliant and desperate. When he’s with you, he’s running his mouth endlessly, babbling or being a brat, giggling whenever either of you slip up the slightest, and yapping even through the most intense of orgasms. But Wonwoo, no words seem to come out of his mouth. Only moans, pretty moans of varying pitches, whines and whimpers, the occasional grunt and groan, because any word he tries to form gets broken down into nonsensical sounds ending in whimpers.
Wonwoo removes his hand from your cunt, leaving you high on the impending orgasm, and feeling so, so empty. You almost whine at the loss, but Wonwoo speaks before you, clearly he’s having a moment with his boyfriend so you don’t want to interrupt greedily.
“Did you wear that all evening?” When Mingyu replies in affirmative, a breathy yes, Wonwoo grunts and twists his boyfriend’s nipples before kissing him again. You wonder for a second what that is, but then you twist your body to look at the spot where Wonwoo’s other hand is.
You find a crystal butt plug sitting snugly between Mingyu’s asscheeks, shining bright against his golden skin, and your pussy clenches at the sight. Wonwoo’s hand touches all around it, clearly teasing, before he pulls away from the kiss and leans over Mingyu to see the butt plug himself. There’s a sudden gasp as Wonwoo lightly slaps over the plug, and then slowly, excruciatingly slowly pulls out the butt plug. “Please, no- no, pl- I- Wo- sir!” Mingyu fumbles over his words as he feels his gaping hole become empty, and Wonwoo sighs at the sight, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he controls himself. “Such a whore, Gyu, wearing the prettiest plug in your pretty ass all night for anyone to feel up.” “No! O-only for- for you, sir!” Wonwoo’s fingers easily enter the slender hole and you feel your enter body get hot when you feel his other hand also at your pussy, his thumb flicking your clit. He’s fingering the two of you simultaneously but his face is so focused, so resolute, while the two of you are breaking apart from his touch.
Wonwoo’s hand soon leaves your pussy and you see him turn around Mingyu with the younger’s back towards him. “Ready?” He whispers in his boyfriend’s ear, biting his earlobe and taking off their boxers. Mingyu’s whining reply comes soon after, “Please, need it inside me, please sir!” Wonwoo chuckles, and he squirts lube into his hand before entering Mingyu’s hole one finger at a time.
Your eyes are blown wide at the sight before you, as you see Mingyu squirm and whine as Wonwoo enters nearly three fingers at once, pumping slowly. Mingyu can’t help but babble, “Please, I’m ready- so ready, don’t need prep-” “You’re right, whores do not need prep. Your ass was made for me, wasn’t it?” Mingyu whines again, and you move in front of him to kiss his bare chest, licking his nipples softly, and you suddenly feel Mingyu’s body jolt up.
Wonwoo’s cock has entered him, up to the hilt, all in one go. It’s not easy- seeing that Wonwoo’s cock is long and incredibly erect right now, but Mingyu takes it all in with a scream of his boyfriend’s name. “God, still so tight. Fucking heaven.” Wonwoo sets his own lazy pace, his hands casually gripping Mingyu’s hips. Mingyu’s cock is still so erect, its bulbous head red and sensitive as it leaks all over the bed without any attention given to it. You see Mingyu enter a completely different level of submissiveness, where he doesn’t even want to be a brat and tease back, he gives in completely as his boyfriend fucks him stupid.
“Gyu? How about you eat out this pretty pussy here, hmm? You like it, don’t you?” “Yes, I wanna- please- can I?” Mingyu looks up at you, as if for permission, but you instantly pull his head down towards your wet pussy and he dives right in, his tongue entering you immediately. You and Wonwoo both moan out loud at the sight, and he begins fucking Mingyu faster. He fucks Mingyu into you, and the additional force makes Mingyu suck your clit and make out with your pussy even better. You throw your head back in pleasure, feeling a knot in your stomach building up.
“I’m going to come all over his face, Wonwoo. Will you let him come with me?” Wonwoo chuckles, “Hold on for a second longer, look at the pathetic way his cock is leaking. He’s going to come untouched again, isn’t he?” Mingyu’s moans buzz into your pussy and your voice becomes desperate. “Please let him come now! I can’t hold it-” And that’s it. You climax right then, your essence covering all of Mingyu’s face, who licks you through the orgasm, and you see him hit his orgasm too, his cock wringing out ropes and ropes of cum as he comes untouched for the second time that night. “You were right, Wonwoo. He really is pathetic. He’s still hard after coming twice untouched.” It’s so hot to talk about Mingyu like he’s not even in the room, and you can see how much he likes it. Almost as if you both can use him as you please for your pleasure only. His big body falls limp on the bed, whining, when Wonwoo suddenly pulls out of him and leans over to kiss you.
As Mingyu lies down, recovering his breath, Wonwoo tugs you closer to him and kisses you. His mouth is warmer now, the kiss more sloppy, and the scent of Mingyu is not entangled with his own masculine scent, making you heady with pleasure. Wonwoo’s hands soon find your clit as he rubs you hard and fast while making out with you, his other hand gripping your hair to hold you in place as your knees almost buck and collapse under his ministrations. “I’m not done with you yet, doll. Tired already?” He pulls away but you chase him and end up licking all over his jaw. “Not tired. I’ll take whatever you give, Wonwoo.”
You almost miss Wonwoo’s low grunts when Mingyu whines from beside you, “Me too… Y/N-ie kiss me too.” Identical, indulging, fond smiles burst out on both your and Wonwoo’s faces, and even he can’t come to scold his cute boyfriend. “Attention whore,” Wonwoo’s words don’t sting, they’re filled with a gentle fondness that recplicates the one in your heart, and you both lie on either side of Mingyu to kiss him all over, you make out with him and Wonwoo lavishes his skin with hickeys that will leave marks tomorrow. Mingyu sighs and whimpers in the spotlight, and you notice how his dick chubs up again. Wonwoo notices it too, because he laughs, a mean undertone in his voice, as bends down to kiss the tip of his boyfriend’s thick cock.
“You’re so pretty all over,” you whisper to Mingyu as you kiss his stomach and eventually take his hardening cock into your mouth, inch-by-inch to avoid gagging on the thick length. Your hands are still tied behind you, so you can’t stroke the rest of the length that doesn’t fit inside your mouth. “Don’t praise him, don’t encourage him to be more of a cockslut,” Wonwoo says, his fingers fondling your breasts as he watches you suck his boyfriend’s cock. Mingyu’s dick spews pre-cum into your mouth with the simultaneous praise and degradation, and you relax your jaws to deepthroat him further.
“Y/N! You- god, Y/N-ie you’re so good at this, please- Wonwoo, can I fuck her mouth? Please?” Your mouth waters at the idea so you look up at Wonwoo, your tongue still licking at Mingyu’s tip, begging him to let Mingyu fuck his big cock into your mouth, but Wonwoo glares back, looking ready to devour you. You haven’t missed how his cock is still rock-hard, proud and red against his abs, so you move up from Mingyu’s dick and bend down to place kisses on Wonwoo’s tip too. He groans at the contact, cursing under his breath. Then he sits up and flips you around, until you’re on your stomach on the bed, your mouth inches away from Mingyu’s dick, and Wonwoo’s dick pokes at your folds, rubbing himself with the wetness of your pussy. He places a hand on the back of your head and pushes you down on Mingyu’s cock, right as he sinks into your cunt, the whole length inside you at once, and you moan around the cock in your mouth. Your hands still tied behind you, you feel your nipples brushing against the sheets, and all the stimulation is too much to take.
Your mouth full of cock, you push yourself back towards Wonwoo, to take as much of him as you can, desperate for him to set a faster pace, but you can’t take your mouth off the dick to tell him the same. Thankfully, he seems to read your mind, or rather, his self-restraint breaks, as he snaps his hips faster against you, moaning about how tight you are, so wet, so warm, so sexy and how he’s moulding you to fit his cock, shaping you to fit you, and how he wants to come inside. So you get up from Mingyu’s cock for a second, to say, forming words slowly, “You can, Wonwoo.” His pace stutters, “I can? You sure?” “Yes please. I want it. Want you to fill me up, Mr. Jeon!”
And that does it for him. He buries himself into you as he comes inside you, his thick cum being pushed further inside as he lazily thrusts you through it. You come seconds later as Mingyu himself comes inside your mouth, and you take it all in, your body eager to please. Mingyu sighs, his face red but the pleasure clearly painted on his features as he flashes you a sated grin. As Wonwoo pulls out of you, he gets off the bed to bring a piece of cloth from his washroom, and you move up to kiss Mingyu, the kiss slow, exhausted, but so warm. You’re smiling against each other’s mouths, the skin-to-skin contact feeling like heaven, and he runs his hands through your hair. When Wonwoo comes and sits next to you, he kisses his boyfriend first, another gentle, warm kiss that makes your heart full. “You did so well, baby.” He tells Mingyu, who gives him another dopey smile, before he turns to you, and kisses you too. “You too, darling.”
Darling. You melt at the pet name, stretching your hand to hug Wonwoo and Mingyu at the same time, the latter snuggling into you, needy after all the sex and Wonwoo chuckles. “Let me clean you up and then you guys cuddle.” “And you?” Mingyu’s voice is small, whiny, and Wonwoo laughs. “I’ll be right back with y’all. I need a shower, okay?” And when he kisses your and Mingyu’s forehead and disappears into the washroom in all his naked glory, you sigh peacefully and snuggle into Mingyu’s chest, the latter placing tiny kisses near your hairline as you both fall asleep.
_
(vi)
You know, somewhere in the middle of the night, Wonwoo had joined the two of you in that big bed. You’d ended up sandwiched between the two men, your head snuggled in Wonwoo’s chest, as Mingyu spooned you from behind. Safe to say, you did not need a blanket all night.
Like clockwork, your body wakes up at six am, just as the sun begins shining through the pale blue curtains. Wonwoo is not next to you, but the pillow isn’t cold. You can see Mingyu still snoring away, so you gently detach his legs from where it was tangled with yours all night, and get out of the bed. Your legs are still sore, but you manage to find Mingyu’s t-shirt from last night and slip it on and walk out of the room.
In the daylight, you can see just how elegant and posh the house is. Unlike your apartment, the walls are done in dark shades of blue, and you think how accurately it reflects Wonwoo’s soul. The furniture is all wood, and you know that the multiple appliances in the kitchen and the dressing room you see are additions from Mingyu’s end. You find Wonwoo standing in the open kitchen, leaning against the counter as he hums softly and sips his coffee. Seeing you, he looks up and a beautiful smile spreads across his face.
In the daylight, Wonwoo looks different.
In the daylight, Wonwoo looks attainable. You step closer to him and hug him, your arms finding your way around his slender waist, and he hugs you back, resting his chin atop your head. “Good morning, darling. Can’t sleep even on a Sunday?” You laugh into his shoulder. “Neither can you. There’s a reason why people say we’re dating our work.” “Not me.” He pulls your head away to face him, “I know I’m dating two beautiful people, the most beautiful people in the world, my favourites.” Your heart fills at the fondness in his eyes.
“Wonwoo, I know we talked last night, but are you s-” “Are you sure? What you say matters the most, baby.” “I am, but you and Mingyu are in an open relationship and all…” “That was another ploy, of course. You think I could share Mingyu with anyone except his pretty little best friend who looks like a dream?” His words make you cringe, and you wonder if anyone ever sees this side of Wonwoo except Mingyu… and now, you. You lean in to kiss his pouty, pink lips, and Wonwoo’s nose scrunches up into an adorable smile. God, that’s the first time you’re seeing this smile. So you kiss him again, eager to get him to react like that again. And he does. The nose scrunch becomes a permanent feature as he kisses you deeper, and you can taste the coffee in his mouth.
“Do you want coffee?”
“Yes, please. Should I wake up Mingyu? I don’t want him to feel sad later for missing anything.” You hug Wonwoo one more time before you feel another pair of hands grabbing you from behind and crushing the two of you in a bear hug. “I feel sad already, Y/N-ie. Thank you for thinking about me. Who do I even have in this world except you, hmm? Certainly not my boyfriend.” Mingyu’s morning voice is extra lispy and extra raw, but it feels so warm near your back.
You open your eyes to see Wonwoo kissing Mingyu from above you. “Please don’t gang up against me on our first day together.” Wonwoo’s quiet mumbling doesn’t go unnoticed and you and Mingyu both end up laughing. You hug the two of them again, and your heart settles into a warm peace you never want to get out of, for your life.
#simpxxstan#favourite wonwoo mingyu#seventeen fanfic#seventeen x reader#svt#svt x reader#seventeen x you#svt smut#seventeen imagines#seventeen smut#wonwoo smut#mingyu smut#seventeen poly#seventeen minwon#seventeen wonwoo#seventeen mingyu#mingyu x wonwoo#seventeen fic#Spotify
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COLLAB STAGE / Y.J
Pairing ◊ sub!fem!idol!reader x dom!idol!jungwon (ft. Lesserafim Yunjin)
Genre ◊ SMUT, fluff
Warnings ◊ SMUT (MINORS DNI), harddom!jungwon, hair pulling, fingering, oral (m. receiving), semi-public sex, overstimulation, rough, slight dacryphilia, mirror sex, aftercare, dry humping, petnames (sweetheart, baby...), reader is a year older than jungwon (so he calls her noona)
Word count ◊ 6.7k
Summary ◊ You and Jungwon were friends since your trainee days, you've always seen him as a little brother, until this collaboration you had to with him for your Summer Gayo Daejeon performance
a/n: not proofread, enjoy!
You stepped out of the sleek, black car provided by Hybe Entertainment, the cool morning air brushing against your face as you headed toward the familiar studio entrance. The tall building loomed above you, your company logo glinting in the sunlight. As you entered the lobby, you were greeted by the usual bustle of staff and trainees, everyone busy with their own schedules.
“Good morning!” you called out to a few familiar faces, receiving nods and smiles in return. The anticipation bubbled in your chest as you reached the designated practice room. Today was pretty special. The CEO had chosen you to do a collaboration stage with a member of Enhypen for the upcoming SBS Gayo Daejeon performance. And you were so happy that that member was Jungwon. You used to train together back in the day. He was only a year younger than you, and you were always pretty close. Plus, your groups debuted around the same time. But, what you did not know, was that Jungwon always kinda had a crush on you, and he’s been trying to make you see him differently for months now.
Pushing open the door to the studio, you saw him already there, stretching on the floor. His eyes lit up when he noticed you, and he jumped to his feet with a wide grin.
“Noona!” Jungwon called out, his youthful enthusiasm infectious.
“Won! You’re here early,” you said, smiling back as you dropped your bag on the bench and joined him in stretching.
“I was too excited to sleep much,” he admitted with a chuckle. “This is going to be so much fun. I can’t believe we finally get to do this.”
“I know! I’ve been looking forward to it too,” you replied. “It’s been a while since we’ve had the chance to work on something together.”
As you both chatted and caught up, the door swung open again, and the choreographer, Ji-eun, walked in. She was a renowned figure in the industry, known for her intricate and dynamic hip-hop routines. You had already worked with her, as she created the choreography for your group’s last comeback.
“Good morning, everyone!” Ji-eun greeted, her energy palpable. “Are you two ready to work?”
“Yes!” you and Jungwon responded in unison, exchanging amused glances.
Ji-eun clapped her hands together, signaling the start of the session. “Great. Let’s get started with the basics of the routine. It’s a hip-hop piece with a lot of sharp movements and synchronization. I need you both to bring your A-game.”
You and Jungwon nodded, focusing as Ji-eun demonstrated the initial steps. The beat of the music pulsed through the room, and you found yourself getting lost in the rhythm. Jungwon mirrored your movements perfectly, his natural talent shining through.
“Good, good! Now, let’s add some more complexity,” Ji-eun said, moving into the next sequence. The steps were fast and challenging, requiring both agility and precision.
As the session progressed, Ji-eun occasionally stopped to give pointers, adjusting your posture or tweaking a movement here and there. The routine was demanding, but you relished the challenge. You and Jungwon fell into an easy rhythm, your movements syncing effortlessly.
“Perfect! That’s what I’m talking about,” Ji-eun praised after another run-through. “You two have great chemistry. This stage is going to be amazing.”
Jungwon grinned at you, wiping sweat from his brow with his towel. “We make a pretty good team, huh?”
“We always have,” you agreed, returning his smile. “Remember those practice sessions back when we were trainees? We were always trying to outdo each other.”
“Yeah, and you always won,” he laughed, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“Not always,” you corrected him. “But most of the time, yes.”
You saw Jungwon roll his eyes playfully and open his mouth to retort, but Ji-eun called for another run-through. You threw yourself back into the routine, your body moving instinctively to the beat.
An hour and a half flew by in a blur of music and movement. By the time Ji-eun finally called for a break, you were both exhausted but exhilarated.
“Take fifteen, and then we’ll do a full run-through with the music,” Ji-eun instructed, heading out to take a call.
You collapsed onto the floor, stretching out your legs. Jungwon flopped down beside you, panting lightly.
“This is going to be epic,” he said between breaths.
“Definitely,” you agreed. “We’ll show everyone what Jokerz and Enhypen can do together.”
Jungwon’s expression softened as he looked at you, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.
Ji-eun returned to the studio and gave you both some final pointers before she left you to rehearse on your own. The studio was buzzing with the high-energy choreography you had been perfecting all morning.
“Okay, you two, I think you’ve got a good handle on this,” Ji-eun said, clapping her hands together. “I’ll leave you to practice on your own for a bit. Just remember to keep the energy up and stay in sync.”
“Got it!” you and Jungwon chorused, both of you giving her a confident nod.
As Ji-eun left the room, you turned to Jungwon with a grin. “So, ready to run it again?”
“Absolutely,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with determination.
You both got into position, and the music started up again. This time, without Ji-eun’s watchful eye, you found yourselves more relaxed, allowing your natural chemistry to shine through. Your movements were fluid and synchronized, feeding off each other’s energy.
“Nice move there, wonnie!” you called out mid-routine as he nailed a particularly tricky step.
“Thanks, noona! You’re killing it too!” he shot back, his smile wide.
After a few more run-throughs, you both paused for a break. You went to take your water bottle in the corner of the room, trying to do some air with your hand.
At the corner of your eye, you saw Jungwon pulled off his hoodie, revealing a tank top underneath. You blinked, momentarily taken aback. You had always seen Jungwon as a little brother figure, but seeing the definition of his muscles was… he was so hot. You tried to ignore the unexpected flutter in your stomach as you took a sip of water. As he took his own water bottle, you watched him discretly, a pool forming in your belly.
“Uh… you’ve been working out lately?” you said, attempting to keep your tone casual.
He glanced down at himself, then back at you with a casual shrug. “Oh, this? Yeah, I sometimes work out with the hyungs. Gotta stay in shape, you know?”
You nodded, trying to focus on the conversation and not how his tank top clung to his frame. Wow, this was new. “Makes sense. It’s just… I guess I never noticed before.”
Jungwon’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he caught the slight flush on your cheeks. “Noona, are you blushing?” he teased, flexing his arm a bit more prominently.
Your face heated up even more as you sputtered, “N-no! I’m just… it’s hot in here, that’s all.”
He smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Sure, whatever you say.”
Determined to shift the focus, you stood up and stretched. “Let’s get back to it. We’ve got to nail this routine.”
Jungwon chuckled, following your lead. “Alright, let’s do it. But don’t think I didn’t notice, noona. You were totally checking me out.”
You shot him a mock glare, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat. “Focus, won. We’ve got a show to prepare for.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, still grinning. “I’m focused, don’t worry,’’ his grin transformed into a cocky smirk as he put his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants and walked up to you.
As the music started up again, you threw yourself into the routine, trying to push aside the newfound awareness of Jungwon. But every now and then, you caught him glancing your way, that same smirk still on his lips. It was clear he enjoyed seeing you flustered, and you couldn’t help but feel a mix of embarrassment and something else you couldn’t quite place.
After a long and exhausting practice session, you finally made your way back to your dorm. As you opened the door, you were greeted by the familiar sight of one of your bandmate, Yunjin, lounging on the couch with her phone in hand.
“Yay, you’re back!” she exclaimed, looking up from her screen. “How was the practice with Jungwon?”
You sighed, dropping your bag by the door and collapsing onto the couch beside her. “It was… something.”
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What happened?”
You hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Well, you know how I’ve always seen him as a little brother, right?”
“Yeah, of course. You’ve mentioned it a million times,” she replied, her curiosity piqued.
“Okay, so today, we were practicing this really tough hip-hop routine for Gayo Daejeon,” you began. “And Ji-eun left us alone to rehearse on our own for a bit.”
“Uh-huh, go on,” she encouraged, leaning in closer.
“Well, Jungwon took off his hoodie because it was getting hot in the studio,” you continued, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks at the memory. “And he was wearing this, like, tank top underneath. I had no idea he was that… fit.”
Yunjin’s eyes widened, and she burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you got flustered, didn’t you?”
“I mean…a little,” you admitted, burying your face in your hands. “It’s just, I’ve always seen him as this cute younger brother or something. But today, he looked… argh.”
“Different how?” she pressed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
You sighed, finally giving in. “He looked… so, so hot. I couldn’t stop staring, and he totally noticed!”
She laughed even harder, clutching her stomach. “This is priceless! Our ynnie has a crush on Jungwon!”
“It’s not like that!” you protested, though your blush betrayed you. “I was just… surprised. I didn’t expect him to have grown up so much.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, still giggling.
“Stop teasing me, Unnie,” you groaned, playfully shoving her. “I’m just trying to process it. I mean, he’s always been like a brother to me, and now suddenly, he’s this attractive guy. How did that even happen?”
“Sounds like you’ve got it bad,” Yunjin teased, nudging you with her elbow. “But seriously, it’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s time to see him in a new light.”
You sighed, leaning back on the couch. “I don’t know. It’s just… really confusing. I’ve always been so sure of our dynamic, and now it feels like everything’s shifted. It doesn’t feel…platonic anymore.”
She smiled sympathetically. “Feelings can be complicated, especially when someone you’ve known for a long time changes. Just take it one step at a time and see where things go.”
“Thanks, Unnie,” you said, grateful for her understanding. “I guess I’ll just have to see how things play out during this collaboration.”
“It’s just a week and a half away, you’ll be fine. And in the meantime, try not to get too distracted by his muscles,” Hana added with a wink, causing you to throw a pillow in her direction, one she dodged as she got up from the couch and sprinted to the kitchen.
“I hate you,” you said, loud enough so she could hear you.
As the evening wore on, you couldn’t help but replay the events of the day in your mind. Seeing Jungwon in a new light was certainly unexpected, but maybe Hana was right.
The next day, you arrived at the practice studio a bit early, hoping to get some stretches in before Jungwon showed up. As you rolled out your yoga mat and began your stretches, the door opened, and Jungwon walked in, his demeanor radiating confidence.
"Morning, noona," Jungwon greeted you with a charming smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Morning, wonnie," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "Ready for today?"
"Absolutely," he said, dropping his bag and joining you on the floor. He started stretching beside you, his movements fluid and relaxed.
You chuckled nervously. "We need to nail this routine."
As you both warmed up, the studio felt smaller, the air charged with an unspoken tension. Jungwon seemed more confident, and his movements were more assured. And you couldn’t help but feel turned on by his confidence. Focus, yn. Stop thinking about that. When you began practicing the routine, his eyes never left you, making you hyper-aware of his presence.
“Alright, let’s take it from the top,” you said, hoping to focus on the choreography and not on the way his tank top accentuated his toned arms. Of course, he had to wear a tank top again. A white one this time.
The music started, and you moved in sync, your bodies effortlessly flowing through the steps. But every time Jungwon’s eyes met yours, you felt your concentration waver. He seemed to notice, and his smirk grew more pronounced.
“Come on, noona, keep up,” he teased, executing a particularly sharp move with ease.
“I’m keeping up just fine,” you shot back, though you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks.
As the routine progressed, Jungwon's playful teasing only intensified. During a particularly close part of the choreography, where you had to mirror each other's movements, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear.
“You’re doing great, noona,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth.
Your heart skipped a beat, and you missed a step, stumbling slightly. “Th-thanks,” you managed to stammer, trying to regain your composure.
He pulled back, grinning. “What’s wrong? You seem a bit distracted.”
“Just focused on getting the steps right,” you lied, hoping he couldn’t see through your facade.
“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it further.
You took a deep breath and forced yourself to focus. The routine was intricate, demanding your full attention, but Jungwon's newfound confidence made it increasingly difficult. He moved with a grace and assurance that was hard to ignore, and his constant teasing only added to your distraction.
You couldn’t continue like that, or else you might burst. You never noticed how handsome he was or how hot he looked when he was focused on something. But since yesterday, that was the only thing you could think about.
During a break, you sat down to catch your breath, wiping sweat from your forehead. Jungwon plopped down beside you, a bottle of water in hand.
“Here,” he said, offering you the bottle. “You look like you need it.”
“Thanks,” you said, taking it and drinking gratefully. “You’re really on fire today. Did you have an extra shot of coffee this morning or something?”
He laughed, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just enjoy seeing you flustered.”
You nearly choked on your water, coughing slightly. “I-I’m not flustered.”
“Sure you’re not,” he said, his smirk widening. “It’s okay, noona. It’s kind of cute.”
Your face burned, and you looked away, trying to hide your embarrassment. Why did your heart skip a bit when he said that? The way he was looking at you, with his playful smirk and his glimmering eyes. You should scold him, he was younger than you, how could he called you ‘’cute’’. You hated that you actually liked it.
You cleared your throat, your cheeks still red and got up from the ground. ‘’Uh… we should get back to practice ‘’
“Of course,” he agreed, but the playful glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t done teasing.
As you both resumed practice, Jungwon continued to push your buttons, his confidence making him bolder. During a particularly challenging sequence, he placed his hands on your waist to guide you into the correct position, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.
“There,” he said softly, his breath warm against your neck. “Perfect.”
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to his closeness. “Thanks,” you murmured, stepping away to put some distance between you. You couldn’t be cphysically close ot him right now. Not outside of the chores.
He chuckled, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Anytime, noona.”
By the end of the session, you were exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Jungwon’s confident teasing had left you more flustered than you cared to admit, and focusing on the routine had been a constant struggle.
“Good work today,” Jungwon said as you both gathered your things. “We’re getting better.”
“Yeah, we are,” you agreed, forcing a smile. “See you tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” he said, giving you a wink. “I can’t wait.”
As you left the studio, you couldn’t help but replay the day’s events in your mind. As the days unfolded, you avoided him the best you could. After practices, you always came up with an excuse whenever he asked if you wanted to grab something to eat or drink. But most of all, you avoided looking into his eyes. His beautiful and hypnotizing eyes.
Today was one of your last practices, as the Gayo Daejeon was approaching. You tried to keep your focus only on the routine, determined not to let him get to you. You couldn’t. The choreography required for you to look into his eyes, but today was clearly impossible. His hair was parted in a way to make his features appear stronger. he looked so good. Every time your eyes locked, your cheeks would heat up, and your heart could race uncontrollably. Instead, you fixed your gaze on the floor or focused on a point over his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
But Jungwon wasn’t one to miss much. After the fourth time, you avoided his eyes during the routine, he began to suspect something was up. Plus, he noticed how distant you were and how you tried to avoid him during the last few days. During a particularly close part of the choreography, where you had to face each other and mirror each other’s movements, he finally decided to confront you.
You were supposed to step into each other’s space, your faces mere inches apart. Instead of looking at him, you kept your gaze firmly on the floor, focusing on your feet.
“Look at me,” Jungwon’s voice was low but commanding. He stopped his movement and placed his fingers gently under your chin, tugging your head upwards to look at him, holding your waist wth his other hand.
You swallowed hard, your eyes reluctantly meeting his. “Why are you avoiding my eyes, noona?” he asked, his smirk widening as he saw the blush spreading across your cheeks.
“I’m not avoiding your eyes,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckled softly, his fingers still holding your chin. “You’re a terrible liar. What’s got you so flustered?”
“I’m not flustered,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away, but his grip, though gentle, was firm.
“Sure you’re not,” he said, his tone dripping with playful confidence. “Come on, noona, you can be honest with me.”
The intensity of his gaze, coupled with the proximity of his body, almost buckled your knees. “I just… I’m trying to focus,” you stammered.
He leaned in closer, matching your height, his breath warm against your lips. “And looking at me makes it hard to focus?”
You bit your lip, your mind racing for a plausible denial, but nothing came to you. The way he was looking at you and how confident he seemed made it hard for you to concentrate. “Yes,” you finally admitted, your voice barely audible.
A triumphant smile spread across his face. Before you could say anything, he closed the small distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss was gentle at first, testing, but when you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his other hand that was on your waist pulled you closer. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you felt like you were melting into him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back with a hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been suppressing.
You both pulled away, breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. Your eyes locked with his, and you could see the desire in his eyes. His pupils were dilated and he looked at you with half-lidded eyes.
Without even thinking twice about it, you grabbed the front of his tank top, pulling him back to you for another kiss, this time a lot more aggressive and forceful. Jungwon groaned against your lips, his hands finding the small of your back and pulling you closer. The kiss was fiery, your mouths moving in a heated dance. You both put so much force into the kiss, you were practiaclly sure your lips would have bruises on tomorrow.
He backed you up until you felt the cool surface of the mirrored wall against your back. His hands were firm as they roamed over your body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Your hands were feeling him, going from his broad shoulders to his biceps to his abs. You felt every muscle tense against your hands, and you absolutely loved it. You needed to touch him.
“Look at you,” he murmured as his lips attached to your neck, kissing and biting it, his voice thick with desire. “So needy. You like this, don’t you?”
You gasped, feeling a shiver run down your spine. “Fuck, yes,” you whispered, the admission making your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and excitement.
His eyes darkened with a predatory gleam as he pinned your hands above your head, his body pressing against yours, trapping you against the mirror. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants. “Say it again,” he demanded, his tone commanding.
“Yes, I like this,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly.
Jungwon smirked, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good girl.’’ His hand slipped under your shirt, caressing your skin, eliciting a moan from you. He chuckled, his hand moving higher, his thumb brushing over your bra. “So desperate for my touch. Fuck, you’re perfect.’’
You bit your lip, trying to stifle another moan. “Please…”
“Please what?” he taunted, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric. “Use your words, baby.”
“Please, touch me,” you begged, your voice breaking.
“Good girl,” he praised, his hand slipping under your bra to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your sensitive skin. “I love hearing you beg for me.”
You moaned, pressing into his hand, your body trembling with need. “Wonnie, I need you…”
He growled, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. “I know, baby. I know.” His free hand slid down to your thigh, lifting your right leg to wrap around his waist. “God, you’re so perfect. So responsive.” You felt his hard-on against your clothed core as he started to move a bit, causing both of you to hiss.
You felt like you were drowning in him, every touch, every word sending you spiraling deeper into desire. He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “Look at you, so desperate for me. Do you know how hot you look right now?” He thrust again, a little harder this time, and you let out a small, needy whine. He smirked, his hand moving to the waistband of your sports shorts.
In one swift motion, he slipped his hand inside, his fingers finding your core. You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. ‘’Fuck you’re so wet for me,’’ he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? So ready to be touched.”
You moaned, unable to form coherent words, your body responding to his touch with a mind of its own. “Yes, yes, please…”
He leaned in, his lips hovering your ear, before you could feel him sink his teeth to your lobe. “I’m going to make you feel so good.” And with that, he entered one finger and started pumping it, slowly at first. He picked up the pace when he saw you responding to his moves. He quickly added another one and you couldn’t stop the moans from slipping.
"God, you’re so tight," Jungwon murmured, his voice laced with a mix of awe and desire. "I can barely fit two fingers in."
You gasped, the sensation overwhelming as he pushed his fingers deeper inside you. The tightness and the heat around his fingers made him groan in satisfaction. "Fuck. If you’re this tight around my fingers, I don’t know how I’m gonna fit."
You moaned, the combination of his words and his rough touch driving you wild. He smirked, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing harsh circles around it. "You like that, don’t you? You like feeling my fingers inside you, stretching you."
"Yes," you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand, seeking more of his touch.
His smirk widened as he pushed his fingers deeper, his pace rough and unrelenting. "Look at you, so desperate for me. So wet and tight. Oh, I’m gonna ruin you."
You whimpered, the pleasure building inside you, making it hard to think or speak. He chuckled darkly, his free hand coming up to cover your mouth as a particularly loud moan slipped out of your mouth. "Shh, we can’t have anyone hearing you, can we? Anyone could walk into the studio and see you like this, begging for my touch."
His hand muffled your moans, the pressure of his fingers inside you and the movement of his thumb on your clit pushing you closer to the edge. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "You’re such a good girl, taking my fingers so well. But you’re also a dirty little thing, aren’t you? Getting off in the practice studio where anyone could see."
You nodded, tears of pleasure forming in the corners of your eyes. The combination of his praise and degradation made your body tremble, every nerve ending on fire.
"You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?" he whispered, his voice low and commanding, as he felt your walls tightening around his fingers. ‘’Fuck, I can feel how close you are. Go ahead, come for me, but keep it quiet. Show me how good you can be."
His words sent you over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. You bit down on his hand to muffle your cries, the intense waves of pleasure crashing over you. Jungwon continued to finger you through it, his touch relentless and rough, prolonging your release until you were a shaking, panting mess.
When you finally came down from your high, he withdrew his fingers slowly, his eyes dark with desire and satisfaction. ‘’You’ve made such a mess, all because of my fingers."
You blushed, leaning your had against the mirror. You were completely breathless. He brought his fingers to his lips, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "You taste amazing. I can’t wait to be inside you.’’
When you finally find some sanity left, you gently push him a bit from you and let your hands run through his abs before tugging at his shirt, signaling for him to take it off. You wanted to make him feel just as good. He took off his shirt, revealing his toned abs.
Jungwon raised an eyebrow, his smirk reappearing as he realized your intent. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice teasing.
"Returning the favor," you said, your voice husky with desire.
His eyes darkened with lust as you dropped to your knees in front of him, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants. You pulled them down slowly, your breath hitching as you revealed more of his skin. When his boxers followed, you couldn’t help but let out a small gasp. His cock was big indeed and the sight of him made your mouth water.
"Like what you see?" he asked, his voice dripping with arrogance and amusement.
You nodded, your eyes locked onto his impressive length. You licked your lips, your desire evident.
"Then show me," he commanded, his tone dominant. "I want to see that pretty mouth of yours around me."
You nodded, leaning in to place a soft kiss on the tip of his hard cock. He groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and command.
You opened your mouth, taking him in slowly, savoring the weight and feel of him on your tongue. He let out a deep groan, his hips twitching as you began to bob your head, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.
‘’Fuck, baby" he growled, his grip tightening in your hair. "You look so good like this.’’
You hummed around him, the vibration eliciting another groan from him. You quickened your pace, hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around his length.
"That’s it," he praised, his voice breathless.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and the intensity of his gaze made you shiver. His dominance, the way he looked down at you with a mix of adoration and arrogance, only fueled your desire. You wanted to make him lose control, to hear him praise you more.
You deepened your efforts, taking him as deep as you could, feeling him hit the back of your throat. Jungwon’s head fell back, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. "Fuck. Your mouth feels so fucking good. So fucking perfect."
You felt a surge of pride and arousal at his words, your movements becoming more fervent. His grip in your hair tightened, guiding your movements as he thrust roughly into your mouth. "You like this, don’t you?" he asked, his voice rough. "Being on your knees for me, taking my cock like a good little slut."
You moaned around him, the degrading words sending a thrill through your body. He was pushing all the right buttons, and you loved every second of it.
"Answer me," he commanded, pulling you off him just enough so you could speak.
‘’Fuck, yes, I love it," you gasped, your voice breathless and needy. "I love making you feel good."
"Good girl," he purred, thrusting back into your mouth. "Keep going. Make me come."
You redoubled your efforts, your hand stroking him in time with your movements. His breathing became more ragged, his moans louder. "I’m close," he warned, his hips bucking into your mouth. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me come."
You moaned in encouragement, hollowing your cheeks and taking him as deep as you could. With a final, guttural groan, he tensed, his release spilling into your mouth. You swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste and the sound of his pleasure. When he finally released his grip on your hair, you pulled back, licking your lips and looking up at him. Jungwon’s eyes were dark with satisfaction and something deeper, something more tender.
He grabbed your jaw forcefully, making you go back on your feet and crashed his lips into yours, tasting himself on your tongue. He grabbed your hips firmly.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire.
You did as he said, your heart pounding in anticipation. Jungwon pressed you against the mirrored wall, his body heat radiating against your back. He tugged your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, and you gasped at the sudden coolness against your skin.
“Look at yourself,” he whispered in your ear, his hand gripping your chin and tilting your head up to face the mirror. “I want you to see how desperate you are for me.”
Your eyes met your own reflection, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with anticipation. Jungwon’s eyes bore into yours through the mirror, a predatory gleam in them. He positioned himself behind you, his hand sliding between your legs to tease you, finding you already wet and ready.
He smirked, positioning himself at your entrance. Without warning, he thrust into you roughly, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he filled you completely. You cried out, the sudden intrusion overwhelming, but Jungwon’s hand quickly covered your mouth.
“Quiet,” he ordered, his voice a harsh whisper. “Anyone could walk in and see you like this, see how much you love being fucked by me.”
You nodded, biting down on your lip to stifle your moans as he began to move. His pace was relentless, each thrust rough and deep, pushing you against the mirror. The sensation was intense, every nerve in your body on fire.
“Look at yourself,” he growled, his hand gripping your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet your own eyes in the mirror. “Look at how you’re taking me, how much you love it.”
You whimpered, your reflection showing you lost in pleasure, completely at his mercy. His other hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in sync with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much, and you felt your body tightening, the first orgasm building rapidly.
“Wonnie, I’m gonna—” you started, but he cut you off with a harsh thrust.
“Do it,” he commanded, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. “Come for me, beautiful. Show me how good I make you feel.”
His words, combined with the relentless pace of his thrusts and the pressure on your clit, sent you over the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Jungwon’s hand muffled your cries.
“Good girl,” he praised, his voice rough with satisfaction. “You look so beautiful when you come.”
He didn’t give you time to recover, his pace never slowing. Each thrust pushed you higher, the overstimulation making your body tremble. “Won, please,” you begged, your voice a desperate whisper. “It’s too much.”
“You can take it,” he growled, his eyes filled with a dark hunger. His fingers moved faster on your clit, the pressure building again. You couldn’t believe how quickly another orgasm was approaching, your body responding to his every touch.
“Won, I can’t—” you started, but he cut you off with another rough thrust.
“Yes, you can,” he insisted, his voice filled with dominance. He leaned in, his chest pressed against your back as his lips hovered over your ear. “You’re going to come again, and you’re going to do it while looking at yourself. I want you to see how much you love being fucked by me.”
The intensity of his words and the unrelenting pace of his thrusts pushed you over the edge again. You screamed into his hand, your body convulsing with the force of your second orgasm. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, your vision blurring as you were overwhelmed by the sensation.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Jungwon groaned, his own release approaching. “You feel so good. So tight and wet. You’re fucking perfect.”
With a final, deep thrust, he came inside you, his body tensing as he filled you with his release. You both stayed there for a moment, panting and trembling, the intensity of the encounter leaving you both breathless.
After you both recovered a bit, Jungwon carefully helped you straighten your clothes, pull up your shorts and panties, and made sure you were comfortable. He guided you to sit down on one of the benches, his eyes filled with a mix of tenderness and concern.
“You okay, noona?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You nodded, still breathless and trembling slightly. “Yeah, just… wow.”
He chuckled, his confidence still shining through. “Yeah, wow.’’
You smiled weakly, feeling the soreness already settling in. “I don’t think I can practice anymore today. I’m too sore.”
Jungwon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I guess I really did a number on you, huh? Didn’t expect you to be so breathless and sore. Maybe I should’ve gone easier on you.”
You gave him a playful glare. “Don’t get too cocky, now. You’re just lucky I didn’t outlast you.”
He laughed, sitting down beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Sure, sure. But that’s not what you were saying when I was indie you, huh? All I heard was you begging for more.”
Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t help but smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you feel better.”
Jungwon stood up and retrieved a small towel from his bag, dampening it with some water from his bottle. He knelt in front of you and gently wiped the sweat from your face and neck, his touch tender and caring.
“Here, let me massage your legs a bit,” he said, his tone softening. “It’ll help with the soreness.”
You nodded, grateful for his thoughtfulness. As he began to knead the muscles in your calves and thighs, you felt some of the tension easing away. His hands were skilled, and the massage was both soothing and relaxing.
“Better?” he asked, looking up at you with a warm smile.
“Much better,” you sighed, feeling more at ease. “Thank you, wonnie.”
“Anything for you,” he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. He leaned in and kissed your neck, his lips warm and gentle against your skin.
You shivered, a mix of pleasure and exhaustion washing over you. “Won, we can’t… not here. We’re already lucky nobody walked in on us.”
He pouted playfully, his eyes filled with mischief. “But I was just getting started on round two.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Maybe later. I’m way too tired right now.”
He smirked, his confidence and cockiness still evident. “Fine, I’ll hold you to that. But don’t think I’ll forget.”
You smiled, leaning into him. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Jungwon wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. The warmth of his embrace and the gentle hum of the studio lights created a comforting atmosphere. You laid down on the bench, your head resting on his tights, while he played with your hair.
The soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of footsteps in the building provided a soothing backdrop to your quiet moment together. Jungwon's fingers traced light patterns on your scalp, making you feel relaxed and content.
“You know,” he began, his voice soft, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh,” you teased, peeking up at him with a playful smile. “That sounds dangerous.”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Very funny, noona. But seriously, I was thinking we should go out sometime. You know, on a proper date.”
You raised an eyebrow, surprised but intrigued. “A date, huh? Are you sure you can handle that?”
Jungwon smirked, his fingers still threading through your hair. “I think I can manage. Unless you’re too scared to go out with me.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Scared? Please. I’m just worried you might not be able to keep up.”
“Oh, I’ll keep up,” he said confidently. “The question is, can you handle it?”
You rolled your eyes, enjoying the banter. “Alright, tough guy. Where do you plan on taking me?”
He pretended to think for a moment, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “How about dinner at that new rooftop restaurant downtown? I heard the view is amazing.”
“Ooh, fancy,” you replied, impressed. “Trying to impress me, are you?”
“Is it working?” he asked, his expression hopeful but playful.
“Maybe,” you said, pretending to ponder. “But I’m going to need more than just a nice view to be impressed.”
He laughed, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Challenge accepted. So, what do you say? Dinner tomorrow night?”
You bit your lip, considering his offer. Despite the teasing, you felt a genuine excitement at the prospect of going out with Jungwon. “Alright, you’ve got yourself a date. But only if you promise not to be late.”
He placed a hand over his heart, feigning seriousness. “I promise. I’ll even show up early, just to make sure.”
“Wow, early?” you teased. “You must really want to impress me.”
“Maybe I do,” he admitted, his tone more sincere. “You’re worth it.”
You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, and you smiled up at him. “Well, in that case, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” he said, his fingers resuming their gentle play in your hair. “It’ll be nice to spend time together outside the studio.”
You nodded, closing your eyes and letting the comfort of the moment wash over you. “Yeah, it will be. Just you and me, no distractions.”
“No distractions,” he agreed, his voice a soft promise.
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Texas Access Controls
Texas Access Controls 2019 Hillview Dr, Mesquite, TX 75149, United States (214) 683-5514 https://doorservicescorporation.com/texas-access-controls/locations/mesquite-tx
Having an automatic door breakdown implies a complete disruption of pedestrian traffic in your structure, specifically when it is an entryway door. It is important to solve any trouble fast to stay clear of the high price as well as trouble.
When professionals turn up late, or don't have the required spare components in their van, after that all the people in your building experience. Texas Access Controls is your expert partner for automatic door service as well as installation. We service as well as fix all makes and versions of automatic doors from all produces. 24/7 service is available to meet your after hour needs. With licensed AAADM Technicians and over 50 years of product understanding, we are positive that Texas Access Controls will certainly surpass your expectations. Proudly offering Mesquite, Texas because 1987.
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Durability Meets Design: Hallmarks of the Best Flush door and Block Board manufacturing company in India
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Ganga Automation offers a wide range of high-quality aluminium rolling shutters that are designed to provide maximum security and protection to your property. Our shutters are made from top-grade aluminum materials that are lightweight, durable, and corrosion-resistant. To know more details click the link.
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