#It’s just a polite request to my mutuals

[citrustan]

omg commissions open!! how about an E2L angsty fic? maybe with jungkook, where he hates the reader at first but is drawn to her and finds her fascinating?

yessirrr, you're speaking my language 😛 the moment i read this, a scenario instantly built in my mind!! thank you for messaging :D

killah (jjk)

pairing: managing partner!jungkook x spoiled brat!reader

genre: enemies to 😛 idk bec you irk him, angst, smut, like slight fluff

warnings: hinted emotional cheating, jungkook is a taken man but 🫵 you kinda want him and he sorta kinda wants you too??? but he's fighting it bec he's got a girl already, bratty behaviour from reader (that's all for thjs part, yes there will be a follow-up)

You were standing a few feet away from the hostess' table, scrolling through Pinterest, barely blinking while your brother whisper-bickered with the staff about a table.

You had been waiting at this reservation-only restaurant for almost thirty minutes now. If you don't get seated in the next ten minutes, you're going to start tearing up.

Logan would glare at you every other minute.

It was your fault, you had forgotten to reserve a table. But in your defence, you need to be told things at least thrice for it to stick. Logan knew that. So really, he's just as to blame.

He's trying to put some sense of responsibility in you but you're... persistent. Resistent.

Because why must you work when you don't absolutely have to?

You roll your eyes, trying to drown Logan out and switch apps to complete your daily NYT Wordle.

That’s when someone spotted you.

"_____?" The figure squealed, a little too loud for the atmosphere, “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

You glanced up and smiled automatically--- wide, sweet, a little rehearsed.

Who the hell is that? You can't seem to recognise her.

The girl leans in for a small hug, but you remain frozen, politely blocking her attempt to engulf you entirely.

She backs off immediately, probably embarrassed? You can't tell.

Clearing her throat, she reintroduces herself, "It's Hyewon!"

Oh! Now it clicks. And it shows on your face.

Hyewon smiles in victory. You remembered her.

"Heyy, I could not recognise you with the new hair!" You could've sworn she was a redhead the last time you saw her.

You had first interacted with her at a mutual friend's house party.

✿

You were seated on a faux-velvet couch, barefoot and yelling about how every colour had a personality.

"Blue is the friend who bails you out of jail," you smiled deviously at each of your friends as if you were attributing the colours to them.

"Yellow is the one who put you in there. Green is the innocent one that people suspect. And pink..." you pause to think, "Pink is who you did it for."

Everyone around you looked so engrossed.

Hyewon had never heard anyone talk like that. She had come across occasional shit-posts on Tumblr but never thought people actually had serious discussions this stuff out loud.

She didn’t even like you at first. You were too loud. Too much.

But she couldn’t look away.

After introducing herself to you, later that night, Hyewon requests to follow you on Instagram. You accept instantly but don't follow back.

What kind of weird power play was she being subjected to?

Then you two met coincidentally a few more times, still you hadn't followed her back.

✿

Tonight was the first time you came into contact with each other without any buffers around you.

She bit her lip in a shy smile, "Thanks." She seemed to have taken it as a compliment.

So you comment on her hair anyway, "I really like it, it frames your face well."

Your eyes fall on another figure behind her.

The first instinct you had was to stare. Because this was the sexiest man you'd ever seen. And you've seen a lot of those.

He

Cautiously, you look back at Hyewon, who seemed enthralled by the man too.

The man approaches you two and wraps his tattooed hand around hers.

Ah.

Whatever.

"_____, This is my boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. Babe, this is _____ _____!"

You glance at him. “Oh. Hi.”

It’s barely a greeting. You’re more interested in your reflection in the glass.

Jungkook nods at you before looking back at his girlfriend, whispering to her about their table.

That only riles you up.

They have a table and you still don't. You feel a slight rush of entitlement taking over you.

Hyewon nods but then paused, "Oh, uh, are you leaving, _____?"

You shake your head, "Logan's trying to get us a table."

Hyewon sees this as an opportunity to get closer to you.

Just when she was about to extend an invitation to you and your brother, said brother calls out to you.

Finally. You weren't in the mood for any more small talk.

When Logan looks over at you, and in the same breath, his gaze lands on Jeon Jungkook, "Huh. Jeon, right?"

Jungkook, who had been sizing you up quietly with polite disinterest, raises a brow, "Yeah."

Then it clicks. Jungkook nods, resemblance flickering in his eyes. "Right. I’ve seen you in the elevators."

"Hard to miss a face like mine," Logan says dryly.

You roll your eyes at that.

Hyewon laughs. "I had no idea you two knew each other."

"We don’t, really," Jungkook replies. “Just hallway sightings.”

You swing your bag to your shoulder, ready to leave, when something fluffy drops to the floor. It's your bag charm.

You don't move, just stare at it.

Hyewon, without missing a beat, crouches and retrieves it for you.

"Aw, thank you," you say casually, this time sporting a genuine smile.

But Jungkook observes something else. He notices how you don't pick up after yourself. You didn’t even pretend to go for it. You just expected Hyewon to move for you.

He watched you struggle to clip it back on. You then pass it off to your brother, who successfully attaches the charm back on.

Jungkook's jaw ticks a little. As if he was holding back on telling you off.

Brat.

The hostess returns then, apologizing profusely as she attempts to guide you and your brother ahead of two other waiting couples.

No one says anything because you’re used to this kind of priority.

"I'm hungry, we're going to go in now," you announced, later adding, "See you around, Wony!"

You entangle your fingers in Hyewons, slightly swinging it as to bid goodbye, smiling cutely.

"Have fun, you guys," Hyewon says sweetly.

Logan awkwardly smiles and escorts you in.

Jungkook silently follows Hyewon to the hostess table.

Once they’re past the threshold and walking through the foyer, Hyewon peeks up at him, finding him usually quiet. "You okay?"

He shakes his head once. “Your friend’s kind of a brat.”

Hyewon snorted, "Okay."

She didn't think much of it.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Later that night, at Jungkook's apartment. He had just stepped out of the shower.

For some reason, he kept replaying the moment he met you over and over again. It angered him.

"She’s a little ridiculous," Jungkook suddenly mutters, annoyed. "Your friend."

Hyewon lifts a brow, "_____?"

"She didn’t even reach for her own bag charm."

Hyewon raises a brow, "You’re still thinking about that?" Why the fuck was he thinking about you in the shower?

"She just stood there. Expected you to do it." He continued.

"That's just how she is. I don't know, I don't think it's that big of a deal..." Hyewon treads lightly.

"It doesn't bother you to be treated like that by your friend?" Jungkook scrunched his brows.

He seemed very intrigued.

She considers for a second. It's not like you're friends. She doesn't think you're even acquaintances. "It... doesn't, I think it almost makes her a little charming. Like she's not faking anything."

Although, Jungkook does have Hyewon rethinking her perception of you in her mind.

She tries to rationalize it, "She doesn't try to be something she's not..."

Jungkook pulls a shirt over his head, "_____ doesn't try at all."

Hyewon smiles, "But that's what makes her fun. You just don't get it."

"No, I do get it," he argues, "She's rich and a spoilt brat because nobody's ever told her no. So now she treats everyone like they're made to serve her."

Hyewon patiently watches him for a second. He looked so riled up over you.

"Well, you're rich too," she weakly adds.

"I am now, but I wasn't always... It's not the same, it's... Whatever."

"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought." Hyewon frowns.

Jungkook doesn't answer right away, choosing to deflect and instead just calls for her to return to bed after her bath quickly.

Hyewon doesn't want to think too much of it. But then her phone dings.

You had requested to follow her back.

.｡⁠*⁠♡

Back at your shared penthouse with Logan, you conduct slight research of your own.

"Who is Jeon Jungkook?" You barge into your brother's room.

Logan stills for a second. "Why?"

You shrug, "It's just a question."

Logan squints, unconvinced, but answers anyway, "He's the managing partner at Jeon, Kim & Kim."

Ohhhh. Of course, he is. You've heard of him. He really does live up to his name. You'd heard he was almost unapproachable. How in the world did Hyewon end up with someone like him?

You nod slowly. Okay.

After returning to your floor, you waste no time and look up Hyewon's Instagram. To your surprise, she had already been following you.

Oops.

You click on the follow button and toss your phone away for the night.

the next installment: killah (jjk) 2

note: i was listening to killah by lady gaga hence the name, now, i know the song is super groovy and the vibes do not match but!! throw me a bone here, i think the song describes the situation fairly well. and as ush, please tell me what you think of this :) is it worth following up on or is it just predictable and whatever? thanks for reading :)

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Hello! Requesting if you can do a random (kinda long) angst with karina x fem! reader?? Really like your writing style 🙈

Half Of Everything.

Synopsis: You loved her quietly for years, always almost, never enough. Now she wants you—but only after it’s too late.

Word Count: 1,145

Karina X Fem!Reader

a/n: first time writing a fem reader fic, sorry for mistakes.

Hope you like it Anon 🫶🏻

You always knew Karina was a beautiful kind of distant.

Not cold—no, never cold. She smiled at you too warmly for that, leaned against your shoulder during lectures with sleepy eyes and soft hums. She always answered your texts. She knew when to show up with takeout when you were drowning in finals, knew when to pull you outside for fresh air without saying a word. She remembered your coffee order better than you did and never forgot the dates that mattered.

But she also had a way of slipping through your fingers the moment you thought you were close to catching her. Like the night you almost kissed in your tiny kitchen after a party, her hands cradling your face, her breath tickling your lips—and then she pulled away like it would kill her to close the space.

You were left there, in the dim light and soft hum of the fridge, wondering what you were to her.

She’d said, “I don’t want to ruin us.”

But what was us, if not already ruined?

Senior year comes like an open wound—slow-healing and sore. You and Karina still talk, still hang out, still walk side by side like gravity ties your shadows together.

But it’s different now. You feel her drifting.

She’s quieter. Her replies come later. Sometimes she forgets to answer entirely. You tell yourself she’s busy, that finals and life are enough to pull anyone under.

Then you hear from a mutual friend that she’s seeing someone.

A guy. From her political science elective. Clean cut, sweet voice, comes from a good family. They look nice together in the blurry picture your friend shows you. He’s holding Karina’s bag while she scrolls her phone beside him.

You stare at the photo for too long.

Not because you didn’t expect it.

But because she didn’t tell you.

A week later, she’s in your apartment again. The same couch, the same scent—mint and something floral you never asked about. She’s fiddling with the hem of her sweater, eyes on the floor.

“He broke up with me,” she says finally, voice small.

You pause mid-step toward the kitchen. Something cold settles in your stomach.

“Are you okay?” you ask carefully.

She shrugs, then nods. Her eyes shimmer but no tears fall. “I didn’t even cry about it. Isn’t that awful?”

You sit down next to her, not touching. Not yet. You wait for the moment she crumbles.

It doesn’t take long.

Her face folds, and the tears come fast, almost angry. You wrap your arms around her before you can think twice. She clutches your hoodie like it’s the only solid thing left, burying her face in your neck.

“He said I don’t know what I want,” she mumbles into your skin.

You flinch. Because part of you agrees with him.

She sleeps over, curled beside you in bed like she’s done a dozen times before. You face the ceiling, wide awake, her breathing slow and even. And just before the silence becomes too much, she speaks:

“Do you ever think…”

You turn your head. “What?”

Her eyes are open. She’s staring at you. Moonlight pools over her cheekbones, her lashes clumped from dried tears.

“Do you ever think we should’ve tried?”

Your chest tightens. You’ve waited years to hear that question, but now it sounds cruel.

“We?” you echo.

She nods, tentative. “You and me. All those almosts. I think they meant something to me. I just—I didn’t know how to say it back then.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs.

“Why now, Rina?” you ask softly. “Why not when I wanted you?”

She looks down. “Because I didn’t think you wanted me like that. I didn’t know if you… liked girls. Or if I was just… confused.”

You exhale through your nose. Not angry. Just tired. “You think I let you crawl into my bed and almost kiss me because I was straight?”

She doesn’t answer.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

The weeks that follow are awkward.

Karina tries. You can see her trying. She texts you more. Brings coffee again. Shows up at your work-study shift with pastries she claims she “accidentally bought too many of.” She hovers in doorways like she’s waiting for permission to step back into your life.

But you’re not the same anymore.

She took too long. Or maybe she never meant to pick you in the first place.

You smile at her. You laugh when she makes a joke. You answer her texts, but not immediately. You’re polite. Friendly.

She hates it. You can tell.

Graduation nears. You land a job in another city. It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours. A fresh start.

Karina finds out through a friend.

She shows up at your place the day after you start boxing up your things. She’s out of breath like she ran the whole way. She’s wearing that sweater you love—the gray one with the thumb holes. The one she stole from you freshman year and never gave back.

Her eyes sweep the half-packed apartment.

“So it’s true,” she says quietly.

You nod, taping a box shut. “I leave next week.”

She crosses the room slowly, like she’s afraid stepping too hard will crack the floor between you

“Can I say something?” she asks.

You pause. Meet her eyes. “Go ahead.”

She swallows. Her voice wobbles like a thread pulled too tight.

“I loved you. I probably always did. But I didn’t know how to love you out loud. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare. For a second, it’s like time stops.

“Someone like you?” you echo.

She blinks. “You’re brave. You never apologized for who you were. I was too scared of what people would think. I wanted you, and it terrified me.”

You want to cry, but you don’t.

You want to kiss her, but you won’t.

Because you gave her everything once—and she chose fear.

You look down. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“I waited for you for years, Rina. I hoped you’d show up and choose me one day. But love doesn’t mean much if it only shows up when it’s convenient.”

She kisses you.

It’s slow, uncertain, trembling. Like a goodbye folded into a memory. Her hands are soft on your jaw, and her lips taste like sorrow and lemon tea.

You kiss her back. Just once.

Then you step away.

“I’ll always love you,” you whisper. “But I’m done waiting for someone who keeps showing up when it’s too late.”

You leave a week later. She doesn’t come to the train station. You don’t expect her to.

But in your bag, tucked between your books, you find her gray sweater.

And a note.

“For the girl I should’ve loved out loud.”

[eddis-not-eeddis]

Girls, I love you, you are all precious to me. But please do tag your Taylor Swift posting. I understand you are excited, I love that for you, I fully support your going bananas. But please tag it if you can.

[benetnvsch]

(also real talk cuz ive been getting more bongostraydogs followers,, id appreciate it if u do not follow / unfollow / block me if u call urself/identify as a pr0shipper or ship things like 0dazai or fvkuran. obvs I can't (and entirely don't care to) 'police' what people post/like but I can control my own experience here so f u do follow or even interact w my posts and I notice it ur just gonna be blocked. these just personally make me very uncomfortable cuz of trauma so this is less of a request and more just an explanation why u may suddenly blocked after interacting ough-)

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐈 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Dbf!Joel Miller x F!reade

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Joel has had a ‘crush’ on you for a long time now and will make sure no man gets in the way of that.

Warnings: PORN-WITH-PLOT. Kinda. Reader is not legal to drink but still legal. Polite reader just trying to not be a bitch while dealing with a pervy old man! Joel has a crush on you, a BIG one. Bro gets so mad he gets a boner. Mutual touching he drives, daddy stuff, a teeny bit of spanking & nipple play, unprotected P-In-V, tummy bulge, aftercare for once wow!! No beta.

A/N: ANON REQ!! (you know who u are and here’s my take on a bit of a jealous Joel) I would've done way more smut if I didn’t have a high fever rn + writers block 😵‍💫! so VERY rushed.

No man should covet a woman he doesn’t own. 

And you weren’t his. 

Your daddy would make sure you would never be. 

Joel tells himself that. Over and over again, the only prayer in his head, the hymn he lives by ever since you’ve been staying with him per your father’s request. You yourself slowly recognizing Joel’s patterns of life. As he wakes up he takes pills for his headaches, swallowing them dry without a blink. His body is accustomed to the feeling. Every Saturday he’d take a weekly drive to the liquor store to stock up on the much needed provisions to his day-to-day routines. Booze, in much less dramatic terms. 

Your father was out of state for work forcing you to settle up with Joel for a couple of months, the only man your father would allow you to actually be around. In fear of you doing something bad. Bad as in… Sex? You could only assume that’s what your darling daddy meant. 

A rocky relationship in the cruel reality. 

Joel’s home. It was livable, there isn’t much to say when it’s the house of a man who’s been living alone twenty years. Indications of life scattered upon furniture the only real telltale signs that someone actually lives there. Coffee table littered with rings from mugs he’d simply leave for too long, the way the worn, vomit-colored green couch sags in the middle. Any prints that were on the buttons of the TV remote had been rubbed off by pressing around them, the last time he had gotten a new television was probably going on fifteen years now. Sad. Truly and utterly sad. 

Then you came along. 

Remnants of your liveliness woven into the once so dreary place. Something as so simple as a hair tie left on the counter, the very vague scent of perfume you left lingering in the small space of the bathroom every time you’d leave it. Now at night he’d walk past the second bedroom of his home that had been left unused, once depressed and dark, had the warm glow of your lamp being left on, leaking through the gap between the door and the floor. The littlest things.

Joel pretends not to notice. 

Though, he does. 

He notices the way you hum so very quietly the times you’re obligated to cook your own breakfast. How you pull your knees up onto the couch when you sit. Rolling your eyes at him every time he’d vexingly tell you to make sure to lock the front door when you came in. You listened. 

You’re too comfortable here. Too at ease. 

And what’s worse is he was getting used to it.

He’s not your fuckin’ father. He’s not your keeper. He’s just the man your daddy trusted well enough to take care of you when he was gone. Sorry excuse for a babysitter all the while you weren’t a baby. An adult who can well take care of herself. Only agreed because he wouldn’t want you to discover how he’s been living for practically twenty years by being alone for two months. The dark quietness of a home when it was just you there. 

He told himself it would be easy. Two months. He’d keep his distance. 

It’s almost impossible. The way you made him feel was sickening. You’re always around. Sinking deep into the couch, marveling in whatever boring sitcom would play on the box of blue light that flickered throughout the room. How you’d take sips from his beer just to tease, wrinkle your nose at the taste deep down you liked. Making your tongue buzz. You were making yourself at home in a place that was never meant to be yours. 

The only thing that worsened it for Joel is that you were so blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. 

He thought the hardest part of this arrangement would be keeping you out of trouble. Your father acting like if he was gone you’d fall apart as a person. Be out partying or fuckin’ every night. Far from the truth. Laying so contently home every night.

Coming back to reality, the hardest part was keeping himself out of it. 

It’s the way you’d walk around his house in whatever you had slept in that night, no matter it be a tank-top and those tiny, plaid shorts that went up your ass. Appreciating the comfortability, though, he fucking hated it. You acted like you belonged there. 

Often he’s finding himself watching you too long, staring at the curve of your mouth while you speak, the plump of your lips as you stay entertained by the television with your face at a gentle rest. He was always seemingly gawked. 

Fifty-seven wasn’t the age to have crushes. 

And on Sunday’s, the day of the lord, of course. Joel Miller goes to the local bar.

Nighttime was surprisingly when the crowd died down. You were surprised to see that as you walked through the doors that sheltered the poorly kept saloon style establishment. Tables seated with older men closer to Joel’s age, some luckier than others to be accompanied by a woman. Smelled like stale beer and sweat which in reality was more disgusting than appealing. Loud breaks in the casual conversions of the crowd as pool balls clacked together. Rejoicing coming soon after. 

Usually you had something better to do on these nights. Going out with your friend’s always suffices though of course they canceled out today. Great, stuck with Mister Miller for a night of drinking all the while you weren’t allowed to let alcohol in your body at your age.He wouldn’t lie for you either, he was supposed to take care of you. Not turn you into the starts of an alcoholic. 

Torturous. Did the man want you to shoot yourself?

He led you through the slim pickings of a crowd there really was, hand grazing the small of your back to keep you close. Nothing more. Both sliding your bodies onto the leather tops of the barstools. Uncomfortability was the price to pay for the first hand of drinks. A squeak in your stool that no one had the patience to fix. 

“Whiskey.” The request sounded more like a plea from his lips. “Two.”

You knew the second one didn’t mean for you. 

Rubbing his temple as he flagged down the waitress. She was all too polite for what seemed to be the shittiest bar on earth. As if a small town in Texas would give you any better. Nodding her head in your direction. Your lips pursed as if ‘Beer” was gonna be the next thing to move past them. Though, you digressed. 

“Soda. I guess.” Joel gave a nod to you. Of course he approved of that action. Rubbing a hand over his jaw he sighed. Forgetting to take his pills this morning. Fuck, the throb behind his eye was something only the alcohol could numb by now. 

“You could’a stayed home.”

“Yeah, I could’ve.” You shrugged, admittedly so you rather be home- no. You rather be out with your friends as you were supposed to be tonight but in an act of such kindness, you came here with Joel. “Maybe I wanted to see why you liked this place so much.” It was a simple muse to him, though it did strike your curiosity. 

“Quickest bar from home. Quickest way to get drunk.” Curiosity met with an undeniably depressing answer. You were used to it by now. His lips pressed into a thin line. Once the barkeep came back she handed Joel his drinks, plural. As she also came with yours. Soda rimmed with ice. He picked up the first drink given, perspiration coating the glass. His thumb pressed against the cold lowball as he took the first sip. Heavy hot liquid sliding down his throat. Numbing him, his mind. Felt refreshed. 

You hum, stirring the ice in your soda in circles with your straw. He hears the clinking over the din of the bar. Louder than his own thoughts. 

You crossed your legs. Your thighs squishing together through the denim of your jeans, the material a bit loose on your body, a choice out of comfortability to buy baggier bell bottoms instead of the ones that hugged your ass tight. Drawing Joel’s eyes unintentionally.

Fuck this. 

He drags his palm down his face, trying to wipe away whatever the fuck he was feeling. It’s sickening for him. It’s so easy to not feel like this when it’s something so simple, so selfish as a one night stand, a whore he had paid to suck his cock. Different. Far different, especially since the last month he’s spent his time admiring the woman before him. You. The innocence in your eyes that served your beauty. It was this crawling under his skin he wanted to rip away from. 

So fucking vigilant on the scent of you, the sound of your voice, the way you shift ever so slightly closer to him as another group of men pass.

Joel breathes out slowly, averting his eyes to the sweet sight of you. 

The night goes on, the whiskey dulling the edges of restraint with every slow, steady sip. Slowly the place was growing on you, the night seemed to cool it down, less noise less chatter. Seems everyone needed to knock out a couple drinks before settling. You would’ve been happy to say the same if you were allowed to order that beer. You propped your chin in your palm, your elbow flat against the bartop avoiding any of the sticky substances that would coat some unfortunate patches of it. Your eyes scan throughout the place. Not much to take in, not much to see.

Though the slow deliberate movements draw the tiniest bit of attention from a table your eyes accidentally glance at for too long. Subtle but inevitable. 

Joel catches the way the men sitting at that table glance your way. The way you adjusted your body to once again sit straight up. Clearing your throat. 

And that’s when it starts. 

The first one wasn’t particularly bold about it. Just a flick of his gaze in your direction before returning to his minutes-til’-flat beer. The second man, greying, looks a little longer. Too closely. He nudges his friend, mutters something incoherent- something probably offensive to earn a laugh from him. Now he looked again.

Joel knows that look.

The kind that lingers for too long. That waits for an opening.

The kind that makes Miller’s teeth grind, his shoulders go rigid. His fingers slowly begin tightening around the glass of gold as he keeps his eyes forward. His eyes flutter just a bit to the left, seeing your smile. Trying to hide it by gently pressing your lips to the rim of your glass. Pretty pink lips. Before time heat is bubbling in his belly. Praying to god that was the fuckin’ whiskey. 

Those men are still watching. 

The next sip of booze doesn’t quite help as much as he’d want. It doesn’t smooth out the sharp edges of this feeling, the low simmering deep inside his pelvis. It keeps getting worse. 

He’s coming over. Walking with heavy legs. 

Joel sees it from the corner of his eyes, the way the man pushed back the chair, unhurriedly, sloppily walking straight towards you. From what Miller could gauge from the corner of his eye and what the wiry grey hairs covering the man’s beard told him is that he was older. Older as in his own age. Fifties either early or late. Joel wanted to die. Exhaling sharply, slamming down his glass a bit too hard. 

Muddled, you’d lift your head from your glass to look at Miller with an eyebrow cocked. And before you could even speak-

“Evenin’.” The man spoke.

You’d blindly blink at the man now standing beside your barstool. Startled for only a second before schooling your expression into something- polite. Something surely this man was undeserving of yet you really couldn’t help it. Instincts. 

“Hi.” Joel wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t acknowledge him. Not yet.  

“Can I help you?” You smiled, sweetly.

The man would lean in as expected. The strong smell of beer radiating off his breath. Open-mouthed ogling like a fucking dog. He was clearly absolutely wasted. Just those words were an absolute understatement. 

“Is this your daddy?” Of course he’d say that. Gesturing to Joel who was looking straight on before he turned a glance to the man, his eyes slits as he glared. Understandable. If you weren’t trying to give this man the benefit of the doubt you’d be glaring too. This guy was undeniably a fucking dick.  

“No- no,” You’d giggle. “My babysitter.”

You didn’t like how your mind and soul was making you act, unfortunate your internal instincts were to be tooth-achingly sweet in public.

You wanted to die. 

“S’my lucky day, huh?” You’d blink again. Silence as if the man had stole all the thoughts from your head- not in the good way. 

“No. Not- not quite.” 

You’d laugh, trying your best to brush it off. The man should go away soon. Probably just mistaking you for something you’re not while you’re here trying your best to avoid something awkward. Joel’s jaw clenched. 

“Well,” He hushed. A finger twirled into one of your soft locks. Your body tensing as you kept up another nervous giggle– you were only egging him on more. “I just wanted to see you up close.”

“She ain’t interested.” Miller told the truth with that. You weren’t and you were further from interested. Though the nervous, dumb smile on your lips told the fuckin’ pervert otherwise. 

“She didn’t tell me that.” He pushed. “I’d much rather hear that from your mouth, sweetie.”

You hesitated, your lips parted though words weren’t falling. Refusing. Alas, Joel Miller reached his breaking point. 

He popped up from his stool as he moved over to the guy. The greying man hesitated at the sight, of course. He wasn’t gonna be the kinda man to get his ass beat over something fucking stupid. Though, Joel was willing to beat his ass for your sake. 

A long beat of silence through the access chatter swimming around the bar enters the space between you, Joel and this sad fuckin’ man. 

Joel doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t breathe. 

He just stares. 

The man exhales a chuckle, deep down he didn’t want to walk out of here with a broken nose for flirting with a girl he wanted to fuck. A girl he thought was alone, dumb enough to possibly join him and his sad excuses for friends sitting around his table.

“Didn’t mean any trouble, pal.” He threw his palms up in a mock surrender though, he didn’t mean it. That’s what that beer was for afterall. Stepping back only an inch, letting the hair that was between his fingers fall back to your shoulder. 

“Just bein’ friendly.” 

Joel didn’t answer, why should he? The man let out a scoff as he walked back to his table with his tail between his legs. That was good. All Miller could do was sigh. His shoulders still at unease as he sat back down on the bar stool. Your heart at a slow thump against your ribs. 

You knew deep down that really, you were fine with that. Sure that man was a cuck, sure, you were uncomfortable, but you also knew yourself and you knew if that man would have touched anything else other than the tip of your hair. Oh fuck. He would’ve been gone.

Or– would he? 

It doesn’t shake the feeling that Joel was annoyingly protective if that was the right word for it. That man wasn’t your dad. He didn’t need to stick up for you.

He never did. 

He ran a palm down his face –again– he couldn't take the way he was around you. 

“Ohh, what the fuck.”

He was tired of this.

Goddamn if that happened a month ago chances are he wouldn’t have done anything other than roll his eyes and tell the fucker to go jerk off somewhere else but– oh my god did Joel wish he was the one that close to you. Breathing you in. 

Of course, you weren’t a random woman at a bar.

If only he had enough balls to speak to you. 

Pent up hormones ready to blow out of him every moment he was around you. He was too fucking old for this. 

Too fucking old.

If he felt the rush of blood to his cock one more time this night he was gonna–

Joel was already moving by now. Already shoving back from the bar, the scream of the stool leg against the glazed wooden floor of this god forbidden place made you inherently flinch. His jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking as he reaches for his wallet, tossing a few bills onto the counter without counting. He didn’t fucking care about the act of either over-paying or under-paying right now. He had one, sinfully unfortunate thing on his mind. 

He knew he’d never do it. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinkin’ it.

Then his hand was on your wrist.

Grasping.

Firm. Unyielding. 

“C’mon.” He gritted. “Time to go, baby.” 

That was a new one. The name melting of his tongue like an instinct.

His grip was tight. Breathing hitched at the feeling of the grip. He was lucky it didn’t hurt. It was enough to make it clear he needed to get out of there. The reason wasn’t clear. It could be innocent on his part: he didn’t want you in a space where old men are looking at you. Ogling you like a slab of fuckin’ meat. 

His real reason was sickening. 

“Joel– c’mon!”

You’d whine, maybe you had a good reason to stay. Maybe you were just being defiant. 

Typical, like a child.

He didn’t give you time to finish.

The bar stool nearly topples as he pulls you up. Stumbling in the boots you were wearing. Tugging you in tightly to stand beside him. He was tensed, heat radiating off his body like a goddamn furnace. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak as if there was a point to. Nothing he said got through to you anyways. He just moves.

People are watching. Who wouldn’t? 

Your pulse spikes as you catch the amused glances throughout the pub. Folks who weren’t looking before now blinking. Causing a scene. Again, 

You. Wanted. To. Die. 

And to make it all better Joel’s eyes rip to the table those men from earlier were sitting at. The ones who eyed you. That same man who had harassed you muttering something to his friend beside him. Fuck. 

He thought he couldn’t get any more pissed. 

His palm covered his lips with no way to read. The music playing throughout the room covered any sounds of a hushed whisper into another man’s ear.

Though, Joel is pivoting. 

His grip on you released as he took a heavy-footed stomp over to that table. He frowned. He wanted to kill them. He would if he could. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Jesus Christ, man.” One of the men mused. Of course, Joel Miller was just another sorry excuse of a man to them. “You don’t give it up do you.” Your babysitter wasn’t intimidating in a setting like this. To a man drunk as a fuckin’ skunk sitting with a bunch of men who reeked of the same stench. 

Joel doesn’t move.

He goes to walk away. No. There was absolutely no point in doing anything.

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“All I said is that if I were you I would’ve fucked her by now.” No. Nope that was it.

A quick turn back around and Joel had slammed his fist into the man’s face. Heavy handed. Joel’s knuckles cracking with the impact in the same note as the man’s nose. 

“Fuck!!!” The man cried. It was well deserved. Why would Joel let a man talk to his–

You weren’t his.

Miller couldn’t breathe in the moment. His breathing ragged, watching the blood quickly drip out the man’s nostrils. God was it satisfying.

Your stomach plummets. You can confidently say you’ve never heard a man yell like that. Before the next tick of epinephrine hits Joel his hand now runs to your waist instead. Pushing you out the doors before running into the parking lot.

Holy fucking shit.

The air of the night hit you like a bucket of ice quickly. Suddenly you were regretting only wearing a thin hoodie with a tank top underneath. Joel was dragging you to his truck, practically throwing you into shotgun. 

Slamming the door to your side.

He rounds the front quickly. Pulling open the driver’s side as he slid into the seat. You swore you could hear the way his breath shudders in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his seatbelt over his body– safety first, right? 

The truck was suffocating. Too small. Too fucking warm. 

You lick your lips, tasting salt. Your nerves were shot to hell. “Jesus Christ, Joel.”

He frowned. Fist on the shifter before pulling it into drive. He was speeding away, far away from that bar. Yeah, that one punch may had ruined his personal ‘holy day’ for a good while. If him and that man are ever in the same room again most likely one of them is getting there shit rocked and Joel worries that next time it may be him. 

He doesn’t necessarily wanna take that chance. All because of something so FUCKING stupid.

He doesn’t speak. Nothing to say on his part as for you– too stunned to say anything. You had no understanding of why Joel Miller of all people, of all the men you know was acting like this. His fists balled against the steering wheel. Knuckles turning pale. Ghostly. 

“Fuck.” 

He broke the silence with a curse. He was mad. At least, he sounded so. The growl in his voice masked the need. He could feel every twist, every coil in his gut. All because of you.

He can’t keep hiding it. 

“You’re makin’ me so fuckin’ crazy, baby.”

The smell of hard booze on his breath impregnated your nose. Slowly beginning to understand the acts in the bar. “That wasn’t me trying to flirt.” You quickly retorted. That was the honest truth that you’d be abiding by. You were too nervous to do anything except giggle like a dumbass so that’s what you did.

“I can’t help the fact I try to be polite. Even if they’re verging sexual harassment.” 

You’d try to keep it light hearted with a quip. Joel didn’t laugh. Pursing his lips into a line before speaking. It only pissed him off more.

“Not what I’m sayin’.”

You breathe. What the hell did this man want from you if it wasn’t some reasoning from your lips? The road was wet, asphalt glistening with a sheen of rain making light reflect easily off like a mirror. As Joel turned his brights on to properly see through the dark road that light reflected into the truck. The formally dark truck.

Your gaze was pulled to his lap. An accident at first but–

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His cock would writhe against the tightening denim of his jeans. If that didn’t tell you enough you didn’t know what would. 

Joel’s hands flex against the wheel, the veins in his hands popping.

“Whatever you say, M’not fuckin, jealous.”

No no, he was.

And the tension rolling off of him is suffocating, filling the small front space of the truck like a thick fog. Choking you. You could almost still feel the touch he left on you. The phantom of his fingertips that had branded your skin only a few minutes ago now.

He wanted you to touch him and it wasn’t a secret anymore. 

You reached your hand out to place on his thigh. The way his teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip. Yeah, he fucking needed this. You felt your own stomach bloom with heat as your fingertips just barely scathed the denim of his jeans. You were just so close. Closer than you’ve ever been. And if this is something to forever be forbidden,

For all you know this could be as close as you’ll ever be. 

He adjusted his hips. Spreading his legs as if to coax you, as if to tell you this is the right thing. Maybe it was too vague. He took a hand off the wheel as he began soothing more into things. His shoulders finally relaxed as he took a long. Deep breath in. Then out. His fingertips danced along the crotch of your own jeans. Pressing the pad of his middle against your extremely clothed clit, muscle memory of where he knew it was.

He knew.

It was that touch that made your legs wanna buckle. Your cunt clench. 

Your palm soothed up his thigh as he focused on the road. Eyes adjusting, focusing. While his cock focused all by himself. Finally your smaller hand went to the tent in his jeans. Taking your pointer and tracing a line up the curve of the bulge. Wooing a twitch from him. His finger pushed harder into your clothed heat. Rewarding him in your first gasp of the night. 

“Jesus, baby. Soon enough I’ll be the one with the broken nose.”

A jest like that was hard to process currently. 

“What do you mean-?” 

Joel takes his hand away from between your legs just for a second to turn the radio on. Very very low, some old 80’s rock song came on. The background noise almost calming.

“Your daddy.” He’d grunt. “If he ever knew I was touchin’ you–”

“I know. My mouth is shut.”

It was a promise. A promise as your palm slipped beneath his belt.

Home sweet home.

Once the front door was closed the exchanges between your mouths were all teeth and tongue. Messy, sloppy. No shortage of drool dribbling down either of your chins. His fingers latching around the hem of your tank top as he pulled it over your head. No bra. Less work for him. 

It was like clockwork how his big, rough hands scooped under your thighs to grab you, pick you up with a strained grunt ripping from his chest. He couldn’t remember a time where his cocks been this hard. He could almost completely promise that it’s never been. It was heavy and once his jeans were pulled down it was hanging heavy, loose in his boxers. Though his flannel stayed on. Unbuttoned, fabric framing his tummy and bare, soft chest. 

You laid on his bed, splayed upon his blankets like a goddess as you awaited for him to finishing taking his clothes off. But he just couldn’t fuckin’ wait. The sight of you laying there, helpless. Those pretty, lace panties he wanted to rip off with his teeth made his brain turn to mush. He crawled on top of you, leaning down to place a hot kiss on your throat as his hands moved down to your ass. 

“Don’t got time to take you over the knee, baby.”

This sentence came with a squeeze to the soft flesh of your ass. Flipping you over belly-down with his fingers tangled in your hair. Face stuffed into the pillow.

His hand came down firm on your lace clad ass. Watching the thickness of the skin ripple. 

Again. Harder.

You let out a sharp whine at the feeling. Each left with a stinging buzz that lingered within the plush skin. You were addicted. Though, what was fun for a moment was soon boring for Mister Miller, his cock in a painful state in the confines of his boxers. Feeling like he was gonna burst any good moment now. 

But were you ready?

He flipped you back on your back in a sinfully quick motion. One of his practiced, old hands laid flat against your stomach before slipping down beneath the lace of your panties, hooking a finger to the side before pulling them down. They were damp. That just wouldn’t suffice for him. His finger tested the waters, how gluey, slick your folds were. Taking what was currently dripping out of your hole and spreading it around like a glaze. 

He dipped his head down into your sternum, his lips pressing firmly against the skin there before he deliberately moved to one of your tits. Brushing the pad of his thumb across the already hard nipple before taking it between his teeth. 

“Fuck-! Joel-”

Funny, when you touched yourself you weren’t nearly this loud. 

This sensitive. 

The tip of his tongue swirled around the bud, it was smooth against his tongue. Warmer than your skin. His hips dug down deep into his own mattress. Mussing the blankets beneath both of your bodies as if they were neat before. He squeezed your other breast with his free hand, continuing his ministries just for another moment. Keeping his moments practiced and planned for the time being. He flicked your unintended, rock-hard bud with his free hand. Mind Numbing stimulation coursing throughout your body. 

Your hand came down to paw at his erection straining painfully against the grey cotton of his boxers.

“Oh–”  

He groaned, his hips pressing into yours before you could touch more. Clamping himself down so the only way you could feel him throb would be against your thigh.

“You think you’re ready, baby? Ready for my cock?”

Of course the answer was yes. He knew the answer was yes how you were writhing, practically salivating at the thought. Both panting like dogs. He pulled himself out of his boxers. The dim light of the room making it impossible to see was was between your legs. The details left unseen and unsaid as all you could rely on was feel.

You felt his head begin running up and down between your folds. With a girl so fuckin’ wet who needed lubracant. Your eyes squeezed shut as he began to push in. 

You’ve never felt anything like it.

Funnily enough. He’s never felt a girl like you either.

“Joel!” You’d squeal. “Fuck, Joel– JoelJoelJoelJoel–”

You were quickly chanting his name under your breath like an invocation. He was big though a three-letter word so simple as big was a fucking understatement. He was stretching out every ounce of your gummy walls. Your head craning backwards into his pillow. His pillow. The scent of his hair, his scent all seeping into your nose mixing with the sensations throughout your body.

“S’fuckin’-- shit, babygirl…”

Joel’s words were slurring together as if he had drank more than those two lousy whiskeys at the bar. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist as you enveloped him. Clenching up every time the tip of his fat cock would graze your cervix. His hand pressed just over your pelvis. Feeling around, ‘til– oh fuck.

“Fuckkkkk… Feel that, baby?” You felt a lot of things right now, your body all too hyper-fixated on the feeling of him to focus on anything other than that. Then Joel took your hand. Trailing it down your stomach as he weakly supported himself with his left arm. Palm flat against the sheets. His bicep tense.

He brought your smaller hand down to your low stomach, feeling the bump there. The bump he was oh-so obsessed with. Jutting out against your palm. 

“S’my cock. Yeahhh. He wants you, s’fuckin’ bad.” 

He was barely there.

“--So. Fuckin’. Bad.”

He punctuated his words with every thrust. You wanted to call out, say something over and over again like your only fucking prayer. But words defied you in the moment. As soon as you felt the unbearable pressure build up in your gut, the pressure that took over, spilled from your pelvis to your pussy. You felt the wiry hairs that crowned his cock scratching against your clit only adding to the feeling. The feeling that was building and building. 

“Joel– I’m gonna–!”

It was so cliché. The need to finish that sentence was gone as you couldn’t control it. Feeling the knot tied so uncomfortably tightly in your pelvis untie. You tried to keep it back, hold it in but it refused. Your hips wriggled against his as your orgasm came ripping through your body. Leaning up as best you could to bury your face in his neck to gasp. Cry out into his ear as much as you well pleased as you felt your legs kick out, your thighs buzz.

His cock curved inside of you, kissing a soft spot that you weren’t even aware you had. His pace slowing, becoming sloppier, rushed. His hips snappy. The way your walls squeezed around him, trying to milk him til’ he was dry. Just wasn’t safe for an old man like him to blue-ball himself like this, huh?

“Fuck- she’s gonna milk daddy dry, ain’t she–?” He was trying to kill you.

With that it was only one more thick, deep thrust into your tight, throbbing cunt where he spilled his cum inside of you. Using what little energy he had left to paint those pretty walls white. Rolling his hips to drive his semen into your pretty little hole. His thumb pushed past your parted lips, your mouth quickly latching on. Cock-drunk, suckling on his thumb to muffle any whimpers. No more cries.

“Atta girl.”

He’d praise. His sweaty, damp body pressing heavily against yours. He didn’t wanna pull out. It’s almost like his body wanted him to stay this way until he was passin’ out. Though, he wouldn't let that happen. He slowly unsheathes his thick cock from your pussy with a wet, squelch as your walls adjust back to normal. Opaque, pearly cum dripping out of your cunt, drooling down your inner thighs all the way to your ass was pornographic. 

Reaching around the back of his head to seize a chunk of his greying, soft-to-the-touch curls. Your tongue licking his way into his mouth instead of his thumb. 

You felt absolutely and utterly euphoric. 

Laying with the blanket lazily draped over both of your bodies. Joel took a long sip from the bottle of alcohol, drinking it like water to refresh his mouth. He felt exasperated. He wouldn’t be able to pin point the last time sex made him feel this good if you were paying him a million bucks. But now he could say with you.

You tucked your face into his neck, taking in the scent of him, the stickiness of his skin. The salty scent of sex still lingering in the air around. 

It was silent. Like you were both trying to process what had happened within the last hour- hell, the last three. Even the whole bar thing seemed like an impossible daydream you’d watch on a soap, something that you’d say is unrealistic. 

“I was jealous.”

He murmured. Turning his attention back to you as the silence was officially broken. You could’ve figured as much.

“I guess I should be flattered.”

You’d giggle. Real and genuine. Not the fake one you put on for that pervert at the bar. 

“I’ve never had a man break another guy’s nose for me before.”

Joel rolled his eyes. Wrapping his warm arms around your body as he pulled you in close. The first time in twenty years his bed wasn’t empty and cold. A warm body tucked right against him, perfectly as if you belonged. 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[kathaelipwse]

Contract, Cooked & Kissed | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Chef!Seungcheol × Journalist!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins

Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies

Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?

Author’s Note: This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

--

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

THE END.

[pedgito]

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Joel doesn't have a Mrs. but he does have a sports car.

author's note | @chaotic-mystery made me listen to sports car and i said you know what? yeah. this one's especially feral, sorry in advance.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, no outbreak au, girthy age gap, car talk, sad hot grieving dads gone wild, daddy kink, more specifically daddy issues, mutual mas, no touch rules, cum eating, pure filth

word count — 5k — PART TWO

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Your tongue rolls over your teeth inside of your mouth as you stare with folded arms, phone clutched tightly in your hand as you wait eagerly for your driver to arrive and get you the hell out of here.

“Stunning,” You offer a forced smile, watching as your date lingered around the old car, pristine and well-cared for, an unattainable feat for such an immature man-child like himself.

It was the last time you were allowing your friends to set you up on a blind date, nearing the point of swearing off dating entirely, knowing that a man who couldn’t even cover half the check wasn’t driving around in a classic Pontiac, let alone affording the upkeep for it.

“Sure you don’t wanna change your mind?” He asks eagerly, the subtle admiration of the car waning as he comes into view, knowing the old beater a few spots down was surely his.

The bells above the convenience store next door jingle as people enter and exit, taking another impatient glance at your phone. You watch as the boy takes a seat against the hood and it makes you cringe internally, swallowing your words as an even deeper voice interjects from behind.

“I’ll give you about three seconds to get your ass of my hood,” The older man threatened, spinning the keys in his palm as he set the six pack of beer on the roof, the younger kid scrambled to his feet instantly, “—is he botherin’ you?”

“Unfortunately,” You mumble as you take another glance at your phone and curse under your breath, watching the unmoving dot on the screen.

“Get outta here, kid,” The mystery man barks, “looks like you already ruined her night and I don’t need some runt like you fuckin’ up my car.”

You both watch as he sulks to his car, just as you suspected, your lips pulling into a thin line to stifle the laugh that built in your chest, feeling lighter for the first time that night.

“Does that happen often?” You ask curiously, watching as he fiddled with his door before the lock popped and the door swung open, the six pack of beer carefully placed in the passenger seat as he rose back up to answer your question, hands curled around the edge of the roof.

“Ever since I fixed her up,” He pauses, recollecting, “probably a once a week ordeal. They’re easy to run off, fortunately. You waitin’ on something?”

“My ride,” You wobble your phone back and forth weakly and Joel squints, shaking his head as he winces at the guttural backfire of the engine in the car behind him, the final memory of your absolutely awful date as he disappears down the road.

“Kid had a car and couldn’t even bother to pick you up or take you home?” He asks curiously, strangely not unsettled by his openness to conversation given his gruff exterior, “Some nerve.”

“It was a blind date,” You shrug, “My friends they—”

“Those ain’t friends,” He interrupts politely, “if they set you up with a guy like that.”

“Well, maybe—” Your words linger, shifting from foot to foot as the conversation dies out and your feet begin to ache, the summer heat making you uncomfortable, the silk fabric of your dress sticking to your skin as you wipe at your damp cheek and push your hair behind your ear.

“Hop in,” He tells you, stooping into his car as he closes the door, his waiting gaze staring up at you through the window, “I can give you a ride.”

“I…don’t know,” You answer uneasily, “I don’t even know you.”

“I’m Joel,” He answers almost immediately, “I’m not a genius but I figure you had a shitty date, no sense in you paying for a ride home if I can offer one. Chivalry ain’t that dead, sweetheart.”

You offer him your name quietly, approaching the car with some hesitation. 

He seemed like an honest enough man, swooping in like a knight in shining armor.

You’ve given worse men a fairer chance—so, fuck it.

–

“My dad had a car like this,” You perk up after a few minutes, the glass bottles clinking against each other from where they sat by your feet, between your legs, “not a ‘67—was a ‘69.”

“You know your shit?” Joel asks curiously, his left hand settled over the top of the steering wheel while his right was settled against the gear shift, “He teach you about ‘em?”

Oddly, conversation with Joel was easy. A similar interest, neither of you with any room to judge one another. Equals.

“I pestered him alot,” You admit, “I was supposed to end up with it but he sold it before he died. God, what I wouldn’t give—”

“She is a beaut,” Joel admits, giving a soft tap to the dashboard, “and a labor of love.”

“She? What’s her name?” You ask knowingly, the slightest hint of a smirk on your face.

He spoke so fondly of the car, as if it breathed life into him. It wasn’t unfamiliar to you.

“Sarah,” He offers up more subdued, but a soft smile graces his face for a brief moment, “s’long story, doesn’t matter.”

“My dad named his Jameson,” You say suddenly in an attempt to add some levity, “funny, since my dad was an alcoholic…”

Okay, maybe not funny, but Joel gives you a pity chuckle anyways. 

Luckily, your nervous admittance is quickly looked over.

“So, where’m I takin’ you?”

You chew at your bottom lip and glance sheepishly at Joel.

“Um…UT?”

“Goddamn, that’s like—”

“An hour away, yeah,” You sigh, “I won’t be upset if you want to stop at the next gas station, I have the money for a ride, it isn’t that big of a—”

“I’m about five minutes up the road,” Joel begins, fingers flexing lazily ahead as they raise from the steering wheel, “I’ve got a spare room, I can take you up there in the morning.”

“You’re a total stranger, you know?”

“There’s a motel just a ways up,” Joel suggested with ease.

Though as you approach it looks bleak, the fluorescent lights blinking overhead and a glaring spot for much more nefarious activity with the perfectly placed strip club across the road, feeling the car pull to a slow stop.

“I…think I’ll take you up on that spare room,” You stutter out.

Joel nods, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he shifts gears and pulls back onto the road. 

The flickering neon lights of the seedy motel fade in the rearview mirror.

“That place ain't fit for anyone, let alone a young lady like yourself."

“I’m not young,” You retort, ‘I’m twenty-three.”

“And I’m as old as this car,” Joel retorts, watching your face scrunch up in thought as you did the mental math in your head before he puts you out of your misery, “I’m fifty-eight, sweetheart.”

Pushing sixty? Big deal.

You’ve had older professors flirting with you inappropriately on a weekly basis, at least Joel was being polite and kind and not at all as sleazy as most men, at least, not yet.

You stare at him without his knowledge, his eyes focused intently on the road. He’s rugged, facial hair thick and unevenly covering his face, plush lips parting as his tongue swiped along his bottom lip, a permanent scowl on his rather softened expression. 

He’s devastatingly attractive. 

And there’s something about him that comforts you, a remnant of protection despite the unconventional circumstance of finding yourself in a stranger’s care after a terrible date on the way to an unfamiliar place.

Eventually, the car slows, rumbling into a small cul de sac with four other houses surrounding his own, certainly picturesque and not what you would suspect from a man like him. He cuts the engine dead as he pulls into his driveway and wordlessly leans his body over the center console, a hand snaking between your spread legs as he reaches for the six-pack of beer.

“Home sweet home,” He jokes lightly, “C’mon.”

With trepidation and a sudden heat to your face as he peers up at you for a moment while his hand is settled between your thighs, you nod.

Please don’t be a fucking serial killer, you think. 

A silent prayer said to anyone that would listen.

-

He’s a perfect gentleman, fortunately. 

Joel gives you a short tour, displaying the spare room at the end of the hall, an attached bathroom and plenty of escape routes—he seems to sense the unease still as it lingers.

“You said twenty-three, right?” He double checks, “You want a beer? Or water? I got some soda, too.”

“Beer is fine,” You answer with a nod, turning on your heels to follow him back down the hall and toward the kitchen, watching as Joel flicked on the overhead light above the kitchen island and pulled two beers from the cardboard casing.

He pops the caps off with ease before he’s pushing the beer into your hand and taking a sip of his own, leading you toward the dining room as he pulls out a chair for you and him, a comfortable distance as his legs spread out when he sits, the glass resting against his denim covered knee.

“So your daddy, he taught you a lot about cars?”

“How to take care of ‘em,” You explain, “What’s good, what’s shit. I’ve got a soft spot for the classics, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like them fast, too.”

“Smart girl,” Joel notes, but then he lingers for a moment and watches as you sip gingerly at your beer, “I’m curious—and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but what happened back there? Other than that kid makin’ a complete ass of himself?”

The comment should not make your insides twist the way they do, a faint throb between your legs that you hide with a cough and another long sip, “He’s just…not great. And the gesture was there, he tried paying for the date, but then his card declined and, well…”

“Sounds like a real winner,” He mocks, taking a hefty sip before the liquid is gone, sliding the empty glass along the dinner table.

“He’s not my type, anyways,” You shrug, finishing off your own beer and mirroring his actions, watching as he silently grabbed the bottles and stood up, disposing of them in the nearby trash.

Joel makes an unintelligible noise as he shakes his head, “And what exactly would that be?”

You hum thoughtfully, “A V8 engine for starters, some real hefty horsepower, a nice spacy interior,”

“Damn, just my type,” Joel plays along, “I like that you know your shit—you savin’ up for one?”

A car, he means.

 Given that you were attempting to find a ride home, it seemed like a valid question.

“Trying, sure.” You shrug nonchalantly, “It’s more of a dream anymore, college isn’t exactly the cheapest.”

A beat passes as Joel slips back into his seat and you pull your bare feet up into the chair, curling your arms around your knees loosely before you speak again.

“Serious answer—I don’t date boys my age ever. I was only entertaining it because my friends wouldn’t shut up about it. They’re usually older; thirties, forties. You can judge me—I get it.”

“Ain’t nothing to judge,” Joel shrugs, “You like what you like.”

“And you?”

Joel laughs at that, looking away briefly as you smile, poking his thigh with your foot as he thinks for a moment, eyes dragging toward the floor.

“I’m too old for that shit—ain’t nothing for me.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” You tell him honestly, knowing that most of the girls would be ripping each other’s throats out for a moment with him, the perfect amount of mysterious and dark, a hint of southern gentleman in the way he carries himself, a total fucking smoke show.

You knew just how deadly you’d be vying for a chance with him.

And here he was, like an offering plopped right into your lap.

Besides, you were having a bad night, what else did you have to lose?

“That so?” Joel seemed to be testing the waters too, a playfulness in his eyes that was deeply subdued but there, simmering. He wasn’t going to try anything unless you initiated, lucky for him, you were more than eager by now.

“Oh, I know so,” You nod with confidence, “Nice car—you got that whole dark and mysterious thing going for you and you’re hot, s’not like I’m blind, Joel.”

“Is there somethin’ you’re gettin’ at, sweetheart?” Joel asks curiously.

You shrug, a mischievous grin crossing your face.

You’ve had plenty of one night stands; terrible dates with half-decent sex.

You spent two hours getting ready, another getting to dinner, and you’d be damned to waste such a good opportunity when it presented itself.

“I had a shit night and you’ve already managed to make it better,” You admit, “I’m just sayin’ as a thank you, we could—”

“I’m not askin’ for a thank you, sweetheart,” His voice is immediately softer, alluring.

His brow twitches as you lock eyes, like a moment of consideration crosses his mind, large palms splayed out against even larger thighs, the type that made you curious.

He had the body of a man well-worked; a mix of someone who’s aged with grace and maintained his lifestyle through work, broad shoulders that begged to be explored, stretching as he fidgeted in his chair.

“If I told you I wanted you to fuck me, would you?”

Joel speaks your name aloud and you smile sheepishly, though he knows it was an act, feeling a little braver with a few shots of liquid courage from earlier in the night and a beer to loosen your nerves further.

You were staring at the veins in his hands now, calloused fingers rubbing at a soft, flayed spot in his jeans, right above the knee, tanned skin hiding underneath. 

“It’s not a question of would I, honey. I can’t.”

So, he would.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“I’m gonna save you the regret—besides, I got a few rules for myself, and if not allowing myself to touch you when we just met is one of ‘em, I think that’s fair.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” You goad, feet dropping slowly to the ground between his widened legs, “Do you want me to touch you? Is that against the rules?”

Joel knows there’s no benefit in lying.

“‘Course I think you’re pretty but you sure got a mouth,” Joel comments, fingers flexing against his thigh as he leans back in his chair, letting out a long breath through his nose as he peers over at you, “I’m willin’ to do a lot more than touch, sweetheart. But, not like this, not tonight.”

“I’m not drunk,” You defend, “C’mon, Joel. I got all dressed up tonight and I’m askin’,”

Half a second short of begging.

“Sweetheart,” He warns, “M’not gonna,”

“Then touch yourself,” You encourage, “let me watch.”

“Now, what makes you think—”

Your straps droop down your shoulders, one adjustment short of your breasts spilling out of your dress as your head nods toward his subtle adjustment between his legs, pulling slightly at the denim suffocating his growing erection.

He’s got a beautiful girl presenting herself to him, one more no away from dropping to her knees to wallow, lips parted as you breathed out softly, thighs separating so far that Joel catches the quickest glimpse of your thin panties, nearly see-through with how wet you were, your hands squeezing at the fabric near the end of your dress like a nervous tic.

Joel wasn’t blind either.

“You were going to do it after I went to sleep, weren’t you?

“You’re stubborn as hell, girl—”

“I bet it’s big,” You throw from left-field, a smirk growing on your face, “I love sucking cock, Joel. It’s my favorite thing—s’not a rule break, right? If I touch you and you keep your hands to yourself? Do you want me on my knees? Wanna see what I look like with your cock in my mouth?”

His jaw clenches, watching the muscle strain underneath his skin as he clears his throat.

“Don’t be shy—”

“I”m not shy.”

Then?

Your eyebrows raise in question, your dress pulling slowly up your thighs, legs widening with the movement before Joel finally relents, the deafening sound of his zipper pulling a soft giggle from your chest as you wiggle with excitement.

Joel's hand hesitates for a moment before he reaches into his pants, shoving them far enough down his thighs, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly pulls out his hardening cock, watching him swell in the loose grip of his palm. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it—thick and veiny, an easy seven inches, a heavy set of balls to match as his fingers roll along the tight skin and up, his fingers drifting featherlight over his cock.

“This what you wanted?” Joel asks, low and throaty, a strain to his tone.

You nod eagerly, bottom lip pulling between your teeth as your hands settle beside you, gripping the chair so hard it creaks, legs spread wide instinctually, making room for him despite his distance, your dress slipping far enough down your chest that your breasts were on display.

Soft peaks, nipples hardened in the cool air, your chest rising with slow breaths as you arch yourself forward slightly, his hand keeping a slow, teasing pace as his thumb drags over the thick head and against the slit.

Your eyes flicker between Joel’s face and his tight grip around his cock, watching as he strokes himself with slow intent, belt jingling with the movement as he pushes his shirt up with the other hand, his own eyes trading between different parts of your body.

He’d suckle at your skin if he could, trail his tongue from mouth to cunt, have you a shaking, sobbing mess if he allowed himself the luxury, but he was a man wallowing in his own self-made torture and the energy in the air was palpable, thick with tension.

“Closer,” He groans out lowly, nodding his head in a jerky motion as his free hand beckons you near, “Spread your legs, sweetheart—lemme see you.”

You give him far more than he asks, standing slowly before you’re hooking your fingers in the fabric at your hips and pulling down, letting the damp fabric drop to your feet before you’re leaning down to pick it up, tossing your panties into Joel’s lap before you return to your seat.

One foot propped against the chair, your dress bunches at your hips, giving him a perfect view of your glistening cunt as you spread your fingers through your folds, a teasing touch.

Blindly, Joel grabs at the fabric and wraps it around his cock, like a vice, he squeezes tight.

Joel's eyes darken, pupils dilating as he takes in the sight before him. His grip tightens around your panties, the damp fabric adding a new, chest-tightening sensation as he strokes himself harder. A low groan escapes his lips, his gaze fixed on your fingers as they tease through your slick folds.

“You too scared to fuck a college girl?” You tease him, “‘Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Smart ass mouth, girl,” He gripes, “S’like your daddy never taught you any manners.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m sure you could’ve,” You reply flippantly, gasping as your finger catches along your fluttering hole, a groan rumbling deep in Joel’s chest as he jerks his cock.

“I ain’t your daddy,” He reminds you.

You shake your head nonchalantly, “No you’re not. Could–could be, though. “What do you want? For me to pout and call you daddy?”

“Careful,” he warns, his voice rough with desire, “That’s a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You hum at the words, a faint flutter in your chest.

If you stopped to think about what was happening you would psych yourself out completely, so you lean back further, arching yourself forward as you slide two fingers inside yourself. "I don’t mind playing," you moan, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before locking back onto Joel’s.

Joel's breath catches in his throat, his hand faltering for a moment as he watches you sink your fingers deeper into your wet cunt, the soft squelch paired with your innocent sounds.

He scowls as he squeezes his shaft, “Christ, girl,” He grunts, “Tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

You shake your head impishly, “Temptin’ you,” You admit, “Is it working?”

“You know damn well,” Joel says tensely, forcing the words through his teeth as his fingers slide up and squeeze at the head of his cock, precum slick against his fingers as he uses it to add to the friction, his eyes roaming hungrily over your body, “fuckin’ look at you, so goddamn eager.”

“That right, daddy?” You ask breathily, giggling with the word as Joel looks like he could explode, his other hand cupping his balls to keep him busy, knowing if he lingered with his thoughts for too long he’d fuck you into the chair without an ire of hesitation, his eyes close as his head leans back.

“Is that what you need? Someone carin’ for you?” He asks, “Is that why you’re actin’ out?”

The way his hand moves against his cock is mesmerizing, the flex of his wrist as he jerks his cock in a practiced manner, something he undoubtedly does weekly, squeezing his sack gently in his hand as his chest rumbles quietly.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” He chastises, “I’m askin’ you a question, answer it.”

You nod weakly, a frown forming on your face as you whimper, the softest graze of your fingertip over your clit as your body spasms, gasping at the feeling.

“Words, ‘hon,” He encourages, his own voice wavering slightly.

“Y—yes,” You answer quickly.

Joel chuckles deeply, “S’good. Good girl, sweetheart. You wanna spread those legs for daddy then?” 

Obediently, they do, presenting your glistening cunt to him as you fingers slip out, wet with slick and Joel licks at his bottom lip, mouth watering at the sight.

“Fuckin’ filthy,” He murmurs endearingly, a slight smirk stretching across his face at the sight, “—won’t even touch you and you’re mess, been like that since you got in my car, huh?”

You nod weakly, sighing as your fingers circle lazily over your clit.

“Taste ‘em,” He encourages, “clean ‘em up.”

Your fingers, he means.

Like some magnetic pull, you find your fingers pressing against your tongue without thinking and the tangy sweetness melts against your tongue, his breath shuddering as you licked your fingers clean, cunt pulsing with need, silently pleading for Joel.

His eyes narrow, darkening with lust as his hand speeds up around his cock, obscene sounds matching his heady words, neck straining as he grunts, “That’s it, sweetheart. Listenin’ to your daddy—M’fuck—fuckin’ close.”

Through your bleary haze, you nod with the same sentiment, speaking softly, “Metoometoo—”

His movements are more fumbling, quick and furious jerks of his cock that still at the head as he squeezes, his face scrunching up in a mix of frustration and desperation, trying harder than he’s ever had to not shoot his load too soon.

“Yeah? Show me,” He encourages, goading as his unoccupied hand twists into his shirt and hastily pulls it up and over his head, “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

They spread impossibly wider, your hand reaching behind your head to grip onto the chair as your ass slips near the edge, circling your fingers over your clit without much precision, knowing that one more word from his mouth and you’d be drooling all over the seat.

“So fuckin’ desperate, look at you,” He demeans, “Poor little girl with daddy issues, huh?”

You moan shakily, avoidant of his obviously goading question, eyes fluttering closed as your orgasm crept in slow, mumbling out the words without even thinking, “Please—please can I—daddy, can I—”

“S’alright, we’ll fix that,” Joel comments softly, his voice a low growl, “Go on, sweetheart, come for me.”

The feeling is instant, his permission all you need to melt over the edge, legs shaking through the mind-numbing sensation your climax brings, chest tightening as you gasp, fingers working frantically over your clit as Joel’s name slips from your mouth.

Distantly, you hear him groan, his orgasm overtaking him at the sight of you writhing in your chair, spilling over his tight fist as thick, milky ropes of cum spread across his chest and down the underside of his cock, his eyes falling shut. 

As your breathing slows, your thighs pull together, shrinking impossibly small into the chair in a sudden overwhelming feeling of shame. Shame that you had shared an intimate moment like this with a man you barely knew all because you had a terrible night and shame over how easily he had made you come, like it was natural.

Despite the obvious, Joel doesn’t miss a beat.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face and he beckons you forward. Finally.

“On your knees, sweetheart,” He instructs as your body moves without much protest, sliding to the floor as your dress pools at your hips, not amiss to the way Joel’s eyes follow the subtle bounce of your breasts as you move between his spread legs, his erection flagging but your tongue peeks out eagerly, licking at the head of his cock as your hands curls around his calves for support, “S’not—hey,” He hisses, “you were listenin’ so good until now.”

He’s salty and sweet, a taste so inviting that you needed more. It made your mouth water, tongue swiping against your bottom lip as your eyes fell on the opaque liquid covering his stomach.

Unfortunately, he still wouldn’t touch you.

He runs a hand through his hair while the other rests against the table, balled into a fist as you shake your head shyly, removing your hands from his legs.

“Sor—sorry,” You stutter, uncertainty evident in your voice.

Joel’s eyebrows raise, an unspoken bond quickly forming between you both.

“Try again.

“M’sorry, daddy—what can—,” You gulp audibly, fidgeting nervously with the silk fabric at your waist, “how can I make it up to you?”

Joel glances down at his stomach, still covered in cum as he breathes, watching the liquid drop down his skin and to his softening cock, still intimidatingly large even as it rests against his thigh, “Why don’t you clean me up? Can you do that?”

You nod eagerly, darting forward immediately as your tongue glided along his skin, into the small patch of hair above his groin and to his belly button, hearing Joel groan as the chair creaks with his shifting weight, struggling against his own forced restraint as you lick the cooled cum off his skin, eyes flicking up to look at him, dangerously innocent.

A facade, he knows. But, he’s in fucking trouble.

“That’s it,” Joel coos, “Clean me up good, baby.”

You giggle softly, dragging the tip of your tongue along the last bit of his cum before you drag up the center, barely reaching his face before you pull away, a soft huff of breath hitting you in the face as Joel shakes his head and chuckles, looking away from you briefly.

“Still not gonna touch me?” You tease him, quietly pulling your dress back up your body and over your shoulders, fingers adjusting the strap as he turns back to look at you.

“I’m tryin’ to be respectful here, sweetheart. And you’re makin’ it damn near impossible.”

Your brow furrows in a mix of confusion and amusement, “Respectful? You call that respectful, Joel? Oh—” You clear your throat and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, batting your lashes, “M’sorry, I mean, daddy.”

“Careful,” Joel warns, “You still have an hour in the car with me in the morning.”

You nod, slowly rising to your feet as you adjust your dress down your body, smoothing it out over your curves as your hands rest naturally behind your back, loosely as they curl together.

“Mmm, no,” You retort, a playful glint in your eyes, “I think you should be worried about me.”

“Is that right, sweetheart?” He mocks, hardly believing your faux confidence against him.

“Or, you could just let me drive?” You attempt playfully, a full belly chuckle erupting from Joel.

“I mean,” Joel shrugs, his voice trailing.

Breaking his rule for a moment, the hand ruffling through his hair trails toward your thigh, curling around the bare skin for a brief moment, sliding up until his fingers grazed against the curve of your ass and your bare pussy underneath, your panties resting near his fist on the table, a keepsake.

“Gotta reward my good girl, don’t I?”

[cherrynpink]

freak like me

pairing: nerdy!dino x f!reader

genre: project partners, mutual pining, lots of daydreaming, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: shy cutesy dino who has my heart (he is a secret freak!), idk how american uni works so just go w it pls, dino and chan are both used interchangeably, oc has nerd kink (ahem), forward oc, cursing, a bit of manipulation?, too many thirsty thoughts, kissing, choking, spit kink, unprotected sex (do not do this!), oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, clit stimulation, brat!oc, brattamer!dino, mean dino, he calls oc slut/whore, dirty talk!!!, riding, missionary position, creampie, size kink?, crying, hair grabbing, ass slapping, orgasm denial, cum eating, it is honestly filthy, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 5.4k

playlist: freak like me

for more of my work, check out my masterlist!

note: thank you so much for liking the last fic so much :( didn't expect such a positive reception so i was super motivated to write this one! plus these pictures of him did something to me like y'all don't get it like i do bcs i went crazy and HAD to write.

also u can message me here or comment if u want to be part of my taglist! my requests are open if u have something u wanna read, or just talk. feedback is highly appreciated hope u like this one hehe :3

“Right, so the semester end project will be a group project.” Your professor says as the whole class sighs in disappointment and annoyance.

“I know you all don’t like these group projects, but it’s compulsory guys, it’s worth 30% of your final grade. If it’s any consolation, I requested the dean to let it be done in pairs, so be a little grateful, I don’t want anyone coming up to me after class asking to change partners.”

Great. The only thing you hated more than group projects were the ones done in pairs. In spite of all the arguments in groups, atleast you didn’t have to do any work if you didn’t feel like it. But now not only will there be conflicts with your partner, but you’ll have to do half the work too. Just great.

“Y/n? miss y/n?” your professor calls pulling you out of your zoned out state as you raise your hand in confusion.

“You’ll be partnered with Mr. Chan.”

Oh. This was going to be fun. Not only was Chan really REALLY good at studies, but also so cute. You first met him just on the second day of class, when you asked him for a pencil because being klutz you are, you had forgotten you had that class that day and had practically rolled off your bed as your roommate woke you up minutes before it started, reaching a bit late and resulting in your professor scolding you. Chan had coyly given you the pencil, later passing you a note in the middle of the class written “you can ask me later if you have any doubts about what was taught before you arrived as you were a bit late :)”. Oh, he was so cute.

That was how your friendship started, though you never talked much outside of class- other than the occasional times he replied to your story or liked it, you and him were mostly formal with each other, never crossing the boundary of “classmates.”

Sometimes you would ask him for his notes, and being the nice guy he is, he would send the snapshots in a second. You would later leave an iced americano on his usual seat, as a gesture of thankfulness; and a note along with it. Sometimes when the professor’s voice cracked in the middle of the lecture, your eyes would find his- giving each other a slight smile.

It was always quick glances, polite words, and soft smiles, because you both never seemed to take it further. But you were tired now, tired of pretending you didn’t picture his face squished under your thighs, glasses all fogged up and your slick dripping down his chin. Tired of acting like you didn’t violate your poor pillow every other night imagining how he would sound with him in your throat.

Was he a head pusher? Or someone that just begged you to let him come? Would he let you tie him up? Or would he want to tie YOU up? you were sick of acting like he didn’t get you so so wet when he answered a question in class and fixed his glasses, and you had a plan to change that.

As the class ends, you see him coming up to you.

“Should we work at the library at 6 today? I’ll get us some coffee and snacks to eat while we work!” he says with a small smile on his face.

You could agree to the library at 6, after all he has pitched it so sweetly, but there is a devil on your shoulder that is actually so evil, because you hear a voice in your head saying no way you’re meeting him in a public place for the things you want to do with him.

“I’m a bit busy at 6 Chan, I-”

“Dino! You can call me dino too. All my friends usually call me that.” He says shyly.

You smile sweetly. “I’m a bit busy at 6 dino, I have my shift at the café.” You say pouting at him. They are blatant lies. You do not have your shift at the café today because it is closed, something about the owner being at a wedding, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You can come over to my place at 10 if it’s okay with you? I doubt the library will be open till the time I get off work.” You feel a bit bad, but you’re just inviting him over because it’s more comfortable at home, right? Yeah! Nothing needs to happen just because you’ll be alone with him. (You are lying to yourself at this point because there is no way you don’t lose your mind at the thought of being alone with him.)

“Oh, okay sure! text me the address, I’ll be there.” He says with a sweet smile and you might crush him because of how much you want to squish his cheeks right now.

Dino might go crazy. He’s not even sure if you could see he wasn’t paying attention to a thing you said, because he was too busy staring at your lips the entire time, and then your collarbones, until his eyes travelled to your tits trapped in your blouse which was just a little too tight. Tight enough to accentuate the curve of your breasts; but not letting them spill out- just tight enough.

On top of that, if he’s left alone with you, he has no idea how he’s going to prevent a tent from forming in his pants, so he opts for a oversized hoodie long enough to cover him and a pair of grey sweatpants because it is your house after all, he can dress casual, and he doesn’t want you to know he took 20 minutes to decide what he wore so that his outfit says-“hey, I’m casual and comfortable” and “I’m put together” at the same time.

He is sharp on time, you say to yourself as the bell rings. You’re a bit nervous approaching the door in your small plaid skirt and sweater, knowing how he always stares at you whenever you wear a skirt to class. Plus, you’re wearing a something a little special underneath it, just it case. You push the self-doubting thoughts to the back of your head as you open your door and he is a sight to see. He looks so delicious in those animal print framed glasses and messy hair, there is a glow on his face and oh, those stupid goddamn grey sweatpants. It is OVER for you.

“You’re very punctual, it’s exactly 10.” You giggle. “Your hair looks a bit of a mess dino, coming from another girl’s place?” you say as you smirk, leaning against the door.

“No! No, I just came from the gym, my hair is still a bit wet from the shower.” He says as he ruffles his hair and comes in, setting his bag on the table in your living room. Oh? Pretty boy goes to the gym as well, is there anything he doesn’t do. He usually only wore oversized hoodies and t-shirts to class, never really revealing his true figure; nor did you ever see him much in parties despite his friends being a part of the frat, so this was a new side of him you were seeing right now.

“My roommate is gonna be home in a bit, so we can work in my room, mhm?” you ask, acting intentionally doe eyed and innocent. Lies. They are all lies. Your roommate isn’t going to be home in a bit, she’s at her girlfriend’s dorm. And she is not going to be home until tomorrow after class. And maybe if Chan was thinking clearly, he would’ve asked why your roommate would mind you working in the living room with him. But he’s not thinking clearly, too busy staring at your legs and imagining his face between your thighs; so, forgive him if he isn’t at his highest functioning brain activity right now.

He murmurs a quiet okay as he follows you to your room as you lead him. And your room is so you. He doesn’t know how to explain it, because he doesn’t know you so well yet, but as soon as he enters through the door, he sees plushies laid out neatly on your bed, and your scent all around him. He can see posters of bands and movies dressing up your walls and random Sanrio figurines all around the room. He lays his bag on your bed, taking out his laptop as you sit next to him on your chair, and your skirt rides up, revealing your soft thighs further. And maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but he can almost see pink lace fabric peaking from underneath your skirt. And maybe you’re just a bit cold, but he swears he can see your nipples peeking through your sweater.

Every passing minute, he is making it so hard for you to keep your composure. He keeps sharing his ideas about the project and telling you what you should work on. Why is hearing him talk about physics so sexy? You don’t know what it is, but you can’t help but think how hot he looks when he talks so passionately. Your panties are literally getting soaked as the time goes on. It’s been an hour, and he hasn’t even taken a second to look at you yet! You’re quite literally whoring yourself out for him and all he cares about is inductive motor or whatever the hell the project is about.

“Channie, can we move to the bed? I’m feeling a bit tired from my shift.” You say, fake yawning.

“Mmm? Oh sure.” It is over for him, he thinks to himself.

As you sit up on your bed, your skirt FULLY rides up, revealing your baby pink lace panties. You push it down gently, saying “oops” as you giggle. And something inside him snaps. All control he had, he’s lost it now and he physically cannot hold back anymore. His gaze darkens, as he pushes you down, his grip on your throat as he gets on top of you. You gasp as he takes you by surprise, but the shock lasts barely 5 seconds before you smirk.

You reach up as your lips find his, pulling him deeper into your mouth as you grab his hair. From the get go, it is passionate, and rough and messy, because both of you are left gasping for your breath- your cheeks rosy and your chest heaving. Deciding to tease him further, you bite his lip. He moans into your mouth, mumbling “brat.” Taking the opportunity, you slip your tongue into his mouth deepening the kiss, and it is so sloppy; neither of you willing to give up control. The heat between your legs grows because of the way his tongue fights with yours to take over, which has your head spinning.

“Channie” you moan, as you feel the hard press of his body against yours, the sound of your lips smacking together and your heavy gasping filling the room.

His hand reaches to lift your sweater slightly, fingers making contact with your bare skin as they keep moving upwards until they meet your lacy bra, delicately toying with the material.

“You wore this for me baby? Knew this was going to happen?”

All you do is giggle as you continue to kiss down his jaw, alternating between sucking and biting. But that doesn’t sit right with him, as his other hand wraps around your neck, squeezing just the right amount so that his grip is tight enough, but still allowing you to breathe, and suddenly you’re flooding your panties.

“This okay?” he asks, his eyes filled with concern and genuine worry, looking for any discomfort in your eyes, desperate for your approval to continue.

You nod, because it’s actually all you can do. He loosens the grip on your throat and begins to pull his hand away as he says “Fuck, if you want me to go on, you’re gonna have to answer me baby.”

You’re quick to bring his hand back on your neck, your head turning left and right in panic, “No! No, please I want it!” you say as he smirks at your desperate state.

“Yeah? Then answer me when I ask you a question baby. You wore this set for me pretty?”

“Just wanted you to notice me, pay attention to me.” You say between kisses.

“And you thought whoring yourself out would be the way to get my attention” he chuckles. “Thought it was a mistake when you flashed me, turns out baby’s just an attention whore.”

He gets off of you and the bed and a whine leaves your throat as he pulls you down by your ankles as your hips reach the foot of your bed in an instant as he begins taking off his glasses.

“No!” you protest. “don’t- don’t take them off, I like them.” You say timidly. He picks you up, flipping your previous position as he seats you on his lap, taking off his hoodie, and you cannot help but stare. You did not know he was SO built and buff, your eyes are practically eating him up as you feel drool building up in your mouth. Oh, you NEED to suck him off right now. And that’s pretty much all it takes for you as you get on your knees for him.

When you look up to him, there is hunger in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before, his gaze full of lust. He can’t remember how many times he’s pictured you like this, on your knees, so innocent, a pathetic expression on your face, waiting for him to give you your next instruction.

Those stupid man whore grey sweatpants, you need them off now.

You fumble with it’s band as you impatiently pull it down, revealing his Calvin Klein boxers, and you clearly have no time for this nonsense, rushing to pull his boxers down as well, all while he looks down on you, leaning back on the bed- hands on either side of him with a big cocky smirk on his face, because he cannot wait to see the next look on your face.

Your face: it’s so transparent, so revealing. It’s literally like you wear your heart on your sleeve. Everything you feel, you think, you want, it’s clear- plain as day on your face. And as soon as you pull his boxers off, there it is- pure amusement and shock, as his dick twitches at the sight of your wide doe eyes. You knew he was big, atleast that’s what you pictured in your nightly scenarios. But you did not know he was this big both in length and in girth as well, his angry tip staring at you, begging for your attention.

“Take your sweater off.” He demands. No pleas, no hesitance. An order. And who would you be to defy him? you teasingly take it off, all while a small smile adorns your lips as you throw the sweater somewhere on the floor alongside his hoodie.

You take his length in your hand, rubbing your thumb over his tip- spreading his pre-cum around it as your eyes go from doe like to those of a siren as they stare straight into his, spitting right on it seductively and oh, he thinks he’s in love. You pump it up and down and fuck- you can’t even completely wrap your hand around it, giving it a little squeeze as you go along, building the tension. But he doesn’t seem too happy about it as he sighs in annoyance. He’s sick of your teasing, because even after his multiple attempts to discipline you, you’ve decided to continue being a brat.

In the blink of an eye, he takes your hand off of him, grabs you by your jaw and squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and fore finger- the rest of the them lying on your jaw, forcing to you part your lips slightly.

“Do you trust me y/n?” he says softly, yet his voice dripping with dominance as you nod.

“Open your mouth, tongue out baby.”

And what he does next takes you by surprise, as he leans down, collecting a glob of spit in his mouth as it drips down from his mouth to yours, making you moan as you close your eyes, feeling the warm liquid on your tongue.

“Swallow.” he says as he caresses your jaw. And his wish is your command; you let out a loud moan as you feel it travel down your throat.

“Good girl. You’ll listen to me now, yeah? No more teasing. I’ve been holding back until now but if you don’t behave, I’ll have to fuck you like the whore you are. Better yet, I’ll eat you out, and get you so so close. I’ll be at it for hours baby, I have no place to be, but I won’t let you cum. So, tell me, you’re gonna be a good girl for me now?”

And all you can do is nod as he smirks, because now, he holds the power over you, and you want him to take over you. Don’t want to think about anything, just do whatever he says. And he can see that, see you fully slipping into subspace.

He holds his dick in his hand, and as your mouth chases his tip, he slaps it against your cheek. All he does is laugh, because you just look so pathetic under him. Tits spilling out of your see through pink lace bra, eyes on the brink of tears, fists balled up in your lap because he won’t let you touch him.

He grabs your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slaps his dick against your other cheek as he says “tap my thigh twice in you wanna stop, okay?” and finally rubs his tip against your lips, parting them immediately as you engulf it in your mouth, sucking on it as if it’s a popsicle, swirling your tongue all around it, making him groan.

Slowly, he pushes his dick in inch by inch until it hits the back of your throat, and its laughable, because half of it still can’t be wrapped around your tiny mouth even though your jaw is doing gymnastics to accommodate half of him and he lets out a loud moan due to the insane pleasure it gives him. Since he won’t let you move yet, enjoying the feeling of cockwarming your mouth too much, you drag your tongue up and down, making him hiss.

Finally, he decides to fuck your throat, sliding your mouth up and down his dick as if your mouth is just a fleshlight for him to use, making your eyes roll back. He starts slow, as to ease you in; but is quick to fasten his pace to meet his needs. But you want to do more, so your hands reach up to play with his balls, and oh does it take him by surprise. All he can do while fucking your mouth is mumble sweet nothings, praising you, telling you how good you’re being letting him use you like this. And his words are working, because at this point your slick is running down your thighs and your cunt is in a desperate need of attention, as you grind it against the heel of your foot and when you look up to him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. His glasses lay low on his nose as his head is thrown back in pleasure and his hair is messy, sticking to his forehead due to the sweat; yet his hand is precise is controlling your mouth by your hair. His buff chest heaving desperate for air as his ears and cheek are a pretty shade of pink for you.

Suddenly he looks down to meet your eyes staring at him in lust, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything hotter as he sees you grind against your foot pathetically all whilst he fucks your warm mouth. He can feel the vibration of your mouth as you moan around him, and he thinks he’s in heaven. You look so dirty, spit dribbling down your chin, pupils dilated and red with desire, tears streaming down your cheeks because of how deep he’s hitting it right now. He is just so close, but no way he doesn’t cum in your pussy today, so he pulls you off his dick as you welp, a string of spit connecting your lips to his tip.

“I’ll come in your mouth some other day baby, need to be in you right now.” He says responding to your cute pout as he pulls you up to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his thigh once again.

His hands travel to your back to undo your bra in an instant as it’s thrown somewhere on the bed behind him. Immediately his mouth is attached to your hardened nipple as you let out a loud moaning, feeling his warm tongue on your cold skin.

“I’m so fucking sick of you parading around in this stupid excuse of a skirt that barely covers your ass y/n.” He says as his hands travel down and under your skirt, making contact with your dripping lace, running his fingers up and down. He can feel your slick on his own thighs.

“Oh? You’re already soaked, baby. But I haven’t even touched you yet, wanna tell me what got you so wet?” he says as he mocks you, still not taking his attention off your breasts, sucking them and marking them up with hickeys all around and all you can do is moan as you dig your nails into his back overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“You’re so sensitive, so responsive. I love it baby, so easy for me. Need you to answer me- what’s got you dripping?” he says as he finds your clothed clit, pressing hard against it over the lace.

He’s being so mean right you. The remnants of tears on your cheeks have barely dried up before you can feel yourself getting teary eyed already.

“You! Want you so bad channie! Been wet for you since you walked in the door.” You cry out desperately.

Finally, he stops teasing your covered pussy and pulls it to the side, inserting two of fingers with no warning making you scream out loud. He’s quick to press his thumb to your clit, flicking it as he pumps his fingers into you, all whilst he’s sucking on your tits. His pace is monstrous from the start, and he shows no signs of stopping as he continues to drive them in you, opening you up preparing you to take his big dick. All you can do is drop your head on his shoulder helplessly, taking what he gives you.

“Ah! So good Chan, so- so- fuck! Right there! Need you!” you say as he repeatedly hits your g-spot all while rubbing your clit.

You’ve lost all track of time. You’ve been so close to cumming ever since you saw him walk through your front door that even the slightest touch could get you to your high, and here Chan was, touching you right where you needed, enlightening all your senses.

“I’m about- gonna- gonna cum dino! Please, let me, oh- please let me cum!” you cry out loud, begging him as he pulls out his fingers in an instant and just like that you’re crying again, dropping your head in the crook of his neck.

“What, don’t cry baby.” He says, voice dripping with fake sympathy, because inside him he knows your tears turn him on even more. His hand reaches the small of your back as he caresses it, attempting to calm you down. “Want you to cum on my cock princess. Think you can do that, yeah? You promised you’d be a good girl for me.”

“I was- I was just so close.” You say timidly between your sniffles.

“It’s okay princess, I’ll make you cum real good on my cock.” He whispers, kissing you tenderly for the first time in the evening, and it makes your heart full, reminding you that in spite of everything, this is the same dino that you see in class every day, polite and sweet and beautiful; but you’re brought back to the present as he pulls away from you, shattering your illusion.

“You wanted my attention so bad y/n, you started it. So, you’re gonna take what you wanted- gonna have to ride me.” He says with a shit eating grin that just makes you so mad right now, but eager to give him what he asks for you get off your lap and begin to take off your skirt.

“Did I ask you to take it off? Still not behaving baby. Keep the skirt on; after all you made such a show of wearing them, wanna fuck you in it. Take off your panties.”

Once the pink garment is off, you sit on his lap again, as he slaps his dick against your poor swollen cunt, running his tip against your entrance.

“You know what to do right? It isn’t your first rodeo after all.” He says as he smiles.

God, he is so cocky. If you didn’t desperately need him in you, you would not put up with it for a second. (you would probably put up with it anyway)

You take his dick in your hand as you hover over it, your pussy clenching over nothing, begging to be filled by him as you insert the tip in him; and that alone is such a stretch for you, your legs might give up then and there. But you are anything but determined. Stubborn. Firm on proving yourself. So, you accept the stretch, stabilising yourself by placing one hand on his wide shoulder while you bottom out completely, burying himself into you in one go making him throw his head back and groan in pleasure as his hands reach out to hold your waist, not letting you escape his grasp.

Slowly but surely, you begin by grinding your hips against them, building up the tension as you try to maintain a steady pace; but dino doesn’t look amused, so you begin to move up and down on him, burying your freshly done nails into his shoulders. His hand moves down as you bounce on him, giving your ass a quick slap before finding it going under your skirt and rubbing your clit, making you gasp out.

“Fuck, lift up your skirt baby.” He says, and you comply- lifting up your skirt with one hand, whilst he continues to toy with your clit and you bounce up and down his dick, showing him the mess you both are making; and he loves it.

You’re so eager to please him, prove yourself to him as you continue to alternate between grinding and moving up and down; but the pleasure is SO overwhelming with his hand on your nub and you don’t think you can last. On top of that, you’ve been working so hard to maintain a steady pace for him, that your thighs are about to give out. And he sees that- sees your movement becoming sloppy and messy, your thighs shaking and your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Tired, baby?”

Why is he such a tease. And why is he being so mean to you when he knows you’re totally spent. You think you’re going to cry for the third time in the night.

“You know, all you have to do is admit it. And I’ll take over. You know you want me to. I can make you feel so good baby, hit all the right spots and you don’t have to lift a finger.” He whispers in your ear before slapping your ass again as he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, showing you how much better he can make you feel.

“I- I- tired. I’m tired channie! Thighs hurt. P- please!” you say between hiccups as he keeps thrusting into you from beneath.

That’s all he needs to hear, before he’s flipping you on your back without taking himself out of you, pressing a kiss to your lips as he begins to actually fuck you. His hands roam all over you as if he’s trying to memorise every curve and dip. He’s thrusting into you with such a force your tits bounce back and forth with every drive of his hips into you while he mumbles pretty words in your ears.

“Pussy so good baby, absolutely squeezing me. Can’t believe you were letting those stupid guys have this while I was right there. Could’ve made you feel this good all this time. Fuck! Always wanted to bend you over the desk whenever you wore those stupid skirts to class. You know, everyone could see you baby. See how much needy you were. You’re probably just too much a slut to care, no?”

His mouth reaches down to bite your nipple, where you’re already so sensitive that you can’t help but cry out. You look so dumb for his cock right now, your nails are absolutely obliterating his back as your legs wrap around him not letting him go, a chant of his name leaving your lips with each of his movement. All you can hear is the sound of his balls slapping against you and your screams. You’re pretty sure you’ll get complaints from your neighbour tomorrow but who cares; he’s just too good. His thrusts get deeper yet sloppier as you feel him reach between your sweaty bodies and rub your clit in an attempt to get you closer.

“Fuck! Gonna cum baby. Are you close?”

“Yes! Channie fuck, love- love your dick so much! So big, need- I’m almost there!”

And that’s all the motivation he needs before he picks up his pace again, angling himself to hit you exactly at the spot that makes you scream, and before you know it, you feel tears streaming down your face again because of the overstimulation.

“Chan! Gonna cum! Please, please- fuck right there, please wanna cum!”

“Where do you want me princess?”

“In! In me, wanna feel you in me, fill me up! Please, need it in me!” you babble.

And that is all it takes for you to let go. Your eyes roll to the back of your head with a loud whine as your nails dig into him deeper, your back arching- the pleasure taking over you as you see stars in front of your eyes, screaming his name over and over again. It’s like you’re floating- because your body feels numb and completely spent. He feels you clenching so much around his cock as you cum, it’s like you’re milking him, before he’s filling you up full of him too, reaching his high, and he cannot stop. Even after you’re done, you’re still rhythmically squeezing him as he doesn’t stop coming in you. You feel him warm in you, and you honestly never want him to pull out, but unfortunately, he does- leaving you empty as his essence begins to spill out of you.

He gets between your legs, watching a mixture of your cum dripping out of you, admiring his work before he’s collecting it in his fingers, tracing your swollen sensitive centre as he comes up to you, and inserting his fingers in your mouth, while he kisses your tears. You can taste him and yourself on your tongue as you close your eyes, swirling your tongue around his fingers. The sight is so hot to him, his dick twitches against you once again before he’s pulling his fingers out and gently kissing you, as he leaves your bed to bring you a towel.

He lies besides you after he cleans you up as you turn you face each other.

“Sorry if I was too rough, got carried away a bit.” He says as you lay your head on his arm and run your hand through his hair.

“You were so good, I think I need to be a little bitchy again for you to put me in my place.” You say as you kiss him, smiling against his lips.

[yvesssssssss]

Hellooo :3

Mayhaps could I request Mydei with spouse reader who is just so atrociously down bad for their husband? It's not even about his title or anything, they are just down horrid (totally not projecting)

Even better if it started off as an arranged marriage

𐙚⋆.˚Mydei — honkai star rail

Hellooo!! I kinda had a hard time writing this one💔 but i hope you enjoy!!😽😽😽

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You had been warned about Mydei before the wedding.

That he was quiet. Stoic. That you’d never know what he was thinking. That he was a difficult man to understand, let alone love. That this marriage, arranged for diplomacy and structure, was destined to be little more than cordial distance and shared titles.

They couldn’t have known that you were a disaster.

Not in the political sense. No, in that you were already, hopelessly, horrifyingly infatuated with him by the time you arrived at the capital. Not with his influence. Not with the legacy he carried like armor. But with him—the elegance in how he held himself, the sheer gravity in his silence, the way he could say your name and make it sound like it belonged in a poem.

He met you with courteous bows and an unreadable gaze.

You met him with heart palpitations and a mouth dry enough to parch stars.

The wedding was brief and immaculate. He offered his hand. You took it like a lifeline. The entire time, you wanted to say, My husband is so beautiful I could scream, but you were trying not to combust in public.

Your chambers were adjacent, not shared.

Your roles were parallel, not intertwined.

Your feelings? Definitely not mutual.

You fell first. Fast. Hard. Unreasonably.

He would pass you in the hall, nodding politely, and you'd nearly drop whatever you were holding. Once he said, “You look well,” and you had to sit down for five minutes to recover. You once caught a glimpse of him in the early morning—hair slightly mussed, collar undone—and it haunted your dreams for a week.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. He spoke to you gently, always gently, and kept his distance with care. Like you were precious. Like he was afraid of hurting you.

And yet—despite how cold others claimed he could be, he never looked away from you. He always answered. He always listened.

It was maddening.

You tried being subtle. Which, for someone as disastrously down bad as you were, meant:

Staring.

Standing closer than necessary.

Fumbling compliments like, “Your hands are so elegant— I MEAN efficient—no, wait—beautiful! NO. STRONG??”

You were a walking embarrassment.

And Mydei? Ever composed.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The change happened quietly.

A shoulder offered when you stumbled slightly in public—fingers steadying your elbow, his hand lingering just a moment longer than required.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “I should’ve stood closer.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Later, during a diplomatic dinner, you’d leaned into him more than propriety allowed. His breath hitched—hitched—when you brushed his arm.

“Do you... mind?” you asked, already wanting to dissolve into the carpet.

He looked at you. Not through you. At you. And said, “No. I rather prefer it.”

You nearly passed out.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

And now, tonight.

He had just returned from a series of long negotiations. Hours of speaking in that calm voice of his, delivering strategies and commands like scripture. You were waiting in his study, legs swinging over the edge of the chair like a child too jittery to sit still.

The door opened. He walked in, loosened his coat, and stopped.

“You’re here.”

“Always,” you chirped. “I mean. Not always. Not in a weird way—well, maybe weird, but not creepy. Definitely not—”

His mouth twitched. The smallest smile.

You melted.

“I made tea,” you added, voice pitching embarrassingly high. “If you want. Or need. Or don’t. I just thought you might. Because, you know, you’re—you.”

He walked to you slowly, soundlessly. Took the cup from your hand.

You felt the heat of his fingers even after they left.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“Am I? Oh. Wow. So I am.”

He studied you then, truly studied you. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No!” You answered too fast. Too loud. “Never. You could ruin me with one word and I’d still follow you around like a lost puppy. Wait. Ignore that. That’s insane.”

“It’s honest.”

“...That’s worse.”

He took a breath, then placed the tea down, untouched. “Why do you speak like that around me?”

“Like what?”

“Like I might vanish. Or like you’re ashamed to want me to stay.”

The air cracked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, helplessly, whispered: “Because I’ve never been in love with someone who makes me feel like this.”

Mydei’s gaze softened.

“I thought… I was the only one,” you added, laughing weakly. “People said you’d never care. That I’d always be a name on a contract to you. But I don’t care about the arrangement. Or your rank. Or what we were supposed to be. I just—”

You paused.

“I just really, really love my husband.”

There was silence. You waited for his rejection, his polite dismissal, his cool, distant kindness.

But instead—

He stepped closer.

Then, softly:

“I know.”

You blinked.

“I’ve known for some time,” he continued, voice lower now, more intimate. “I didn’t think you’d stay. Most people in my life do not.”

“Why—why wouldn’t I stay?” you asked, stunned.

“Because I’m not easy to love. I’m not expressive. Or thrilling. I move slowly. Deliberately. I don’t chase.”

“I don’t need you to chase me,” you said, standing. “I’m already here.”

Mydei’s hand reached for yours. Hesitated. Then laced your fingers together with a gentleness that felt like reverence.

“I find you… extraordinary,” he said.

You made a sound halfway between a squeal and a sob.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he added. “But I think I’ve always admired the way you look at me. Like I am more than duty.”

“You are,” you whispered.

His other hand cupped your cheek. “Then allow me to return the favor. Stay with me tonight.”

“Just stay, or—”

“Just stay. For now.”

You nodded, utterly starstruck.

And that night, lying beside him in soft silence, his fingers curled lightly around yours and his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your side, you realized something wonderful:

He might not say much.

But you didn’t need declarations. Not when he held you like this.

Not when he whispered, so faintly you thought you imagined it:

“I love my spouse too.”

[suliigwp]

MY WOMAN

Lewis Hamilton, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc , Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen

SULI: Okay Ser Lewis version! I love you guys but please no more my woman request 🙏 I have no idea how to make them different anymore. Thank you for requesting!

Warnings: men.ewew

It started over lunch. One of those polished, high-stakes networking events where everything looks elegant and progressive on the surface—until you start listening too closely.

The executive sat across from her, older and well-respected, known for his influence behind the scenes. He had a charming smile and a careful tone, and he talked just enough to make her feel heard—until he didn’t.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, lifting his wine glass as if offering a toast. “Sharp mind, well-spoken. And of course, you’re stunning. That’s part of the appeal.”

She smiled politely. The kind of smile that looked gracious but was actually a mask.

Then he added, casually, like he was doing her a favor:

“You know, if you just… softened your presence a little, more doors would open for you. You have to let men feel like they still matter in the room. Play the game, just enough.”

Lewis sat still beside her, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t say a word. Just took a slow sip of his drink and met the man’s eyes over the rim of his glass. A flicker of something passed between them—unspoken, but unmistakable.

Later, when they left the table and slipped into the elevator, silence fell. Her smile vanished the moment the doors closed.

She didn’t look at Lewis, but her voice was low. Tight.

“You didn’t say anything.”

He glanced at her. “Did you want me to?”

“I’m not sure.” She folded her arms, leaned against the metal wall. “It just... felt like you didn’t have my back.”

That made him turn fully toward her.

“I had your back,” he said evenly. “I just didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.”

She frowned, unsure what that meant.

Lewis pressed the elevator button for their floor again, even though it was already lit. Something to do with his hands.

“You have no idea how often I’ve heard men like him say that same shit. To me. About women like you. The only difference is, they used to say it behind closed doors.”

She looked at him, jaw clenched. “And what? You were just going to let it go?”

He let out a soft breath. “Of course not.”

...

She didn’t find out what he did until days later.

By then, the man had been quietly pulled from two of the strategy boards. Disinvited from an upcoming FIA summit. His name was no longer on certain email chains, and he didn’t seem to know why. Only that his access was being limited.

Whispers started circulating. It wasn’t public—but it was effective.

She learned about it not from Lewis, but from a mutual colleague who said, “You know Hamilton had something to do with that, right? The man’s radioactive now.”

She marched back to the hospitality suite, heart pounding.

He was at his desk, tapping through telemetry on his laptop.

“You did it behind my back,” she said sharply.

Lewis looked up, calm. “I did it quietly.”

She stepped in further, lowering her voice. “You went after him?”

“No.” He closed the laptop. “I just made sure the people above him knew who he really was.”

She exhaled hard. “I could’ve handled that myself.”

���I know,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you let me?”

Lewis stood up. Walked over. His voice dropped, soft but deliberate.

“I didn’t handle it because you’re a woman. I handled it because you’re my woman. And I’ve had to watch women I love—my mum, my friends, my team—be belittled and pushed aside for years. I’ve watched them smile through it, stay quiet so they don’t seem angry, play it safe. I’m done watching.”

She stared at him. Breathing harder now. Angry, but also—

Moved.

“Lewis—”

“You didn’t need saving,” he said. “You’ve never needed saving.”

A pause.

“But when someone thinks they can reduce you to a pretty face and a polite tone... they don’t just disrespect you. They insult everything you’ve fought to become. And I don’t let that slide.”

He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“You’re not too much. You’re not too sharp. You’re not too loud. You are exactly who you need to be, and if that makes people uncomfortable, let them squirm.”

His voice softened to a whisper:

“I didn’t silence him. I just reminded him that power doesn’t look the way he thinks it does.”

She stared up at him.

And then, because she couldn’t hold it anymore, she stepped forward—slowly—and laid her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his hand cradling the back of her head like it was second nature.

They stood there for a long moment. No more words. Just steady breathing. His hand tracing slow, calming circles against her spine.

[lazysoulwriter]

cannes you not? - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x actress!wife!reader, Cannes Film Festival, chaotic flirty married couple energy, power couple in separate films, too-hot-for-the-red-carpet behavior, public teasing, mutual obsession, media going feral

---

It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. You were both there separately. Professionally.

Pedro was immersed in the press circuit for his latest dramatic epic — a weighty, thought-provoking film that marked a bold shift from his usual roles. You were starring in a glittery, sensual dark comedy directed by a Cannes darling. Very not the same vibe.

And yet?

Somehow, you two became the most talked about thing at the festival.

Power couples were supposed to be poised. Elegant. Giving “Oscar royalty” — not giggling between takes, not whispering jokes into each other’s ears in the middle of press interviews, not nearly making out on the red carpet while photographers begged you both to please just stand still for one frame.

But that’s the thing: you weren’t trying to behave.

“I’m in trouble,” Pedro whispered when you stepped out of your car in that custom couture gown. You were supposed to meet on the steps, wave politely, and move on. Instead, he immediately turned and bit his fist. Cameras clicked. The internet died.

Later, during one of the press junkets, a journalist asked if you ever got competitive being in the same festival with different films.

You both said “Yes” at the same time — then Pedro added: “She wins everything. Always. She wins my heart. She wins the carpets. She wins being hotter than me. It’s fine. I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you really?” you teased.

He looked you dead in the eye and said, “No. I’m barely functioning.”

By the time the photographers caught you at the amfAR Gala — him spinning you in your dress like it was prom night, and you kissing his cheek so hard you left a lipstick mark — the media had labeled you “the couple that Cannes was made for.”

Your publicist begged you both to behave.

You posted a blurry picture of Pedro zipping up your dress with the caption “we tried.”

Later, at the closing night party, you stood on the balcony with two glasses of champagne, waiting for him to come back from a very serious, very formal interview.

He found you there, hair pinned up, skin glowing, and eyes already teasing.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, pressing one hand to your waist and the other to your face.

“Says the man who made me late to my own premiere by taking off my underwear.”

He smirked. “No regrets.”

“None?”

“Well. One.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“That I don’t get to take you home yet.”

You melted. Punched him in the chest. Kissed him like the party didn’t exist.

And just like that, you two — the chaotic, over-in-love, can’t-keep-their-hands-off-each-other couple — became Cannes’ favorite tradition.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[nadvs]

　 —⊹　♡　 newlyweds ⟢

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

anon asked . . . i'm thinking about being newlyweds with rafe. you're at friends' house for dinner and as midnight falls, rafe notices how sleepy ur getting, sheepishly smiling and all, trying to keep up with the conversation. he's gotta take his sweet wife home and fuck her all soft and deep for being so so good

author’s note obsessed with this request. filthy smut below the cut! 18+!

a smile tugs on the corner of rafe’s mouth as you settle in the passenger seat, another sweet yawn escaping your lips.

“i don’t think you said thank you enough,” he rasps.

you laugh softly as you pull your seatbelt on. you’d thanked your mutual friends for hosting you countless times on your way out, earning his gentle teasing.

“i wanted to be polite,” you say. “is that so bad?”

“no, baby, it’s not bad at all,” he murmurs. “you ready for bed?”

you bite your lip, looking over at him as the overhead light dims to black. you’re no stranger to that depth in his voice, coated with velvet, laced with arousal.

“mhm,” you reply in a hum, your eyelids heavy.

he can’t wait to bury himself deep inside you. the sex has always been incredible, but since the day you made your vows and slid rings onto each other’s fingers, it’s been mind-blowing, your love having never felt so rich.

rafe drives out onto the road and you sink further in your seat. his eyes drift to the way your dress is gliding up your thighs. he’s getting hard, his briefs tightening. it’s like all he ever does is thirst for you.

he imagines the silk bunched up between his fingers as he hikes that dress off of you. he wouldn’t have the patience to take it all the way off if he didn’t love seeing you entirely naked, all of you ready for him.

his hand finds your thigh, his palm big and warm, thumb stroking over your skin.

“i saw you trying not to fall asleep at the table,” he teases. his fingers glide to your inner thigh. the feeling of your soft, hot flesh makes his cock even harder. “my sweet girl. didn’t want to be rude.”

you instinctually spread your legs, your stomach coiling at the thought of his fingers on you, in you.

one hand is tight on the wheel while the other plays with the lining of your panties at the crook of your thigh. he gently nudges against your core, the thin layer of your panties already wet against the pads of his fingers.

you breathe a moan. your head is spinning, your body writhing to feel him without any barriers.

“you gonna thank me tonight, too?” he asks.

“yes,” you whisper. you gently buck your hips and reach across the console, touching the hard bulge in his pants.

“fuck,” he groans. you cup him over the fabric, desperate to feel his girth stretching you out.

you tease each other, your breaths going shallow as your hands move the way you know the other loves. his fingers dip into your panties, gently parting your lips, just barely sinking inside.

rafe has never been so glad the drive is so short. his heart is pounding in his ears once he gets you in bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as he hovers over you.

his tongue is against yours, your mouths open and hot and wet as your clothes clumsily bunch together and drop to the floor.

you’re panting when his mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking. he cups your jaw to ensure that you look him in the eyes as he guides himself into you, slow, so slow that you want to cry out.

rafe shudders against your mouth as sinks into your heat. this is the best place in the fucking world. on top of you, your pussy wrapped around him, your moans filling his ears.

“was staring at you tonight, thinking about how lucky i am to call you my wife,” he rasps. “about how hard i want to make you come.”

goosebumps bloom over your skin as he shifts to trace circles over your clit. he finally bottoms out, stretching you out with a pressure so euphoric that you feel dizzy.

every thrust is slow. you fit together perfectly, hot and sweet and meant for each other. he completes you and you complete him, needing the other just the same, missing each other when he pulls back.

his body know yours so well, a language only you two speak. it takes no time for the coil in you to snap, coming undone. you feel like you might lose your mind when you watch him dip his fingers into his mouth to taste you.

his hips start to rock faster. harder. he collides against you over and over, the deliciously lewd sounds filling your bedroom, tangled with his ragged breaths and the squeaking bed.

“so good for me,” he groans, his lips pressed against your temple. “i fucking love you.”

and you tell him you love him, too, you thank him, you moan his name, you feel absolute perfection as he finishes inside of you.

[goorgeousz]

overtime | aaron hotchner

overtime | aaron hotchner

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!female!reader

summary: based on this request! hotch calls you into his office after hours about a missing report but you know the real reason behind it

content/tw: unprotected sex, p in v sex, office sex, semi-public sex, use of y/n, dom!hotch, sub!reader, hotch puts you on a headlock (sexually), choking (reader being choked),

word count: 3.9k

a/n: this was supposed to be a porn without plot situation but I’m a whore for background story… anyway, thank you for submitting, my requests are open <3 I hope you enjoy it!

after hours au masterlist (aaron hotchner x reader series)

main masterlist

This had to come to an end. 

This thing between you and Hotchner — whatever that was — had been going on for months now. The mutual pining, stolen glances, longing touches. 

You liked it. At first, it was too subtle. The rush of trying to get a moment alone. The butterflies in your stomach not knowing if it was real or happening just in your head. ‘Did he want to touch my waist or was it an accident?’ ‘Did he get coffee for everyone else or was it just me?’ ‘Was he looking at my lips or I’m seeing things?’

But enough is enough. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. And even though the longing were fun and exciting, it had to come to an end, otherwise would be just torture. Fantasy.

You were stubborn, you’d admit it. But Aaron? That man was a fucking wall. 

A few weeks ago, you thought he was going to break. It was a dinner party at Rossi’s. A lot of wine later, he offered to give you and JJ a ride. He let her home first, and you were alone in the car. Your dress had slipped up, you could see his eyes staring holes at your thighs from the driver seat. But as you waited for him to make the first move, he just parked and offered to walk you to the door, not even waiting for you to invite him to come in.

And then, in the last case you had, you felt him uneasy. He was shifting on his seat, fumbling with his fingers, his tie seemingly too tight, and he stared at you more than usual. Late at night, on the plane home, after everyone was asleep, you asked him what was wrong. He was nervous, but he was going to tell you. He really was. Finally. But the jet entered a turbulent area, and it woke everyone up. When you arrived, after packing your things to go home you went to talk to him again. Just the two of you. But the moment was gone, and he’d become distant again.

That’s when you decided: today was the day.

You didn’t typically wear tight outfits, or anything remotely short. Your day to day outfits were consistent: pants and a shirt. Maybe a sweater, maybe long skirts. You valued a good closet, choosing carefully your clothes — you loved feeling well dressed —, your goal to be the most comfortable possible. 

But it was summer, and hotter than usual. You didn’t think much of it, just picking that dress because it was possibly the only item you owned that wouldn’t overheat you. It wasn’t anything inappropriate, really. Just not what you usually went for.

It was a tight dress, stopping mid thigh, with a v-neck and ¾ sleeves. Nothing fancy, but it hugged your curves just right. You felt beautiful walking out, but you didn’t think people would notice it.

Man, were you wrong.

It started with Morgan, who playfully barked as soon as you walked into the bullpen. You laughed at him, playing and giving him a twirl. They all complimented you, and only then you realized you could use that to your advantage.

The team had a meeting, and you made sure to arrive early at the conference room, to be alone with Hotch and see if he would give you a reaction.

A reaction was given.

Hotch looked up from his papers when he heard your footsteps approaching the conference room. You smiled politely, greeted him with a good morning and grabbed a cup of coffee, making sure to spend as much time standing as possible.

More than seen, you felt his gaze on you. He looked at you like a man starved, not even bothering to greet you back. His eyes roamed your whole body, his breath hitching when you swayed your hips, walking slowly to sit next to him.

He didn’t pretend he wasn’t looking at your chest, your breasts pushed together under the cleavage, making him thirsty. His eyes found yours, and you realized you had him.

Before anything could happen, Spencer and Emily walked into the room, followed a few minutes later by the rest of the team. The interruption didn’t bother you in the slightest. You leaned back, trying not to grin too wildly while he started the meeting, not so subtly averting his eyes from you.

… 

It was a matter of time. You didn’t know when, you didn’t know how. But nonetheless, you knew.

Not even 10 minutes after, you got a text. Before you even got your phone, you knew it was coming.

From ‘Hotch’: Y/N, come to my office as soon as possible.

Feeling all too pleased with yourself, you chuckled and stood up, fixing your already perfectly smoothed dress, and climbed the stairs leading to Hotch’s office.

You knocked at the door and waited for a response. He authorized you to come in, his voice muffled by his soundproof walls.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, managing to seem oblivious.

“Yes.” he nodded, grabbing one of the files at his table. “It’s about your paperwork.”

“Is there something wrong?” you asked, knowing damn right there was nothing wrong. 

“Not with the ones you submit. There are a few reports missing.”

“Yes, I was going to do them tomorrow, when I’ll have more time. Since they’re too important, you know? Didn’t want to end up messing them up.” you explained, crossing your arms.

“I understand. But I’ll ask you to start doing those first.” you arched an eyebrow at that “It’s important to improve your production organization, just as much as the work itself. For example, if tomorrow we end up having a case, your focus should be on the case, not on the previous paper work. Even though there are only a few reports missing, they are the most relevant ones. So I suggest…” he interrupted his speech, clearly annoyed at you “I don’t see this is so funny, agent.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir.” you said, trying and failing miserably to suppress your grin. You didn’t even bother to sit.

This was ridiculous.

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows at you.

“Care to explain?” 

“It’s just that… I’m waiting for you to tell me the real reason you called me in here.” he looked dumbfounded at you.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not that what you’re saying isn’t important, it is. Very much so, I understand that. But you never told me about it. Not once, since I joined the team. I’ve always managed my paperwork just fine, never missed a report. Case or no case. And it didn’t affect my performance in the field, not in the slightest.” you explained, resting your hips at the back of the chair before you, glancing at him on the other side of the table. 

“This is not true at all.” he said, fixing his tie. You laughed.

“It is. You know it.” he did. But he wasn’t ready to admit it. “So you called me in just to talk about my reports?”

“Precisely.”

“And you had to wait for everyone to leave to talk with me about my reports?” you got him.

“I didn’t realize it was that late.” at that you laughed.

“Come on, Hotch. I see you staring. You can’t keep your eyes up. You try to, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s a very serious accusation, agent.” he muttered.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply stating facts.” you sighed “It could be so much easier if you just admitted.”

“How so?” he didn’t deny, so you took it as a sign he was close.

“You and I both know what’s going on. And neither of us want to break first. But I know I don’t just speak for myself when I say it’s becoming unbearable.”

“I don’t know if I agree.” he said, but his voice sounded hoarse and his pupils dilated.

“Oh but you do.” your tone a mocking sweetness “I bet you spent hours just figuring out a way to call me here. Something reasonable enough so it would be pathetic. It didn’t worry, did it?”

“Are you calling your unit chief pathetic, agent” he arched an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I’m calling pathetic men who let pride stop themselves from getting what they truly want. Are you pathetic, sir?” you asked, blinking your eyelashes at him.

Whatever smile he may have vanished at that.

He sat up straight, his eyes darkening with something dangerous. 

“Careful.” he warned, scolding.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. You thought this was over. It was starting to piss you off.

Any amusement you may have felt just vanished.

You were so over this. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was ridiculous, humiliating. This game you two were playing was long overdue.

That’s when you decided to give up. It was now or never.

“Fine, Hotch. Do you want me to leave?” you asked, looking at him blatantly, your emotions displayed openly in your eyes like they were a shining outdoor.

He hesitated.

That motherfucker.

Hotch looked at you in the eyes once more, deeply. Like he needed to confirm something before he chose his next move. Like a chess player. Pacient. Deliberate. Analytical. Whatever he was looking for, he found it. And he made his move.

“No.”

No.

How could a single, monosyllabic, two-letter word could carry the weight of the whole world?

One word that changed everything.

It was a crime. A sin. A dream.

Everything you ever wanted, but not nearly enough. 

You really wanted to say you remember everything, every detail. But your mind must’ve blanked out, because you had no idea of how and when you moved, but the next second you were standing right next to each other. 

His hands reach out to you to pull you closer, like you weren’t fast enough, and he needed you now. Out of all times, now. He held you by your waist, you gripped tightly on the lapels of his expensive suit. He stopped for a second. Without hesitation, but reverence. Like he wanted to savour every single detail of this, of you. You wanted too. Wanted to feel him, to see him. 

To enjoy the last seconds of the before. Because after that, nothing would ever be the same.

Despite the strength of his grip, when he kissed you, it was gentle. Kind. Devoted. Like he waited long for this (he did). You hoped, dreamt, fantasized about it even. It didn’t even compare.

His lips were gentle, kind, steady. It grounded you, it brought you back to this moment. He tasted like coffee and mint. Weird on the paper, but felt like heaven. He kissed you languidly, like he wanted to devour you. Like he was starved, and you were his only saving. He was an expert – of course-. It was surprising but not really. He was so good at it, but again, he was good at everything.

His hands rested on your waist and on your lower back, touching you like you were his holy grail.

You pulled back slightly, just to look at him again. To check if this wasn’t another cruel joke of your mind, a fantasy developed by your subconscious to punish you for its lack of rest.

It wasn’t.

You smiled at him breathlessly, biting your lower lip in delight. You stared at his wet lips like they held the secret of life behind them. You tasted it, you knew what he felt like. It was sweet, caring, and beautiful. Something to tell your kids, your grandkids. But still, not enough.

So you leaned in again, hungrier this time. So determined he was caught by surprise, stumbling back a little. He held you tighter and balanced his stance. He hummed in delight, you swallowed the sound like it was water.

“God” you muttered between kisses, and you felt his lips turning into a smirk.

“Wrong.” he teased, racing his hand lower and gripping tightly on your hips. You hummed in satisfaction, gripping the hair on the back of his neck and pulling on it. He groaned, pressing you closer against him. “So pretty.” you chuckled.

“If I knew all it took was a tight old dress I would’ve worn it way sooner.” you teased, biting on his lower lip. He stiffened. His grip remained strong, but he wasn’t pulling you into him anymore.

“You think that’s what this is about? Your dress?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. He was confused, a bit worried even.

“You can’t fool me, I saw you staring.” you gave him a pointed look. He arched an eyebrow at you.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was. But this is not about your dress. Or none of your… attributes.” he said, glancing at your chest while sliding his hands to the curve of your ass. You held your breath unconsciously. “It’s about your eyes.” 

Huh?

“What?” you managed, your voice hoarse. He smirked. The bastard. “The way you looked at me today. So determined. You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He was right, of course.

Normally, you would’ve lied, teased. But the attentive gaze he held you under didn’t let you. He was so close, his brown eyes staring so deeply into yours that you knew you couldn’t lie to him. Even if you wanted to.

“Yes.” you breathed. His smirk only grew. “You knew it all along. Played me like a toy.” 

“No, I- I wouldn’t say that…” you stuttered. He chuckled, amused. “Thought your little dress would make me crumble, right?”  he teased, leaning in, his lips brushing your ear “I was already long gone. But nice try, sweetheart.” you moaned – actually, moaned – at the sound of his voice.

He could’ve laughed at you. He should’ve. Damn it, you would’ve laughed at yourself, if it wasn’t for the crushing desire burning you and all your moral thoughts inside out. But apparently, he was suffering just the same, because your moan just ignited something in him. Like a switch, his teasing demeanour vanished, taking its place an animalistic one. He wasn’t tasting you anymore. He was taking from you, taking everything you had to give him. Your lips, your teeths, your tongue. Oh, your tongue. He sucked on it, licked it, grazed his teeth along it. He played with it like a pro, and you were ready to cut it off and hand it to him on a silver platter, if he asked you to.

Hotch grabbed your hips and crashed them onto his, and you could feel his hard-on right under his expensive suit pants pressed against you. Both of you hummed at the contact, thirsting for more.

He started to back you up against his desk, your thighs pressing the edge of the dark wooden desk. He leaned over while kissing you, pushing you firmly until you were seated on his desk. Fully seated, you opened your legs for him to stand between them. You pulled back, batting your eyelashes to him.

“Aren’t you going to push the files off the table?” you teased the cliche setting. He smirked, leaning closer to bite your neck “I’m taking you over right on top of it.”

Thank God you were sitting, otherwise you would’ve felt down. Now that would be humiliating.

“Hotch” you murmured, hooking your fingers to the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer “Please”.

“Anything you want, Sweetheart.” he said in fake compliance “Just have to tell me what it is.” he grinned, wickedly. You groaned, needy.

“You, Hotch.” you said. He chuckled, “I’m right here.”

You rolled your eyes, but he held you closer, placing his hands on your thighs and squeezing them harshly. It didn’t hurt you, the sting going straight to your core. You moaned in response, instinctively arching your back and spreading your legs further apart.

He kissed you hungrily, pushing up the hem of your dress until it barely covered up your cunt, groaning every time your nails grazed the nape of his neck. You wrapped your legs around his hips, grinding into him like your life depended on it. He held your hips steady, stopping you from moving, making you huff in frustration. With his other hand, he held you by your jaw, his hand easily covering it entirely.

You looked up at him, his hand holding you in place. Metaphorically and physically submissive for him. It turned you on so bad.

“I’ll ask again, Sweetheart.” he whispered, trying not to grin too much “What do you want?”

You didn’t hold back in the slightest “Fuck me, Hotch. Please, just fuck me.” you begged. He smiled slowly, predatorily. Leaned in gently and left a chaste peck on your lips. It confused you. Until it didn’t.

In a mere of seconds he stepped away, stood you up and spinned you around, pushing you again against the dest, making you lay in your stomach, your ass pressed directly into his crotch.

He pulled the rem of your dress up, letting the fabric mound around your waist “Of fucking course” he muttered at your navy-blue lacy panties. His hands roamed around you, your back, your asscheeks, your thighs. He kissed it, licked it, sucked on your flesh like he needed it more than he needed to breathe.

You pushed yourself back, needing him so much it was starting to ache “Hotch, please” you whined, not even caring if you sound desperate – which you did. Surprisingly, he heard you, standing up and unbuckling his belt. The sound made you moan in anticipation, all your bossy facade disappearing completely. 

You glanced back, ogling at the sight of him pulling himself out of his briefs, hard, long and ready to fill you up. He looked at you, smugly smirking at you. He squeezed the red tip, groaning with the feeling, and stroked himself once, and then twice looking at your cheeks thrown at him. You made sure he had the best view, arching your back and pushing it back in his direction. He held your hips and spanked your cheeks with his shaft, chuckling to himself at your neediness.

Hotch eventually took pity on you, spreading your legs further apart by nudging your feets with his. He slides your underwear down, taking it off and hiding it his poked with a grin. His fingers teased your entrance, spreading your wetness and pushing one finger in. He thrusted in you a few times, your moan confirming to him you were ready for a second finger. And then a third. When you were clenching around his fingers, needy and ready for him, he took all of them off. You whined while he used his wet fingers as a lub, stroking himself again and aligning his shaft with your entrance.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse. You hummed. “Words, please.” “Yes, Hotch. Damn it, I’m…” your bickering soon turned into a strangled moan as he thrusted in you, his length and girth stretching you deliciously. He slowly bottomed out, his breath heavy and shallow, trying to control himself.

The moan he let out when you pushed your ass back, thrusting into him, was guttural. Animalistic. Feral. He held your hips and started thrusting into you, his tip reaching your spot so many times it made your head light.

“Doing so good for me, sweetheart.”  he praised. You moaned. “S-so good.” you managed to say, your words cutting short by his thrusts. He chuckled “So monosyllabic now. Cat got your tongue?” “Fuck you” you muttered “Is that the way to speak with your boss?” he teased, tangling a hand on your hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling you towards him, your back sticking to his chest.

The new angle made him reach even deeper, both of you panting in sensibility. He reached one hand to your clit, pressing tiny and light circles in it, making you moan even louder. With his other hand he roamed at your body, pulling your breasts out of your cleavage, squeezing them. The callus in his hand adds to the addictive feeling, and pushes you further on the edge.

Hotch kissed and sucked your neck, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and licking right after to sting the pain. It was hell and heaven all at once. So many sensations, his cock deep inside you, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, whispering praises and groaning until you couldn’t hear anything but his voice and the sinful sounds of your wetness being filled by him.

His hand climbed up at your throat, squeezing it gently.

You tried to hide it, you truly did.

You weren’t embarrassed about your moaning, your begging. You were way past that.

But to have your boss knowing how much you got off on being choked — the very same way you saw people get killed on a daily basis — was a different kind of humiliation.

So you tried to hide, to muffle. But your body got the best of you, clenching and letting the most pornography moan you could at the minimum pressure on your throat.

He laughed. Not smiled, not chuckled. Laughed. Pleasantly. Like he found a treasure, the key of the universe.

And honestly, he felt like he did.

He gripped on your hair tightly, pulling you harder with one hand and using the other to spread across your stomach, keeping your body flush against his.

“Got you.” he hummed drunkenly right next to your ear, biting it hard. The hand on your stomach lowered until it found your clit, pressing his thumb on your bound tightly. You were close and he knew it. 

With his free arm he did the unthinkable. He engulfed you on a one-arm hug, putting you on a headlock, his biceps squeezing you deliciously. You clenched around him, pushing your hips out and fucking him back.

“Hotch… So… Close” you warned him between huffs, your lungs failing you. The burn makes your eyes water and your legs shake.

“I can feel just how much you’re enjoying this. Clenching me so fucking tight.” he grunted, his own thrust becoming erratic and clumsy “That’s all you wanted all along, right? Teasing me for months just to be choked by me. Next I’ll choke you with my cock down your throat.” he hissed, and you felt your orgasm coming.

“Hotch, I’m…” you couldn’t finish it, your orgasm hitting like a truck.

“So pretty coming around me. ‘M gonna fill you up so fucking good.” and just like that you felt his dick twitching inside you, spurting his seed deep on your cervix.

He thrusted until you stopped shaking, too sensitive for any more contact. With a hiss, he pulled out of you, chuckling with the sight of your juices combined sliding down your leg.

He cleaned you up, peppering your face with kisses. He fixed your dress, your underwear long gone — you couldn’t find it in yourself to care — and redid his pants, almost like it never happened. Besides the hairs clinging on his face with sweat and the blush of his cheeks. And you, lying lazily on his lap like a renascent painting.

“So… next time, huh?” you teased, trying to ease up the tension — created by your own intrusive thoughts only — and lightly bring up the question that lingers on your head as soon as any coherent thought managed to linger on your mind for more than three seconds:

 Was this a one time thing? You glanced up at him, and relief rushed through your bloodstream. If the relaxed, adoring and glowing smile he had on his lips meant anything, you had nothing to worry about.

[kwilquib]

Pojangmacha

(if your unfamiliar with the word, its the red bar tent you often see on streets of South Korea).

Minnie X Male Reader (Yunjae) ft. Park Jiwon (Fromis_9)

Word Count: 18k+

Notes:

This is my first Fic, any feedback is appreciated :)

If you're expecting Jiwon smut, I'm sorry there's none, I just really need a reason for Minnie's insecurity

just for additional context, the second pojangmacha scene happened around during G-idle's haitus.

I used the name Yunjae because i didn't like the "y/n" format actual name feels more immersive. I picke the name Yunjae randomly though

You swirled your soju glass in silence, staring at the swirling liquid like it held answers to questions you couldn’t ask.

“Yunjae,” Jiwon’s voice broke through your thoughts, soft but pointed. “You’re killing yourself like this.”

You laqughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Am I? Feels more like I’m just surviving.”

“Same thing,” she shot back, leaning closer. “You’re stuck, Yunjae. You’ve been stuck for years. It’s like you’re waiting for something to change when you’re the one who won’t move.”

Her words cut close to the bone. You wanted to argue, to deflect, but what was the point? She was right, and you both knew it.

“It’s not that simple,” you muttered, your eyes dropping to the faint gleam of your wedding ring.

Jiwon’s gaze followed yours, and her lips tightened into a line. She never said it outright, but the ring was always the elephant in the room.

“Why do you stay?” she asked quietly, her tone softer now. “If it’s really this hard—if she doesn’t even care anymore—then why?”

You looked up sharply. “You don’t know that,” you said, more defensively than you intended.

Her brows arched, her disbelief evident. “Oh, really? When was the last time you two actually talked? And I don’t mean the polite, ‘pass the salt’ kind of talk. I mean really talked.”

You didn’t answer, because you couldn’t.

Jiwon leaned back with a sigh, her frustration bleeding through. “Yunjae, you’re wasting your life waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You’re loyal to a fault, I get that, but maybe it’s time to let go.

"Four years," you muttered, swirling the last remnants of soju in your glass. "Four years since we said, 'I do.' And what do I have to show for it?" Your laugh came bitter, tinged with self-loathing. "We don’t even talk anymore."

Jiwon's expression softened. She reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on yours. "You've said that before, Yunjae. Let's call it a night."

"I just don't get it..." you continued, your voice tinged with confusion, ignoring Jiwon's request for now. "We had our reasons, sure—convenience, mutual benefits. But maybe I expected more. At the very least, I thought we could remain friends, not this distant... this nothingness."

You sighed, frustration building inside you like a tidal wave. You grabbed the Soju bottle and poured its contents into your glass, emptying it in one swift motion. The liquid burned as it slid down your throat, the sensation both comforting and familiar.

Jiwon’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, her silence speaking volumes. She hesitated, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed she might voice the truth lingering between you. But instead, she looked away. "I don’t know either," she said softly. "If it were me…" Her voice trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

You furrowed your brow and locked your gaze on hers, the unspoken thoughts echoing in the empty space between you. You already knew what she meant—you were childhood friends who had lost contact but reconnected years later. In the time that had passed, her intentions had changed, and you sensed that she was well aware of your realization. The tension grew palpable as the truth hung there, waiting for a moment of honesty to break the silence.

The heavy silence pressed in on you, demanding acknowledgment. You knew you had to confront the elephant in the room, to end it once and for all, lest it lingered in doubt. "Jiwo-"

But Jiwon interjected before you could finish, her voice steady as she changed the subject, "Anyway, it's pretty late. We've been here since 7 PM, and it's almost midnight now."

You nodded, your heart heavy with the unsaid words between you. You straighten your sitting posture, gather yourself. “Right. You can go first, thank you for being here”

She hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I can’t leave you alone like this."

“I’ll be fine, I'll just stay here for a couple minutes to sober up, then I'll take the cab,” you explained. “Promise”.

A pang of frustration flickered across Jiwon's face, her sympathetic gaze lingering on your burdened spirit. She fidgeted with the strap of her purse, and you caught sight of a fleeting flush on her cheeks. It seemed as though she might have been embarrassed by whatever thoughts she harbored or the words she almost spoke, using your suggestion as an escape.

"Alright. Promise me you’ll go straight home." she sighed, her feigned surrender tinged with uncertainty as to where the two of you would stand in the aftermath of this night.

“I promise” you answered.

With a final glance, she stood and left, her figure disappearing into the night. Alone once more, you reached for the soju bottle, pouring what remained into your glass. The cold burn slid down your throat, offering little comfort.

Park Jiwon, she is an excellent friend, but her role in your life had remained firmly in the platonic realm. You couldn't see her romantically, and not being platonic with a friend is exactly how you found yourself in this situation in the first place. Plus there's another reason why you couldn't be with anybody else right now.

Your fingers toyed with a ring on your ring finger, the silver two strands intertwining like an infinity sign. A row of tiny diamonds adorned it, capturing light in their faceted depths. You lifted your hand, eyeing the ring as though presented with a cruel joke—how something so beautiful could symbolize the absence of light in your life.

The promise to Jiwon lingered, as did the knowledge that you should head home. Yet, you hesitated, aware that returning to your cold home on this day would only accentuate the issues plaguing you. In the back of your mind, a part of you yearned for a shred of hope, an irrational belief that perhaps something miraculous might transpire here. This bar had become a place of hope, however fleeting or destructive, from the reality awaiting you at home.

Your gaze lingered on the ring as memories began to resurface. Drowsiness crept in, pulling you into the haze of a dream. When you opened your eyes again, the scene hadn’t changed. The same table, the same empty glasses. But the person sitting across from you was no longer Jiwon.

—

 "Ya!! Are you listening? I'm paying for the drinks, and you're ignoring me?" Minnie's voice jolted you. She sat opposite you, her sharp eyes narrowing in frustration. her chopsticks pointed at you like a weapon.

The sight of her stirred something in you—a pang of nostalgia, a mix of joy and regret. "But I’m paying for the meat," you retorted weakly, though she ignored you entirely, continuing her tirade.

She sighed dramatically, slapping the table for emphasis. "Can you believe my parents? My career is on the line, and they want me to just drop everything and go home to Thailand?" She let out an exasperated sigh, her words tumbling over each other.

Deciding to give her your full attention, lest her tirade be endless, you asked, "Can you tell me again why they wanted you back?"

Minnie hesitated, her face contorted with a mixture of confusion and irritation. "They said I've done enough; it's time to think long term, find myself a partner, a husband. That's their reason, at least," she explained.

She then continued murmuring under her breath, "I think they just want me to be married off to a royal bloodline so our family could get even closer to being Thai royalty."

Silence enveloped you both, acknowledging the gravity of her situation and your shared understanding that she desired nothing more than a sympathetic ear.

Minnie's frustration reached a crescendo as she let out a frustrated "Aggghhh!!"

You found yourself staring at her, the sight of her distress oddly endearing. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. you don't know when it started but at some point during your history of friendship, without realizing it, you were falling for your dear friend, Minnie. Afraid to jeopardize the relationship, you concealed these feelings deep within, unable to pinpoint one singular reason for your infatuation. It could have been her alluring smile, captivating personality, soulful gaze, lithe frame, or an intoxicating blend of all these traits.

Minnie's sharp eyes caught you in the act of smiling, "Ya!!" she teased, "Look at you smiling, it must be fun having a grandfather who's the opposite of my parents.".

"He's giving you all of his as an inheritance," Minnie remarked, her tone laced with indignation as she nibbled on the pork you had purchased. "I don't know why I'm paying for you when you're rich."

You corrected her gently, "Well... not yet."

Minnie started to question whether your grandfather was still alive, but you interrupted her. "I didn't mean it like that!" You realized you had raised your voice, yet Minnie appeared unfazed as she continued drinking from her beer mug.

When she signaled for you to continue, you explained, "I can't have the inheritance right now, and if I don't get married before turning 30, I might lose it." You paraphrased your grandfather's words: "I don't want all this wealth given to a house bum; you need to have at least a family.”

Minnie's arm remained in midair, her mouth hovering over the mug as she paused, processing the gravity of your situation. After what felt like an eternity, she gently set it down and fixed her gaze on you. Silence pervaded the table as she mulled over your words.

Finally breaking the silence, she said, "So you need to be married to get your inheritance?" Her eyes held a mix of concern and curiosity. You found yourself furrowing your brow, unsure where this revelation would lead.

"And my parents don't want me to continue with my career because..." She mimicked air quotes, "Think long term, find a good husband."

It was then that you noticed your fingers were entwined with the silver pair of rings hanging around your neck on a chain, their design intricate and familiar. An heirloom from your grandfather, their intricate design held meaning beyond just the gift itself. In this moment of realization, you knew where this conversation would eventually take you—back to a familiar crossroads, one you'd faced before, yet helplessly watched unfold.

"Why don’t we just get married?" Minnie proposed, the words hanging in the air like a question that demanded an answer. 

You blinked, convinced you’d misheard her.

"What?"

"Let’s get married," Minnie said again, her tone firm. "Why not? We’re already close, we get along, It solves your problem, and mine. You can be my excuse for my parents not to worry, and you secure your inheritance like you said."

The scene felt eerily familiar yet disjointed from your reality, causing you to laugh nervously.

"Are you serious?" you asked, while laughing.

Minnie's tone turned sharp when she yelled, "Of course I’m serious." Her voice softened, the faintest hint of vulnerability slipping through her usual bravado. 

"Unless marrying me is that funny to you?" Her distress at your laughter was apparent. 

"No, it’s not that," you said quickly. It hit you then: she wasn't joking, despite the alcohol. Both of you were clear-headed and sober enough to be making this decision. "I just—"

"You’re insane," you said, trying to mask the way your chest tightened.

"Maybe," she admitted, her tone lighter now. She was already reaching for the grill, flipping pieces of meat with practiced ease. "But you can’t deny it makes sense."

Your heart twisted at the suggestion, an unfamiliar blend of hope and dread coursing through you. For years, you’d hidden your feelings for Minnie—feelings that had grown quietly, relentlessly, despite your best efforts to suppress them.

"Okay, If you're serious. You're suggesting a marriage of convenience, right?" You asked, seeking clarification even though the thought of Minnie proposing to you elicited an immediate, overwhelming 'yes.' However, you had to temper your enthusiasm given the pragmatic nature of her proposal. It wasn't love or a confession; it was an offer mutually beneficial for both of you.

Minnie looked surprised by your question, replying, "Yeah... Yeah, of course, marriage of convenience, what else could it be?"

Perfect. You almost laughed agian at the irony. For her, it was a convenient solution to a problem. For you, it was a chance to stay close to her in a way you’d never dared to hope for.

You reached out for her hand, and Minnie complied, placing her hand on the table. You took off the necklace—the pair of silver rings meant for your grandfather's heir. A hazy sense of déjà vu washed over you as you removed the rings from the chain. The air seemed thick with unspoken words, and you felt your chest constrict as if this scene had played out before. This weight pressed against your consciousness, but you couldn't discern why.

"This is an heirloom," you began. "My grandfather’s. If we’re going to do this… it has to be with these rings. We really have to get married, we can’t trick my grandfather" Your heart pounded as you extended the ring.

Minnie’s eyes widened slightly as you placed one of the rings in her hand. The moment felt surreal, yet inevitable, like you were playing out a scene you’d already lived.

For a moment, something flickered across her face—something soft, almost vulnerable. Then she smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re such a sentimental idiot,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

"Nicha Yontararak," you whispered, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. "Will you marry me?"

Her response came quickly, her lips curving into a small, almost shy smile. "Yes."

The dream fractured then, the edges dissolving as reality crashed back in. You woke up with a start, slumped over the table where the conversation had once unfolded. The bar was empty now, save for one figure standing over you. A cold metal brushed against your cheek—the ring finger of a hand, as if beckoning you.

"Yunjae," the voice said, familiar and unmistakable. You looked up to see Minnie, her face obscured by a cap and mask.

"Why?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question carried the weight of four years of silence. "Why did you say yes?"

Her expression was unreadable as the world around you faded to black.

–

Your eyes flickered open to reveal the interior of a car, the engine's low hum the only soundtrack to this moment. You turned your head toward the driver, the faint glow of city lights illuminating her form in a fleeting manner. As your vision cleared, you recognized Minnie behind the wheel. She was dressed in a sleek pink suit jacket with matching pants, her attire immaculately tailored to fit her figure. Beneath the jacket, a cropped top peeked through, adding a casual edge to her otherwise professional look.

Questions flooded your mind. How did she find you? Did she remember that place? And most importantly, does she know the significance of today's date?

Your gaze lingered on her outfit, and a thought struck you—she must have come straight from work. The slight crease in her sleeves and the faint traces of fatigue around her eyes hinted at a long day, but she carried herself with an air of determination. Whatever had brought her here, it was enough to pull her directly from her world and into yours.

Before you could fully explore these thoughts, Minnie spoke, "Jiwon called me. She told me you refused to go home." The answer felt like a slap, and you couldn't help but laugh at your own naivety. Of course, Jiwon had informed her.

Your gaze fell upon Minnie's hand resting on the steering wheel, the silver ring glinting. A deep sigh escaped your lips as you pondered the question: "Where did it all go wrong?" Your mind whirled with memories and regret, searching for answers to a past you couldn't change.

—

In the aftermath of your impromptu proposal in the pojangmacha, you and Minnie knew you had to convince your grandfather of your relationship's authenticity. To achieve this, you devised a plan that entailed showing affection publicly—holding hands, sharing stolen kisses, and spending time together.

You had fallen for Minnie well before this event, but enacting your love intensified these feelings. The line between your performance and genuine emotions blurred, as your heart yearned to reveal your true sentiments. Your unrequited love swelled with each passing moment that deepened your connection. You could only hope that your efforts would ignite the same burning desire in Minnie's heart.

Similarly, you had to convince Minnie's parents that you were indeed the ideal husband for their daughter. You showcased your commitment, respect, and dedication to making her happy. You took an active role in family gatherings, bonding with Minnie's siblings, and proving your worth as a son-in-law.

Once these obstacles were overcome, everything else seemed to happen at breakneck speed. Wedding plans came together swiftly; invitations were sent, venues booked, and the big day loomed closer. In the blur of excitement, you found yourself standing at the altar, about to exchange vows with Minnie. The transition from pojangmacha proposal to nuptials felt almost dreamlike—too quick to fully process.

The ceremony took place in a remote chapel far from unwanted attention. Pews were populated with guests that were thoroughly selected, aside from close family only few were invited.

As you stood before the altar, the chapel filled with the soft hum of anticipation, you could see her—Minnie—beginning her journey down the aisle. Through the delicate veil that framed her face, a smile bloomed, and even from this distance, it was impossible for you not to be entranced. With each measured step, she approached, each stride bringing you closer together.

Your eyes trailed over her dress, so resplendent and elegant, as she moved with the grace of a dancer. The sunlight filtering through the chapel's stained-glass windows bathed everything in an ethereal glow. Each hue, dancing and twirling across the floor, seemed to celebrate our union.

The air in the small, candle-lit altar was heavy with quiet reverence, the murmurs of a few close witnesses fading as the officiant began to speak. It was an intimate affair—just as they had planned. No grand celebrations, no sea of faces, only the people who mattered most.

You stood across from Minnie, your palms slightly damp as you held the delicate silver ring between your fingers. The ring’s intricate design seemed to weigh heavier in your hand than it should, its symbolism pressing on you more than you cared to admit.

Minnie, radiant in her understated elegance, met your gaze with that familiar mix of mischief and something else you couldn’t quite name. She looked calm, collected—but you knew her well enough to catch the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“This is it,” the officiant said, his voice steady. “The vows you exchange today will bind your hearts and lives together. Do you wish to proceed?”

You glanced at Minnie, searching her face for any sign of regret. She gave him the faintest of nods, her lips curving into a small, reassuring smile.

You cleared your throat, your voice quiet but firm as you began.

“Minnie, I know we’re standing here today not for the reasons most couples do. We’ve always been practical, and this… this is no different. But I want you to know that I’ll honor this vow, not just as your husband, but as your friend.

I promise to be there when you need someone to lean on, to laugh with, and even to argue with when the mood strikes. I promise to keep our trust unbroken and to stand by you, no matter how complicated life gets.

This isn’t just a promise for today, but for every day after. Not out of duty, but because you’re someone I respect, someone I’ve always believed in. And if that’s the foundation of our marriage, then I think we’ll be alright.”

You made a commitment to yourself although some might consider this marriage as a fraud, to you at least you didn’t want your vow to be a lie.

Your voice softened as you slipped the ring onto her finger, your hand lingering a moment longer than necessary. For a second, you thought you saw her eyes glisten, but she blinked it away before it could fall.

Minnie took a small breath before she began, her tone steady but tinged with something deeper.

“Yunjae, you’ve always been the kind of person who sees things through—whether it’s fixing a broken coffee machine or helping me dodge my family’s relentless matchmaking.

Today, I stand here because I trust you. I trust that no matter what, you’ll keep your word.

I can’t promise that I’ll always be the easiest person to deal with, or that life will suddenly make sense because of this decision. But I can promise that I’ll try. I’ll try to be someone who doesn’t let you down, someone who holds up my end of this partnership.

And who knows?”—she allowed herself a small laugh—“Maybe we’ll surprise each other along the way.”

She slid the matching silver band onto his finger, her touch light but deliberate. For a fleeting moment, her fingers brushed against yours, and it felt like more than just an accident.

The officiant’s voice broke the silence that hung between them. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss.”

You hesitated, not out of reluctance, but because the moment felt heavier than you had anticipated. You leaned forward slowly, your lips brushing hers in the lightest, briefest of touches—enough to be proper, yet leaving a quiet ache in its wake.

When the two of you pulled apart, Minnie’s eyes met yours again, and for the first time that day, her smile reached all the way to her eyes.

The witnesses applauded politely, and the ceremony moved on, but You couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of her lips or the quiet weight of her words.

For a marriage born out of convenience, the moment felt startlingly real.

—

The silence of the apartment was heavy, oppressive, and electric all at once. Every tick of the wall clock echoed like a heartbeat, a relentless reminder of the moment you now found yourself in. This wasn’t just any night. It was your wedding night.

Minnie lingered by the doorway, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to break the silence that stretched between you like a live wire, taut and humming with unspoken tension.

You leaned against the counter, your jacket slung over your arm, your tie loosened just enough to breathe. But breathing felt impossible now, every inhale shallow, every exhale trembling.

“It feels strange,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but slicing through the stillness like a blade.

You glanced at her, catching the way her eyes darted nervously around the room, avoiding yours. “What does?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

“This,” she said, gesturing weakly at the space around you. “Us. Here. Like this.”

You let out a dry laugh, more out of habit than amusement. “Yeah. It does.”

She moved further into the room, her steps slow and deliberate, as if she were testing the ground beneath her. Her hand trailed along the edge of the couch, her touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. “I guess I should change,” she murmured, still not meeting your eyes.

You nodded automatically, your throat tight. “Yeah. Me too.”

You retreated to the guest room, the cool air brushing against your skin as you stripped off your wedding attire and slipped into the silky pajamas. The fabric clung to your body, soft and cool, but it did nothing to quell the heat simmering beneath your skin. When you returned to the living room, you collapsed onto the sofa, your mind racing.

A few moments later, you heard the soft click of a door opening. Your head turned instinctively, and there she was. Minnie. She stepped out from the bedroom, her long, black hair cascading over her shoulders like a midnight waterfall. The sight of her stole the breath from your lungs.

She wore a gown of white lace, the fabric sheer enough to hint at the curves beneath, yet modest enough to leave everything to your imagination. The delicate material clung to her body like a second skin, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the faintest shadow of cleavage. A slit ran up one side, exposing the smooth expanse of her thigh, and your gaze lingered there, tracing the line of her leg with a hunger you couldn’t suppress.

The air between you grew thick, charged with something primal and undeniable. Your pulse quickened, a throbbing ache building low in your abdomen as your eyes roamed over her. The swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, the way the lace hugged her breasts—every detail was a temptation, a provocation.

She hesitated by the doorway, her hands fidgeting slightly, her lips parting as if she were about to speak but couldn’t find the words. Her eyes met yours, and in that instant, it was as though the world had stopped. The tension between you was palpable, a magnetic pull that neither of you could resist.

“Minnie…” you said, your voice rough, strained with desire.

Her gaze flickered to yours, holding it for a heartbeat before dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could think. “You’re not.”

She took a tentative step closer, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. The scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating—wafted toward you, filling your senses. “This is… different, isn’t it?” she said, her voice carrying a vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

You nodded slowly, your throat dry. “Yeah. It is.”

The space between you seemed to shrink with every step she took, the air growing heavier, hotter. Her eyes searched for yours, dark and unreadable, but there was something in them—a flicker of desire, of uncertainty, of need.

“Yunjae,” she began, your name trembling on her lips. “Do you think we should…?”

Your chest tightened, your heart pounding in your ears. You knew exactly what she was asking, even without the words to complete the thought. You leaned back against the counter, running a hand through your hair to buy yourself time.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice low and rough. “Do you want to?”

Her breath hitched, and you could see her struggling to find the answer. “I don’t know either,” she confessed, her honesty cutting through you like a knife. “This isn’t how I pictured…”

“Me neither,” you said quickly, desperate to ease her discomfort. “But here we are.”

The air between you crackled with something unspoken, something electric and terrifying all at once. You took a hesitant step closer, your pulse hammering in your ears. The heat of her body radiated toward you, and you could almost feel the warmth of her skin against yours.

“We don’t have to do anything we’re not ready for,” you said, your tone firm, though you weren’t sure if you were reassuring her or yourself.

She dropped her gaze, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. “It’s not about being ready,” she said, her voice so soft you almost missed it. “It’s about what it would mean.”

“What do you think it would mean?” you asked, your throat tightening as you waited for her answer.

She lifted her eyes to meet yours, and the vulnerability there made your breath catch. “That this is real,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “That we’re not just pretending anymore.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Of course it was real—how could it not be? But hearing her say it, seeing the fear and hope mingled in her expression, made it feel all the more tangible.

“It is real,” you said, your voice rough. “But that doesn’t mean we have to rush anything.”

She took a step closer then, and you could feel the warmth of her presence, the gravity of her drawing you in. Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

“Yunjae,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “what do you want?”

The question struck you like lightning, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you reached out, your hand hovering near her face before you finally let it rest against her cheek.

Her skin was soft, warm, and you could feel the faint tremor in her as she leaned into your touch. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, your voice raw with emotion.

“You won’t,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving yours.

Her breath was warm against your skin, her closeness intoxicating. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to close the gap, to let go of the restraint that had held you back for so long. Your other hand found her waist, the lace of her gown smooth beneath your fingertips, and you pulled her closer, your bodies almost touching.

Her lips parted, her breath hitching as your foreheads brushed together. The tension between you was unbearable, the air thick with desire and hesitation. You could feel the rapid beat of her heart, the way her body trembled against yours.

But just as you let yourself imagine it—just as you felt the pull to kiss her, to lose yourself in her—the sharp, jarring ring of your phone shattered the moment.

You froze, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. Minnie blinked, her eyes wide with surprise, and you reluctantly pulled away, your hand falling from her waist as you reached for your phone on the counter.

The screen lit up with the name “Grandfather.” You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the answer button, before glancing at Minnie. She took a step back, her arms wrapping around herself as if to shield herself from the sudden intrusion.

“You should get that,” she said softly, her voice tinged with both relief and disappointment.

You nodded, your chest tight as you answered the call. “Grandfather?”

“Yunjae,” his voice boomed through the phone, loud and commanding. “I just wanted to make sure you two made it home safely. How’s married life treating you so far?”

You forced a laugh, your eyes flickering to Minnie, who was now standing by the window, her back to you. “It’s… it’s good, Grandfather. We’re just settling in.”

“Good, good,” he said, his tone softening. “Take care of her, Yunjae. She’s a special one.”

“I will,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. Then, almost as an afterthought, your grandfather added, “Oh, and by the way, Jiwon just returned from overseas. She asked about you.”

The name hit you like a bolt of lightning. “Jiwon?” you repeated, louder than you intended, your voice carrying across the room.

Minnie turned sharply at the sound of the name, her eyes widening slightly. You could see the curiosity flicker across her face, though she quickly masked it, turning back toward the window.

“Yes, Jiwon,” your grandfather continued, oblivious to the tension his words had just created. “She’s back in town. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Right,” you said, your mind racing. “Thanks for letting me know, Grandfather.”

After a few more pleasantries, you ended the call and set the phone down, the silence of the apartment pressing in on you once more. Minnie turned to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp with questions she wasn’t asking.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice quiet but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “Just my grandfather checking in. He, uh… mentioned that an old friend of mine is back in town.”

“Jiwon,” she said, her tone neutral but her gaze piercing. “I heard.”

You nodded, unsure of how much to say. “Yeah. We grew up together. She’s been overseas for a while.”

Minnie nodded slowly, her arms still wrapped around herself. “That’s… nice,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching yours, before turning toward the bedroom. “I think… I’m going to head to bed. It’s been a long day.”

You nodded, the ache in your chest intensifying. “Yeah. Of course.”

She hesitated at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame as if she wanted to say something more. But instead, she simply said, “Goodnight, Yunjae,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

The soft click of the door closing behind her felt like a finality, a punctuation mark on the night. You sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. The weight of the day—and the night—pressed down on you, suffocating and inescapable. The memory of her body, her warmth, her scent, lingered in your mind, a tantalizing reminder of what could have been.

—

The memory lingered like a phantom, the weight of her warmth and scent still wrapped around you. Yunjae closed his eyes, trying to shake it off, but the pull of what could’ve been was stronger than he liked to admit.

The soft hum of the car engine brought him back, the rhythmic vibration beneath him grounding him in the present. His eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of passing street lights illuminating Minnie’s face, her features etched with a quiet tension.

“Why did you drink that much?” Minnie’s voice broke the silence, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You glanced at her from the passenger seat. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale, but her focus remained on the empty road ahead. The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across her face, accentuating the tension in her jaw.

“And why go all the way to that pojangmacha?” she continued, her voice steady but probing, cutting through the silence.

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I could ask you the same thing,” you finally muttered, leaning your head back against the seat.

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not an answer, Yunjae,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and concern.

You looked out the window, watching the world blur past in a haze of light and shadow. “I just… needed to clear my head,” you said after a moment, your tone low.

Minnie glanced at you briefly before returning her eyes to the road. “And drinking was the best way to do that?” she asked, her words sharper now.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Maybe,” you admitted. “I didn’t plan to drink that much. It just… happened.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but the silence between you was far from comfortable. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the occasional noise from the tires against the asphalt.

“Why?” she asked again, quieter this time. Her voice had lost its edge, replaced by something softer, something closer to worry. “What were you trying to forget?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. You swallowed hard, your mind flashing back to the memories that had surfaced earlier—the echoes of laughter, the warmth of shared moments, the way everything once felt so easy between you. Your relationship had been so bright back then, a beacon of connection and understanding. But now, the contrast was stark, almost painful, like a photograph faded with time.

“Nothing,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Minnie shook her head, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. “You’re terrible at lying,” she said, her tone a mix of exasperation and something else—something closer to sadness.

You didn’t respond, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. Instead, you turned your gaze back to the window, hoping the passing scenery would offer some kind of distraction.

…

The silence stretched, and you couldn’t take it anymore. Turning to her, you blurted out, “Why are we like this, Minnie?”

She froze, her fingers flexing against the wheel, her lips parting slightly as if she didn’t expect the question. Slowly, her voice leaves her mouth, as if she was hesitant. “What… do you mean?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

“This,” you gestured between the two of you, the frustration clear in your tone. “The silence, the distance. It wasn’t like this before. What happened to us?”

The silence in the car felt suffocating, your words hanging heavy between you both. Minnie’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles turning white. Her lips pressed together into a thin line as her gaze stayed locked on the empty road ahead. For a moment, you thought she wouldn’t respond.

But then her voice cut through the tense air, sharp and brittle. “You think I don’t wonder the same thing?” she shot back, her tone trembling just slightly at the edges.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in frustration. “Then why don’t we talk about it? Why do we keep pretending like this is fine when it’s not?”

She glanced at you briefly, her eyes flashing with something between anger and pain. “What should we talk about, Yunjae? Should we just end this? Is that what you want?” Her words came fast now, a barrage of questions that hit you like punches, each one sharper than the last. “Sure, okay, why not? Let’s get divorced. That’s what you want, don’t you?”

Your chest tightened, the venom in her voice cutting deeper than you thought possible. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. For a moment, you just stared at her, stunned by her sudden outburst. The word “divorce” lingered in the air, harsh and unyielding.

And then it hit you—that question wasn’t entirely meant for you. The way her voice cracked, the way her eyes darted to the side for just a second—it was as though she was asking herself, questioning everything just as much as she was questioning you.

Memories of the past came rushing in, unbidden. Even before your marriage, she would jokingly throw out remarks about divorce whenever you two had playful arguments. Back then, it was just a bad joke, something you brushed off easily. But over time, as the relationship began to sour, the sarcasm faded from her tone, replaced by something heavier. Something real.

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, your nails digging into your palms as the realization settled in. It felt like a cruel irony, the weight of her words suffocating you. And yet, something in you snapped.

“Sure,” you said, your voice low but laced with anger. “Yes, let’s get divorced. It sounds like that’s what you’ve wanted all along. At this point, why not? I’d wish for it too.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, each syllable fueled by frustration and hurt.Her foot slammed on the brakes, the car jerking violently to a halt in the middle of the empty road. The force of it threw you forward, the seat belt digging into your chest as you caught yourself against the dashboard. Your head snapped toward her in disbelief, but the fiery glare in her eyes made you freeze.

It was as if your words had ignited something even angrier within her, a flame that she refused to let die down. The weight of the moment pressed down on you, and though the sudden halt had taken your breath away, it wasn’t the car’s jolt that had you reeling—it was her.

You glanced out the window and realized with a start that you were already in front of your apartment building. The neon lights from the convenience store across the street flickered, casting a dull glow on the car's interior. But Minnie didn’t say a word, her expression unreadable now as her hand moved to the gearshift.

The silence returned, thick and oppressive, as she slowly released the brakes and guided the car into the underground garage. Her movements were controlled, deliberate, as though she were holding herself together with the thin thread of composure she had left.

You wanted to say something, anything, to ease the crushing weight of the silence. But the words refused to come. The hum of the engine was all that filled the car, its persistent noise somehow highlighting how alone you felt.

The car jerked to a stop, and without a second thought, Minnie threw the car door open with a slam, the sound sharp and final. The anger in her movements was unmistakable—each action deliberate, each step away from you carrying the weight of something you weren’t ready to face. You could feel the sting of her frustration in the air, and it made your chest tighten.

You sat there in the car for a moment, paralyzed. Everything had happened so quickly, faster than you could process. Her words, the anger, the sudden shift in the air—it felt like the end of something. Your heart beat in your ears as your mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Was this really the end of everything? Was this what your relationship had come to?

But no. You couldn’t let it end like this, not without confronting the mess you’d both created. You shook yourself out of the daze, forcing your body to move, to take action. This conversation—no, this argument—wasn’t finished. It needed to end here and now.

You opened the car door, your breath shallow, and rushed after her, ignoring the heavy feeling in your chest. You barely made it to the elevator before the doors closed. You caught a glimpse of her, just a fleeting moment, but it was enough. Her eyes met yours, as her face was slowly covered by the closing metal doors.

Your heart raced as you watched the elevator ascend, and you cursed under your breath. You weren’t going to let it go like this. You couldn’t. Not when everything felt so broken, but so fixable at the same time.

You pressed the button for the elevator, your hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, waiting for it to return. The silence in the garage seemed to stretch on endlessly, and with every passing second, the weight of what was happening only seemed to grow heavier.

You stepped in to the elevator, the slow, rhythmic ping of the floor numbers echoing in your mind. The numbers on the screen flickered, counting up, but in that moment, they felt more like a cruel countdown rather than progress. Each number, each floor felt like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest, giving you just enough time to think—too much time to think.

You tried to recall the last moment you saw Minnie, the brief glance exchanged before the elevator doors shut between you. It had been only a second, but in your mind, it felt like a lifetime. Your thoughts were in conflict, each memory fighting for dominance, each one pulling you in a different direction.

The numbers on the elevator’s display shifted slowly, and you watched them one by one.

"One..." You could almost feel the heat from her glare again, that fiery anger that had burned through the car earlier. It was all too real, too raw.

"Two..." But was it really that? You thought back, trying to see beyond the anger. Had her gaze been cold? That piercing coldness that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Three..." It wasn’t that simple, was it? Maybe it wasn’t anger at all. Maybe you saw sadness in her eyes—real, raw sadness that had made your chest tighten, your breath catch in your throat.

"Four..." Or maybe it wasn’t any of those things. Maybe you had been too clouded by your own frustration to truly see her. Maybe, just maybe, there had been a tear glinting in her eye, too fast to catch, but real.

"Five..." The numbers came to an end, and the harsh ding of the elevator doors opening brought you back to the present.

You stepped out of the elevator, your mind still swirling with conflicting thoughts, but you knew you had no more time for hesitation. The door to your apartment was right there in front of you, yet it felt miles away. You approached it slowly, every step feeling heavier than the last. Your hand reached out for the door handle, and as you gripped it, you hesitated for a moment. The door felt impossibly heavy, almost as if it were holding you back, forcing you to confront whatever lay on the other side.

You pushed through the weight, twisting the knob and stepping inside. The apartment was eerily quiet, the dim lighting casting long shadows on the walls. It felt so different now, so foreign. The last few years had drained the warmth, the life, from this place. And now, here you were, standing in the same space with Minnie, but it felt like a universe separated the two of you.

You closed the door quietly behind you, the sound echoing in the empty apartment. You didn’t know what to say or do, but you knew that this couldn’t be ignored any longer. This silence, this tension—it was unbearable.

The tension in the room was suffocating. You stood in the middle of the living room, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your breath shallow as you tried to keep your emotions in check. Minnie only a few steps away, hunched over the sofa facing the window, deliberately facing away from you. The dim light from the single lamp cast long shadows across the walls, the space between them feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

“Minnie,” you said, your voice firm but edged with exhaustion. “We can’t leave this conversation here.”

She finally faced you locking her eyes to yours. You noticed her eyes were swell as if she had just recently cried, yet her face was a mask of indifference. It was the look she always wore, the one that had become her shield. But you weren't about to let her hide behind it tonight.

She let out a sharp laugh, bitter and mocking. “You’re so eager to end this, aren’t you?”

Her words stung, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “Don’t kid yourself, Minnie,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone measured. “You know I’m right.”

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening. “Right about what?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “You’re more successful in your career now than ever before. Your parents can’t pressure you like they used to.”

She frowned, clearly unimpressed. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

You stepped closer, your voice dropping as you tried to make her see reason. “This agreement—this marriage of convenience—it’s outlived its purpose. We don’t have to do this anymore. We don’t have to be together anymore.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Her lips parted slightly, as if the words had caught her off guard. But then her expression hardened, and she shot back, “What about your inheritance? You still need to be married to get it. You’ve got over a year left before you even qualify.”

Her tone was biting, but there was something else beneath it—something you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat.

She seized on your silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Is that what this is about? Ending this so you can run off to be with the woman you actually love? Jiwon, wasn’t it?”

The accusation slammed into you, the air in the room growing heavier. It wasn’t the first time she’d brought Jiwon into a fight, and it stung just as much as every time before.

You inhaled sharply, trying to keep your temper in check. “Minnie, how many times do I have to say this?” you said, your voice low but trembling with frustration. “Jiwon is just a friend. She has always been just a friend.”

But she didn’t waver. Her gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and unrelenting. “Am I wrong? You went out drinking at some far-off pojangmacha with her, of all people, in the middle of the night. Then suddenly, you’re bringing this up now, like this is some big revelation. What else am I supposed to think, Yunjae?”

You stared at her, disbelief and anger surging in equal measure. “Do you even hear yourself, Minnie?” you demanded, your voice rising. “This again? Jiwon again? How many times are we going to do this?”

Her silence spoke volumes, but you didn’t let up. “You keep throwing her name in my face like I haven’t explained myself a thousand times already. You think I enjoy repeating myself? Telling you over and over that there’s nothing there, just to have you ignore me every time?”

Her lips pressed into a tight line, but she didn’t respond.

“Do you even know what day it is today?” you asked, your patience cracking under the weight of it all. “Do you know why I was at that far-off pojangmacha?”

Her shoulders stiffened, but she still didn’t answer.

“Do you really have no idea, Minnie?” you pressed, your voice growing louder, harsher. “Today is our anniversary, for fuck’s sake. Instead of celebrating with you, instead of being with my wife, I was sitting there drinking alone, drowning in my own goddamn misery while you were nowhere to be found.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came, and the disbelief in her expression pushed you further.

“And Jiwon?” you continued, your voice sharp now, cutting through the tension. “She was there because you weren’t. She sat with me, talked to me, did the one thing you couldn’t—she showed up. She was a companion. A friend. That’s all she’s ever been, no matter how many times your insecurities tell you otherwise.”

Her breath hitched, her shoulders trembling slightly, but you weren’t done.

“It might’ve started as a marriage of convenience,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotions threatening to overwhelm you, “but I’ve never treated it as a joke. Not once. I’ve given it everything—my patience, my effort, my whole goddamn self. I’ve tried to be a good husband, or at the very least, a friend you could count on.”

You took a step closer, forcing her to meet your gaze. “But you, Minnie? You’ve avoided me. Treated me like a stranger. Like I wasn’t even worth the bare minimum effort to make this work. And every time you bring up Jiwon, every time you accuse me of something like this, it’s like you’re trying to justify shutting me out. To make me the villain instead of facing whatever it is that’s really going on.”

Her hands clenched at her sides, her head bowing slightly as if your words had physically struck her.

“The least you could’ve done,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less firm, “was trust me. Trust what I’ve told you, over and over again. And try to preserve what we had—our friendship, at the very least.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

You pressed on, your words gaining momentum. “I tried to be understanding. I told myself it was your job, that it was just too taxing. But there’s only so much I can compromise, Minnie. Do you know how much it hurts every time I think about what we used to be? What we’ve thrown away because of this… this stupid marriage?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For the first time in the entire argument, she looked vulnerable—small.

“Isn’t that why you’ve grown distant?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost pleading. “You regret this, don’t you? That’s why you’re like this. Isn’t it? Tell me, Minnie. Why did you say yes in the first place?”

She stared at you, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow. For a moment, you thought she wouldn’t answer. But then, her voice broke through the silence.

“Because it made sense,” she said, her tone flat, almost mechanical.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Of course. That’s the reason. ‘It made sense.’”

“It’s not just that!” she snapped, her voice breaking, the anger and frustration spilling out all at once. “It’s not only because it made sense.”

“Then tell me!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls of the apartment. “Give me another reason why we should continue this, Minnie, because what we have right now—whatever this is—isn’t worth keeping!”

Her hands balled into fists, and for a moment, you thought she’d lash out at you. But instead, she took a shuddering breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Because I was scared!” she yelled, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Because I thought I was going to lose you!”

Her confession hung in the air, raw and heavy, piercing through the anger like a blade.

“What?” you whispered, your voice faltering, confusion overtaking your frustration.

“I acted that way because I was afraid,” she repeated, her voice cracking. “Because this marriage meant we can’t go back. Because I realized too late that if I lose you in this marriage, I’d lose you forever.”

Her words lingered, their meaning teetering on the edge of something deeper, unspoken. She looked away, her arms wrapping around herself as if shielding something she couldn’t bring herself to admit.

You stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in, the truth cutting deeper than you anticipated.

Her voice wavered as she continued, a hint of desperation slipping through. “Being with you, acting like a couple—it made me happy. Too happy. But then it all started feeling too real. It felt like I was enjoying it too much.”

Your breath hitched as her meaning sank in.

“Minnie…” you said, your tone softer, a tremor of realization in your voice.

The silence that followed was deafening, filled with everything she couldn’t say and everything you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

But she didn’t stop. Her voice trembled as her emotions spilled out, years of fear and pain surfacing all at once. “And then it hit me. This wasn’t real. It was never real. I was so scared of losing you, I regret agreeing to something I didn’t even understand. And every day, I kept thinking, ‘What if he wakes up and realizes he doesn’t need me? What if he decides to leave?’ So I distanced myself. I thought it’d hurt less that way. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It felt like I was taking advantage of you. Like I was holding you hostage in something you never wanted. Every time I looked at you, I felt guilty. It felt like I was coveting something I didn’t deserve. And I… I didn’t know what to do with that. I thought if I kept some distance, it’d hurt less when…” Her voice faltered as she swallowed hard. “…when we finally ended this.”

Her voice broke entirely as the tears finally came, streaming down her face in uncontrollable waves. She brought her hands up to cover her face, but her sobs filled the room, raw and unguarded.

You froze, the sight of her unraveling like this rendering you speechless. All the anger, all the frustration that had built up inside you, dissolved into something else—something achingly tender.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. Gently, you reached out, your hands trembling as they brushed against her arms, then her shoulders, before finally pulling her into a hesitant embrace.

She stiffened at first, but then, as if the dam inside her finally broke, she leaned into you, clutching at your shirt as though letting go might shatter her entirely. Her sobs wracked her body, her pain and fear pouring out into the silence between you.

And for the first time, you found yourself holding her not out of obligation, but because you didn’t want to let her go. Slowly, carefully, you reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you brushed the tears from her cheeks.

She flinched at first, but when she felt the gentle press of your fingers, she stilled. Her hands fell to her sides, and she stood there, her sobs quieting as you wiped away her tears in silence.

Your thumb lingered on her cheek for a moment, and then another, your touch soft, unhurried, as if you were trying to erase not just her tears but the pain they carried.

“Minnie,” you finally said, your voice a low murmur. “I had no idea…”. You cupped her face wanting to meet her eyes

Her shoulders shook again, but this time she didn’t pull away. She leaned into your hand, her tears still falling but slower now, her breathing uneven.

“All this time…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “You’ve been scared. And I—”

You stopped, your throat tightening. The realization struck you hard, the truth you had avoided for so long staring back at you. You had been scared too. Scared of the vulnerability, of admitting how much she meant to you, of risking it all and losing her in the end.

For the moment, your eyes finally met with hers, but neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not unbearable, filled with something fragile yet unspoken.

The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but something shifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, the truth was out in the open. And even though it hurt, even though it felt like your chest was being torn open, it was a start.

But words weren’t enough. Not tonight. Not when the air between you was still crackling with something raw and unspoken. Not when she stood there, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, her bangs slightly tousled, her slim frame trembling with the weight of her confession, her vulnerability laid bare.

Before your mind could think, your body moved.

In one impulsive motion, you closed the distance between you, your hands cupping her face as your lips crashed into hers. The kiss was sudden, reckless, and charged with all the emotions you’d been holding back. Her lips were soft, warm, and trembling against yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.

But then your brain caught up, and you jolted away, your breath ragged, your heart pounding in your chest. “Minnie… I—” you stammered, trying to explain yourself, to apologize for the impulsiveness of it all.

But before you could finish, her lips found yours again, cutting off your words. This time, it was her who closed the gap, her kiss just as desperate, just as messy, as if she couldn’t bear to let you pull away. Her hands clutched at the front of your shirt, her fingers twisting into the fabric like she was afraid you’d vanish if she let go.

“Yunjae,” she whispered against your lips, her voice breaking. “Don’t leave me.”

The plea was raw, unfiltered, and it shattered whatever restraint you had left. Her lips were soft but insistent, trembling with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. You could feel the dampness of her tears as they spilled over, mingling with the heat of your kiss. She kissed you back with a hunger that matched your own, her fingers tangling in your hair as if she was trying to anchor herself to you.

In one swift motion, you scooped her up into your arms, her body light and trembling against yours. Her arms instinctively wrapped around your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair as she clung to you, her breath hot against your skin. She felt fragile in your arms, her slim frame fitting perfectly against you, and you could feel the rapid beat of her heart as you carried her toward the bedroom.

Her pink jacket and pants were still partially on, the fabric soft against your skin, but the black sleeveless crop top she wore underneath clung to her body, revealing the delicate curve of her waist and the faint outline of her ribcage. Her long black hair spilled over your arm, her bangs slightly messy from the intensity of the moment, and she looked up at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

You kissed her again as you walked, your lips brushing against hers in a slow, heated kiss that made her gasp. Her hands tightened around your neck, her nails digging into your skin as if she was afraid you’d let her go. But you didn’t. You held her closer, your arms tightening around her as you carried her into the bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. You laid her down gently on the bed, her dark hair fanning out around her like a halo. She looked up at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she reached for you, her hands trembling as they traced the lines of your chest, your stomach, your hips.

“Minnie if you want me to stop…” you asked for confirmation.

“Yunjae,” she whispered again, her voice breaking as she pulled you closer. “Please.”

You kissed her again while taking off her jacket, your lips trailing down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. She gasped, her hands clutching at your shoulders as you moved lower, your lips brushing against the edge of her crop top. Her breath hitched as you pulled her crop-top over her head, putting into full view her whole upper body, the well defined lines of her stomach, the delicate curve of her waist. Her ribcage was faintly visible as she arched into your touch.

You kissed her stomach, your lips brushed against her skin as your hands slid down to the waistband of her pants. She let out a soft moan, her hips lifting slightly as you undid the button and zipper, sliding the fabric down her legs. She kicked them off, leaving her in nothing but her black lace underwear, her body trembling under your gaze.

She was beautiful. Her long black hair fanned out around her like a halo, her bangs slightly tousled as she looked up at you with wide, uncertain eyes. Her ribcage was faintly visible as she took a shallow breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. You could see the faint outline of her collarbone, the delicate curve of her waist, the way her body seemed to tremble with every touch.

Her hands slid down to your chest, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt as if she couldn’t get close enough to you. You helped her, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor, your skin prickling under her touch. Her breath hitched as her palms flattened against your chest, her fingertips tracing the lines of your collarbone, your shoulders, your arms. Her touch was hesitant at first, almost shy, but there was a hunger in her eyes that made your breath catch.

But then her hands moved lower, her fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. She hesitated for a moment, her cheeks flushing as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of nervousness and desire. “Can I…?” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she looked into your eyes, her dark gaze filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

You nodded, your breath catching as you reached for her hands, intertwining your fingers with hers as you guided her to the button of your pants. “Go ahead,” you murmured, your voice low and rough as you pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she undid the button and zipper of your pants, her fingers brushing against your skin as she pushed them down your legs. You kicked them off, leaving you with only your boxer. Her breath hitched as she took in the sight of you, her dark eyes wide with a mix of awe and desire.

Your lips met again, and this time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, and full of all the things you couldn’t say. Her tongue clashed with yours, the heat between you building as she kissed you with a ferocity that left you breathless. You could feel her trembling against you, her hands clutching at your shoulders as if she was afraid you’d pull away.

But you didn’t. You kissed her back just as fiercely, your hands sliding down to her waist as you pulled her closer. Her body pressed against yours, her slim frame fitting perfectly against you, and you could feel the rapid beat of her heart as she moved against you.

Her aggressive kissing pushed you back, and before you knew it, your back was against the headrest, her body on top of you as she straddled your lap. Her hands roamed over your chest, her touch frantic and desperate as if she was trying to anchor herself to you. Her breath hitched as your lips trailed down her neck, her collarbone, her chest, and she let out a soft moan that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hands slipped underneath her bra, your fingers brushing against the soft, warm skin of her chest. She gasped, her body arching into your touch as your palms cupped her breasts, your thumbs brushing over her nipples. They were already hard, sensitive to your touch, and she let out a soft whimper as you teased them, your fingers rolling and pinching gently.

But as your hands moved to the clasp of her bra, fumbling clumsily in your haste. Her hands reached behind her back, and with a practiced ease, she unhooked the bra herself, letting it fall away. Her breasts were now bare, her nipples hard and sensitive in the cool air of the room.

“Yunjae,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she clung to you. “Please.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Your lips trailed down her neck, her collarbone, her chest, and you took one of her nipples into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She gasped, her hands clutching at your hair as she arched into you, her body trembling with every touch.

Your lips returned to her neck, your hands tracing the curves of her hips, leading to her midriff. Your touch was deliberate, exploring every inch of her as if committing her to memory. Your hand moved downward, sliding over the smooth skin of her stomach until your fingers brushed against the fabric of her panties. She was already drenched, the wetness seeping through the thin material, and her entire body jolted as your finger made contact.

You rubbed her gently, the wet sounds filling the room as her hips instinctively rocked against your hand. Her crotch throbbed with every movement, her breath hitching as your fingers slid against the fabric, teasing her through the damp material.

“You’re so wet…” you murmured, your voice low and rough with desire.

Her eyes trembled, her lips parting as if she wanted to explain, to justify the way her body reacted to you. “Yunjae… I—” she began, her voice shaky and breathless.

But before she could finish, you slipped a finger inside her, and her words dissolved into a sharp, breathy moan. Her body tensed, her back arching as she instinctively pressed herself closer to you, her hands gripping your shoulders for support. She was warm and tight, her walls clenching around your finger as you moved slowly, giving her time to adjust.

“Yunjae…” she gasped again, her voice breaking as her hips rocked against your hand, seeking more of your touch. Her nails dug into your skin, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you added a second finger, stretching her gently.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her body trembling as you curled your fingers inside her, hitting a spot that made her cry out. Her thighs clenched around your hand, her hips moving in rhythm with your fingers as she chased the pleasure building inside her. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her nails digging into your shoulders as she clung to you, her body taut with tension.

“Yunjae… I’m—” she gasped, her voice breaking as her body began to shake. Her walls clenched around your fingers, her hips stuttering as the pleasure overwhelmed her. Her back arched, her head tilting back as a sharp, breathy cry escaped her lips. Her entire body tensed, then shuddered as she came, her release washing over her in waves.

Her strength gave out almost immediately, her body slumping against yours as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Her breath was hot and ragged against your skin, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. Her hands, which had been gripping your shoulders so tightly, now rested limply against your back, her fingers trembling as she clung to you.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse, her lips brushing against your skin. Her body was still trembling, her legs shaky as she tried to steady herself. She felt small and fragile in your arms, her vulnerability laid bare in the aftermath of her release.

But as she shifted slightly, trying to catch her breath, she became acutely aware of the hardness pressing against her through the thin fabric of your boxers. Her crotch, still clad in her damp panties, was now positioned directly over your cock, the tip of it protruding past the garter of your boxers. The sensation made her gasp softly, her eyes widening as she realized just how much you wanted her.

She looked up at you, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, she bit her lower lip, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the waistband of your boxers. Her movements were hesitant, her fingers fumbling as she tried to pull them down, her inexperience evident in the way she hesitated.

“Minnie…” you murmured, your voice gentle as you reached for her hands, stopping her. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she interrupted, her voice soft but firm. Her eyes met yours, and there was a determination in them that surprised you. “It’s my turn now. Let me… let me make you feel good, Yunjae.”

You nodded, letting go of her hands and giving her the space to continue. She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling as she finally managed to pull your boxers down, freeing your hardened length. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the sight of you, her breath hitching as she reached out, her touch tentative as her fingers brushed against you.

“Is… is this okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with uncertainty.

“More than okay,” you assured her, your voice rough with desire but gentle, encouraging her.

She nodded, her fingers wrapping around you hesitantly, her grip loose at first as she began to stroke you. Her movements were clumsy, her touch unsure, but the sensation of her hand on you was enough to make your breath hitch. She watched your face carefully, her eyes searching for any sign of discomfort or pleasure, her cheeks flushing as she realized just how much her touch was affecting you.

“Like this?” she asked, her voice trembling as she tightened her grip slightly, her hand moving a little faster.

“Yeah,” you groaned, your hips bucking instinctively as her fingers brushed over the sensitive tip. “Just like that, Minnie.”

Encouraged by your response, she continued, her movements growing more confident as she found a rhythm that made you groan. But then she hesitated again, her eyes flickering down to your cock before she looked up at you, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Can I…?” she began, her voice trailing off as she gestured toward her mouth.

You nodded, your breath catching as she leaned down, her lips brushing against the tip of your cock before she took you into her mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, her warm, wet tongue swirling around you as she began to move her head. Her movements were slow and tentative, her inexperience evident in the way she hesitated, but the sheer fact that she was trying, that she wanted to please you, made it all the more intense.

“Minnie…” you gasped, your hands tangling in her hair as she took you deeper, her tongue pressing against the underside of your cock as she sucked. The wet sounds of her mouth on you filled the room, her moans vibrating against your skin as she worked to bring you pleasure.

But she wasn’t done. She pulled back slightly, her lips still wrapped around you as she looked up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and determination. She took a deep breath, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked you deeper, her tongue swirling around you as she moved her head. The sensation was overwhelming, her warm, wet mouth enveloping you as she worked to bring you pleasure.

“Minnie…” you groaned, your hands tightening in her hair as she took you deeper, her tongue pressing against the underside of your cock as she sucked. The wet sounds of her mouth on you filled the room, her moans vibrating against your skin as she worked to bring you pleasure.

Her free hand reached up, her fingers intertwining with yours as she looked up at you, her eyes dark with desire. She didn’t need to say anything—her actions spoke volumes, her determination to make you feel good evident in every movement. Her lips tightened around you, her tongue flicking against the sensitive spot just below the tip, and you felt yourself nearing the edge.

“Minnie… I’m close,” you warned, your voice strained as your hands tightened in her hair. “You should… stop…”

But she didn’t. Instead, she looked up at you, her dark eyes glinting with determination as she took you deeper, her lips tightening around you as she sucked harder. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive tip, her movements growing more confident as she focused on bringing you over the edge. The sensation was overwhelming, her warm, wet mouth enveloping you as she worked to bring you pleasure.

“Minnie, I—” you tried again, your voice breaking as your hips bucked instinctively, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands gripped your thighs, her nails digging into your skin as she held you in place, her mouth working tirelessly to push you closer to the edge.

And then it happened. With a low groan, you came, your release spilling into her mouth as she continued to suck, her movements slowing but not stopping. Her eyes fluttered shut, her cheeks hollowing as she swallowed, her throat working to take everything you gave her. The sight of her like this—her lips wrapped around you, her face flushed, her mouth full of you—was almost too much to bear.

When she finally pulled away, her lips were glistening, a faint trace of cum lingering at the corner of her mouth. She looked up at you, her dark eyes wide and dazed, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she tried to catch her breath. Her tongue darted out, licking her lips clean before she swallowed again, her cheeks flushing as she realized what she’d just done.

“Minnie…” you murmured, your voice rough with emotion as you reached for her, pulling her into your arms. She came willingly, her body collapsing against yours as you laid back against the pillows, her head resting on your chest. Her long black hair fanned out around her, her bangs slightly tousled as she looked up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and vulnerability.

“Did I… do okay?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant as she traced circles on your chest with her fingertips.

“More than okay,” you assured her, your voice gentle as you pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You were amazing, Minnie.”

She let out a soft sigh, her body relaxing against yours as she nestled closer, her head resting in the crook of your neck. Her breath was warm against your skin, her body still trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. You held her close, your hands stroking her back as you tried to steady your own breathing.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of the sheets as you shifted slightly, pulling the blanket over the two of you. Minnie’s body was warm against yours, her slim frame fitting perfectly against you as she lay on top of you, her legs tangled with yours. Her hair, messy and slightly damp, brushed against your neck, and you could feel her steady breath on your skin.

“Minnie…” you whispered, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

She hummed in response, her head resting against your chest, fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm.

“When did it start?” you asked, your words hanging in the quiet air between you.

She tilted her head, looking up at you with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”

“When did it start?” you repeated, your voice a little firmer now. “Was it after the marriage?”

Her brows furrowed briefly before the realization dawned on her. Understanding your question, she shook her head.

“No?” you asked, a hint of surprise in your tone. “Then… was it during our wedding day? During our first night?”

Minnie hesitated, her gaze flickering away for a moment.

“Or when we exchanged vows?” you pressed, your curiosity tinged with something deeper, almost like hope.

Her lips parted as if to respond, but instead, she shook her head again. “Earlier,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Earlier?” you echoed, confusion lacing your tone. “When were we convincing our parents?”

This time, she didn’t answer right away. Instead, a faint smile appeared on her lips, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen from her in a long time—soft, genuine, and tinged with something unspoken.

That smile was enough.

Your heart clenched, a mix of emotions swirling in your chest. “Minnie…” you said, your voice cracking slightly.

She didn’t say anything else, just nestled closer against you, her fingers still idly tracing shapes on your arm. Her smile lingered, and though the silence between you stretched, it was no longer heavy with doubt or regret.

But then, something shifted. The air between you grew warmer, heavier, as if her smile had unlocked something deep inside you. You couldn’t help it—you leaned in, your lips brushing against hers in a soft, tentative kiss. She froze for a moment, her breath hitching, but then she kissed you back, her lips trembling against yours.

The kiss was slow at first, almost hesitant, but it didn’t take long for the tension to build again. Her hands slid up to your chest. Your hands found her waist, your fingers digging into her skin as you deepened the kiss, your tongues clashing in a heated dance.

“Yunjae…” she gasped, her voice breaking as she pulled away slightly, her breath hot against your lips. Her eyes were dark with desire, her cheeks flushed as she looked up at you, her lips swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you kissed her again, your hands sliding down to her hips as you pulled her closer. Her body pressed against yours, her slim frame fitting perfectly against you, and you could feel the rapid beat of her heart as she moved against you.

But then she surprised you. With a sudden shift of her weight, she pushed you back against the pillows, her hands pressing against your chest as she straddled your lap. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, her bangs slightly tousled as she looked down at you, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of determination and desire.

Then she shifted, her hips rolling against yours in a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath catch. The damp fabric of her panties rubbed against your hardened length, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. Her movements were slow at first, almost teasing, but it didn’t take long for her to find a rhythm that made your hips buck instinctively.

“Yunjae…” she gasped, her voice breaking as she rocked against you, her body trembling with every movement. Her breath was hot against your skin, her moans soft and desperate as she moved with you, her body trembling with every thrust.

You couldn’t take your eyes off her. The way her body moved, the way her hips rolled against yours, the way her breath hitched with every movement—it was mesmerizing. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, her bangs slightly tousled as she looked down at you, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of determination and desire.

“Minnie…” you groaned, your hands tightening on her hips as you guided her movements, your fingers digging into her skin as she rocked against you. The damp fabric of her panties rubbed against your hardened length, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

Her moans grew louder, more unrestrained, as she moved against you, her body trembling with every thrust. Her hands clutched at your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she clung to you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she chased the pleasure building inside her.

“Ah!” Minnie suddenly moaned, her body tensing as her climax neared. With her release just within reach, you pushed her hips down and thrust your hips up, the sudden additional stimulation catching her off guard. Her body, unprepared for the intensity, collapsed, her arms barely catching herself just before her face met yours. Now, you were close enough to exchange breaths, your lips inches apart as you both gasped for air.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she looked into your eyes, her dark gaze filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

“You’re so wet…” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as your fingers toyed with her pussy, the damp fabric of her panties pushed to the side. Her breath hitched as your fingers brushed against her sensitive folds, her body trembling with every touch.

“Do you want it?” you asked, your tone playful but laced with desire as you looked up at her, your fingers still teasing her.

She didn’t respond with words, just nodded, her cheeks flushing as she looked down at you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“But if I don’t loosen you up beforehand…” you began, your words trailing off as you shifted your position, with her still kneeling with you underneath, you positioning your face between her open legs. Her breath hitched as you leaned in, your tongue brushing against her sensitive folds, the taste of her overwhelming as you began to lick her.

“Yunjae…” she gasped, her hands tangling in your hair as she arched into your touch, her body trembling with every movement. Her moans grew louder, more unrestrained, as you continued to pleasure her, your tongue swirling around her sensitive bud as you worked to bring her to the edge.

You started slow, your tongue tracing delicate patterns over her folds, savoring the taste of her as she writhed above you. Her thighs clenched around your head, her hips rocking instinctively against your mouth as you teased her, your tongue flicking against her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. Her breath hitched, her moans growing louder as you increased the pressure, your tongue pressing harder against her sensitive bud.

“Ah… Yunjae…” she whimpered, her voice breaking as she clutched at your hair, her nails digging into your scalp as she tried to steady herself. Her body was trembling, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you continued to pleasure her, your tongue working tirelessly to bring her closer to the edge.

But then you decided to take it further. Your tongue dipped lower, tracing the entrance of her pussy before pressing inside. She gasped, her body jerking slightly as your tongue entered her, the sensation new and overwhelming. Her hands tightened in your hair, her nails digging into your scalp as she tried to steady herself.

“Yunjae…” she moaned, her voice trembling with need as she rocked against your mouth, her hips moving in rhythm with your tongue. Her breath hitched as you continued to explore her, your tongue moving in and out of her in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation was overwhelming, her body trembling with every movement as you worked to bring her closer to the edge.

You could feel her thighs shaking, her body tensing as she neared her climax. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, as you focused on her clit, your tongue swirling around it in tight, rapid circles while still pressing inside her. Her hands tightened in your hair, her hips bucking against your mouth as she tried to chase the pleasure building inside her.

“Yunjae… I’m… I’m going to…” she gasped, her voice breaking as her body tensed, her thighs clamping around your head as she reached her peak. Her back arched, her head tilting back as a sharp, breathy cry escaped her lips. Her entire body shuddered as she came, her release washing over her in waves.

You didn’t stop, your tongue continuing to lap at her as she trembled above you, her body still twitching with the aftershocks of her climax. Her hands, which had been gripping your hair so tightly, now rested limply against your head, her fingers trembling as she tried to catch her breath.

“Yunjae… I can’t…” she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse as she slumped against you, her body collapsing onto the bed beside you. Her breath was hot and ragged against your skin, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to steady herself. Her long black hair was damp with sweat, her bangs sticking to her forehead as she looked up at you with wide, dazed eyes.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm as you pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I can’t wait anymore either.”

You shifted slightly, your hands moving to her hips as you gently rolled her onto her back. She looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and nervousness, her breath hitching as you leaned down to kiss her again. Her lips were soft and warm against yours, her hands tangling in your hair as she kissed you back with a hunger that matched your own.

But then you pulled away, your hands moving to the waistband of her panties. She froze for a moment, her breath catching as she realized what you were about to do. Her cheeks flushed, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for yours, her fingers intertwining with yours as she looked up at you.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she looked into your eyes, her dark gaze filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

“It’s okay,” you assured her, your voice gentle as you pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got you.”

She nodded, her hands falling away as you gently slid her panties down her legs, the damp fabric clinging to her skin as you pulled them off. She was completely bare now, her body trembling with anticipation as you settled between her legs, your hands resting on her hips as you looked down at her.

“Minnie…” you murmured, your voice rough with desire as you leaned down to kiss her again, your lips brushing against hers in a slow, heated kiss that made her gasp. Her hands clutched at your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she clung to you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you positioned yourself at her entrance.

“Are you ready?” you asked, your voice soft but firm as you looked down at her, your eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.

She nodded, her hands tightening on your shoulders as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and desire. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she arched into you, her body trembling with every movement.

All you needed was her confirmation. With a slow, deliberate motion, you pushed inside her, her body tensing slightly as she adjusted to the sensation. For you, the feeling was indescribable. The warmth and tightness of her around you was overwhelming, a sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. Her body was soft and yielding, yet so incredibly tight, as if she was made to fit you perfectly. The way her walls clenched around you, hot and wet, made your breath hitch, your hips instinctively rocking against hers.

“Yunjae…” she gasped, her voice breaking as she arched into you, her body trembling with every thrust. Her breath was hot against your skin, her moans soft and desperate as she moved with you, her body trembling with every movement.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, your voice low and concerned as you stilled inside her, giving her a moment to adjust. Your hands moved to her hips, your thumbs brushing against her skin in a soothing motion.

She shook her head, her hands clutching at your shoulders as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire. “No… it’s just… a lot,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she arched into you, her body trembling with every movement.

You nodded, your hands moving to her hips as you gently guided her movements, your fingers digging into her skin as she rocked against you. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm as you looked down at her, your eyes searching hers for any sign of discomfort.

She nodded, her hands tightening on your shoulders as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and desire. “I will,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she arched into you, her body trembling with every movement.

As you continued to move, the initial tension in her body began to ease. The pressure gave way to a deeper, more pleasurable sensation, a warmth that spread through your lower abdomen and made your toes curl. Her hands clutched at your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she clung to you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she chased the pleasure building inside her.

You couldn’t take your eyes off her. The way her body moved, the way her hips rocked against yours, the way her breath hitched with every movement—it was mesmerizing. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, her bangs slightly tousled as she looked up at you, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of determination and desire.

But then you noticed something—a few strands of her hair had fallen onto her face, sticking to her damp skin. Without thinking, you reached up, your fingers gently brushing the hair away from her face. She looked up at you, her dark eyes wide and vulnerable as you caressed her cheek, your thumb brushing against her lips.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice trembling with need as she looked into your eyes, her dark gaze filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you leaned down to kiss her again, your lips brushing against hers in a slow, heated kiss that made her gasp. Her hands clutched at your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she clung to you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you continued to move, your hips rocking against hers in a slow, steady rhythm.

But then you pulled away, your fingers brushing against her lips again. This time, you pressed them gently against her mouth, her breath hitching as she realized what you were about to do. Her lips parted slightly, her tongue darting out to lick your fingers as you pushed them into her mouth, her warm, wet tongue swirling around them as she sucked.

“Yunjae…” she moaned, her voice trembling with need as she looked up at you, her dark eyes filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire. Her hands clutched at your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she clung to you, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you continued to move, your hips rocking against hers in a slow, steady rhythm.

As you thrust deeper, the outline of your length became faintly visible against her lower abdomen, the subtle bulge a testament to how deeply you were inside her. Her slim frame made it impossible to ignore—every movement, every push and pull, was mirrored in the way her stomach tensed and relaxed. It was a sight that made your breath catch, a visual reminder of how intimately connected you were.

“Do you feel that?” you murmured, your voice low and rough as you pressed a kiss to her neck, your hands gripping her hips to guide her movements. “How deep I am?”

She nodded, her breath hitching as she arched into you, her body trembling with every thrust. “I… I can feel all of you,” she gasped, her voice breaking as she clung to you, her nails digging into your skin. “It’s… so much…”

“You’re taking me so well,” you whispered, your voice filled with awe as you watched her body respond to yours. Her hips rocked against you, her legs hugging your hips locking you in, her movements growing more desperate as she chased the pleasure building inside her.

“Yunjae… I’m… I’m going to…” she gasped, her voice breaking as her body tensed, her thighs clamping around your hips as she reached her peak. Her back arched, her head tilting back as a sharp, breathy cry escaped her lips. Her entire body shuddered as she came, her release washing over her in waves.

You didn’t stop, your hips continuing to move against hers as she trembled beneath you, her body still twitching with the aftershocks of her climax. Her hands, which had been gripping your shoulders so tightly, now rested limply against your back, her fingers trembling as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs, which had locked around you moments ago, now lay idle on the bed, completely spent and devoid of strength.

Feeling her body go slack beneath you, you slowed your movements, your own breath ragged as you leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. “You did so well, Minnie,” you murmured, your voice rough but tender. As you pulled back, your cock slipped out of her, the sensation making her gasp softly, her body twitching in response.

You took a moment to admire her—Minnie, laid bare and utterly spent on the bed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her long black hair fanned out around her like a dark halo, damp with sweat and clinging to her skin. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, and her lips were slightly parted as she tried to catch her breath. Her eyes were half-lidded, her gaze unfocused as she looked up at you, her expression a mix of exhaustion and contentment.

She was beautiful, completely undone by the intensity of what had just happened. But even as she lay there, utterly spent, the fire inside you still burned. The sight of her like this—her body trembling, her skin glistening with sweat, her lips swollen from your kisses—only stoked the flames further.

“Minnie…” you groaned, your voice rough with need as you looked down at her, your eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation. You knew she was exhausted, but the primal part of you couldn’t let go just yet.

She nodded, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of anticipation and desire, even through her exhaustion. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. Then, softer, almost shyly, she added, “I want you to… inside me.”

Her words snapped something primal within you, a deep, instinctive need to claim her, to make her yours in every way possible. You gave her only a second to rest before you lifted her legs, draping them over your shoulders. Before she could react, you were already pushing inside her again, your length sliding deep into her warmth.

“Hmmphh…” she gasped, her exhausted body arching slightly as she let out a muffled sound of pleasure. Her eyes fluttered open, wide with surprise at the new depth she hadn’t experienced before.

“Yunjae!!” she cried out, though her voice was weaker now, softened by exhaustion. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly, her body trembling as she tried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation.

You started slow, each thrust deliberate and deep, the weight of your body pressing her into the mattress. With every movement, you could feel her walls clenching around you, her body responding even as she lay there, spent and overstimulated. Her moans grew louder, more unrestrained, as you gradually increased your pace.

“Yunjae–... you’re… so deep…” she managed to gasp between breaths, her voice breaking as her body writhed beneath you. Her hands moved frantically, unsure of where to grip—one moment clutching your arm, the next clawing at the sheets, then flying up to cover her mouth as her cries grew louder, more desperate.

You caught both her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, while the other moved to her mouth, your fingers slipping past her lips to muffle her screams. She sucked on them instinctively, her tongue swirling around your digits as her muffled moans vibrated against your skin.

The sight of her like this—completely at your mercy, her body trembling with overstimulation, her eyes glazed with pleasure—was almost too much to bear. You could feel your release building, the pressure in your lower abdomen growing with every thrust.

“Minnie… I’m… I’m close…” you groaned, your voice strained as you fought to hold on just a little longer.

“Yunjae… I’m… also… Inside me… please…” she screamed, her voice unhinged by pleasure, her body arching into yours as she begged for your release.

You couldn’t hold back any longer. With a few more deep, punishing thrusts, you felt yourself reaching the edge. Your body tensed, and with a low, guttural groan, you came, your release spilling inside her in hot, unending waves. The sensation was overwhelming, a warmth that spread through your lower abdomen and made your toes curl. Her body tightened around you, her walls clenching as if trying to draw every last drop from you.

Your release was so intense that it pushed your cock out slightly, the excess spilling out of her and pooling on her stomach. Her pussy dripped with your cum, her body spasming uncontrollably as she rode out the waves of her own climax. Her cries were unrestrained now, her voice breaking as she clung to you, her nails digging into your skin.

When it was finally over, the room fell silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths. Minnie lay beneath you, her body still trembling, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to steady herself. Her eyes were half-lidded, her gaze unfocused as she looked up at you, her lips parted as she gasped for air.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, soft and hoarse. “You… came inside…” Her tone was a stark contrast to the unrestrained screams from moments ago, now filled with a quiet awe, as if she was asking for confirmation that it had really happened.

You nodded, your own breath still uneven as you leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I did,” you murmured, your voice gentle but firm. “I couldn’t hold back… not with you.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against the pool of cum on her stomach, her touch almost reverent. “It’s… warm,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her smile widened slightly, a soft, contented expression that made your chest ache with something deeper than desire.

You leaned down to kiss her again, this time on the lips. It was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of what had just happened. Her hands moved to your face, her fingers trembling as they traced the lines of your jaw, your cheeks, as if she was memorizing every detail.

“Yunjae…” she whispered against your lips, her voice trembling with emotion. “I… I love you. I’ve loved you for so long… I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Her confession hit you like a punch to the chest, your breath catching in your throat. You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching hers, looking for any hint of doubt. But all you saw was sincerity, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Minnie…” you murmured, your voice rough with emotion. “I love you too. I’ve always loved you. Even when I didn’t know how to say it… even when I thought I couldn’t have you. You’ve always been it for me.”

Her lips trembled as she smiled, a single tear slipping down her cheek. You wiped it away with your thumb, your touch gentle as you leaned down to kiss her again. This time, it was slow and sweet, a kiss that spoke of all the things you hadn’t been able to say before.

When you finally pulled away, she nestled into your chest, her body still trembling slightly as she tried to catch her breath. You reached for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning yourself off before gently wiping her stomach and the mess between her legs. She watched you quietly, her eyes soft and filled with affection as you took care of her.

When you were done, you collapsed beside her, pulling her into your arms. She fit perfectly against you, her head resting on your chest as her fingers traced idle patterns on your skin. Her breathing slowly evened out, her body relaxing as exhaustion finally claimed her.

“Yunjae…” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she drifted off to sleep. “Don’t let go…”

“I won’t,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m here, Minnie. I’m not going anywhere.”

As her breathing steadied and she fell into a deep sleep, you held her close, your own exhaustion finally catching up to you. But before you let yourself drift off, you whispered one last thing, knowing she couldn’t hear it but needing to say it anyway.

“I love you, Minnie. Always.”

—

The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, its golden rays falling across your face. You stirred, your body slowly waking. As you opened your eyes, the events of the night before rushed back to you in vivid detail. Minnie’s words, her touch, her warmth—it all felt so real, so vivid.

But the bed was cold beside you.

Frowning, you turned to the empty space where she had been. The sheets were smooth, the faintest hint of her scent lingering on the pillow. You sat up, running a hand through your messy hair, your heart sinking slightly.

“Minnie?” you called out, your voice hoarse.

There was no response.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood, wincing slightly as you stretched. For a moment, you expected a hangover to hit you, but you felt fine—physically, at least. Emotionally, though, a heaviness settled over you as you searched the room for any sign of her.

She wasn’t in the bathroom.

She wasn’t in the living room, either.

Disappointment crept in as you moved through the apartment, checking every corner, every room. By the time you circled back to the kitchen, your chest felt hollow. After everything that had happened last night—her confession, her vulnerability, her promise—she was gone.

And then you saw it.

On the table was a neatly prepared breakfast. A plate of rice, eggs, and a bowl of soup sat perfectly arranged, steam still rising faintly as if she’d just finished making it. Beside the plate was a small folded note with your name scrawled in her neat handwriting.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked it up, unfolding the paper.

—

Yunjae,

I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you woke up. I really didn’t want to leave, especially after last night, but I had to. All I could do was make you breakfast before I left. Please eat it while it’s still warm.

And one more thing—don’t eat dinner alone. Promise me, okay? I’ll be back, but it’ll be late. Wait for me.

-Minnie

—

After reading the letter, you sat back in your chair, the note still clutched in your hand. For a moment, you simply stared at it, rereading her words over and over again. The tone of her writing—it struck you. It wasn’t just thoughtful; it was so unmistakably her.

It reminded you of how she used to be, back when things between the two of you were simpler. Back before the distance, the hesitations, the quiet battles you both fought without words.

You could almost hear her voice, playful and teasing yet tinged with warmth, as she used to remind you to take care of yourself. Back then, her care wasn’t forced or overshadowed by guilt—it was natural, effortless. And this note, with its soft insistence that you not eat dinner alone, was a glimpse of that.

Your chest tightened with a mixture of longing and hope.

Is this what healing feels like? you wondered.

You thought back to the way she’d smiled last night—the first real smile you’d seen from her in what felt like ages. The kind of smile that made your chest ache with memories of days when her laughter filled the air around you, unguarded and free.

Back then, there were no walls between you, no shadows of doubt hanging over every exchange. And now… now, for the first time in years, it felt like you were finding your way back to that place. To her. To what you had been before.

As you set the note down and picked up the chopsticks, a small smile tugged at your lips. She was right here with you, even when she wasn’t physically present. And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe in this again—in you, in both of you.

The breakfast she’d made tasted like home, each bite carrying with it a sense of care you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed.

As you finished your meal, you glanced at the note again, her words echoing in your mind.

“Don’t eat dinner alone. Wait for me.”

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling deeply. The apartment felt a little less empty now, the hope lingering in the air making everything seem lighter.

For the first time in a long while, it felt like the cracks in your relationship were starting to mend. Like you were no longer walking on separate paths but finding your way back to one another.

And for the first time, you felt certain that when she came home tonight, you’d be ready to meet her with the same hope and love she was slowly, carefully showing you again.

[hyuckiefluff]

the wicked game of love pt.2 | lee haechan

pairing: slytherin! haechan x ravenclaw! fem. reader genre: rivals to lovers, smut, angst wc: 21k+ (full fic) summary: Lee Haechan was a pure-blood heir raised to hate everything you are. You, a half-blood girl who knew better than to let your guard down around someone like him. You were never supposed to want each other—until one disastrous kiss shatters everything you’ve worked to protect. cw: explicit sexual content, jealousy themes, toxic family dynamics, blood status discrimination, public sex, use of magic during sex, oral (m. receiving), marking, unprotected sex, mean lee haechan, miscommunication, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, secret/forbidden relationship. a/n: soo i did pass out from exhaustion last night hence why this is being posted later than intended lol. while writing this fic, i had the realization that magic can make the smut much more interesting and i explored that here so enjoy akskdkd pls let me know what you guys think<33

READ PART 1 HERE

"You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love." — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

Your mother never summoned you to her office.

Conversations, when they happened, took place over tea in the sunroom, or in passing as she adjusted her hair by the mirror. But this time, a folded note slid under your bedroom door. Her unmistakable script read 'We need to talk. Office. Now.' The familiar knot in your stomach that came with anything regarding her tightened.

She was standing behind her polished desk when you walked in, every line of her posture sharp with restrained tension.

“I’ve just received the updated intern roster,” she said coolly. “Care to explain why you’re working with Lee Haechan?”

Your lips parted, caught completely off guard. “It’s not like I requested him. We were assigned.”

“I can fix that.”

“What?”

“There’s an opening in the Magical Transportation Division,” she replied, crisp as frost. “I’ll make the arrangements by tomorrow.”

“No.”

The word slipped out before you could temper it.

Her brow arched. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who forced me into this internship, mother. You wanted me to be useful, and now that I’m doing it, there's suddenly a problem?”

“I obviously didn’t expect them to pair you with that boy.” she scoffed.

You stepped forward. “I’ve already started the project and we’re making great progress. I’m not switching just because you don’t like that boy”

There was a second of silence. Her face didn’t change, but you felt the temperature in the room drop. It was rare for you to contradict your mother’s orders. The few times you did, she made sure you regretted it in some way.

“His father nearly cost me the election,” she said at last, her tone clipped, as if she was speaking to a political rival and not her daughter. “That family doesn’t make allies with people like us. You think working beside him is safe? Smart?”

“I don’t know,” you said, teeth clenched. “But it’s my decision.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just be careful, Y/N. That boy was raised to play games at the highest level. Don’t think for a second you’re immune.”

You didn’t answer. You just turned and left, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms. For the first time in your life, you walked away from your mother and her commands.

On the other side of the city, Haechan stood just inside the heavy oak door of his father’s study. Mr. Lee reclined in a leather armchair by the fire, brandy swirling in his glass.

“You’re progressing nicely,” his father began, voice smooth and cool. “That Portkey proposal is attracting the right sort of attention.”

Haechan remained silent. Compliments from his father were never just compliments—they were lures, baited with hidden intent. Tonight, something about it set his nerves on edge.

“I hear you’ve been partnered with the Minister’s daughter.”

“Yes, father.” 

“That’s convenient. Even I must admit, she’s grown into quite the pretty little distraction.”

Haechan’s jaw tightened instantly, but he held still.

“Though, I suppose one can’t expect too much refinement from a girl of her… blood status,” his father continued with a faint curl of disdain at his mouth. “Still, sometimes mixing blood has its uses… if not for lineage, then at least for entertainment.”

A flare of anger shot through Haechan’s chest and he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep him from cursing at his own father but he still couldn’t stop a reply from spilling out. 

“Her blood status isn’t relevant.” 

His father gave a cold chuckle, eyeing him knowingly. “Of course it’s relevant. She’s half-Muggle, raised without any real sense of tradition. It shows. Though perhaps that’s part of her charm, there’s something compelling about a girl who doesn’t fully realize her own value yet. Makes her easier to handle.”

“She’s not a prop, father,” Haechan bit out sharply, his voice harder than intended. 

His father’s expression darkened instantly. Haechan exhaled slowly, trying to regain composure. “I meant she’s useful… professionally.”

Mr. Lee set his glass down with a soft click. “Spare me the schoolboy morals. Everything is leverage, even you.  The sooner you accept that, son, the smoother this will go.”

Haechan always felt like cold water was being poured down his spine whenever he talked to his father. Perhaps he should be used to dealing with the man by now, after all, he’d been groomed for these games since childhood.

But tonight, his venom felt stronger than usual.

“Understood,” Haechan said finally, voice flat but vibrating with barely checked anger.

His father gave a slow, satisfied nod and reached again for his brandy. That was his way of dismissing him without a word. Haechan’s fingers curled at his sides, but he turned and left before the mask cracked.

He didn’t go to his room. He went straight to the Floo. Because if his father saw you as a pawn, Haechan needed to remind himself you weren’t—and, if he was being honest, remind himself he wasn’t either. Tonight, he needed one choice that belonged to him alone.

He apparated silently in the shadowy alley across from your home, his robes instantly dampening in the evening drizzle. He drew his wand, scanning the formidable iron gates and the darkened windows of the imposing Ministerial residence.

He knew the security enchantments protecting your house weren't a joke. They were designed to deter intruders, and specifically enemies of the Minister, so they recognized magical signatures instantly. One wrong move and alarms would blaze, calling Ministry Aurors to appear.

But Haechan hadn’t come this far to turn back.

So he approached the gate carefully. He’d studied enough ward breaking magic to know that subtlety mattered far more than power. He drew a quiet breath and raised his wand, whispering the careful countercharms he'd memorized from watching his father’s dealings.

One by one, the protective enchantments yielded reluctantly under his gentle pressure. He felt sweat trickle down his neck despite the chill night air. His pulse hammered as the wards strained, uncertain, hovering on the brink of recognition.

Then the charms faded back into place, accepting his magic as familiar enough. He stepped carefully through, heart slamming wildly against his ribs.

He moved soundlessly across the manicured lawn toward the side of the house. Climbing ivy clung stubbornly to the aged stone of the manor, it felt slick under his fingertips as he located your window. There was a light inside from a small lamp, which told him you were awake. He took a quick, anxious breath before reaching up and knocking lightly against the glass.

You flinched, wand whipping toward the window reflexively before your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Haechan standing on the narrow ledge beneath your window. You hurriedly unlatched the lock and slid the window open just enough to whisper furiously, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Let me in,” he breathed, desperate and shaking slightly from adrenaline. “Please.”

You hesitated only a fraction of a second before pulling the window fully open, helping him awkwardly inside. He tumbled through onto your bedroom floor, landing softly in a half-crouch, rainwater dripping from his robes onto your plush rug.

“Are you insane?!” You hissed, closing the window quickly. “The wards—”

“I know, I almost didn’t get through.”

“Why would you risk it?” you demanded, though your voice softened as you took in his shivering state. “My mother will have your head if she finds out you’re here.”

“I had to see you,” he admitted roughly. “I didn’t know where else to go. Everything’s so damn complicated… and the only one I trust right now is you.”

“I assume you also had a talk with your father.”

You reached toward him instinctively, fingers gently brushing the damp fabric of his robes.

“Yeah.” He sighed. The tiredness in his eyes and the tension in his jaw was enough to tell you that the conversation went as well as the one with your mother did.

“Let’s get you dry,” you said after a moment.

This wasn’t wise. It was barely safe. If your mother found out, Haechan would be in the kind of trouble you didn’t even want to imagine. But the quiet desperation in his eyes made it hard to think about any of that.

You waved your wand, murmuring a silent warming charm. Dry air spiraled from the tip making him shiver, eyes shuttering as the spell did its job.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Your clothes are still a bit wet,” you scolded softly then faltered when you realized what you just implied.

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Permission to remove them?”

“Only because you’ll ruin my rug.” you looked away shyly.

He shrugged off the heavy coat and you levitated it away into the coat hanger in the corner.  When he started on the pants, your fingers moved first, unfastening the buttons faster than his shaky fingers. They fell down his legs, leaving him only in his boxers and a thin shirt that clung damply to his torso.

“Arms up,” you muttered. He obeyed without comment. 

You peeled the wet fabric over his head and your gaze stuck to the skin exposed—tanned, goose-pimpled, marked by a trail of tiny moles from collarbone to ribs.

“Enjoying the view?” he murmured, fond teasing curling the words.

“Just checking,” you said loftily. “There were rumors around Hogwarts that you had a nice form.”

Slowly, you pressed your mouth to a mole below his collarbone causing him to inhale sharply.

“And what was that for?” he whispered, amused.

“Experimental verification.”

You kissed the next mole, then the next, mapping them with your lips. He stood still, breath catching each time your mouth grazed his warm skin. By the time you kissed the last mole, over his throat, his hands moved to your hips.

He bowed his head, letting his forehead rest against yours. “I’m sorry for showing up out of nowhere. I just—-” He broke off, searching for something he couldn’t quite say. Whatever his father told him tonight, he locked it behind his teeth.

“You can stay the night if you want,” you whisper.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

You lead him toward the bed, shimmied out of your sweats and tugged him under the blanket. He curled behind you, one arm around your waist, fingertips tracing patterns over the slope of your ribs until your breathing slowed.

“Tomorrow’s going to be complicated,” you mumbled drowsily.

“It always is.” He brushed a kiss behind your ear. 

Morning sunlight spilled across the duvet in stripes, warming your shoulders a moment before it reached the long line of Haechan’s body curled behind you. His palm rested open on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy half-circles under your night shirt. 

“Good morning to you too,” you muttered. 

“Good morning, princess,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. His lips found the shell of your ear. “Any chance Ms. Thatch will accept a late proposal?”

You smiled into the pillow. “Only if you can convincingly argue we were under hard circumstances.”

“Hard?” He noses aside your hair, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. “Well, something’s definitely hard.”

You didn’t realize what he was talking about until he shifted his hips closer and you felt it hard against the small of your back.

“Are you serious?” you said, turning your head. 

“It’s not exactly something I schedule.” He exhaled a slow laugh.

“And here I thought you came over just for some emotional stimulation.” 

He leaned down and kissed you slowly, morning-sweet, but at the same time his hips nudged you for more.

“I'll stimulate whatever you need, princess”

You choked on a laugh until his hand slid further under the hem of your shirt.

“Is this your idea of a morning greeting?” you asked breathlessly.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your collarbone. “This is my idea of relieving some tension.”

Your thighs parted to cradle his hips instinctively when he moved on top of you. His mouth traced the line of your collarbone, then lower, until he was kissing your perked nipples over the shirt. Your fingers slipped under the waistband of his boxers and squeezed boldly enough to make him curse softly into your chest. 

He palmed your other breast in response, thumb flicking your nipple until your back arched. You bit your lip to muffle a whimper, then pushed him onto his back with delicious authority.

“My turn.”

You shimmied down, lips dragging across the constellation of moles scattered across his chest and stomach. Every kiss made him sigh softly. You pulled his boxers down fully and when your mouth closed over his cock, he choked on a breath.

Haechan speared shaky fingers through your hair, muttering every filthy compliment he could remember. You licked the underside of his cock, then took him in almost fully, resisting the urge to gag when he hit the back of your throat.

You sucked as far as you could and stroked the rest of with your hand. Haechan’s head fell back, mouth open in delight. “Fuck… ah—fuck that feels… so good—“

His hips started shaking under you but suddenly he stopped you and flipped you over. “Need to be inside you.”

Heat flared when he settled between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing where you were already aching. One hand cradled the back of your knee, guiding your leg around his waist and the other cupped your cheek as he kissed you again.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered, rocking just enough to tease. You arched, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Like this,” you answered, voice gone rough. “Just—please—”

He slid in, filling you in one smooth glide that knocked the breath from your lungs. A broken sound escaped his throat. “Fuck, baby—” The rest dissolved into a soft groan as he drew back and thrusted again, deeper.

Your hands roamed his back, nails grazing lightly down muscle and spine. Each slow stroke dragging delicious friction inside you.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered, pupils blown wide. Your eyes fluttered open and the contact stole your breath more than the thrust that followed. 

Pleasure starts to flow through you quickly when he slid his hand and started stroking your clit, your body tightening around him in response. He felt it and swore softly causing his pace to falter.

“Don’t stop,” you warned, looping both arms around his neck and pulling him close.

He kissed you hard, hips snapping a little faster, rhythm still controlled but hungrier now. Every glide set off sparks, every slide of his thumb over your clit pushing you closer.

“Hae…I—I’m gonna cum,” you gasped against his mouth.

“Me too, fuuck” he groaned.

He angled his hips deeper, and the change nearly sent you tumbling. Your walls clenched, pleasure hitting in a blinding rush. Your cry is muffled against his shoulder.

He followed with a hoarse groan, hips stuttering as the orgasm crashed through him. He kept moving in soft thrusts until the tremors faded and your limbs loosened.

He collapsed to his elbows, weight braced so he doesn’t crush you, brushing damp hair from your forehead with trembling fingers. 

“That,” you managed breathlessly, “was incredible.”

He laughed and kissed the tip of your nose. “I live to please.”

The mantle clock in the sitting room chimed eight-thirty. And you remembered the briefing you had in thirty minutes. You groaned while he grinned, entirely unrepentant.

“We can still make it,” he said, stroking a thumb along your cheek. “Five minutes to shower, two to dress. That leaves twenty three for breakfast and another round.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you sighed, but the fondness in your voice undermined any scold. You press a final kiss to the mole on his neck, then roll out of bed, summoning clean clothes with a flick of your wand.

“Shower,” you declare.

He pushed up, stretching like a satisfied cat. “Lead the way, Ravenclaw.”

Haechan left your house first so as to not draw any suspicion in case your mother or any of her workers were around. You arrived at the Ministry with an armful of research notes, ready for the briefing. Haechan said he’d wait for you outside the lifts so you expected to see him leaning against the wall and making some sarcastic remark about your supposed “lateness”.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

Five minutes turned into ten, and frustration melted into annoyance as you glanced around. Eventually, irritation won out and you began to make your way to the briefing room.

It wasn't until you heard the soft click of footsteps behind you that you looked over your shoulder, and there was Haechan.

But he wasn’t alone.

Beside him was a girl you vaguely recognized from Ministry galas. She had impossibly long legs, hair so pale it seemed woven from moonlight, and appraising green eyes. The kind of ethereal beauty that belonged to Veela rather than witches, an almost unsettling allure that made you instinctively stand straighter.

"Sorry…" Haechan muttered as they approached. His eyes carefully avoided yours. "Lost track of time."

The girl turned smoothly toward you, offering a delicate hand adorned with expensive rings. "Cassia Selwyn. I'm an old friend of Haechan’s."

You forced your expression into neutral politeness, shaking her hand briefly. "Y/N. Nice to meet you."

Cassia tilted her head, silver-blonde hair slipping gracefully over one slender shoulder as her eyes slowly took you in. "Haechan’s told me all about you and your…little project. Sounds charming."

Your spine stiffened at her patronizing tone. "Yeah, well, it's important work."

"Oh, I’m sure," she purred indulgently, already dismissing you as she turned back toward Haechan. Her slender fingers reached out to adjust the knot of his tie, a gesture so familiar and easy it made your stomach twist. "Don't forget dinner tomorrow. My father's expecting you."

"I haven't agreed—"

Cassia leaned in, her voice dropping into a coaxing tone. "You know how disappointed he'll be if you don't show. Your father as well.”

Haechan’s jaw twitched—a subtle tell of annoyance you’d learned to read over the years—but he remained silent, clearly unwilling to argue further in front of you.

"I'll see you soon, Hae," she murmured sweetly, eyes sliding back to you briefly with faint amusement. And then she swept away, leaving a trace of expensive perfume in the air.

You stared after her for a tense second. "Cassia Selwyn," you said eventually. "That name sounds familiar."

Haechan let out a short breath, eyes glued stubbornly to your notes on the table. "Her father's head of International Magical Cooperation. He's also my father's closest political ally. She’s… uhm, she’s also interning here at a different department.”

Recognition clicked as soon as he said that. You remember reading about the Selwyns in Hogwarts' registry of notable pureblood families. Their ancient lineage was so prestigious, the closest thing you could relate it to was the British Royal family. Cassia’s effortless elegance suddenly made a lot of sense.

"Ah." Your voice felt strained, even to your own ears. "Well. Now I see why you needed to rearrange your whole schedule around her."

Haechan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's complicated."

"I bet," you muttered, jealousy slipping out despite your best efforts. "Maybe next time, give me some notice before you skip out on research to handle your personal affairs."

His eyes flashed defensively but he remained silent. Somehow, the quiet felt worse than any argument. At least when you were fighting, you knew where you stood. Now you felt lost in uneasy silence.

Before you could fully descend into that bitter feeling, a flying memo fluttered overhead, dropping onto your outstretched hand. You read it aloud, quite grateful for any distraction from the tense atmosphere.

"Ms. Thatch wants to see us before the briefing," you announced stiffly, walking away without waiting for him.

"Oh, there you are!" Ms. Thatch beamed as you entered. Her eyes flickered briefly behind you. "Where's Haechan?"

"Right here," he said flatly, stepping in a second behind you.

"Good!” she chirped, either not noticing or purposely ignoring your frosty demeanors. "You’ve both heard about our summer charity event, I presume. Since your project is the most promising out of all the interns, I have volunteered you to present at the event. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to find sponsors. The Minister herself will be there, as will your father, Mr. Lee."

Your eyes darted toward Haechan, who was stubbornly silent, making no effort to voice his usual objections.

"Actually, Ms. Thatch," you said quickly, "we haven't fully finalized the proposal yet. It might be too early to—"

"We'll do it." Haechan interrupted calmly, catching you completely off-guard.

Your gaze snapped toward him, incredulous and suddenly furious. He carefully avoided meeting your eyes.

"Wonderful!" Ms. Thatch clapped her hands enthusiastically, lipstick-stained teeth on full display. "I'm certain you'll manage beautifully! As I said, you're the strongest interns we've had this term. I’m not just saying that because of your parents."

A stiff smile was all you could muster in response, leaving the office after she finished explaining all the details.

You were hot on Haechan’s heels, ready to confront him about exactly what the hell he thought he was doing. But before you could even open your mouth, a deep, familiar voice stopped you cold.

"Son," Mr. Lee’s smooth, cold tone sliced through the air behind you.

You both turned slowly. Haechan’s expression hardened instantly, tension sharpening the lines of his face.

His father’s eyes flickered briefly over you, before settling firmly on his son again. "A word. Alone."

Haechan glanced at you for a second before nodding stiffly at his father and walking away, leaving you alone in the echoing corridor, with nothing but dread twisting tight in your stomach.

The next morning you found a fresh stack of parchment waiting on your usual table in the Archives with Haechan’s handwriting. A terse note sat on top.

Finished cross-referencing 1908–1911 tariff updates.See margin for flagged conflicts.—L.H.

When he finally appeared, he offered only a curt nod before sliding into the seat opposite you. For two hours he spoke in clipped sentences—“Need the ledger from shelf three-C,” “Double-check the French translation,” “Sign here so Thatch can log the revision.” Every time your questions strayed toward anything personal like Cassia, the meeting with his father, or even how he’d slept he deflected with a pointed glance at the parchment and a quiet, “Focus, Y/N.”

By the end of the week the chill had crystalized into routine: he arrived early, buried himself in research, left the moment your tasks ended. No playful shoulder-bumps in the corridor, no midnight trips for coffee, no sly grins when you corrected his footnotes. Only efficient partnership, as if the night he’d fallen asleep in your bed belonged to someone else’s life.

You told yourself it didn’t matter—you had a proposal to polish and sponsors to impress—but the hollowness followed you everywhere, rattling like a loose Snitch inside your chest.

The Ministry gardens glittered beneath strings of floating lanterns; orchestral music drifted over rows of donation tables. You arrived with a stack of project summaries tucked under your arm, determined to network, to prove Ms Thatch’s faith wasn’t misplaced.

You were halfway through charming a prospective backer when the crowd started murmuring., everyone’s attention sliding toward the main archway.

Haechan walked in at his father’s side, looking immaculate in midnight-green robes. Cassia Selwyn glided beside him, her hand nestled in the crook of his arm. Her pale hair swept over one shoulder, her expensive gown shimmering frost-silver under the lights. Together they looked carved from an old pure-blood portrait.

Your throat tightened. Haechan’s expression was cool, polite, but you saw the moment he spotted you.  A flicker ofregret? Apology? But it vanished as Cassia leaned in to whisper, her crimson lips close to his ear. He nodded once, mask settling back into place, and let himself be steered toward the VIP tables.

“So,” your potential sponsor prompted, oblivious to the scene, “does the phased tariff model begin year one, or do you anticipate a six-month grace period?”

You swallowed, forcing your voice steady. “Six months,” you replied, though your eyes kept drifting to the far end of the lawn where Cassia laughed lightly at something Mr Lee said, her fingers still resting on Haechan’s sleeve.

For the rest of the evening you played your role but every glance across the crowd found him beside her, shoulders squared, distance in his eyes. And each time, the hollow flutter in your chest grew a little sharper.

When the orchestra launched into a waltz, sponsors swept onto the dance floor. Cassia turned, hand outstretched in silent invitation. Haechan hesitated before taking it.

They moved flawlessly together, was she all poised grace, and he the  perfect partner. Applause rippled as they passed, Ministry officials nodding approval. You stood at the edge of the lawn clutching your untouched glass of elf-made wine, wondering how something that had never officially started could sting so much.

Your mother appeared suddenly at your elbow, startling you so badly you nearly spilled your drink.

“Are you romantically involved with the Lee boy?” she asked coolly.

Your gaze snapped up, shock widening your eyes. “What? No! Why—why would you even think that?”

She raised an eyebrow slowly. “You know I’m not one to entertain gossip, darling. But whispers at the Ministry tend to travel fast.”

You swallowed, heart rising to your throat. “What whispers?”

“The Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports approached me the other day about something he overheard.” She paused to sip her wine, calm and unbothered. “A rather heated conversation between Mr. Lee and his son... apparently about you.”

Your stomach tightened uncomfortably. “About me?”

“Yes. It seems that Mr. Lee explicitly instructed his son to stay away from you. I dismissed it as ridiculous at the time. How involved could you possibly be with that boy to warrant all that fuss?” Her sharp eyes turned toward the far end of the garden, landing pointedly on Haechan. “But tonight, seeing the way he’s been parading around with the Selwyn girl, smiling only for the photographs yet repeatedly throwing you those longing glances… I suspect perhaps Mr. Lee was right to worry.”

You felt your face flush deeply, skin prickling under your mother’s scrutiny. She'd always read you far too easily.

“Mother, I—”

She shook her head slightly, cutting you off. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. It’s written all over your face.”

You lowered your eyes, lips pressed tight to avoid betraying anything further.

“Let me give you a piece of advice,” she continued impassively. “Don’t let yourself get more tangled with him than absolutely necessary. I’d hate for you to find out the hard way exactly why I'm warning you about this.”

She touched your arm briefly before walking away from your frozen form. The only sound your brain could register after that was the anxious pounding of your heart and the echo of her words.

You were still reeling when a familiar shadow fell across the refreshment table.

“There you are,” Haechan said softly. Up close, his formal robes looked stiff and constricting, as though he’d rather be wearing else.

“Got bored of your date so soon?” you muttered, trying to sound disinterested.

“She’s not—” His jaw worked. “Forget it. I actually came to review our talking points. Thatch expects us to pitch before dessert, and this” he lifted his champagne “isn’t helping me focus.”

“You’ve memorized those points twice over.”

“Just humor me, please?” His eyes flicked toward the hedge-lined maze beyond the garden. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“Fine,” you sighed reluctantly after a minute of glowering.

The both of you slipped through the open arch between garden walls, careful to make sure no one was watching. Not that it mattered. Even if your intentions were innocent—and you weren’t entirely convinced they were—people would talk. They always did.

The deeper into the maze you walked, the more muffled the party became. Only the sound of your heels against cobblestone and Haechan’s steps behind you remained. You reached a quiet alcove surrounded by ivy and waited with arms crossed, pretending not to notice the way his eyes dragged across your bare shoulders.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing it from him. “What point of the presentation were you so desperate to—?”

“Your dress,” he murmured instead. “It’s distracting.”

You blinked. “That’s not a point in the presentation.”

“No,” he agreed, stepping closer, “but it’s why I couldn’t focus back there.”

“Try a little harder then, we need to present this soon”

“Mm,” he hummed, pulling out the folded parchment with your notes from his jacket pocket. “Start reading then.”

You took the parchment and started reading, brows furrowed as you scanned it. “The primary concern is the—”

Suddenly he was behind you, his hand reaching for your waist. You paused. “Haechan…”

“Keep going,” he said quietly. “I’m listening.”

You swallowed hard and stared at the words, trying to focus. “The primary concern is the inconsistency between—”

His hand slid higher.

“Are you seriously—?”

“This helps me focus,” he said, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your neck. “Don’t stop now. You’re doing so well.”

The rasp in his voice and the way his hands kept feeling you over your clothes was making it very difficult to even breathe let alone read the stupidly messy words on the parchment. Why was his handwriting so bad?

“Keep reading,” he murmured again, lips grazing your ear.

You tried. “Um—the projected savings…and… and the reallocation of private funding—”

His thumbs skimmed small circles through the thin fabric of your gown, sliding higher to the tense line of your ribs. The parchment fluttered in your fingers.

“…and, uh, incentives for small-scale producers…” You hated the tremor in your voice, he clearly loved it. You could practically hear him smirk.

“You missed the compliance clause,” he whispered, letting one hand slide under the fall of your hair, settling against the back of your neck. 

You licked your lips, found the line, forced the words out. “Clause sixteen… sets non-compliance penalties at.. at seven percent—”

His other hand traced the curve of your waist, sliding lower, drawing you back until you felt the press of his chest. The parchment crinkled. The pulse point in your neck pulsed wildly against his mouth.

“Seven percent is too lenient,” he murmured. “We should make them beg to meet the standard.”

You swallowed hard. “We should… probably get back.”

“In a minute.” He nudged your hair aside and pressed an unhurried kiss below your ear that made your knees wobble slightly.

“Is this really the time?” you gasped.

“Shh.” His hand at your neck slipped forward, guiding your chin to tilt slightly. “Eyes on the notes, princess.”

You tried, and failed, to focus on the words. Every line blurred as his lips traced slow paths from your jaw to your shoulder. The maze felt impossibly still, as though even the garden itself was holding its breath.

“Haechan, if someone finds us—”

“They won’t.” A gentle nip at your earlobe. “Read the next bullet.”

You forced your gaze down. “Improved… audit protocol… mandatory quarterly—” Your voice broke when his hands slid to your hips, drawing you back against him fully. You felt the unmistakable evidence of how little “reviewing” mattered to him just now.

“Quarterly audits,” he echoed, his tone husky. “Brilliant idea.”. Soft lips drifted to your collarbone.

“This is— spectacularly stupid,” you whispered, though your body melted under his hands.

“Stupid,” he agreed, skating calloused fingers up the slit of your gown until night air kissed your thighs. “Let’s be quick, then. Prove we’re brilliant later.”

The parchment crinkled in your grip, words dissolving into texture. Somewhere beyond the maze someone laughed too loudly, and you discovered recklessness had the flavor of champagne and something breathtakingly alive.

“This... this is too risky,” you breathed, head tilting back as his fingers ghosted over your skin.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, mouth dragging along your jaw.

Of all the things you’d done with Haechan, this was easily the most idiotic. More reckless than letting him go down on you in the Archives. More dangerous than that kiss behind the velvet curtain at the gala. Especially after the warning from your mother—you knew better. You should have walked away.

But Haechan always knew how to get what he wanted and he knew exactly how to make you want it too.

The thought that he was here, fingers sliding past your underwear, while your mother, his father, and Cassia Selwyn were probably sipping champagne and wondering where you’d slipped off to... gave you a guilty rush that made your legs open slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered at last.

His hand slid under your panties in response, fingers cupping you firmly and spreading you open. You were already, shamefully, soaked.

“Always so eager for me,” he muttered, rubbing teasing circles over your clit. “For someone who whines so much.”

“We… don’t have time for your mouth,” you snapped breathlessly, shoving him back against the ivy-covered wall and yanking at his belt.

“I love it when you boss me around,” he groaned, eyes half-lidded as you worked his trousers down. “Makes me feel like a very bad boy.”

“You are,” you hissed. “A fucking disgrace.”

“Fuck” His boxers hit the ground, cock slapping up hard against his stomach—red, slick at the tip, and twitching. 

You grinned. “Someone’s happy to see me.”

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasped, grabbing your hips and dragging you closer. His hands slid down, squeezing your ass. “Every time we’re in the same room, all I can think about is this.”

“If only you weren’t so busy playing daddy’s little puppet…” you purred, kissing along his jaw.

His breath hitched, but the smirk didn’t fade. “Don’t talk about my father while your hand’s around my cock.”

“Oh?” You tightened your grip enough to make him hiss between his teeth. “Does it kill the mood?”

“No,” he groaned, rolling his head back against the ivy. “Makes me want to fuck that little attitude out of you.”

That was all the warning he gave before grabbing your waist and hoisting you up easily. Your back hit the ivy wall as his hips jerked forward, cock grinding hard between your thighs. Not inside yet but pressed right where it hurt most, dragging against soaked lace.

“Haechan—fuck—”

“You wore this for me, didn’t you?” he whispered fingering your lacey panties, lips at your throat. “This little slit that barely covers anything. You wanted me to rip them off you tonight.”

“Shut up and do it,” you snarled, grinding against him.

He growled something unintelligible, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then reached between you to yank your panties so hard they ripped easily. The head of his cock slipped through your slick folds and you both gasped.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped, voice breaking as he dragged the tip over your clit once. “Fuck, you were ready for this before I even touched you.”

He slid in with one hard thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs. You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Eyes on me.” He growled, snapping his hips forward again, deeper this time.

You looked at him and whatever was in your expression made him moan. “There she is,” he whispered. “Fucking beautiful when you give in.”

His thrusts turned punishing, dragging against everything inside you that made your spine arch and your thighs clamp tight around his waist.

“This—” he panted, “—this is mine. This body. These sounds. You can pretend otherwise but—” he slammed into you, hard enough to make you cry out, “—this belongs to me.”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Your breath was caught in your throat, stars flashing behind your eyes as the heat coiled lower and lower.

“You gonna cum for me?” he whispered, biting at your earlobe. “Right here where anyone could walk by? Your mother. My father. Cassia.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice shaking. “Please, don’t fucking stop—”

“Say it,” he demanded, hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit. “Say who’s making you cum.”

“You,” you gasped. “You. Fuck, Haechan—please—”

You cried out when your orgasm hit, nails scoring red lines into his back as your walls clenched around him. He groaned low and rough, fucking you through it. Seconds later, he spilled into you with a strangled moan, forehead pressed to yours.

Only the sound of your panting, the distant music from the gala, and the rustle of ivy around you could be heard.

“That was a good review.” He whispered against your lips.

His cum was still dripping down your thighs when he kissed you again, but only for a breath. Then he pulled back, and looked down at his wrist watch. 

“We still have about ten more minutes before the presentation” he said, voice wrecked.

“So…?” you asked, still trying to catch your breath.

“I wanted to try something”

Before you could ask what, he flicked his wand and your dress vanished in a puff of smoke.

You gasped. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” he murmured, tapping your sternum next. “Desino gravitatem.”

Your body lifted off the ground like a marionette cut from strings, floating weightless as the ivy trembled behind you.

“What the—”

But his hands were already back on you, guiding your hips forward in midair. You were suspended, spread and hovering high enough for him to slot between your thighs again. He flipped you with a wrist flick, your back now to him, ass lifted, legs dangling.

“Perfect,” he muttered, gripping your waist like he was trying to memorize the feel. “Jaemin once bragged about using this spell on a girl. complete bollocks, by the way—he can barely do a simple leviosa half the time. but i’ve been dying to try it ever since.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to maybe ask first?” You snapped, flailing slightly.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“… I mean, I hardly have a choice now, do i?”

he chuckled, the sound warm and low against your back. “I promise you’re gonna love it. Prefect’s honor.”

“You were never a prefect.”

“Yeah, but I’m very committed to pleasing you.”

He pushed back inside you with a groan, the new angle making you curse violently as your body trembled in midair. His hand wrapped around your throat with enough pressure to steady you as he thrust upward into you.

Every time his hips slammed into you, your body jerked forward. The lack of gravity and the angle made it feel like every thrust reached your head.

“You like this?” he growled. “Being my little floating fucktoy?”

“I hate you.” You moaned.

He smacked your ass. “Try again.”

“Fuck— s’good… don’t stop—” you whimpered.

“Better.”

Your moans were getting louder, echoing through the enchanted ivy, the charm he’d placed keeping you perfectly in place even as you writhed midair.

And then he did something insane.

He cast Gemino, the duplication charm.

Instantly, a spectral copy of himself shimmered into view in front of you. The second Haechan—transparent and golden at the edges—grabbed your hair and kissed your mouth while the real one kept fucking you from behind.

Your brain nearly short-circuited, too overwhelmed.

“This is crazy,” you moaned into the phantom’s mouth, barely coherent.

“So’s half the shit we’ve already done,” the real one panted.

And when his fingers slid between your legs again, teasing your swollen clit as the illusion bit down gently on your lower lip, you came so hard you screamed his name loud enough that it had to echo into the party.

The hovering charm flickered, and Haechan caught you against him before you could drop, still inside you, panting.

“You’re deranged,” you whispered, clinging to him.

His mouth was at your ear. “I know you loved it.”

“Please bring my dress back.” you said, shivering slightly. 

He quickly made your dress appear again.

“What even were those spells?” 

“Why? You wanna try them on me?” he smirked.

You shoved him and summoned a hand mirror to fix your appearance. Every bit of your makeup was smudged and your hair was a mess. You sighed and fixed it. Haechan simply brushed his hand through his hair. You reached up and wiped off some lipstick that was smudged on his lips. Also, put a glamour charm to cover the bruises that were starting to bloom where your lips had been on his neck.

“Ready to kill this presentation then?” He asked.

“Let’s go” you replied.

And kill the presentation, you most certainly did.

The Ministry atrium felt almost gentle the day after the fundraiser. Probably because you were still riding the high of a perfect presentation, the fact that many donors had signed, Ms. Thatch had all but done a cartwheel, and the Portkey Tariff proposal just needed a last polish before being sent up to the Department heads. Life, for once, was cooperating.

You arrived early, as usual, so you stopped by the breakfast nook near level five to enjoy a quiet moment before the day started. You even let yourself order the overpriced chamomile from the enchanted dispenser.

The peace lasted precisely three and a half sips, until you noticed two witches at a nearby table. One pretending to stir her tea for the tenth time, the other tilting the Prophet so conspicuously towards you it might as well have had your name printed on the cover.

You checked your face in the reflection of your spoon but nothing was off. No food in your teeth, your lipstick wasn’t smudged, no eye buggers. Nothing on your face explained the sudden interest.

A weird feeling twisted in your guts. Your first thought was, no way. Your second thought was, check anyway. So you walked to the newspaper stand and picked up a copy.

The front page was an article about the Turkish Minister’s retirement, nothing crazy. You scanned further, flipping pages of Quidditch standing, goblin policies, and other uneventful news. Until you finally found an article about the fundraiser on page six. 

You scanned the article quickly. It was mostly praise for the decor, attendance from international guests, and a nod to the interns’ presentations. And then, just beneath the column, in a faint gray box labeled Social Notes & Curiosities:

"Not all moments at this year’s gala were on the official itinerary. Several sharp-eyed partygoers noted that two unnamed interns vanished into the hedge maze for “several curious minutes” during the height of the festivities, returning just before the closing presentation looking flushed and disheveled. Sources declined to identify the pair, but wondered aloud whether young ambition sometimes… overgrows the path.”

Blood drained from your face so fast you felt light-headed. No names…but anyone with half a brain could add them. You folded the paper with shaky hands, and left the nook on autopilot, hunting for Haechan.

Before rounding the corner toward the Archives hall you heard voices whispering in a heated argument. 

“I just wonder if you’re serious about your future, Haechan.” you recognized Cassia Selwyn’s silk-smooth voice.

“So you planted that story?!” Haechan sounded pissed.

“Don’t look at me like I'm the villain. You and I were promised to each other before we could even read. You wandering off with her—”

“Is none of your business.” He spat.

Cassia's tone sharpened. “It is when it jeopardizes the alliances our parents built. I won’t let a half-blood charity case ruin everything just because you’re in your rebellious phase.”

You pressed flatter against the wall, pulse roaring.

Haechan’s reply was almost a growl. “If you ever bring her into this again—”

“You’re the one who brought her into this,” she cut in. “But soon enough you’ll remember why duty always wins over puppy love.”

Something, maybe his fist, hit the wall. You flinched though it was a few meters away.

“I’m warning you, Cassia. Stop your little games.”

He stormed off in the opposite direction; Cassia’s heels clicked leisurely the other way. Only then did you realize you hadn’t breathed for a full thirty seconds.

You were already seated when Haechan walked into the briefing room.

He pulled out the chair next to you like he always did. Your fingers kept moving over the edge of your parchment, smoothing the crease you'd created while standing outside that hallway, listening to Cassia carve pieces of you apart.

"You okay?" He asked under his breath.

"I'm fine." Too fast. 

You didn’t need to look to know he was frowning.

"You sure? You kind of—"

“—We're starting,” you cut in, straightening as Ms. Thatch entered the room with her usual whirlwind energy.

“Brilliant work last night, everyone!” She said, stacking folders with a flick of her wand. “Now, just a few corrections and then the proposals will officially be on their way to senior review. And”—she paused, smiling brightly—“We’ve got a new addition to the team for the rest of the internship.”

The door creaked open behind you.

“This is Emil Chartier,” Ms. Thatch announced. “Our international liaison from Beauxbatons. Top of his class in Diplomatic Transmutation, fluent in six languages, and here to help polish our draft for European compatibility.”

You turned just as he stepped forward. He was tall, with a willowy frame, and wearing robes in a midnight-blue cut so precise the velvet seemed poured onto his shoulders. He had sun-touched blond curls, one errant lock deliberately tucked behind a narrow ear. High cheekbones, a mouth that hinted at a permanent half-smile even when perfectly neutral, and eyes that looked grey at first glance, but slightly amber at the edges when the light caught.

He stepped forward on soft-soled dragonhide shoes and stopped at a conversational distance from the table.

“Bonjour,” he said, voice smooth as warm honey. “I’m very excited to join you all. I’ve read your project outlines, they were brilliant.”

“I’m thrilled to be here. Your project outlines were brilliant.”

The words floated over the entire table, but his gaze never wavered from you.

Haechan scoffed next to you. It was barely a breath but you felt it. Then his quill bent as he pressed down just a shade too hard, blotting ink across his notes.

Emil continued obliviously. “I’m especially interested in the tariff-equalisation clause. The logic is elegant, I’d love to discuss it in more detail.”

His smile was soft, earnest. Yours flickered back before you could help it.

Ms. Thatch clapped her hands. “Very well! Then Y/N and Haechan can work closely with Emil for this final stage.”

“Magnifique!” Emil chirped, pulling the chair beside you. He gave Haechan a polite nod, then turned back to you. “I was especially impressed by your cross-referencing in the North Sea tariff section.”

Haechan made another annoyed sound but you didn’t look at him.

“That was all her,” he said, voice casual but tight around the edges.

“Then she deserves the praise,” Emil replied easily, eyes sliding toward you with warmth. “I admit, I was curious to see if the one behind the proposal was as impressive in person.”

You managed a quiet laugh. It was almost disorienting, being noticed in the way Cassia had said you never would be. As if your worth was obvious, not conditional.

You reached for the inkpot, intending to refill it. Emil caught the movement and reached over first. “Allow me,” he said, voice low. “Can’t have ink stains ruining those clever hands.”

Haechan’s quill snapped with a quiet crack. No one else seemed to notice—Ms Thatch was already launching into the agenda—but you caught the tiny muscle that jumped in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed a fraction before he repaired the quill with a flick of his wand.

Emil blinked at him, then whispered to you. “Should I be worried I've offended someone?”

“Not at all,” you murmured, returning the smile, even as your heart twisted in your chest.

You didn’t wait around after the meeting ended. You gathered your notes and slipped out before the room even cleared. The air in there felt too suffocating. You needed quiet and space.

But of course, you didn’t get that.

“Y/N—wait.”

Haechan’s voice chased you halfway down the northeast spiral before you finally stopped, turning sharply just outside the records annex.

“What?” you snapped.

He blinked. “...You’re upset.”

“Wow, nothing gets past you.”

Haechan stepped closer, one hand gripping the railing. “Okay. sarcasm noted. Can you just…tell me what’s going on?”

You gave a breathy, incredulous laugh. “What’s going on is I just found out you’re playing with me while you pretend you’re not already betrothed to.”

His eyes darkened. “You heard that conversation.”

“All of it.”

“Then you know she’s full of shit.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? Because she still has a claim to your future.”

He moved to speak, but you weren’t finished.

“And you know what the worst part is? I already expected it. I should’ve known that someone like you would end up with someone like her”

“Is that what you think?” he said finally, voice too soft.

You crossed your arms. “I spent the morning reading about us in the prophet and then i had to sit next to you like nothing happened. while that new intern—who doesn’t even know me—managed to actually say something nice about my work the way you never have.”

Your voice broke a little on the last word, but you pushed through.

“And it just made me realize... maybe it wouldn’t be this hard with someone else. Maybe I wouldn't feel like I have to prove myself every second just to be taken seriously.”

Haechan's jaw clenched. “Why are you even bringing him into this?”

“Why not?” you snapped. “He’s not the one being yanked between his family’s expectations and his own guilty conscience.”

“You don’t think I'm trying?” he said, louder now. “I'm walking a tightrope every damn day trying to keep my father from pulling me out of this internship entirely. If he knew what happened in the maze—if he knew how far this has gone—”

“He’d what?” you challenged. “Marry you off faster?”

The silence was confirmation was enough.

You sucked in a breath. “So that's it. Cassia was right.”

“No,” he said immediately, stepping forward. “She’s not. She doesn’t know how I really feel about you. She doesn’t get to decide that. Not her, or my father, or anyone.”

His eyes were shining with rage and desperation.

You stared at him for a long second, heart racing, unsure if you wanted to slap him or kiss him or cry.

“…I can’t do this if i’m just a rebellion phase for you,” you whispered.

His expression shattered.

“You’re not.”

The words hung limp between you, nothing to cling to, nothing to soften the fall. You turned and walked away, fingers curling into fists at your sides. Not because you didn’t believe him.

Because you did.

And that made everything worse.

You found yourself in one of the small auxiliary lounges on level seven—mostly unused, with a cracked fireplace charm and mismatched armchairs that smelled dusty. You curled into one near the window, letting the sun slant across your skirt as you stared down at the proposal draft without reading a single word.

You didn’t cry. You were past that. You were just angry and hurt. And tired in a way that had nothing to do with spellwork or policy corrections.

A soft knock broke your silence.

“May I?” Emil asked gently, gesturing to the seat across from you. “I noticed you left in a hurry.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said after sitting down.

“For what?”

“For… Perhaps inserting myself too comfortably this morning. I didn't realize things were so tense.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Actually, you were the only person who treated me like… just a person today.”

He offered a small smile. “Well. You are quite an impressive person.”

You gave a tired laugh, but it came from your chest this time. “You barely know me.”

“True. But I saw how your colleagues looked at you when you spoke in the meeting. Especially him.” Emil's tone stayed neutral, but his eyes were kind. “Whatever else is happening… I don't think you’re as alone as you feel.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don't know what I am to him. And I'm scared to ask.”

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Not yet. Let him decide if he’s brave enough to make it clear.”

You sat with that for a long moment. He didn’t press just reached into his satchel, pulled out a little wrapped croissant from the café cart, and placed it on the table between you without a word.

“Is this for me?”

“Consider it strategic morale support.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Haechan stared at the shredded parchment in his hands. His third failed attempt at rewriting the trade summary. Ink had smudged from his fingers to his temple sometime during the last hour, but he hadn’t noticed. Or cared.

Your voice still echoed in his head. “Maybe it wouldn’t be this hard with someone else.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face and stood abruptly. The movement knocked over a stack of annotated notes and sent one sliding under the archive cabinet. He let it stay there.

He didn’t know why he always did this—why he always ruined the one thing that felt like it mattered the second it got real.

His father’s voice drifted in his memory: “Sentiment makes you weak. Attachments make you vulnerable.”

But you didn’t make him feel weak. You made him want to be braver.

His eyes flicked to the small framed article pinned to the wall. A piece from last year’s Ministry Gala, featuring his father’s speech about legacy and honor and discipline. Haechan wondered if anyone would ever write something about him without including the word Lee in the headline.

He couldn’t fix this with you. Not until he figured out how to stop being a coward.

So he kept quiet. Let his father go on assuming he’d ended things. Let him believe the engagement to Cassia was back on track. It bought him enough time to work out how to unravel the noose his father had spent years looping around his neck.

In reality, this wasn’t just about you. It was also about being looked at like a pawn, about being maneuvered like his only use was to cement power through maintaining the bloodline.

Cassia was the first knot he had to cut.

He knew it had to be public. Loud enough that no one—especially his father—could twist it into a temporary setback or a lover’s quarrel. It had to be permanent.

The perfect opportunity was already on the calendar.

Cassia’s father’s birthday dinner which was set to be held at The Gilded Laurel, an old wizarding restaurant perched on the Cornish cliffs. Known for its fairy- enchanted chandeliers and tables that float slightly above the floor, it was a staple for the pureblood elite. Every detail of the evening would be noted, photographed, whispered about. If he broke it off there, in front of her family, in front of his father, in front of the Prophet’s most loyal leeches… there would be no going back.

He wasn’t nervous about facing everyone. He was only terrified of what you’d think by then. Of whether you’d already decided you were done waiting.

Because every hour that passed without him telling you the truth… It was another hour you might spend believing that you didn’t matter. That he’d chosen her. That you’d just been a mistake in between his family’s expectations.

But you weren’t. And he’d prove it, even if he had to burn everything else down to do it.

The night of the dinner party came faster than expected. Haechan arrived with his father’s hand resting on his shoulder. Cassia greeted them at the entrance in a blue satin dress and a smile as perfect as porcelain.

“Try to look happy,” she murmured while the photographer adjusted his focus.

“Working on it.” Haechan replied noncommittally, eyes already scanning the room for the biggest audience.

The crystal goblets chimed and soup bowls floated down onto their table. Conversation swelled about trade numbers, Ministry gossip, Quidditch brackets. Haechan nodded in all the right places while cataloguing where the reporters were.

After the plates were cleared and dessert was served, Mr. Selwyn rose with his glass aloft.

“To family, old alliances, and future unions.” His gaze lingered on Cassia and Haechan. Polite applause followed.

Haechan stood before it died away.

“I’d like to add something,” he started.

“I know this dinner is meant to celebrate Mr. Selwyn, as well as our families and legacy.” He looked at Cassia, who was staring at him with a frozen, perfect smile. “But it would be dishonest of me to sit here and pretend like this engagement is moving forward.”

A cold silence flattened the whole room, nothing but the sound of a few utensils falling onto plates could be heard. 

Mr. Lee’s smile held, but his eyes flared sharp. “Haechan, sit down.”

“No, father.” Haechan answered, louder. “I need everyone here to hear me say it clearly. I’m not marrying for Cassia Selwyn.”

Cassia’s chair scraped back. For a second she looked sixteen again—hurt, furious, the mask of perfect grace gone. “You’re being ridiculous. We’ll discuss this in private.”

“No,” Haechan said, softer. “We won’t.”

Around them, guests exchanged delighted whispers. Without waiting for permission, without offering another explanation or bowing out gracefully, he turned his back on the table and walked straight out the gilded doors.

The last thing he heard before exiting was his father yelling his full name, followed by the distinct clatter of a wine glass hitting the floor.

He didn’t look back.

He only hoped it wasn’t too late to go find you.

The Floo spat him out inside the Ministry's atrium, ash on his robes and adrenaline still curling in his throat.

He hadn’t even stopped to breathe a second. Just left the restaurant, ignored the growing swarm of reporters trying to get a quote, and apparated straight to the only place he knew you'd be this late.

Because you never missed work. Not even when you were heartbroken.

The records floor was humming with cataloguing charms, but mostly empty. He moved through the aisles, scanning each reading nook, until he saw the sliver of warm light at the far end.

And you half-asleep on a bench with a file open in your lap, hair pulled into a messy knot, as if you'd given up on keeping it tidy hours ago. Peeking out from the edge of your notes, was a crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet.

The headline was impossible to miss. “Selwyns Host Private Dinner Amidst Engagement Rumors” A charmed photo of Cassia smiling beside him at the Summer Fundraiser. The article’s subheading speculated—rather confidently—that an official announcement was imminent.

Haechan swallowed, guilt tangling hot in his chest. The paper looked crumpled, proof you’d read every word and probably re-read it.

He approached quietly.

You didn’t look up when he got close, but your spine straightened defensively.

“I thought I’d find you here.” He said softly.

You didn’t answer.

“I ended it.”

That made you turn.

He looked a little wild. Hair windswept, face flushed, pupils still blown from whatever reckless high he'd just walked out of. But his voice was calm and clear.

“What?”

“I broke it off at her father’s birthday dinner. In front of the whole Selwyn clan. My father. The press.”

“Really?” was all you managed to breathe out.

He nodded once. “I said I wouldn’t marry her. That I never planned to. And then I left.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

You stared at him.

For weeks he’d let the world believe what it wanted. Let it write another name next to his. Let you become a mistake he’d made. And now, here he was, standing in front of you after the storm finally broke.

Haechan stepped closer as if he’d been reborn in the fallout. Shoulders squared, back unbowed, silk tie loosened like he could breathe for the first time in years. The usual tension around his mouth was gone, replaced by a flicker of something almost boyish. Relief, or maybe exhilaration at finally choosing his own future.

He looked lighter, taller, as if someone had cut the invisible strings that kept him posed for family portraits. And when his gaze found yours, it wasn’t apologetic but certain.

For the first time, he was standing in front of you looking sure of what he wanted.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said. “And I’m not expecting it. But I needed you to hear this from me first.”

You couldn’t find any words to reply, all your thoughts were a mess. You almost thought he was a figment of your tired mind for a second.

He continued. “You said something the other day that stuck with me. That it felt like you had to try harder to be liked around me.”

“I hated that,” he said. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever liked without trying at all. The only person I actually wanted to be seen with, not hidden. And I’ve been an idiot… No, worse than that. I’ve been a coward.”

You looked away, eyes burning.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen with my family after tonight,” he continued, voice quiet now. “But none of it matters if I lose you.”

“You could’ve told me,” you whispered after a few seconds.

“I know.”

“You let me believe I was just…” You swallowed hard. “nothing.”

“You’re everything to me, Y/N.”

He took another step and kneeled down, your eyes finally met his.

“Tell me what to do,” he said. “And I’ll do it. I don’t care if I have to claw my way back. Just give me a place to start.”

You were quiet for a long time, heart beating so hard it would surely bruise your ribs. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The words hit you harder than that rogue Bludger had in your third year. No wind-up or grand speech. Just the truth, raw and terrifying, dropped between you like a vial of undiluted Veritaserum.

You stared at him, eyes growing shinier with unshed tears. “You waited until now to say that?”

“I waited until I could mean it with every ounce of my soul,” he said. “I was a fool. I kept thinking I could keep you close while trying to satisfy the expectations placed on me. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet long enough, I’d find a way where no one got hurt.”

“Well,” you said, laughing without humor. “That didn’t work out so well, did it?”

“No,” he admitted. “It didn’t.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“That’s okay.”

“And I still don’t know if I’m just something you want because your father told you not to.”

“Y/N, I promise—”

You cut him off. “But I missed you.”

His mouth parted, eyes flickering with shock and relief. As if he’d been waiting to hear those words, and didn’t think he deserved them.

“May I?” he asked, voice tight, almost broken.

You nodded.

He stepped into your space, slowly, reverently, afraid you might vanish. His forehead touched yours first. Then his lips.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before, hurried or frantic or reckless. It was slow, as if he was building a home in the shape of your mouth.

You gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing him back with all the ache of the weeks you’d spent apart. Your tears slipped between his lashes, and his hands shook slightly as they cupped your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you breathed, pressing your forehead to his. “You fucking idiot.”

“I missed you more,” he said, smiling softly. “You brilliant, beautiful girl.”

His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you so tightly that for the first time in weeks, your ribs didn’t feel hollow anymore.

this was going to be longer, but i felt like the scenes i cut out did not match the vibes i wanted in the end… soooo if i feel motivated enough by ur comments i might post a bonus scene :P