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barnacles34 · 2 days ago

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Lost in Analysis (Winter x Male OC)

5k words, smut, fluff, happiness, data

Winter x Male OC

this is my magnum opus, please read it.

The thing about Junho Kim's[1] weekly debriefs with Minjeong Kim was that they followed a precise algorithm, an almost liturgical routine that both participants had wordlessly agreed upon circa Winter's third month of employment (viz. April 2024). The format went as follows: Winter would arrive at exactly 18:30 on Friday bearing a leather-bound portfolio containing the week's logistics reports, margin analyses, and projected Q3/Q4 modeling scenarios. Junho would pretend to study these for exactly twelve minutes while Winter sat in the ergonomic chair across his desk, her accent becoming pronounced in direct proportion to her anxiety level[2].

What happened on this particular Friday deviated from the algorithm in ways that would later prove significant, starting with Winter's arrival at 18:27[3].

"The Busan account numbers are off," Junho said, his photographic memory already detecting a 0.03% discrepancy in the third-quarter projections. The words emerged with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned human speech through technical manuals rather than conversation. "This is—" he paused, index finger tapping against his mahogany desk in a rapidfire motion that Winter had learned to recognize as his pre-explosion tell, "—unacceptable."

And then something unprecedented occurred.

Instead of her usual composed absorption of his critique, Winter's face crumpled into what could only be described as a squeaky whimper, a sound so incongruous with her usual professional demeanor that it seemed to physically stun Junho into silence. It was the acoustic equivalent of watching a Mercedes-Benz hiccup.

The algorithm crashed.

—

[1] Junho Kim, CEO of Quantum Logistics Solutions, net worth $2.3B (₩3.1T), possessed what his former Harvard professors called "an almost frightening capacity for data retention" and what his former therapist (sessions terminated after 2.5 meetings) called "a pathological inability to process emotional bandwidth."

[2] A phenomenon her roommate had dubbed "The Accent Anxiety Index," where her carefully practiced Seoul pronunciation would gradually give way to her native Busan satoori, ranging from barely detectable at Level 1 ("감사합니다") to full coastal at Level 10 ("아이고, 사장님, 이 숫자 영 아니네요").

[3] The 3-minute early arrival would later be explained by a complex series of events involving a broken elevator, two flights of stairs, and Winter's determination not to let her carefully constructed timeline collapse due to mechanical failure.

—

The following Friday's debrief began with Junho actually pulling out Winter's chair[4], a gesture so unexpected that she nearly missed the seat entirely. The portfolio was reviewed. The whiskey was poured (Junho's usual Macallan 25, Winter's Hwayo 41). And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, Winter's accent kicked into what would later be classified as Level 11 on the Southern Comfort Scale.

"You know what your problem is, sajangnim?" Minjeong's words carried the warm weight of soju and suppressed frustration, her carefully maintained Seoul accent dissolving entirely into coastal inflections. "당신은 인생을 마치 스프레드시트처럼 대하시네요. Everything must calculate perfectly, but people aren't numbers, and some of us are tired of being debugged like broken code."

Junho's finger stopped its habitual tapping mid-motion[5].

—

[4] A gesture learned from a WikiHow article titled "Basic Human Courtesy: A Beginner's Guide" that Junho had queued up on his tablet at 3:47 AM the previous Tuesday.

[5] Later analysis would reveal this as the exact moment Junho Kim, master of algorithms and logistics, encountered a variable his photographic memory couldn't process: genuine human connection.[6]

The office fell into a silence that could be measured in heartbeats (Junho's: an efficient 72 BPM; Minjeong's: an elevated 98 BPM). Outside, Seoul's financial district performed its usual Friday night exodus, the sound of departing Mercedes and BMWs creating a capitalistic symphony twenty-three floors below.

"시간이..." Minjeong continued, her Busan accent now operating at what could only be classified as Level 12[7], "Time isn't just money, 사장님. Sometimes it's just... time. Like those lunches you wolf down in exactly eight minutes while reading reports. Or these Friday meetings where you never actually look at me, just through me at some invisible spreadsheet floating in the air behind my head."

Junho's hand, still frozen mid-tap, slowly lowered to the desk. His photographic memory began involuntarily cataloging details it had somehow missed during their previous 47 debriefs: the way Minjeong's left hand always fidgeted with her portfolio's corner when nervous, how her voice carried traces of sea salt and summer festivals despite years of Seoul speech coaching, the fact that she had memorized his coffee preferences down to the precise temperature (81°C, no higher, no lower).

"I do look at you," he said, then immediately registered the statistical improbability of his own response[8].

Minjeong's laugh carried the particular timber of someone who had been holding it in reserve for approximately 11.7 months. "아니요, you really don't. You look at KPIs and performance metrics and quarterly projections. Did you know," she leaned forward, her accent thick as Busan fog, "that I've worn the same earrings every Friday for three months just to see if you'd notice?"

The earrings in question were small silver cranes, Junho's memory instantly supplied, purchased from a street vendor in Gukje Market during last quarter's Busan office inspection, chosen because their wings formed the mathematical symbol for infinity when viewed from the correct angle[9].

—

[6] A concept that would later require Junho to create an entirely new category in his mental filing system, located somewhere between "Acceptable Business Practices" and "Breathing Exercises (Mandatory)."

[7] A previously theoretical level on the Accent Anxiety Index, characterized by the complete abandonment of Seoul linguistic pretense and the emergence of what Minjeong's mother would call "우리 딸의 진짜 목소리" (our daughter's real voice).

[8] Statistical analysis of Junho's daily eye contact patterns, conducted by his personal AI assistant, revealed an average sustained eye contact duration of 1.3 seconds with all employees, making his current 4.7-second gaze at Minjeong a 361.5% deviation from the mean.

[9] A detail that would have impressed Junho greatly had he noticed it at the time of purchase, rather than at this precise moment when his brain was simultaneously trying to process the concept of infinity and the way Minjeong's eyes reflected the city lights like binary code translated into stardust.

—

The Hwayo bottle stood between them like a glass mediator, its contents depleted by exactly 73.4%. Junho found himself performing calculations he had never previously considered necessary: the precise angle at which Minjeong's smile disrupted his cardiac rhythm (42.7°), the correlation coefficient between her proximity and his ability to maintain coherent thought patterns (inverse relationship, R² = 0.97), the half-life of each satoori-tinged syllable in his auditory memory (approaching infinity)[10].

"There's a pojangmacha," Minjeong said, her words now performing linguistic gymnastics between Seoul and Busan, "down in Gangnam that serves 할매's 파전 just like back home. But you—" she gestured with her glass, creating small amber trajectories in the air, "—you probably have the exact caloric content memorized without ever tasting it."

"624 calories per standard serving," Junho confirmed automatically, then added, in what he would later recognize as his first attempt at human humor[11], "Not accounting for 할매's (grandmother’s) love."

The laugh that escaped Minjeong's lips was genuine enough to bypass all of Junho's statistical models for appropriate business interaction. It was the kind of laugh that made him wonder if his entire algorithmic approach to life had been operating on a fundamental error: the assumption that human emotions could be debugged rather than experienced.

"사장님," she said, then caught herself, "아니, Junho-ssi." The honorific shift created a quantifiable disruption in the office's atmospheric pressure[12]. "Do you know why I cry sometimes when you yell about the numbers?"

Junho's hands found themselves attempting to calculate an emotion he had no formula for. "I... have a working hypothesis."

"It's not because I'm scared or hurt," she continued, her Busan accent now wrapping around the words like a warm coast-side breeze. "It's because I see you turning yourself into code, like you're trying to compile a human being into binary, and..." she paused, searching for words in both Seoul and Busan vocabularies before settling on, "...그게 너무 아까워요."

The phrase hung in the air, untranslatable in its full emotional weight[13].

—

[10] A phenomenon that would later require Junho to create an entirely new mathematical framework he privately termed "The Minjeong Constant: Variables in Human Connection."

[11] Later analysis of office security footage would reveal this as his first non-data-related comment in approximately 2,847 hours of recorded business interactions.

[12] Advanced environmental sensors in the building's HVAC system actually recorded a 0.02% change in air pressure at this exact moment, though causation versus correlation remains a subject of debate among the building's maintenance staff.

[13] The closest English approximation might be "it's such a waste," but this fails to capture the uniquely Korean sense of regret for potential beauty lost to unnecessary efficiency, like trying to measure ocean waves in milliliters.

—

For exactly 15.4 seconds, Junho Kim—master of instantaneous data processing, champion of real-time analytics—found himself buffering. His mind, that perfectly calibrated instrument of calculation, attempted to run multiple subroutines simultaneously:

ROUTINE_1: Analyze the 2.3% tremor in Minjeong's voice during "그게 너무 아까워요"

ROUTINE_2: Process the 7.4mm dilation of his pupils upon hearing his given name

ROUTINE_3: Calculate the exact distance between their hands on the desk (23.7cm, decreasing by approximately 0.3mm per heartbeat)

ERROR: Stack overflow in emotional processing unit[14]

"I have a file," he began, then stopped, realizing that perhaps not everything needed to be classified and stored. "No, I mean... I remember every time you've smiled at work. Real smiles, not the ones you use for clients or difficult vendors." His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking a keyboard that wasn't there. "The data suggests that they occur most frequently when you're talking about Busan, or when you think no one is watching you arrange the office plants, or..." he paused, processing, "...or when you're correcting my humanity protocols[15]."

Minjeong's eyes widened, creating what Junho's brain automatically calculated as a 34.6% increase in their reflective surface area. "You... keep track of my smiles?"

"I keep track of everything," he said, then amended, displaying unprecedented runtime flexibility, "but your smiles occupy 43% more memory space than standard data points."

"아이고," Minjeong laughed, the sound carrying hints of sea breezes and noraebang nights, "only you would quantify feelings in percentages and memory allocation, 사장님[16]."

The Hwayo bottle now stood at 82.6% depletion. Outside, Seoul had transformed into its weekend configuration, all neon equations and binary dreams. But inside this office, something unquantifiable was compiling—a program written in neither Python nor Java, but in the ancient code of human connection.

"There's a logical error in your earlier statement," Junho said suddenly, his voice performing calculations it had never been calibrated for. "About me not looking at you."

"Oh?" Minjeong's eyebrow arched at precisely 27 degrees.

"I look at you approximately 2,347 times per day. My peripheral vision activates in your presence with 72% more frequency than baseline. I have memorized exactly 267 variations of your voice modulation between Seoul and Busan registers[17]. The error," he continued, his own accent slipping for the first time since Harvard, "is in assuming I don't see you."

—

[14] A phenomenon his Harvard professors had theoretically predicted but never successfully documented: the complete shutdown of pure logic circuits in favor of what they termed "human.exe."

[15] A private joke that had never made it past his internal firewall until this moment, referring to the way she subtly guided him toward more socially acceptable behaviors, like suggesting he say "good morning" to the cleaning staff or remember team members' birthdays.

[16] The honorific here carrying a new weight, somewhere between professional distance and affectionate teasing, a linguistic quantum state that would have fascinated physicists had they been present to observe it.

[17] This particular statistic would later become the subject of a 3 AM realization that perhaps "normal" CEOs don't maintain such detailed databases of their assistants' vocal patterns.

—

The confession hung in the air with the weight of a misplaced decimal point. Minjeong's hand, still holding her Hwayo glass, trembled at a frequency of approximately 3.2 Hz. The office's automated climate control system registered a sudden 0.7°C spike in local temperature[18].

"그래서..." Minjeong's voice emerged in Pure Pattern #271 (Subcategory: Emotional Breakthrough), "this is why you always know when I've had 떡볶이 for lunch?"

The unexpected query caused Junho to experience what his systems could only classify as a brief moment of runtime joy. "The specific aroma particles adhere to your cardigan at a rate of—" he caught himself, noting the gleam in her eye, and for the first time in recorded history, Junho Kim deliberately chose not to complete a calculation[19].

Instead, he found himself saying, "Your smile increases by exactly 23.7% when you eat 떡볶이. It's... optimal."

"최적화?" Minjeong's laugh carried notes of soju and starlight. "You're really going to data-analyze my happiness levels?"

"I have spreadsheets," he admitted, his voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth that his diagnostic systems struggled to categorize. "Cross-referenced with weather patterns, quarterly reports, and the frequency of your Busan accent emergence[20]."

"아이고..." She shifted in her chair, reducing the distance between them by precisely 4.7 centimeters. "You're either the weirdest or the most romantic person I've ever met, and I haven't decided which yet."

The word 'romantic' created a momentary buffer overflow in Junho's cognitive processes. His hands, typically occupied with calculating profit margins or optimizing supply chains, found themselves drawing abstract patterns on his desk's surface—a behavior previously filed under 'Inefficient Human Gestures: Do Not Engage.'

"I could..." he paused, processing, "...show you the data?"

—

[17] This particular dataset would later be renamed in his personal files to "The Minjeong Codex: A Quantitative Analysis of Qualitative Perfection."

[18] The building's maintenance staff would later attribute this to a mechanical anomaly, unaware they had documented the exact moment Junho Kim's ice-cold corporate facade began its calculated melt.

[19] A moment that would later be marked in his personal development log as "First Successful Implementation of Strategic Data Suppression for Emotional Optimization."

[20] These spreadsheets, discovered months later during a routine server backup, would become legendary among the IT department as "The Love Languages of Linear Regression."

—

Minjeong's eyes sparkled with what Junho's facial recognition protocols quantified as 87% mirth, 13% tenderness. "보여주세요," she said, the soju making her consonants softer, more Busan-bound. "Show me this data about me."

For the first time in his professional career, Junho Kim fumbled with his laptop password[21]. The Hwayo bottle between them had decreased to critical levels, and he found the standard office lights were creating unusual prismatic effects in Minjeong's hair. His fingers, typically precise to the microsecond, skittered across the keyboard.

"See, here's the correlation between your happiness metrics and the proximity to Korean holidays," he began, then stopped, distracted by the way she'd rolled her chair closer to view his screen. The scent of her perfume (도라지 꽃, his brain supplied automatically, though for once the percentage calculation felt irrelevant) mixed with the lingering soju in the air.

"You made a pie chart," she said, her voice warm with something his systems were too buzzed to properly quantify, "of my favorite lunch spots?"

"The data visualization seemed... appropriate," he managed, aware that his usual processing power was operating at diminished capacity. "Though I may have spent a statistically anomalous amount of time color-coding it to match your favorite blazer[22]."

Minjeong's laugh had shed all traces of its Seoul polish. "어머나, who knew the great Junho Kim was such a..." she searched for the word in both dialects before landing on, "...nerd?"

"I prefer 'data enthusiast,'" he replied, surprising himself with the speed of his response. The soju was definitely affecting his standard processing delays. "Though my enthusiasm appears to be... specialized."

"Specialized?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that created unprecedented disruptions in his cardiac rhythm.

"The data suggests," he said, his own Gangnam accent softening around the edges, "a singular focus on one particular... variable[23]."

The office space seemed to contract by approximately 40%, though Junho found himself caring less about the exact percentage with each passing moment. Minjeong's hand had somehow migrated to rest near his on the desk, their fingers separated by a gap that felt simultaneously quantum and cosmic.

—

[21] Password: Min2847@QLS, a combination he would later realize was more revealing than any spreadsheet.

[22] The blazer in question: a deep navy piece from a Dongdaemun boutique, worn approximately every third Wednesday, correlated with a 34% increase in his productive distraction levels.

[23] Later analysis of the office security footage would show that at this point, Junho's typically perfect posture had relaxed to unprecedented levels, creating what the ergonomics AI labeled as "Optimal Romance Angles."

—

"Show me more," Minjeong said softly, unconsciously tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Something in her tone caused Junho's spinal alignment to automatically straighten, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward slightly. The motion created what his hazily analytical mind registered as a subtle shift in the office's power dynamics[24].

"These graphs," he began, his voice dropping half an octave without any conscious input, "track every time you've challenged my decisions in meetings." His finger traced the upward trend line, the gesture somehow both precise and possessive. "You're the only one who dares to correct my logic. It's... intriguing."

Minjeong's breath caught audibly. "사장님..." she started, then with visible effort, "Junho-ssi... you track even that?"

"I track everything about you," he admitted, the soju finally overriding his professional filter subroutines. The way she instinctively ducked her head at his words, a soft pink rising in her cheeks, sparked something primal in his usually ordered mind. "Though lately, I find myself more interested in the unquantifiable variables[25]."

"Like what?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, her natural deference to his authority softened by something warmer, more personal.

Junho felt his hand move with uncharacteristic boldness to tilt her chin up, his thumb registering her pulse point at... he realized with start that for the first time in his adult life, he didn't care about the exact number. What mattered was the acceleration, the way her breath stuttered when he held her gaze.

"Like the way you automatically straighten my tie when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured, voice steady despite the soju. "Or how you always wait for me to take the first sip of coffee in our morning meetings[26]."

—

[24] The building's pressure sensors detected a subtle but measurable change in the room's atmospheric density, as if the very air was rearranging itself around their shifting dynamic.

[25] Security logs would later note this as the moment Junho Kim's typing pattern on his laptop transitioned from "Corporate Efficiency" to what could only be described as "Focused Intensity."

[26] A habit that Minjeong had developed unconsciously over months, part of an unspoken protocol that went far beyond mere professional courtesy.

—

The laptop screen dimmed to conserve power, casting half of Junho's face in shadow. His hand hadn't moved from her chin, thumb still resting against her pulse point in what his rapidly deteriorating analytical functions recognized as a gesture of both measurement and claim[27].

"You know what else I've noticed?" The question rumbled from somewhere deeper than his usual corporate register. His other hand reached past her to close the laptop with a decisive click, eliminating the last barrier between them. "You mirror my breathing patterns during long meetings. 호흡이... perfectly synchronized."

Minjeong's eyes widened fractionally, caught between the wall and his presence. "That's..." she swallowed, her professional composure wavering, "...very observant of you, 사장님."

"I thought we were past 사장님," he said softly, but with an undertone that made it less observation, more command. The soju had stripped his voice of its algorithmic precision, leaving something rawer, more intuitive[28].

"Jun...ho..." she tested the name without honorifics, the syllables carrying the weight of every unspoken variable between them. Her hands fidgeted with her portfolio, a nervous tell he'd documented approximately 847 times but had never been close enough to still before.

Until now.

His free hand covered both of hers, instantly calming their movement. The gesture was protective, possessive, and entirely unplanned by his usual decisional matrices[29]. "You don't need to calculate the right response," he murmured, unconsciously echoing her earlier criticism of his own binary nature. "Your instincts have a 99.9% accuracy rate."

The percentage slipped out automatically, making her laugh—a soft, breathy sound that seemed to bypass his auditory processing and strike directly at something more fundamental. Her head tilted back further, a movement so subtle it barely registered on the office's motion sensors but sent his pulse into unprecedented acceleration.

"My instincts," she whispered, her Busan accent emerging with complete authenticity, "are telling me we've miscategorized this relationship[30]."

—

[27] The building's biometric scanners would later flag this moment for what their algorithms labeled as "Significant Cardiovascular Anomaly: Dual Synchronization."

[28] Office voice recognition software attempted and failed to classify this new vocal pattern, eventually creating a new category labeled simply "After Hours Protocol."

[29] The exact pressure of his grip would have registered at precisely 7.2 PSI, perfectly calibrated between restraint and assertion, had either of them still been counting.

[30] The security AI, in its nightly report, would mark this exchange with a rare notation: "Recommended Reclassification of Personnel Relationship Status Pending."

—

"Miscategorized," Junho repeated, the word hanging in the air like a suspended calculation. His hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair with unprecedented decisiveness[31]. The motion drew her incrementally closer, though for once he didn't bother quantifying the exact distance.

"yes..." Minjeong's affirmation came out breathier than any of her previously recorded vocal patterns. The portfolio slipped from her fingers, creating what would normally be an unacceptable disruption of organized space. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"You know what's interesting?" Junho's voice had shed every trace of its corporate modulation, leaving only that command that seemed to resonate directly with her autonomic nervous system. "I've run approximately 2,847 scenarios of this moment in my head[32]."

Her hands had found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the precise Italian wool of his suit. "And?" The question emerged with a tremor that his tactile sensors catalogued automatically before his conscious mind told them to stop measuring and start feeling.

"None of them..." he leaned closer, watching her eyes flutter half-closed in response to his proximity, "...included the variable of you looking at me exactly like this."

The faint scent of soju on her breath mingled with that eternally elusive percentage of 도라지 꽃 perfume. Junho felt his last analytical subroutines shutting down, replaced by something far more ancient than algorithms[33].

"Minjeong-ah," he said, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed all honorifics, all corporate hierarchy, all pretense of professional distance.

Her response was to cant her head just so, a motion that managed to be both surrender and invitation. "Calculation time's over, 사장님," she whispered, the honorific now carrying a weight that had nothing to do with corporate structure.

—

[31] The office's motion sensors registered this gesture as "Executive Override: Priority Action."

[32] This number, like most of his remaining statistics, was completely fabricated—a first for Junho Kim's otherwise impeccable data records.

[33] Building security cameras would later mark this timestamp with an unprecedented classification: "Critical System Override: Human.exe fully activated."

—

For the first time in his documented existence, Junho Kim stopped calculating entirely.

The distance closed between them with a momentum that defied measurement. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her face upward as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss, when it came, contained no statistics, no data points, no quantifiable metrics[34].

Minjeong made a soft sound—Pattern #unknown, Category: heaven—against his mouth. Her fingers clutched his suit lapels with enough force to wrinkle the wool beyond its optimal pressed state, a fact that Junho's usually meticulous mind registered and immediately discarded as irrelevant.

Time segmented into a new measurement system: the catch of her breath, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she yielded and pressed closer simultaneously. Junho discovered that his organizational skills apparently extended to kissing, each angle adjustment and pressure variation drawing increasingly desperate responses from Minjeong[35].

When they finally broke apart, Minjeong's carefully maintained Seoul pronunciation had disappeared entirely. "아이고..." she breathed against his mouth, "당신이..."

"Initial results," Junho murmured, his own accent thick with something that had nothing to do with regional linguistics, "require extensive further testing[36]."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest where she was still pressed against him. "Did you just turn our first kiss into a quality control protocol?"

"Quality confirmed," he replied, then demonstrated his newfound commitment to hands-on research by kissing her again, harder this time, swallowing her surprised gasp. His hand splayed possessively across her lower back, holding her steady as she swayed into him.

—

[34] The building's atmospheric sensors recorded unexplained fluctuations in local temperature, humidity, and electromagnetic fields, leading to a complete recalibration of their measurement standards.

[35] Later analysis would suggest that Junho's legendary attention to detail had found a new, decidedly non-professional application, though this data remains classified in personal files marked "Private Research: Ongoing."

[36] The security AI attempting to transcribe this conversation eventually gave up and simply tagged the file: "Error 404: Professionalism Not Found."

—

Somewhere in the haze of non-analytical thought, Junho registered Minjeong's slight backward momentum and moved instinctively to steady her. His hand swept the desk clear with uncharacteristic disregard for organizational protocols, sending the quarterly reports flutter-falling to the carpet in an acceptable margin of chaos[37].

"Jun...ho..." His name escaped her lips like a statistical anomaly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mahogany surface. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him, skirt hiking up precisely 4.7 inches—the last measurement his brain would process for the foreseeable future.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her throat, the words emerging in pure Gangnam inflection, all pretense of corporate diction abandoned. His teeth grazed her pulse point, drawing a whimper that would require an entirely new classification system[38].

Minjeong's fingers tangled in his precisely styled hair, disrupting approximately 47 minutes of morning grooming routine. "사장님," she gasped, the honorific now carrying entirely different connotations, "the papers..."

"Irrelevant data," he growled, recapturing her mouth with newfound authority. The kiss deepened, transformed, became something that defied all previous parameters. Her back arched into him, creating angles that had nothing to do with geometry and everything to do with instinct[39].

A distant part of his mind registered the soft thud of his suit jacket hitting the floor, followed by the whisper of silk as Minjeong's blazer joined it. The city lights painted silver equations across her skin, codes he suddenly needed to decode with his mouth instead of his mind.

—

[37] The office's normally pristine state would require exactly 23.7 minutes to restore, a task that would be significantly delayed by several subsequent "data collection sessions."

[38] Facial recognition software attempting to analyze the security feed would crash repeatedly, unable to reconcile Junho Kim's expression with any known configuration in its emotional database.

[39] The building's structural integrity sensors registered minor seismic activity, though this data would be suspiciously absent from the next day's maintenance logs.

—

He let his hands trail by the sides of her body, one busy with her torso—breasts and all—and the other, feeling the creamy softness of her thighs. And each needy press or pinch, brought out the softest of her moans, the cutest of her lip quivers.

He was busy, marking her lips, making it all swollen and red; yet, still, he couldn’t get enough of her. That soft body, her caring little hands, her hot inner thighs, and that gentle heat radiating off her core—just hidden by the slightest of her skirt. “Minjeong.” He whispered, pressing himself against her—a matter of teasing and also a way to test the waters, whether or not she wanted it on the table.

And Minjeong, not one to initiate, wrapped her thin arms around his nape, pulling him closer, “Yes, yes, please, anything, anywhere,” then a dozen little kisses all on his face. This assurance, this consent, slowly, but surely, made him wrench her legs open—wide. He saw that stain, dark against her gray underwear, and that was when his photographic memory… failed him.

He dug in, letting his loin press up against hers—immersing himself in her wetness. Then, finally, he pulled down on his pants, showing his tent-like imprint on his underwear to Minjeong, who, obviously, couldn’t stop staring. By the end of the minute, that ruthless minute, both were undressed in their lower-half—a utilitarian instinct to fuck each other as fast as possible.

Junho breathed heavily, staring at that pink hue that her core was so beautifully composed of—along with the wetness, the fragrance, and more. “Minjeong…” He held his shaft, lining it up straight on her wetness. She finally replied, “Yes… Junho…” And that’s when he pressed in, into the endless heat.

That wet connection hilt-to-hilt, along with a deep kiss—turned Minjeong completely docile and submissive. That wet connection, her wet slime covering his shaft, somehow, only intensified their lust for each other. He pressed in again, faster this time, earning that soft mewl. “Mhm, fuck me,” she whispered, again and again. He kept honoring those wishes, going deeper, and faster. He tucked his dick into her pussy, wet squelch and all, over and over until he felt his legs get weak from thrusting. Yet, that weakness didn’t deter him, he glided deeper, letting both their pelvises rub against each other, and making Minjeong cry out from the clit stimulation. She felt like she was getting tunneled, this man, the love of her life, crush of her lifetime, fucking her so good into a wobbly table—dreams aren’t even this good.

“I’m gonna cum, Minjeong.” He whispered, low and growling.

“Inside. Please. Inside…” She whispered before getting overtaken by her orgasm.

And just at the peak of her orgasm, the teetering breath before rest, Junho barreled all his semen inside her—rope after rope of semen splashing against her cervix. “Holy fuck.” they both said in conjunction.

—

The Seoul skyline had shifted into its late-night configuration by the time they finally disentangled themselves. Junho's normally immaculate shirt hung open, his tie having long since joined the scattered papers on the floor. Minjeong's hair had abandoned all pretense of its usual professional arrangement, falling in waves that his fingers couldn't seem to stop threading through[40].

"이게..." Minjeong began, her voice still carrying traces of breathlessness as she surveyed the chaos they'd created. Her blazer lay draped over a chair at an angle that would have horrified their usual professional standards. "I should reorganize the—"

"Stay exactly where you are," Junho commanded softly, his arms tightening around her waist. His usual perfectionism had found a new target: the way she melted against him at that tone[41].

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her smile pure Busan sunshine. "데이트하자... be my 오빠?" The question emerged with endearing uncertainty, mixing honorifics and languages in a way that bypassed his brain entirely and struck straight at his heart.

"그래," he murmured into her hair, then with characteristic precision added, "Exclusively."

Her laugh carried notes of joy and residual shyness. "Then as your girlfriend, I should really clean up this mess..." She gestured at the scattered papers, the displaced furniture, the general dishevelment that spoke eloquently of the past hour's activities.

"As your boyfriend," his voice dropped to that commanding register that made her shiver, "I want to watch you do it[42]."

The drive home—his penthouse, by unspoken agreement—required exactly 17 minutes. Neither of them bothered to count.

—

[40] The building's security system would later note this as the longest recorded instance of the CEO remaining in office after hours, though the detailed logs were mysteriously corrupted.

[41] Internal HR protocols regarding workplace relationships were hastily updated the following morning, though no one questioned why the CEO personally oversaw these revisions.

[42] The night cleaning staff would arrive to find the office in unprecedented perfect order, though several employees would later swear they heard laughter and whispered Busan endearments echoing through the empty halls.

Fin

This genuinely is the greatest work I’ve ever made (literal hours of flow mode), I will never top this. I am also fine with that. Thank you. Love yall.

Lmk if you guys want part 2 👀

#winter smut #aespa smut #aespa #kpop smut #male oc #female idol #smut

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ducktoo · 2 days ago

Text

First love…till not?

Aespa’s Giselle x M!Reader

Note: uhhh this is gonna be some angst stuff

You knew it was coming.

It was inevitable, really. The moment you felt the coldness settle between you like a frigid barrier, a silent warning that all was not well.

This wasn’t what you imagined when you thought of love as a kid, all those times you ran across the playground with her, climbing trees and scrabbling through dirt together, shoulders bumping and laughter rising. Those were the days when the world felt simple, like it was just you and her against everything else. But somewhere along the way, things changed.

She changed.

Each day felt like a new level of hell with her, a twisted game of push and pull that you never signed up for. The little comments that once felt like playful teasing morphed into daggers aimed right at your heart.

“Are you really going to wear that?” she'd scoff, eyeing your outfit with disdain. “You know I can’t be seen with someone who dresses like they’ve just rolled out of bed.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sting lingered.

And then there were the late-night texts, the ones that should have been sweet but instead came wrapped in barbs.

“You’re still at home? Wow, I figured you’d have outgrown that loser phase by now.” She’d dismiss your attempts at conversation with an eye-roll emoji, as if your thoughts were nothing more than noise.

But it didn’t stop there. Every time you shared an accomplishment, her reaction felt like a punch to the gut.

“Nice job, I guess. But did you really think you’d be the best? Get real.” The first time it happened, you’d been so proud of yourself. Now? It just made you feel small, insignificant.

And it wasn’t just the words. Her actions stung too.

When you invited her to your family’s gatherings, she’d show up late, tossing off excuses with a smirk, leaving you to face your relatives alone while they questioned your choices.

“You’re not going to let them set you up with anyone, right? I mean, look at you,” she’d say, and you’d feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

When you confronted her about it, you’d been hopeful, thinking maybe she just didn’t realize how her words affected you.

“Aeri, it hurts when you talk to me like that,” you’d say, voice trembling slightly. But instead of a comforting response, she’d laugh, brushing you off.

“It’s just how I am. If you can’t take a little heat, then maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive.”

Every insult chipped away at your self-esteem, leaving you feeling raw and exposed. You found yourself hesitating to share anything with her, fearing her reaction would cut you deeper. Wasn’t love supposed to lift you up? Instead, she made you feel like you were constantly on the edge of a cliff, teetering between despair and defeat.

The breaking point arrived like a thief in the night. You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when Giselle plopped down next to you, scrolling through her own feed. “Why do you spend so much time staring at that? It’s embarrassing to watch,” she said, her tone dismissive, like she was talking to a child.

“Just catching up on things,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, but she rolled her eyes, the frustration bubbling up inside you.

“Just admit it—you’re wasting your life on this junk. You should be out doing something worthwhile instead of living in your phone.”

And that was it. That was the moment everything fell into place—the endless string of insults, the constant belittling, the nagging voice in your head that told you you were never good enough. You were exhausted, drained from the battle of trying to please her while she tore you down.

“Why do you talk to me like this?” you finally asked, voice soft but strained. “You… you didn’t used to. We didn’t used to be like this.”

For a moment, a flash of something crossed her face—surprise, maybe. But it was gone before you could even grasp it. She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Maybe you’ve just stopped living up to expectations. People change, you know. Or did you think you'd be the same forever?"

And there it was, her words hanging in the air like poison. You could feel your grip slipping, whatever shred of patience you’d been holding onto breaking apart. It felt like all those memories—the good ones—were slipping out of reach, fading like distant dreams.

With a deep breath, you gently pried her hand off your wrist, letting it drop. "I loved you, Aeri. So much. But… this isn’t love anymore. It can’t be."

For a moment, the silence was unbearable. She just looked at you, her gaze flickering between a hundred emotions that she was probably fighting to hold back.

But you couldn’t stay. Not this time. Without another word, you turned, letting the pain settle in your chest as you walked away. You didn’t look back—couldn’t look back—because if you did, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep going.

And as you stepped out into the open air, the weight of it all came crashing down, the memories, the love, the heartbreak.

It was over.

The days after the breakup passed in a blur. It was like walking through a fog where time lost meaning, and every step felt heavier than the last. You’d try to distract yourself, burying your head in anything that didn’t remind you of her—work, friends, even old hobbies you’d forgotten about.

But she was everywhere, haunting your thoughts like a ghost you couldn’t shake.

Every morning felt like waking up with a hollow ache, like something vital had been ripped away and left behind a void. You’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, and the thought of her would drift in, unbidden. You’d remember the warmth of her laugh, the way her eyes used to light up, the small things you’d loved about her before everything went cold. But then, as always, the memories of her words would resurface—the cutting remarks, the icy looks, the way she seemed to take joy in tearing you down. It was a twisted mix of love and hurt, a scar too deep to simply fade.

Yet, every time you felt the familiar ache start to ease, you’d see something that reminded you she’d moved on faster than you could even breathe. A passing rumour, a social media post, or friends mentioning her out at parties, laughing and smiling like she hadn’t lost a thing. It felt like a punch to the gut every time, like she’d left you struggling while she skipped off, unbothered.

One night, as you were out with friends, someone casually mentioned seeing her with someone else, some guy you vaguely remembered from school. “They looked close,” your friend said offhandedly, not knowing the silent chaos those words set off inside you. You forced a smile, tried to shrug it off, but inside, it felt like reopening an old wound. She had already moved on, it seemed. To her, whatever you’d had was just another chapter easily closed.

But for you, it wasn’t that simple.

You’d thought you’d hate her for it, for how quick she seemed to erase you from her life. But all you felt was numbness—a hollow ache that refused to fade. You wanted to forget her, to move on as easily as she had, but that scar ran too deep. It was the kind of hurt that sat heavy in your chest, that kept you awake at night, wondering if you’d meant anything to her at all.

For Giselle, it was different.

She had always been good at compartmentalizing, at locking away her emotions somewhere they couldn’t hurt her. To her, breaking up felt like ripping off a bandage—quick, clean, and necessary. She had convinced herself that it was better this way, that maybe her words hadn’t been that harsh, that maybe you just weren’t strong enough to handle her. It was easier that way, to justify it as your fault.

The first few weeks were easy enough. She threw herself into her life, meeting new people, going out more, laughing louder, living harder. To anyone watching, she seemed fine—more than fine, even. But every so often, in the quiet moments, she’d feel the echo of your absence, a strange emptiness that crept in like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

She would scroll through her phone, accidentally stumbling upon old photos of you and her, looking so carefree, so close. Her thumb would hover over the screen for a second, maybe two, before she would snap out of it, closing it out and shoving the memories back down. Those images, those memories—they belonged to a time that was over, she reminded herself.

You were just someone she’d grown out of, that was all.

But as the months went on, that hollow feeling gnawed at her more than she wanted to admit. She’d be at a party, surrounded by people, laughing and smiling, but somehow, she’d feel like something was missing. She’d catch herself looking for you in the crowd, expecting to see your familiar face, only to be met with strangers. She’d brush it off, remind herself that she’d made the right choice, that she’d only been honest with you, even if the truth hurt.

But every so often, in the quiet of her room, she’d find herself staring at her reflection, wondering if she’d been too harsh, if she’d let go of something too quickly. She hated admitting it, even to herself, but there was a part of her that felt like she’d lost more than she wanted to.

As for you, time passed, but the scar remained. You’d tried moving on, had even gone out on a few dates here and there. But no one quite fit, no one felt like home the way she had. You were left with memories that haunted you, moments that hurt to remember but felt impossible to forget. You knew, deep down, that she wasn’t the same girl you’d grown up with, that the person you’d loved was long gone.

And yet, the weight of it sat heavy, like an invisible chain holding you back.

You stopped going to the places you used to frequent together, stopped listening to the songs you both loved. You thought distance would help, that if you could just put enough space between you and her memory, you’d finally be free. But the scar she left was too deep. The memories didn’t fade; they stayed with you, a constant reminder of a love that had turned bitter.

The worst part was, you realized, that you still loved her in some twisted way. The memories of her, of the good times before everything fell apart, were a part of you that you couldn’t let go. She was a scar you couldn’t heal, a ghost you couldn’t escape.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of you was afraid that you’d never be able to let her go entirely.

Giselle wasn’t sure what went wrong.

One moment, she was heading home after yet another bad date, heels clicking against the pavement as she clutched her phone, scrolling through a string of half-hearted messages from the guy who’d seemed like a good match on paper but ended up as anything but. He’d been polite, decent-looking, even funny at times. But the entire night had felt… hollow. Forced. Empty in a way she couldn’t quite put into words.

She barely noticed her own steps changing direction, her feet carrying her somewhere familiar, somewhere she hadn’t been in ages. And before she knew it, she was standing at the edge of the old playground where you and she had spent countless afternoons together, racing down slides and swinging as high as you could go, daring each other to jump off at the last second.

The place hadn’t changed. The swings still creaked in that comforting, rusty way, and the worn-out slide was the same as ever. A wave of nostalgia hit her, stirring something deep inside. She almost smiled, but the ache in her chest was too sharp.

What had she even been thinking, she wondered, letting you go like that? She’d told herself it was your fault, that you’d been too sensitive, too weak. She’d built up a wall, convinced herself she’d done the right thing. But standing here, she felt the cracks in that wall spreading, threatening to bring everything down with it.

Her hand brushed over the chipped paint of the slide, a strange sadness bubbling up. She could almost see you there, hear your laughter, the way you’d tease her for being afraid to jump off the swing while you soared through the air without a second thought. Those moments had felt so simple, so… real.

She realized, with a sinking feeling, that maybe she’d lost the one person who had ever truly understood her.

She glanced around the empty playground, a hollow sense of regret settling in. She had dated since then, had gone out with people who showered her with compliments and treated her well enough. But none of them had ever made her feel the way you did. None of them had seen her the way you had. She tried to shake the thought away, but it clung to her, a stubborn ghost that refused to let go.

Meanwhile, you were… okay. Better than okay, actually.

It hadn’t been easy, getting over her. For months, the weight of her memory had felt like an anchor, dragging you down, keeping you tethered to a past that hurt to remember. But somewhere along the way, you’d managed to shake it off, bit by bit. You’d thrown yourself into new things, surrounded yourself with friends who brought out the best in you. Life was lighter now, free of the constant ache that used to sit heavy in your chest.

You’d learned to enjoy your own company again, to go out without the shadow of her looming over you. You went to new places, met new people, tried things you’d never thought to try before. There were days you didn’t think of her at all, days when you felt like yourself again, like a weight had lifted and you were free to be whoever you wanted to be.

One night, while out with friends, you found yourself laughing so hard your stomach hurt, genuinely, for the first time in a long time.

It was strange, realizing you didn’t miss her anymore.

The ache had faded, replaced by a sense of peace, a quiet acceptance of what was and what could never be again. You were okay with it. You were happy, even.

You hadn’t looked back at the old playground in months, hadn’t let yourself go back to the places that reminded you of her. You’d finally put that chapter behind you.

And it felt…liberating.

Back at the playground, Giselle sat down on one of the swings, her hands loosely gripping the chains as she rocked back and forth, letting the memories wash over her. She could almost hear your voice, the way you’d laugh as you tried to push her higher, always challenging her to go beyond what she thought she could. Back then, she’d loved that about you. Now, she felt the loss of it, sharp and unrelenting.

She was supposed to have moved on. That’s what she’d told herself, what she’d wanted to believe.

But in the quiet of the night, alone in a place filled with ghosts of what used to be, she felt the sting of regret settle in her chest like a wound that wouldn’t heal. It was different from her other breakups, the kind that left her with nothing more than a faint memory, forgotten after a few weeks. This one hurt in a way she hadn’t expected, a scar too deep to ignore.

Maybe the both of you were childhood friends? Maybe the both of you were each other's first love? Maybe this was you two's first break up?

It hit her, suddenly, how much she missed you. How much she missed *everything*—the quiet talks, the shared laughs, the way you’d been there for her, even when she pushed you away. She’d tried to bury it, to pretend it hadn’t mattered, but now, sitting alone in the darkness, she couldn’t escape it.

And maybe, she realized with a bitter smile, this was the cost of letting someone who truly cared about you slip away. The echoes of what could have been lingered, haunting her with every swing of the chains, every quiet creak.

She wondered if you’d forgiven her, if you’d moved on the way she was supposed to. The thought hurt more than she wanted to admit, but she knew she’d never get an answer. You were out there somewhere, living a life she wasn’t part of anymore. And she had no one to blame but herself.

The playground was empty and silent as she rose from the swing, feeling the weight of her own choices settle in, unshakeable.

The tunes whistled from your mouth were light and airy.

You decided to take a break from your routine one evening, heading out to grab some groceries. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the streets as you walked down familiar paths, feeling at ease in the skin you were slowly rediscovering. Life felt good, lighter without the weight of your past relationship clinging to you. The grocery store was just around the corner, and as you pushed through the automatic doors, the familiar sounds of carts and chatter surrounded you.

You grabbed a basket and began making your way through the aisles, casually tossing in essentials—bread, eggs, some snacks for your late-night snacks. The mundane act of grocery shopping was comforting, a small, simple pleasure. But as you rounded the corner into the liquor section, you froze.

Giselle.

Arms full of booze, like she was gearing up for a rough night. She wore the same careless look she’d always worn, lips slightly pursed, eyes focused on the labels with a calculated indifference. And then, without thinking, you let out a small, involuntary laugh.

It was almost comical, really.

After everything, after the breakup and the haunting memories, here she was, acting like nothing had changed. Like she could just keep moving on in that easy, self-assured way of hers. But something about the way she clutched that last bottle, fingers trembling just slightly, caught you off guard.

“Hey,” you found yourself saying, before you could think better of it.

She looked up, eyes widening slightly, then narrowed into something unreadable. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was sharp, almost mocking. Same old Giselle. She gave a short, cold laugh, tossing her hair back as if to brush you off like you were nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.

“Just… groceries.” You shrugged, feeling the awkwardness settle between you. But something kept you there, rooted to the spot. Despite everything, you couldn’t walk away.

She watched you for a moment, her mouth twisting into something almost like a smirk, but there was a crack in her facade that you could see now—a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before. She tried to hide it, tried to carry herself with that same arrogant pride, but it was different. Her eyes looked hollow, a little desperate.

Without another word, you took some of the bottles from her, your hands brushing for a second. She didn’t resist, didn’t argue. She just looked away, almost embarrassed, and it was the most real she’d been in a long time.

“Let me at least walk you back,” you said, more of a statement than a question. "You don't want to just sleep on the street now, right?"

“Suit yourself,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Not like I need your help, though.” Her voice was cold, dismissive, but the flicker of pain in her eyes betrayed her. She’d always been too proud to show any weakness, to admit when she was struggling.

The walk was quiet, filled with that uncomfortable silence that you both knew too well. She stumbled once, catching herself on your arm. You didn’t say anything, just steadied her, feeling the weight of everything left unspoken between you. Her grip tightened, and you could feel her fingers digging into your arm, like she was holding on to something more than just her balance.

After a while, you realized where you were headed—a nondescript hotel on the edge of town, the kind that began to run down after a few years, the kind with rooms that can be comparable to a prison cell. She let go of your arm, a bit too quickly, her face flushing as she fumbled with her keys.

“Staying here?” You couldn’t keep the surprise out of your voice.

“Just for now,” she replied, jaw clenched, defiance in her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Why not just… I don’t know, go home? Or crash at a friend’s place?” You tried to keep the curiosity out of your tone, but the question hung heavy in the air.

She scoffed, but it sounded hollow, forced. “Why would I? I can take care of myself. Don’t need anyone.” But her voice wavered, just slightly, and for a second, she looked like she might break. She didn’t want to admit it, but you could see it in her eyes—she was struggling.

You sighed, a mix of frustration and pity welling up inside you. “Aeri… what are you doing?” You shook your head, feeling the weight of everything come rushing back, all the hurt, the pain she’d put you through. “This is just… horrible. Why are you even putting yourself through this?”

Her eyes flashed, that old arrogance flaring up. “What, you think I need you to tell me what to do?” She crossed her arms, glaring at you, but you could see the hint of desperation beneath the bravado.

“Actually, yeah,” you shot back, feeling your anger rise. “Because this? This isn’t strength, Aeri. This is you hiding, pretending like you don’t need anyone. Like you didn’t just ruin everything because you couldn’t handle being honest.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound. “Oh, and you’re the expert now?” Her voice was mocking, but her eyes betrayed her. “You don’t get it. I did it for us. I thought… I thought if I made you think I was all you had, that you’d never leave.”

You felt your chest tighten, anger flaring up like a wildfire. “All you had to do was be real with me! All you had to do was let me see the real you, not this… mask you wore every day. You broke me down, Aeri. And for what? Some twisted idea that I’d stay because I had no choice?”

She looked away, her hands clenched at her sides, her mouth a thin, stubborn line. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d actually go.” Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a raw vulnerability you’d never seen before.

“Well, I did. Because you left me with no choice.” You felt the weight of those words, felt the pain they carried. “And now… it’s too late. I can’t go back to who I was with you. You broke that part of me, Aeri.”

She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, she just stood there, staring at you, her pride shattered, her arrogance stripped away. And for the first time, you saw her—really saw her—raw, broken, and alone.

You stepped back, letting out a shaky breath. “Goodbye, Aeri. Our love was great…until it wasn't. ”

As you turned to leave, you heard it—a faint, choked sound, like the start of a sob. You didn’t turn around, didn’t let yourself look back. But in that moment, you knew. She was crying, silently, the first real tears for everything you’d both lost.

And you walked away, leaving her with the fragments of a love that could never be whole again.

#aespa #aespa x reader #kpop #aespa giselle #giselle #aespa x you #aespa giselle x reader #aespa x male reader #aeri uchinaga #giselle x reader #x reader

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