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moonjxsung · 1 year ago

Text

Lost in Translation

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

Warnings: accidental nudity, hospital visit, mention of masturbation, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, bulge kink, sexual asphyxiation, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex (male receiving), brief mention of pregnancy

Synopsis: The older brother of the boy you babysit is an enigma, in every sense of the word- and you’re determined to figure him out.

[this work was based off a request by @antoniorhinothethird - thank you for requesting!]

18+. Mdni!

•

The idea of babysitting isn’t some brilliant proposal you conjured up in a day- but it’s not exactly a choice, either. The idea isn’t even yours, in fact, the advertisements you published on the colorful inquiry site at your mother’s behest. But “college courses are virtual these days” and “you’ll be a mother at some point in your life,” according to her. So two months into the semester, you’ll now spend the majority of your time in a new place you’ll call home, just 30 minutes out at the Lee Household.

The Lee household is considerably larger than you’d originally anticipated it to be, spanning a sizable amount of grassland and standing nobly tall at 2 stories high. The exterior of the flashy home is surrounded by paved gravel driveways, lining the neat rows of bushels and vines that surround the off-white architectural build. Giant glass windows reflect sunlight in nearly every room of the house, with the exception of the dimly-lit library on the second floor, which flaunts colossal cherry wooden bookshelves that line the walls and cover most of the smaller windows.

“Joon is usually very mellow in the daytime,” Mrs. Lee tells you as she walks you through a tour of the garden. “You’ll only have to worry about his feeding schedules, which I’ve already written and posted on the refrigerator.”

She pivots in front of you, stopping for a moment and gesturing to the stone fountain by the rose bushes. “Do you like it? It was a gift from my husband. When he’s not running the furniture business, he works in restoration a lot. This was his first project.”

“Wow,” you say, your lips parted at the sight of the koi fish and the cascading waterfall from its lips. “It’s very beautiful.”

Mrs. Lee smiles at you in response, turning on her heel and continuing to the iron gates in the front.

“Do you have any other questions?” She asks, clasping her hands together and shooting you a saccharine smile. She’s intimating, not because of her personality, which you quickly clock as rather warm and inviting. But rather, because she’s so elegant, her navy silk dress perfectly complementing the chunky pearl earrings she wears, making her look like a character from an old film. You’re not sure you’ve ever crossed paths with such an interesting woman before.

“I think that covers everything,” you say finally, giving her a small bow. “I’ll be sure to provide updates throughout the day.”

“Oh, no need,” she says quickly. “Unless it’s an emergency, l know you’ll have your hands full doing your work while watching Joon. Feel free to just give us a little summary when we’re home for the evening.”

She shoots you a little wink when she finishes speaking, clasping her hands together again and smiling down at you.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for your first day!” She exclaims warmly, opening gate doors as you make your exit out of the garden. When you begin down the paved road, Mrs. Lee suddenly gasps, calling out to you again in a frantic manner.

“Oh! Y/n, wait please!” She calls, pulling the skirt of her dress up to her ankles to jog over to where you’re standing.

“My other son will be home from school in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t be alarmed if you hear him moving about the house. He’ll just keep to himself.”

You ponder the words for a moment, a little frustrated when you realize there will be two kids in the household instead of one, like she’d previously mentioned. But you just nod and smile at her, seeing yourself out of the driveway once again and beginning the journey back home to prepare for your first day here tomorrow.

This castle-at-end-of-the-road is eerily quiet when no one’s home, a once lively sight of rose bushes and marble statues appearing like something out of a horror movie when you’re by yourself. At every corner you turn, your brain runs rampant with paranoia, placing shadowy figures and silhouettes of people where there are none- except for when you’re in the presence of Joon.

At just a year old, Joon is considered one of the cutest ages, only being able to babble incoherent noises and flail his little hands around when he wants something. His closet is full of matching neutral tones, per his mother’s styling, and his sparse black hair is combed neatly to one side.

Mrs. Lee is right about him- he doesn’t cry. Nor does he ever make a fuss, really. He simply sits quietly, in the comfort of his crib, or his high chair, and he curiously peers at the world around him. You’re certain he’s taken a liking to you already, judging at how he smiles when you spoon-feed him mashed carrots and mimic airplane noises. And he only cries briefly once in the day, stopping almost immediately when you put him down for his nap.

This may be an easier gig than you thought.

While Joon naps, you take the opportunity to get some work done in the library, settling comfortably on the velvet armchair in the corner and running through a few of your online class assignments for the week.

Although you’ll be babysitting here for the next few weeks, you’re also completing your final year at university this year, your last semester being completely remote. Which gives you time to take on the babysitting task as a side hustle, and hopefully save enough money to travel a bit after university like you’ve always dreamt of.

At half past noon, Joon is still peacefully asleep in his crib where you’ve left him, the ambient sound of waves echoing softly from his baby monitor as little snores emit from his curled lips. He looks like an angel when he sleeps, and you can’t help but feel your heart swell to twice its size at the sight of him.

The gentle breeze of the October wind travels through the open windows of the library, sending chills up your spine when you sit down to work again. You get up from where you’re sitting on the armchair to latch the windows shut, making sure to lock them, before turning around to take your seat again- quickly startled by the figure standing in the doorway.

“Jesus,” you yelp, one hand clutching your chest in fear as you nearly drop your laptop.

The figure- or man, rather, says nothing, scanning the room like he’s searching for something, before turning on his heel and exiting the room once again.

He’s tall, with a slim yet muscular build, honey tanned skin complementing his chocolate brown tresses. He’s also dressed rather casually in a pair of light-wash jeans and a black top, a black leather jacket thrown over his broad shoulders and left unzipped.

“Sorry, did you need something?” You call out, perplexed by his demeanor. You can’t remember if the Lees warned you of potential visitors, but you’re suddenly panicked for Joon, remembering you left his door open.

“Nope,” the man calls out over his shoulder, not turning around to face you. And then you see it- a black backpack, slung over one shoulder and seemingly filled to the brim with textbooks.

Their other son.

This must be the son Mrs. Lee warned you would be making appearances in the afternoon. But you had assumed him to be much younger, especially considering he’s definitely old enough to be watching over his own brother.

Before you can gather your thoughts to introduce yourself, he’s gone again, disappearing down the hall the same way he so mysteriously appeared. And you wonder, briefly, how he can be so much colder than his own mother.

The first day of your new job is a success. When Mrs. Lee returns home for the evening, she pays you in cash, true to her traditional style, and sends you home with a tin of shortbread cookies as another ‘thank you’, though she’s already voiced it a million times. But the second day is rougher than the first, reminding you of why babysitting isn’t always an easy task despite what it may seem.

Joon is particularly antsy today, flailing his arms around when you try to spoon feed him and whining relentlessly when you pick him up. He needs several diaper changes in just your first few hours of working, and when you finally do get him clean, he’s a crying, screaming mess.

Fortunately, he still goes down for his nap at noon, which means you have a narrow window of time to complete your work for the day and get freshened up. The windows in the library are propped wide open again, a cold breeze coming through as you settle in your new favorite spot and open your laptop.

There are a myriad of assignments to complete today, and you’re briefly panicked that you won’t be able to complete the necessary few pieces if Joon suddenly wakes again. But still, you try, skimming through textbooks and typing away as much as you can to make steady progress. And at the hour mark, Joon begins to cry. Rather he wails, loudly, from the other room, startling you when you’re already in deep concentration working through a practice quiz.

You make your way down the hallway and to the right, where Joon’s room is, approaching the crib and catching a glimpse of his anguished state. His face is a robust shade of red as he wails loudly, bubbles of saliva forming at his nostrils and his eyes squeezed shut. You guide him out of the crib and into the safety of your arms, shushing him gently and rocking him back and forth the way Mrs. Lee taught you. And Joon calms instantly, hiccuping through tears as he locks his gaze on yours and fists at strands of your hair.

“That’s okay,” you coo at him, grazing your finger along his chin and cleaning some of the drool that dribbles from the corners of his lips. “I’m here. Look at you! You’re okay,” you continue, giggling at him when his quivering lips pull into a small smile. He softens in your arms, smiling and babbling with hushed sounds, clutching tightly on strands of your hair as you balance him in your arms.

“You want to come do some work?” You ask, nodding your head as if to coax an answer out of him. “That’s a good baby, huh? Let’s go do some work.”

And you travel back to the library with Joon in your arms, giving him gentle pats on his back as you hoist him tighter into your embrace and balance your laptop with one arm.

When you’re starting on your last task of the evening, you’re interrupted again today by Mrs. Lee’s eldest son, who pokes his head in the doorway and observes as you coo down at Joon’s sleeping figure while working on your computer with one hand.

“Do you want me to take him?” You hear from the doorway, and you crane your neck to look where he’s standing, his hands shoved in his pockets and his backpack slung lazily over one arm.

“I’m okay,” you respond, typing out a word with one hand. He furrows his eyebrows at your failed attempt, approaching you and reaching out his arms to take Joon from your embrace.

“You can’t work like this,” he says, as he peacefully transfers Joon to his own arms. “He won’t wake up if I put him back, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you reply, taking note of his features now that he’s at a closer proximity to you for the first time. He has large round eyes, and long eyelashes that make even you jealous. His nose bridge is sharp and straight, and when he chuckles softly at Joon, you notice his skewed front teeth, ones that make his smile seem sweeter- softer.

As he begins out the doorway, you try to think of what to say to him, not wanting to have another awkward run-in with him like your last one. But nothing comes to mind that won’t be just as awkward as the encounter itself, and you settle on painful silence once again.

As you unlock your laptop, continuing on to your last assignment, you hear the faint noise of Mrs. Lee’s elder son putting Joon back to sleep.

Except he sounds different than he has during your two previous encounters. He’s laughing, babbling, even cooing at Joon as he puts him back to sleep. And though you really shouldn’t intrude, you make your way to the doorway again, where you peer down the hall to listen in on the endearing noises he makes.

“Are you sleepy?” He asks, his voice two octaves higher than usual. “Let’s sleep now, okay? No, you can’t have my shirt. That’s mine, remember? Let’s have good dreams now. I love you!”

You hear Joon giggling from the end of the corridor and you smile to yourself, wholly moved by the tender little moment he shares with his baby brother. He might not be his full-time caregiver, but he certainly knows what he’s doing. As you stay pondering his behavior for a moment, you don’t even notice when he exits the room again, turning to watch you standing around the doorway. Your ear is still leaned into the corridor, clearly having listened in on the private moment.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, straightening your posture, a wave of embarrassment quickly washing over you. “I was making sure Joon got to bed okay.”

He just nods once, looking you over briefly before meeting your gaze again.

“Minho,” he then practically mutters, averting your gaze as he waits for you to speak.

It’s his name, you realize, barely even having registered what he said to you. He’s telling you his name.

“Y/n,” you respond quickly, giving him a small bow and smiling nervously.

And Minho says nothing, pivoting on his heel to exit the corridor and disappear all over again.

For two weeks, your job runs smoothly, no glaring problems or hangups. Joon remains fond of you, obedient at mealtimes and when he’s put to bed. And the system of completing your college coursework goes smoothly, being able to get through several assignments a day while Joon takes his afternoon nap. If anything, you might be more productive than you were before this job, despite balancing it between university.

It’s an overcast Tuesday afternoon, and you’ve spent most of your day working in Joon’s nursery on the rocking chair next to his crib. He’s been a little fussy today, but you find that he calms down a little at the repetitive clicking noises of your laptop keyboard. Once you’ve confirmed he’s asleep, little snores emitting from his lips, you gather your belongings and sneak away to the library again. Only this time, it’s not vacant.

Minho sits in your usual spot today, his legs propped up on the footrest in front of him and a book in his lap. He doesn’t even notice you in the doorway, strands of hair hanging loosely in front of his face as he scans the page of his book. He also looks significantly more casual than other days you’ve seen him around, wearing a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats, a pair of round wireframe glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

He feels your gaze on him, shuffling about suddenly and closing his book.

“Sorry,” Minho says. “I was just… reading.”

He realizes how awkward he sounds, verbally conveying his actions to you like this, but he’s too caught off guard to form a more coherent string of words.

“It’s okay,” you say politely, setting your bag down on the floor and occupying the chair across from him.

“What book?” You ask, cocking your head at the small red novel he clutches in his lap.

“Hm? Oh, uh… it’s Love and Limerence. By Dorothy Tennov.”

You nod in response, studying the cherub painted on the cover, wielding a bow and arrow.

“Big romance fan?”

“No,” Minho says, chuckling at your words. “It’s a required read for my class.”

“How neat,” you reply. “What class requires romance novels these days?”

“My philosophy course,” Minho says, running the pads of his fingers over the raised text on the cover. “The psychology of emotion.”

“PHIL 105,” you say, knowing very well the course he speaks of.

“Yeah- you’ve taken it?”

“No, but I had a friend who did in freshman year. I’m in my last semester now- my remaining classes are virtual, though.”

“It’s my last semester, too,” Minho says with a little smile, fiddling with the lobe of his ear as he talks.

“Well best of luck to you in the final stretch,” you reply, shooting him a small smile back. “I hope it all goes smoothly.”

Minho gives a half nod, and then furrows his eyebrows together, like he’s just remembered something.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says suddenly, sitting up and gathering his belongings.

“Oh, I really don’t mind-”

“Catch you later,” He interrupts with a nervous tone, almost jogging out of the library and back down the corridor.

And just like the first day you met him, you maintain the same idea of him- he’s such an enigma. Appearing in and out of the household, not one to voice his thoughts or his opinions, no eagerness to know the stranger sitting in his house watching over his baby brother. But somehow, like the rest of the household, you can’t help but have a lingering curiosity for Minho, too.

“My husband and I might be late getting back today,” Mrs. Lee says one morning as you feed Joon his breakfast. His tongue dodges the plastic spoon, dribbling mashed food out from the corners of his lips and laughing when you go to dab his face clean with a napkin.

“That’s alright,” you reply, loading up the spoon with more food. “I can wait until you’ve arrived.”

“You will?” Mrs. Lee asks, a kind of sparkle in her eyes as she speaks. “That would mean the world to us. It’s just that my husband has an auction to attend today. And sometimes these events run longer than they’re meant to.”

“No problem at all,” you say, smiling at her as you turn your attention back to Joon. “Joon and I will just hang out a little longer today. Isn’t that right?”

He babbles something in response, a string of saliva trailing from his lips, and Mrs. Lee laughs at the sight.

“He’s really taken a liking to you!”

As she fixes Joon’s hair, Minho enters the kitchen, dressed for the day with his backpack already slung over his shoulder.

“Minho,” his mother says in a scolding tone. “No gum for breakfast. Have a fruit.”

“Can’t,” he replies curtly. “My philosophy exam is today.”

“What does that have to do with depriving yourself of food?”

“It’s bad luck to eat before an exam,” Minho retorts, coming around the granite island to kiss her on the cheek. “Besides,” Minho continues. “I’m ditching my second class, so I’ll be home a little earlier.”

When he turns around, his gaze meets yours, and he instantly stiffens.

His gaze turns cold again, his hands shoving in his jacket pockets as he says nothing to you. He just bows, once, and then turns to exit like he’s suddenly in some rush.

“Bye,” he calls out, and you’re not even sure who he’s addressing it to at this point.

“I should get going, too,” Mrs. Lee says to you. “I’ll call you when we leave the event tonight. And please, feel free to make yourself comfortable after Joon gets put to bed. There’s cash on the table if you want to order something for dinner, and extra blankets are in the upstairs closet if you get sleepy.”

“Thank you,” you say to Mrs. Lee as she gathers her car keys and handbag. And the house is quiet again when you’re all alone, with the exception of Joon’s heavy breathing as he stares at you curiously.

“It’s like a mansion here,” you say to your best friend as you balance Joon in your arms and crane your neck on your shoulder to hold the phone against your ear. “Mrs. Lee is so nice. I thought she’d be stuck up or something, but she’s like a second mother.”

“You hit the jackpot,” your friend voices on the other end of the line. “Any idea how long they need you around?”

“Not sure,” you reply, wiping the granite counter with a rag as you finish up the dishes. “Probably until their son is done with the semester.”

“Son?” She says excitedly. “Is he cute?”

“Please,” you echo, rolling your eyes. “His looks mean nothing considering he doesn’t say a word.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. He just doesn’t talk. We go to the same university and it’s like pulling teeth trying to figure out something as simple as what his major is. I think he despises having me around.”

“I mean, to be fair, I wouldn’t love someone in my space 24/7. It’s probably a territorial thing.”

“He’s not a cat,” you respond, laughing lightly. “He’s a grown man. I just get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“Well I highly doubt that,” she says, and you can hear her shuffling about on her end of the line.

“Hey, I have to go,” she chimes in. “But I’ll talk to you later. Good luck with baby Joon and the cat man.”

“Thanks,” you reply, chuckling to yourself.

As you hang up the phone, you turn around to gather the last of the dishes, stopping in your tracks when you’re met with Minho himself.

He’s standing in the kitchen, popping a bubble of gum with his teeth, his gaze locked coldly on yours as he observes the place.

That’s right- he did say he would be home a bit earlier after his exam today. Was he standing there for the entirety of your conversation? You can’t recall how long the phone call lasted, or even the specifics of what you said. But you do know it certainly wasn’t good.

“Hi,” you say nervously, scanning his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. But he provides you none, kicking off his boots and making his way up the stairs again.

The guilt is still eating away at you two hours later- Minho hasn’t descended the staircase once since the incident, and you can hardly focus on your school work at the thought of what he’s thinking of you.

Here you are, complaining about him seeming “cold” or “off”- the whole time you’re the one talking about him behind his back and stirring up drama. If he hated you before, he definitely despises you now. And if he's as close with his mother as he seemed this morning, you could be out of a job by tomorrow.

In reluctant steps, you ascend the wooden staircase, clutching a small mug of coffee and a stack of buttered toast. You remember Minho saying he’d have breakfast after his exam, a task he wasn’t able to complete due to your impolite conversation earlier. And while you’re not even sure he’s going to give you the time of day anymore, it’s worth a shot to try.

At the top of the staircase, you realize you’re unsure of which room even belongs to Minho. There are rows of doors down the corridor, which you peer into, looking for any sign of him.

A closet, another closet, the laundry room… it feels like a futile task at this point- not to mention, the sinking feeling that you’re intruding, poking into every room in the house like this.

But at the end of the hallway, just across the staircase from Joon’s room, lies one more closed door you haven’t tried yet, and you’re sure this one has to be his.

With a deep breath, you balance the mug of coffee on the plate you’re carrying, bringing your free hand up to knock, just once.

No answer.

You pause for a moment, debating whether to just leave and drop the idea of an apology altogether. But you don’t, instead forcing yourself to knock once more this time, a little harder than the first.

And after muffled sounds of shuffling about, the door finally opens again, Minho standing with a confused expression on his face. He has a pair of earphones in, one side pulled out to hear you, his glasses sat on his face and a number of textbooks on the bed behind him.

“Is Joon okay?” He asks, looking down the hall in panic as you meet his gaze.

“What? Oh! Yes, he’s fine. He’s sleeping.”

“Oh. What are you…”

“I… made you some breakfast. I know you didn’t have any before your exam this morning. And no, gum isn’t a breakfast food.” You chuckle lightly as you hold the items out to him, and Minho looks down at them, blinking a few times before speaking.

“Oh. Uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem. Should I leave them with you?”

“Oh, you can put them on the desk over there,” Minho replies, and it’s then that you notice his hands are full with papers. He steps aside to let you in, gesturing to the desk with a piece of paper, and you oblige, clearing the space of a few scattered items and setting down his breakfast.

When you turn around to look at the place, your lips part in awe at the sight of the grandiosity of it. Minho’s room has bigger windows than any of the others you’ve seen, concave around a crescent-shaped seating area that boasts tall ceilings and large glass windows. There are books lining the floors, the desk space and even the window sills, many of them left bookmarked or lying open where they sit.

His giant wooden bed frame is almost hidden behind a hanging curtain, and his desk is nearly inhabitable at the amount of university paraphernalia that lives on its surface.

“Wow,” you say, craning your neck to look around the room. “It’s really nice in here.”

“Thanks,” Minho says awkwardly, toying with a loose hem on his pants.

“You really like reading,” you comment, taking note of the books he has lying around. When you say this, Minho seems to stiffen a bit, shutting some of the books and lining them on their spines along his shelves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping a few books and kicking them away from him.

You nod at him, pursing your lips, well aware that you’re in the midst of yet another awkward interaction with him, but wanting to fulfill the reason you came up here all the same.

“Listen,” you begin. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t know how much you heard of that, but I assume it was enough to be hurt by it. And you’re justified in being hurt. It was totally uncalled for of me to say those things- and sure, you might be a quiet person. But that doesn’t make it okay for me to go around airing it out like it’s my business. In fact I shouldn’t even be on my phone on the job. I’m here to watch your brother, and I get paid for that service, and it’s completely unprofessional-”

“It’s cool,” Minho says, an unchanging expression on his face.

“Oh, um… I mean, if you want to fire me I totally understand.”

Minho chuckles softly, and then shakes his head. “I’m not going to fire you. I am quiet. It’s cool. Really.”

“I mean, I totally get that-”

“Unless you want to be fired?” He inquires with a half-smile, and you chuckle softly in response.

“I really don’t. I love watching your brother.”

“Good,” he replies. “Then we’re all good.”

And although you want to say something else to him, you don’t, feeling as though you should be satisfied with the state of the conversation. You apologized, he forgave you, and you haven’t lost your job. And he’s still quiet, but that’s just who he is.

When Joon wakes from his afternoon nap, it’s nearly 3pm. He’s a crying mess when he’s up again, flailing his arms around to beg for a bottle, which you promptly prepare for him after a diaper change.

With Joon in your arms, you get some chores around the house finished, including vacuuming the rugs, dusting off the furniture and tidying Joon’s toys that are usually scattered about his nursery.

Doing chores wasn’t an agreement between you and Mrs. Lee- in fact, she usually urges you to focus on your schoolwork and take breaks when you’re not caring for Joon. But you want to, feeling compelled to take care of the space as much as you care for Joon. Although tensions are still somewhat present between you and Minho, the Lee household feels comfortable to you by this point, almost like a second home now.

After chores, the library calls out to you again, evening beginning to fall over the neighborhood and painting the sky with vibrant hues of an autumnal sunset.

The windows are still rolled open from earlier, and your velvet couch looks particularly inviting at this hour, beams of sunset setting it aglow and luring you to choose a book from the cherry wood shelves around you.

So you do, selecting a children’s book about animals, comfortably sprawling out on the chair with Joon in your arms. He eyes the book curiously, spreading his short, chubby fingers over the cover and tapping repeatedly, as if asking you to read to him.

And you do, setting the book on your knee to angle the pages toward him, as you begin to vocalize the choppy sentences to him.

“A is for apple, hanging from a tree,” you say, caressing his stubby fingers as he pouts in focus. “B is for buzzing bumblebee.”

Joon’s lips curl into a smile, making his best attempt to clap as you point out the colorful images to him.

“C is for crab, walking in the sand… D is for dolphin, swimming toward the land!”

Joon laughs hysterically now, clapping his little hands and rocking back and forth in your lap. You laugh, too, at his darling reaction, and give him a little kiss on the head as he fiddles with the cover of the book.

It’s moments like this that reaffirm the notion for you that this job was the right idea, after all. You’re inexplicably happy alongside him like this, seeing the world through his eyes and rediscovering things you would otherwise take for granted, like silly picture books or doing chores with him in your arms. You feel so protective of him, eager to make his mom proud and provide a safe, nurturing environment for him as his babysitter- not because you’re paid to do it, but because he now holds a special place in your heart.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you from the doorway, and you look up to find Minho standing there, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

“Did you… want something to eat? I was going to order takeout, unless you wanted something else.”

“Sure,” you reply, propping Joon up a little closer to your chest. “Anything’s fine with me.”

“I’ll get Chinese, then,” Minho says nodding. He averts your gaze a little, but you can tell he’s just a little awkward when he’s face-to-face with you like this. And perhaps your best friend is right- perhaps it’s not unusual of him to feel territorial over his household. After all, you are here almost every hour of the day, making yourself comfortable in almost every room, tending to the chores here and eating food from their kitchen. You suppose you would be irritated at the thought of it, too.

As Minho leaves to place an order, you take Joon back to the nursery, where you gently put him to sleep for the evening and program his baby monitor to play calm ocean noises again. It’s like clockwork- he’s out like a light, and the minute he leaves your arms, you’re exhausted, too. The stress of watching over him while balancing your school work might finally be getting to you now- you’re undoubtedly tired, your limbs aching from sauntering about this big house all day with Joon in your arms. And although you’re on a good track, you can hardly remember which assignment pertains to each of your classes these days.

When Minho returns almost an hour later, he holds a thin plastic bag in hand, his other one clutching a fistful of cutlery and two plates. He gives you a small nod when he enters the library, and you put away your laptop to join him on the floor in front of the coffee table.

For a moment, he says nothing as he prepares a plate for you, sliding a cup of wonton soup toward you and dividing portions of chow mein and tofu with wooden chopsticks.

You watch as he breaks a spring roll in half, holding both sides up and comparing to make sure they’re even.

“You’re very precise,” you say with a soft laugh, and a breathy chuckle emits from his lips, too.

“I’m trying to make sure it’s even.”

“However you cut it is fine,” you respond, pleasantly surprised at how polite he is.

When he’s finished dividing your portions, he slides a plate to you, setting a plastic fork down on the napkin beside you and ushering to the food.

“Enjoy,” he says, shooting you a small smile.

And the two of you eat in silence, the room quiet, aside from the sounds of slurping soup present between you two. Although it’s quiet, it feels comfortable, having him keep you company like this. It’s a change of pace from your usual days babysitting in the Lee household.

“How is your school work?” Minho interrupts your thoughts, and you’re momentarily taken aback by him initiating the conversation first.

“It’s good,” you respond, poking at the vegetables on your plate with a chopstick. “It’s on my own time, so I mostly just have to make sure I’m staying on track. But I’m finding it easy to get through despite watching Joon in the daytime.”

Minho nods in response, keeping his gaze set on the bowl of soup in front of him.

“How did your exam go?” you ask, and Minho cocks his head a little. “I got full marks,” he responds after a moment of silence.

“That’s great! I guess you were right about skipping breakfast having something to do with your academic success, then.”

And Minho laughs for the first time- not a chuckle or a giggle, but a laugh, holding one hand up to his mouth as he does. His laugh is gentle and melodic, filling the room around him with its sound, and you can’t help but laugh, too.

“I suppose,” he responds. “I also go nowhere without those philosophy books, so I have them memorized like the back of my hand.”

“Philosophy major?” you voice back, and Minho nods.

“So Love and Limerence is like second nature to you at this point.”

Minho gets a little awkward at this, his smile fading a little as he pokes around his chow mein. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You could say that.”

And fearing you’ve somehow offended him, you change the subject again.

“Well I’m a business major,” you chime in. “So we don’t get interesting reads at all. And I’m not lugging around a six-pound textbook about returns on investments in my backpack.”

He laughs again, and you feel satisfied at the motion. Making him laugh feels like an exciting feat, like you’ve succeeded at something after trying so hard to. And considering how hard you’ve been trying to break down his walls these days, maybe it is an exciting feat, getting to know the stranger you’ve been sharing a home with for one month now.

“Business is a great field,” Minho says, slurping down the remainder of his soup. “Your parents must be really proud of the direction you’re headed.”

You shrug in response. “They’re indifferent. I don’t have a great relationship with them. They mostly just want me out of their hair once I graduate.”

“You have any post-college plans?” Minho inquires.

“I finished an internship before this whole babysitting gig, actually. I want to travel a bit after graduation, and then I’ll really settle down for the whole 9-5 working life.”

“Where are you hoping to travel to?”

There’s a glint in Minho’s eyes as he presses you for answers, like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say. It makes you feel all warm inside- not many people usually care what you’re up to these days, your family trying their hardest to send you away to work another job and your most of your friends having drifted apart when you began university. Even the friends you do have are more distant these days, considering their classes are still in person, and you don’t have a need to be back on campus anymore. It’s a bit of a lonely life you lead, so being here beside Minho feels different, but pleasant.

“I’m not sure,” you say with a smile. “I’m not really sure where I belong yet.”

“Hey, I don’t know where I belong, either,” Minho echoes. “So that makes two of us.”

When the two of you are finished with dinner, Minho takes your plates downstairs, despite you offering, and you’re briefly left alone in the library. It’s much later than usual now, nearing 9:00, when you’re usually home by 7. The house also has a different vibe to it this hour, many of the rooms feeling much dimmer despite the same lamps being on, and the corridors feeling much quieter and more haunting. You feel a wave of sleepiness wash over you, and though you don’t want to be asleep when Mrs. Lee arrives, you can’t help but shut your eyes for a few minutes. You can still make out the shape of the bookshelves behind your heavy eyelashes, trying your best not to close your eyes completely, but your mind has already wandered off to slumber, and inevitably, your body follows shortly after.

You’re somewhere between sleep and consciousness when you feel Minho enter the room once again, looming over you like he wants to ask you something. But he says nothing- instead, he unfolds a knit blanket above you, sprawling it out over your legs and pulling it up to your torso. And you hadn’t realized how cold you were before he did, because you’re almost instantly with a wave of warmth and comfort over your listless body.

It feels almost uncharacteristic or Minho to carry out an action this polite- but as he takes his seat across from you, watching as you doze off peacefully, you think he may finally be coming around to you.

“I’m ditching my second class again today,” Minho announces the next morning at breakfast. He doesn’t eat much, you notice, as he bites into a single apple and hoists his backpack further up his shoulders.

“I’ll be home a bit earlier,” he then continues, eyeing you a little, and you give him a little nod.

“Then help with lunch,” Mrs. Lee says, gathering her own briefcase for work. “Y/n shouldn’t do it all by herself when you’re here.”

“Oh, it’s no worry at all,” you quickly chime in, not wanting to be the reason Minho refutes his mother’s words. “It’s what I’m here to do, after all.”

“No worries,” Minho says back to you. “I’ll be home around noon and we can prepare something together.”

For some reason, your heart flutters a little at the implication of doing something alongside Minho- something so planned and seemingly intimate. You normally just take the days as they come, so having a commitment hanging over your head like this is a little nerve-racking. And in all your worrying, you don’t respond to Minho, realizing only as he’s exiting the house with his apple in hand.

“I might be late again today,” Mrs. Lee turns to you, snapping you out of your trance. “But Minho can stay for the remainder of the time. I’ll still pay you the full amount like I did yesterday-”

“I’m happy to stay again,” you reply to her. “Like I said, it’s what I’m here to do.”

She smiles in return, clasping her hands and gesturing to the food on the table.

“I can’t get Minho to eat for the life of me, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. And thank you again, for staying.”

You’re reading to Joon in the living room when Minho arrives home from school. He kicks off his shoes dramatically, tossing his bag on the floor and breathing out a heavy sigh while you thumb through the pages of a new picture book.

“Hi,” Minho says first, his expression remaining stoic and unchanging.

“Hey,” you reply, hoisting Joon a little further up in your arms. “How was school?”

“Terrible,” he responds, making his way around the granite island to collect another apple.

“Why’s that?”

“Professor Kim,” he says curtly, polishing the apple on his button down shirt before taking a generous bite. “A three hour lecture on a Friday really wasn’t a smart choice. ”

You chuckle a little to yourself, adjusting your position on the floor and trying to balance Joon in your embrace. Minho takes notice of your struggle, abandoning his apple on the counter to come take Joon from your arms.

“Thanks,” you say, dusting off your legs as you stand again. “I’m going to get started on something for Joon to eat if you want to wait around. Unless you’re sticking to this exclusively-apple diet.”

Minho chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “I’ll help. We don’t have much prepared right now and I really need to go grocery shopping.” He secures Joon in his high chair, cocking his head toward the fridge.

“Could you just grab his orange juice? It should be the blue bottle on the right.”

And you comply with his request, promptly locating the blue sippy cup and handing it to Minho.

“Thank you,” he says, setting it down on the white tray in front of Joon and twisting it open. “This should be enough to hold him off until we can whip something up with the few ingredients we have. I want to do something with those sweet potatoes, they’re reaching the end of their time.”

Joon is a little fussy as he reaches for his sippy cup, flailing his arms around and sliding the cup across the tray to the edge. The cap seems to loosen as he does, tilting dangerously to one side.

“I got it,” you say to Minho, as you approach Joon. You retrieve the cup from the edge of the tray, twisting off the cap again to secure it properly. And as you do, Joon lets out a particularly loud yelp, knocking his hand toward you and letting the bottle fall off the tray entirely.

As you realize what’s happening, you bring two hands up to push it away from you, but you’re too late- the entirety of the bottle’s contents are spilt onto your shirt, completely soaking you and dripping onto the floor with loud, wet noises.

Minho doesn’t see what happened, but he turns around at the sound of your loud gasp, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Even your hair’s gotten wet, stringy pieces falling into your face, damp with the tangy scent of orange juice and dripping down your shirt. His mind races with guilty thoughts, feeling as though he should have stayed watching Joon, being the one to have been caught in the crossfire of his tantrum instead. Joon’s always fussy before meals- he knows this very well. As his mind races with the urgency to grab a towel, a rag- something, his eyes graze to your t-shirt, and he practically freezes.

Your thin white t-shirt is soaked like the rest of you, painting a clear outline of your black bra as the cold contents drip down your chest and torso. The see-through fabric sticks to your body like a cellophane wrapping, outlining every inch of you, every curve and every raised goosebump as you shudder at the sensation. Minho’s eyes remain locked on your dampened breasts for an embarrassing amount of time, taking careful note of the way your hardened nipples practically protrude through the thin white fabric, almost appearing increasingly noticeable with every passing second. The delicate curves of your stomach are accentuated with your skin-tight shirt, even your navel now visible.

A shake of your hands finally snaps him out of his trance, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a futile effort to cover yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you utter to him, at a loss for words at the notion of being so exposed to him. And Minho is quick to shake his head, now scrambling for a towel.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling a towel off the oven handle and sliding it to you. “Here, use this and I’ll go get a larger towel from upstairs and a change of clothes.”

You want to deny the offer, feeling shameful for having already intruded this much on the Lee household and still needing more from them. But as you look down at your t-shirt, you know you don’t have a choice, the fabric now feeling cold and uncomfortable as it sticks to your flesh.

“Thanks,” you say to him, giving a small nod and not moving your hands from your chest.

And Minho retreats upstairs quickly, trying his best to avert his gaze as you remain in the kitchen.

As Joon babbles incoherently next to you, you can’t help but feel stupid, a sense of shame and embarrassment replacing the excitement you had to be preparing lunch alongside Minho for the afternoon. You’re in disbelief he’s practically seen you half naked like this, and you feel inadequate at not being able to stop Joon from committing the incident in the first place. As you run your hands up and down the raised goosebumps on your arms, you do your best to hold back tears, hoping Minho won’t think less of you for being caught in such a humiliating accident.

Minho is gone for a little while, and you blot at the wet patches on your shirt as you wait, Joon now laughing at your messy state. You can’t help but laugh a little, too, admittedly amused at what a disaster the afternoon has been- and you haven’t even begun the cooking part of it yet.

When he returns, he tosses you a large white bath towel and a gray t-shirt, still keeping his gaze on the floor instead of on yours.

“Here,” he says simply, his veiny arm scratching the back of his head. “I can also get a sweater if you’re cold.”

As you observe the t-shirt, you realize it’s one of his, not one of Mrs. Lee’s. For some reason, you’d assumed Minho would opt for a woman’s clothes as your change, but the t-shirt has clearly been pulled from his closet, and you blush a little at the idea of wearing his clothes.

“This is fine,” you reply, wrapping the bath towel around your body and excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You peel the sticky clothes off your body, crumpling them into a pile and changing into Minho’s t-shirt. It’s a bit large on you, but it’s much more comfortable, hanging loosely off your body and covering every bit of you that was previously exposed. His shirt smells like him, too, a pleasant scent of laundry detergent and his musky cologne.

When you exit the bathroom, you gesture to the change of clothes, your wet crumpled clothes balled in your hand. “I kinda look like you now,” you say, and Minho chuckles.

“You can keep it,” he responds, giving you another once-over and nodding shyly. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

He holds his hand out to you for the wet clothes, which he kindly takes from you to put in the wash. As he does, you go to the fridge to retrieve more orange juice for Joon- except there is none. You desperately search for milk, orange juice- any form of a snack that will keep him busy until his mealtime. But the kitchen is void of anything he can consume, and you begin to panic a little, knowing Joon hasn’t eaten in a good while now.

“That was the last of his orange juice,” you say to Minho when he returns. “And there’s not much else for him to snack on.”

Minho searches the kitchen too, digging through cabinets and moving around jars in the fridge to check for expiration dates. But he quickly realizes you’re right- the fridge is even more sparse than he’d assumed it to be.

“I guess we’ll have to make a trip to the store, then. How do you feel about strapping him into a car seat?”

“I’ve never done it,” you reply nervously.

“I can show you,” Minho says, grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter and spinning them around his index finger. “We can do it together.”

The nearest grocery store is just 20 minutes out from the Lee household. Minho drives a fancy black SUV, and he guides you through how to strap Joon into his car seat, which you carry out with no issues. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console as you chat with him about your university courses. For the first time, you notice how Minho seems much more comfortable around you now, cracking jokes occasionally and smiling at your stories about your afternoons alone with Joon. When Joon chimes in from the back seat with his excited babbling, you and Minho babble equally in response, sharing laughter at the ridiculous exchanges among the three of you.

You opt to carry Joon inside the grocery store while Minho walks alongside you, checking off a list he routinely uses to stock up on all of Joon’s favorite foods. And the atmosphere around you is homely, instilling the same sense of comfort in you as your afternoons alone with Joon. One that reminds you why you’re doing this job in the first place- you feel respected here, like your efforts don’t go unnoticed, and like you belong. It fills the lonely void inside of you with the sounds of Joon’s laughter, Minho’s tales of his classes and the trivial tasks of grocery store runs and learning to maneuver a baby car seat.

“I think that’s it,” Minho says as he checks the list one last time. “Milk, juice, bread…” he reads the items one by one again, and then nods affirmatively when he’s ensured they’re in the basket.

“That’s it,” he repeats, shooting you a small smile. “Let’s go pay.”

An older cashier gestures you to her lane at the registers, beginning to scan your items as Minho places them down on the conveyor belt. And then she gives a little wave to Joon, who curiously stares back at her.

“What a beautiful baby,” she says, pausing from scanning with a jar of mashed carrots in her hand.

Joon smiles in response, a trickle of drool escaping his lips.

“And what a beautiful family,” she continues, looking back and forth between you and Minho. “It’s not easy being young parents, but I can tell the two of you are doing a fine job at it.”

“Oh,” you say, chuckling lightly. “We’re not-”

“Thank you,” Minho interrupts, placing an arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer to him.

“We don’t get told that very often.”

You almost freeze at the contact, butterflies erupting in your stomach as he keeps his hand on the small of your back. This woman thinks the two of you are a couple- and worse, Minho is playing along with it. You can’t figure out why he’d entertain such a blatant lie, but you don’t interrupt him either, curious to see where he’s taking this little bit.

“People can be so unfair,” the cashier replies, shaking her head. “As long as the child is cared for, your status shouldn’t matter.”

“Exactly,” Minho replies, throwing his hand in the air like she’s making a point that pertains to him. “You know, when we got married, everyone told us it would never work. And now look at us- our child just turned 1 and we’re already making plans for a second honeymoon.”

“That’s amazing!” The woman says, clasping her hand over her heart like she’s touched by the bogus story.

“It is, isn’t it honey?” Minho says, turning to you.

Thoughts swirl your mind about this performance he’s putting on, but you’re undoubtedly entertained by the whole thing, stifling laughter as you nod in response.

“It is amazing,” you say finally. “We eloped and had a shotgun wedding- booked it to Italy right after and now we’re thinking of taking the little one to Paris for a real ceremony.”

The older woman removes her glasses now, wiping her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. You can’t help but feel bad for her, seeing how easily she’s falling for your blatant lies, but Minho shows no remorse, grinning ear to ear and keeping his hand on the small of your back.

“Well I’ll tell you what,” the woman says, putting her glasses back on and shifting her eyes around the store.

“Since you guys just made my day, I’m going to provide you with our senior discount. It’s not everyday I see a young couple so beautiful raising such a darling little child.”

“Oh, you really don’t-” you start to say, and Minho interrupts you before you can finish.

“That would mean the world to us,” he says in an exaggerated voice, giving the cashier a little bow. “It would help us out a ton.”

You want to protest, to slap Minho in his pretty little face and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing lying for a discount like this, but you’re afraid the cashier will see right through your whole stunt and reprimand both of you. So you just nod and let Minho take the lead again.

“Thank you,” you echo back to her,” holding Joon’s stubby little fingers as the woman types a lengthy code into the computer.

And Minho smiles at you, shooting you a little wink as he gathers boxes of cereal and jars of food in his arms.

“What was that?” You practically yell as you exit the store, balancing Joon in one arm and a bag of groceries in another. “You totally lied to her.”

“I didn’t lie,” Minho says. “I told her a different reality.”

“That is literally what a lie is,” you echo back to him, securing Joon in his car seat and lining grocery bags on the floor. Minho slides into the driver's seat again, putting his keys in the ignition but not yet starting the car as he waits for you to get in, too.

“I mean, that was like a 10% discount,” you continue, huffing frustratedly as you wait for him to speak. “How is that worth telling someone a whole list of lies?”

“You know, there’s this really cool theory called the anthropic principle,” Minho begins, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “Suggests the existence of a multitude of universes.”

“What?”

“So,” he continues. “Philosophically speaking, maybe in one of those we're married, and we have a child, and our honeymoon was in Italy.”

You stay quiet for a moment, pondering his words, completely unsure of if he’s flirting with you or teasing you right now.

“And maybe,” he chimes in again. “In one of them, we robbed the store and killed the cashier. And in another, we don’t even know each other.”

“What are you getting at?” You say, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“It’s not lying,” Minho says with a smile as he finally starts up the car. “We just told her about a different reality.”

“So it’s lying,” you say with a smile, unable to hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.

“A little,” he finally says. “But it was fun, right?”

And you start to say no, but you can’t get the words out, aware you’ll be lying twice today if you do.

Minho takes your silence as confirmation, a grin plastered on his face as he rests one arm behind your headrest to pull out of the parking lot. And you can’t help but smile, too, the spontaneous thrill of lying to the cashier admittedly being some of the most fun you’ve had all week. And the conclusion stands- Minho’s a little odd. But he’s great company.

Mrs. Lee is late again tonight, the second hand on the clock ticking in slow intervals as it nears 10pm. You yawn for the umpteenth time tonight, exhausted from having done so much today, wanting nothing more than to sleep in the comfort of your own bed at home and mentally recharge for another day of this tomorrow. But you’ve promised to wait for her, always eager to wait it out until the last second, because Mrs. Lee always expresses her sincerest gratitude when you wait for her.

“Sorry, she’s really late today,” Minho says as he lowers the volume on the television. You completed a few more chores around the house after dinner while Minho powered through his schoolwork, putting Joon to bed before settling on the sofa and watching old cartoon reruns. Now you’ve been in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, Minho remaining close by watching infomercials again, peering at your tired figure and feeling guilty that you’ve been here so long.

“It’s okay,” you reply quietly, letting out another yawn. You cross your arms over yourself, still dressed comfortably in Minho’s t-shirt, and do your best to keep your gaze on the television.

Tonight Minho is stuck on an infomercial for artificial plants, the dull narration lulling you to sleep even further as he checks the time on his watch and glances nervously at the front door.

Minho cranes his neck at your figure again, not missing the way gray bags hang heavy below your eyes, your lashes half-lidded as you feign sleep and force your gaze onto the infomercial.

“Don’t you have an early exam tomorrow?” You say to Minho, another yawn escaping your lips as you speak. “Don’t wait up on my account. You should get some sleep.”

Minho shuts off the television, standing up from where he’s sitting and dusting off his pants.

“I’ll take you home,” he announces, fishing around on the table for his car keys.

“It’s okay,” you reply, not wanting to inconvenience him anymore than you already have today. “I can walk to the bus stop.”

“You’re not walking,” Minho retorts, scoffing as you sit up and rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand. “It’s pitch black outside.”

“It’s fine,” you say, gathering your book bag and rushing to put your shoes on. It’s a race between the two of you now, Minho scrambling to locate his car keys while you get ready to leave for the evening.

“It’s really not a problem- where are my keys?” Minho mutters to himself, patting the pockets on his jacket and rearranging stacks of papers on the coffee table.

“I’m fine, really.”

“No, I’ll drive you,” Minho says, still tossing aside the mess he’s made to locate his keys.

“I’ll walk,” you reiterate again, and Minho finally exhales frustratedly.

“Then I’ll walk with you,” he finally announces, ditching the car keys altogether and stopping to look at you. He looks tired, too, evident bags under his eyes and his hair tousled from running his hands through it frustratedly.

“Minho, I really don’t want to burden you-”

“It’s not a burden.”

As he speaks, you hear Joon’s baby monitor alerting you that he’s awake for the evening, wailing loudly when he realizes that he’s alone. It’s perfect timing, too, Minho already having planned to wake him up so he can walk you back.

“Wait here,” Minho says to you as he begins toward the stairs. “I’ll get his harness.”

The dim street lights illuminate the dark paved roads, a crisp chill in the air as you walk alongside Minho with your hands in your pockets.

Joon sits comfortably in his harness against Minho’s chest, curiously taking in the atmosphere around him as you walk in silence to your bus stop. It’s not a long walk, only 20 minutes from Minho’s, but you feel admittedly much safer with Minho by your side, his and Joon’s presence feeling homely even at this hour. For nearly the entirety of the walk, the two of you say nothing, too tired to engage in conversation, but still comfortable in the presence of each other, and not needing to say anything. Joon babbles saliva every now and then, Minho bringing a finger up to wipe his chin, and the only other sounds are that of crickets and the gentle sway of the trees.

“This is me,” you say to Minho when you reach the familiar blue bench of your stop.

You sit on one side of the bench, slinging your book bag over beside you and crossing your legs. And to your surprise, Minho occupies the other side, one hand resting gently on the back of Joon’s head while the other pats his back gently.

“You don’t have to wait,” you tell Minho quickly, and he just shakes his head silently in response.

The silence between you remains, Joon toying with the collar of Minho’s shirt as you wait for the bus. There’s so much you want to ask Minho, so much you still want to find out from him. You’re well aware that you haven’t quite figured him out yet, but you’re undoubtedly sure that he is a nice guy, after all. From lending you his t-shirt, waiting up for you on late nights, even walking you to your bus stop and waiting for the bus with you. You think briefly back to his little joke at the grocery store, smiling to yourself when you remember he’d chosen to pretend you were a married couple for no other reason than to make you laugh after having had such a rough day. And his innate fascination with looking at everything through a philosophical lens, the passion for his favorite subject so robustly present wherever he goes.

“What’s that theory again?” You ask Minho as your thoughts verbalize amidst the silence.

“Hm?”

“The one about the universe.”

“The anthropic principle?” He questions, and you hum in response.

“Yeah, that one. Do you think there are like, a million versions of us right now, just…sitting here?”

“Sure,” Minho replies. “But the conditions would have to be just right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the theory states that conditions have to be just right for us to coexist in the universe we’re in right now. It’s sort of like a coincidence that this one evolved so that we could thrive in it. So there might be other versions of us, just not as definitive. We might be rocks, or bugs. Or maybe there’s a more advanced version, where we’re still on our honeymoon in Italy.”

“Or the one where we killed that cashier,” you chime in.

“Exactly,” Minho replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You ponder his words for a moment.

“Do they all follow the same timeline?” You ask him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do they all last forever? What if we got divorced? Would we part ways in every universe?”

Minho stays quiet for a moment, thinking back to the philosophical theories tucked in the back of his mind.

“I don’t know,” he finally replies. “I’d like to think some versions have a happy ending, but maybe some of them don’t.”

As silence falls over you again, your bus finally turns the corner, making its way down the street toward your stop.

“That’s me,” you say, getting up and gathering your belongings again.

Minho stands up, too, saying nothing as the bus finally halts in front of you, the brakes screeching to a stop with the loud exhaust of the doors as they open.

“Thanks,” you say to Minho before getting on. “For walking me.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies, shooting you a tired smile.

Minho watches as you board the bus, taking your seat toward the back. He scans the aisles momentarily, making sure you’re sat somewhere safe, away from anyone he might deem sketchy at this hour. And when he feels confident you’ll make it home okay, he brings Joon’s hand up in front of him, giving you a little wave as he watches you smile back through the tinted windows, sending him off with a wave back.

From then on, things shift between the two of you. Minho is a constant, always offering to walk you home on late nights to engage in discussions about your university work or his favorite theories. When he’s home early from his classes, the two of you enjoy cooking for Joon together, making trips to the grocery store where the cashiers are now fully convinced you’re a married couple. On late nights, the two of you often engage in lighthearted philosophical debates while you wait for Mrs. Lee to get home for the evening. When he’s walking you home for the night, doing homework alongside you or just passing by, Minho indulges you in all his favorite philosophical questions, and you entertain them, using the opportunity to get a better glimpse into his mind and how he thinks.

It’s exactly this that tears down Minho’s walls, you find- he, in all his philosophically-educated glory, sharing his perspective while you poke holes in his arguments and reach a conclusion together. Sometimes you’ll reach a stalemate, the argument fizzling out with no clear answer. And sometimes he can change your mind almost instantly, the arguments leaving his lips like second nature, always quick to persuade you in the opposite direction and provide clear reasoning. He’s very skilled at his work, and you quickly realize why he’s so passionate about philosophy in the first place.

It’s not something Minho’s used to yet- having a companion like this, one who actually cares about anything he has to say. Someone to come home to, somebody to bask in the simplicities of life with and affirm that he’s not completely incapable of making real human connections. And admittedly, maybe he loves playing house with you, coming home to your home-cooked meals and caring for the baby together.

Maybe this version of the universe deems you a babysitter, and he, just an outcast. But sometimes Minho swears he can see different versions where you’re so much more than that to each other.

In late November, you take your first week off, leaving on a small family trip to a city just a few hours out to go see extended family.

You tell Minho of your little excursion the week prior, and he pretends to be disheartened, but you know deep down he must be relieved to have some space to himself again. Of course you’re not able to watch Joon, and Mrs. Lee has a friend watch him in your absence, but you’re surprised at how much you miss the Lee household when you’re not there. The trip to the city is filled with repetitive questions from family about your major, your internship, your potential salary in an entry-level position and general university questions. And yet all you catch yourself thinking about is Joon, and Mrs. Lee and especially Minho.

You wonder what he’s doing in the comfort of his grand room all by himself, surrounded by books and tall windows. Minho once told you that he can go a whole day without talking when he’s not having philosophical debates with you over coffee. You wonder if he’s talked today, or if he attended his classes or how his exam on Tuesday went. Thoughts of him plague your mind every waking second- whether Minho would like a certain food, if Minho would agree with this statement, even what the people around you would think if you dragged him along and played house with him like you do back home. In this version of the universe, maybe he’s reading a book or watching a movie, but in another, he could be right here, telling his string of lies to your extended family.

On the last day of your family vacation, you find yourself in an old bookstore, and all you can think about is Minho. He’d love it here, you think, grazing your fingertips along the old cracked spines and yellowing pages. And as you scan through the philosophy section, several of the books already piquing your interest, you spot it.

The small familiar crimson book, just barely larger than your hand, delicate to the touch and painted with the same Cupid depiction as the one you know so well. A first edition copy of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence. You can’t help but smile to yourself, scanning the book’s contents briefly before closing it again and bringing it up to the counter. It’s not like you’re trying to worsen this little developing crush you have on Minho, but he seems to be everywhere you go- and candidly, you just want to have him figured out.

When you return to the Lee household from your vacation, the atmosphere is calm, sunbeams shining through the large glass windows and illuminating the house with a romantic glow. Joon eats his breakfast well, downing his orange juice and causing you little trouble throughout the day. And Minho arrives just after 3, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a book in hand.

Your heart beats erratically to see him again, trying your best to avert his gaze as he enters through the front door and kicks off his shoes. When he makes his way through the kitchen, you attempt to look busy, wiping down the counters with a kitchen rag and balancing Joon in your arms.

“Hi,” Minho says, a little shyly as you keep your eyesight on the granite counter below you.

“Hey,” you respond, pretending like you hadn’t noticed him enter the room, when in reality, you’ve been well aware of his arrival since he parked his car out front.

“How was your trip?” Minho asks, setting down his backpack and loosening the collar of his sweater.

He’s dressed for the chilly weather outside, a simple black knit sweater paired with blue jeans.

“It was good,” you reply, folding the rag with one hand and setting it aside. “I kinda missed it here.”

Minho smiles at you nervously, toying with the hem of his sweater as he hears you speak.

“It was pretty quiet without you here. I think Joon missed you.”

“Did he?” You question excitedly, poking at Joon with your finger and cooing at him. “Is that right? You missed me?” And Joon giggles excitedly, smiling between the two of you.

When the room falls quiet again, Minho clears his throat like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, instead keeping his gaze fixed on yours. The room is teeming with awkward tension between the two of you, two hearts clouded in desire to act on this conflicting emotion of fleeting lust and a mutual understanding of each other, but neither one of you say anything, letting it die with your silence and circle your minds aimlessly again.

“I got you something,” you say suddenly, and Minho’s heart quickens a little.

“Me?” He questions, pointing to himself as if you need clarity of who he speaks of.

“Yes, you. It’s in my bag upstairs.”

And you begin your ascent to the staircase, motioning for Minho to follow you as you bring Joon with you.

“Close your eyes,” you tell Minho when you‘ve entered the library again.

“Should I be scared?” He asks, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Close them!” You exclaim, and he finally puts his hands out in front of him, shutting his eyes, a big grin plastered on his face. You place the book in Minho’s palms gently, making sure to position it so that the cover is facing him properly.

“Now open.”

When Minho opens his eyes again, he doesn’t even need to read the words before knowing what it is. He’s immediately familiar with the first edition of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence he holds in his hands, uniquely characterized by the contrasting art style to his, and the much older, yellowing pages.

“My book,” Minho says, biting his lip as he holds back a bigger smile, one that will most definitely point to the incriminating fact that he’s smitten.

“Your book,” you echo, leaning on the wall across from him. “It’s a first edition. The bookkeeper said they’re pretty rare to come by.”

“You didn’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, fixing Joon’s hair and averting Minho’s gaze. You’re afraid if you make eye contact with him, this whole nonchalant front will crumble down in front of you, because you’re embarrassingly smitten with him, too.

“Thank you,” Minho says, thumbing the raised gold-foiled cover outline of Cupid. “I’ll go put it with the rest of them.”

And he disappears down the corridor, his book tucked in the endeared clutch of his hands.

While Minho adds his book to the rest of his collection, you put Joon down for his nap, gently placing him on the soft blanket in his crib and adjusting the baby monitor. He blinks up at you a few times, his lips pulling into a shaky smile as his lashes finally flutter shut and a wave of sleepiness washes over him. You exit the room quietly, closing the door just halfway like you always do, and then make your way down the corridor to Minho’s room. The door is left ajar, but you hear him shuffling about, and you enter after giving a gentle knock.

Minho seems startled at this, jumping up from where he’s standing, in front of his bookshelf with Love and Limerence held open in the palms of his hands. He shuts it quickly, shoving it on the top with another stack of books, and then almost shields his bookshelf as he turns to face you.

“I didn't hear you come in,” he says, nervously shifting his eyes to more stacks of books on his window sill and nightstand.

“I put Joon down for his nap,” you reply, cocking an eyebrow as he stands there awkwardly. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, blinking nervously when he sees you peer over his torso at the bookshelf.

“Where’d you put it?”

“Can’t remember,” Minho says, a breathy chuckle emitting from his lips as he tries his best to avoid talking about it. But you catch on- and you’re certainly not going to let him evade the subject.

“What are you hiding?” You finally ask, eyeing him with a small smile. Minho’s face drops a little, sighing once as he steps aside and grants you full visibility of his bookshelf. There’s nothing out of the ordinary- books of all colors and sizes lined neatly on the shelves, some of them left open or bookmarked. A good amount of them appear to be philosophy books, which doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

“It’s just your books,” you say flatly, and Minho scratches the back of his head before he speaks again.

“Love and Limerence isn’t a required read for university.” He says in a low voice.

“Oh,” you reply, unsure of why it should really matter to you.

“None of them are,” he continues. “It’s just my personal… collection. Of romance novels.”

And then you finally understand.

Minho- the stoic, otherwise quiet being, in all his philosophical studiousness and awkwardness, is a sucker for romance. Once the cogs begin turning in your head, they don’t stop, everything about him now making a little more sense to you. Why he stays locked up in his little tower all day reading book after book, why he’s so hopeful when he speaks of the human condition and of love, why he loves taking care of people so much. He’s just a big softie underneath it all.

“There’s nothing weird about that,” you chime in. “In fact, it’s really cool.”

“Yeah right,” he retorts.

“I’m dead serious. I’ve never met someone with so many copies of Thorns and Roses before.”

Minho shakes his head, moving to sit on his bed with his palms tucked under his legs. His gaze remains locked on the floor, an expression of shame still visible on his face. And when you see him exhale deeply, like he’s been nervously holding his breath all this time, you feel bad for him. If there’s anything you’ve learned about him since meeting him, it’s that he’s really a bit of a dork. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable before.

“Which one’s your favorite?” You ask, skimming your finger along the neat row of spines.

He shrugs. “Pride and Prejudice, maybe. But these days it’s Love and Limerence.”

Minho’s voice is trembling, just above a whisper as he reads off his list of favorite novels to you. And you chuckle softly in reply, pulling the little red book out of its respective home on the shelf and tossing it to him.

“Read me your favorite passage.”

He furrows his brows a little, like he thinks you might be making fun of him. But when you take a seat next to him on the bed, wide-eyed and gesturing to the book in his hands, he realizes you’re genuinely asking him to.

“Go on,” you say, gesturing to the book once more.

Minho opens the book to the middle, flipping through yellowing pages with small font. Most of the pages are littered generously with blue sticky notes, Minho’s messy handwriting annotating all his favorite passages. When he finds the page he’s searching for, he eyes you cautiously, as if waiting for permission to begin reading. And with a deep breath, he begins, his voice shaking a little as he finds his footing.

“Now by these presents let me assure you that you are not only in my heart, but my veins, this morning. I turn from you half abashed--yet you haunt me, and some look, word or touch thrills through my whole frame--yes, at the very moment when I am labouring to think of something, if not somebody else.”

At the last words, his gaze meets yours again, eyelashes trembling as he waits for your reaction. He waits for you to laugh, or to dismiss the words, or leave altogether. But you just stare back at him, your heart beating erratically at the poetry he utters, completely in awe with him.

He feels otherworldly at this distance, this intricate fascination with love and human connection. The way his brown tresses fall loosely in front of his big eyes as he speaks, his plump lips pulling into a nervous smile to reveal the row of skewed teeth you find a home in every time. He’s like the passage reads- thrilling your whole frame, consuming you whole and filling your mind with thoughts of him, and his poetry and his kind demeanor. You find yourself a little closer to him, your eyes darting to his lips and then back to his curious eyes, fantasies of him running rampant in your mind.

And Minho keeps his gaze locked on yours, too, leaning in a little closer to you, the book closing on its own as his hand slips away from holding it open and onto the bed beside you. The implications are there, the atmosphere around you heavy with desire and uncertainty, and just as you wield the courage to bring your lips a little closer to his, you’re promptly interrupted.

“Minho-ah!” A voice calls from downstairs. You quickly clock it as Mrs. Lee’s, who must be home early from work.

“I’m home early!” She calls again, confirming your theory, her footsteps getting louder as she makes her way up the stairs.

You sit up promptly, smoothing down your shirt and standing to bow when Mrs. Lee pokes her head in the doorway. Minho stands up too, making the whole situation look unbearably obvious, and you pray she can’t tell what’s going on between the two of you.

“Y/n,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I would be home a little earlier today. Joon has a doctor’s appointment.”

“No worries at all!” You voice back, bowing again as she smiles. “I was actually going to leave early today. I have a bit of a headache.”

“Oh, do you want a cup of tea?” She asks, heavy concern present in her voice.

“No thanks, I think I just need some sleep.”

You turn to Minho, who’s standing with his hands in his pockets, looking a little disappointed as you give him a small bow.

“Take care,” you say to him, pivoting to head back to the library and gather your things.

Minho hears his mom see you out of the front door, chatting briefly with you about your trip and sending you off with a little wave.

He shuts his bedroom door and locks it, sprawling out on the duvet of his bed and running his hands over the book still beside him.

He’s not sure what happened- whether you were about to kiss him, or whether it was just wishful thinking. But every way he interprets the encounter, Minho swears he can feel your yearning for him, too. Is he crazy to think you might feel the same? Maybe he, too, finds it laboring to think of something- if not, someone else, besides you.

Joon is a particularly picky eater in afternoons, making a big fuss of foods he usually devours in the mornings and evenings. He skillfully dodges every spoon, every bite and feigns his interest in even his favorite snacks and desserts. And while you’re usually patient with him, today you’re frustrated, having mentally scolded yourself several times since yesterday’s events.

A part of you wants to ditch all of this, reminding yourself that you’re here to work a job, not lust after the son of the person who hired you. But the other part of you can’t help but imagine how things would be different if you just let yourself fall gracefully into him- he’s so much more than a fleeting thought to you. You want to understand him, having challenged yourself to figuring him out from the moment you came across him. But maybe you want him to understand you, too. You want him to understand that you feel at home whenever he’s around, his philosophical discussions and this game of house you play making you feel like you belong here. You want him to understand that although you know he feels like an outcast, none of his odd quirks matter to you when he’s reading his favorite love stories across from you in the library, catching glimpses of you when he thinks you’re not looking. And that maybe this universe conditioned itself just right so that you took up this job and crossed paths- and that has to mean something bigger.

There’s nothing different about the afternoon following yesterday’s, except for you spending a considerable amount of time on your hair and makeup, the anticipation bubbling inside you at the idea of seeing Minho again. You have no definitive plan, no script of how it’s going to go when he arrives from school. But you also know there’s something in your throat that wants so desperately to get out, and you won’t let it. As Joon toys with the cereal in his bowl, he looks up at you with big, curious eyes, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if anything. He doesn't know anything beyond the simple tasks of eating and sleeping, living with the comfortable knowledge that he’s being cared for. And although it seems much easier, you can’t help but sympathize. What a gift it is to feel- what a gift it is to carry emotions so deeply they eat away at you like this.

You’re infatuated with Minho- that fact stands true. And whether or not it benefits you to do anything about it, you’re determined to do something with all of this feeling, lest it slips through your fingers like he almost did.

You don’t hear Minho come home when he does, busy in the garden tending to Mrs. Lee’s plants when the usual alert of his car pulling into the driveway passes you by. So when he wanders the corridors searching everywhere for you, you don’t take notice.

Minho’s desperate, hoping to ask you to stay just a little bit longer tonight, having also had the epiphany that he’s completely fallen for you, too. And what he hopes to do with it, he’s unsure- but he does know that every romance novel on his shelf would refute the idea of letting this feeling dissipate. Kiss her, tell her, do something. Anything.

He strides down the halls with purpose and vigor, a nervous smile pulling at his face at the thought of seeing you again. It’s all he’s thought about today, having had just two hours of sleep as he sorted out what to say to you. And while he’s not well-versed in the practice of confessing his love, he feels his whole life has been devoted to the very purpose of being here and finding you. The debates you share, midnight walks to the bus stop, the book- he’d be a fool not to reciprocate what you yearn for. And when he doesn’t find you, Minho feels the familiar pit of worry form in his stomach. He’s not accounted for a change of plans, or even what might happen if you reject his admission. He wants to believe so badly that the answer is yes, risking everything just to say something.

20 minutes after he’s been home, Minho receives a phone call, answering in a rush while he checks the upstairs rooms for you.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sujin from class,” the phone at the other end says plainly. “I’m here for our project.”

And Minho freezes, remembering very well that he has a project due very soon, and his partner is here tonight to work on it with him. He sighs heavily into the line at the change in plans, knowing he’ll have to bottle his emotions another day and act on them tomorrow when he can get you alone.

“Oh, right,” Minho responds, making his way to the stairs and jogging down them. “The door should be unlocked.”

He stuffs his phone in his back pocket, making his way to the door to meet Sujin, and as he passes the sliding door to the backyard, he finally sees you. Knelt on the ground in a white sundress, your hands tainted with soil as you tend to the tomato plants and hum to yourself. Minho smiles at the sight of you, the urge to tell you right now stronger than ever. But before he can call out to you, Sujin’s already made her way inside, peering curiously around the place and clutching her purse in hand.

“Wow,” she says, chuckling lightly. “You didn’t tell me you were rich.”

Minho scratches the back of his head awkwardly as she grazes a marble sculpture with her fingers. His eyes remain on you through the glass door, transfixed by the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and pat your dress as you stand up again. Sujin takes note of Minho’s evident distraction, briefly glancing out the window and back to him.

“Where are we working?” She asks, pursing her lips together.

“We can work upstairs,” Minho explains, as you finally make your way inside.

At first you’re confused at the sight, Minho looming over a girl much prettier than you, her long hair styled neatly over one shoulder and a matching formal two-piece hugging her curves beautifully. And then as you see her begin up the stairs in the direction of Minho’s room, you finally understand.

Of course there’s another woman.

Of course there was a catch to all of this, because why else would things condition themselves so perfectly that you’d win him over?

And suddenly everything feels pointless- confessing to him, feeling any ounce of emotion regarding all of this, even working this job. He has a girlfriend, and she’s much prettier than you are. And he's trailing behind her after giving you a shy nod, likely embarrassed at the fact that you’ll be here tending to his household while he fucks her in his upstairs bedroom.

You can’t help but think that perhaps something got lost in translation, because Minho evidently never liked you, and unless this version of the universe magically conditions to work in your favor just once, it’s going to remain that way.

When the tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, they don’t stop. You can’t feed Joon without hiccuping through a hot rush of tears that fall from your cheeks onto his tray below him. Joon seems to sense something is wrong, pausing the task of dodging his food to observe the way your face contorts as you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. And when you do stop to look at him, all you can see is Minho, his eyes and lips resembling exactly that of his elder brother’s.

The chores feel like a futile task now, and you let them sit there for the remainder of the evening you’re working for. In fact, the only thing you do complete is the task of getting Joon to bed when the sun begins to set, marching carefully upstairs to not interrupt Minho’s time with his girlfriend. And the word makes you sick, to think that he’s been stringing you along all while having a girlfriend- a fact he so conveniently left out.

Joon goes down without a fuss, and when he’s finally asleep, you escape the confines of the second story to lock yourself in the downstairs living room and complete your school work. How much of that is spent crying instead, you can’t quite remember.

It’s just after 9 when Sujin leaves for the evening, but you’re not awake to take notice when she does. You wake to the familiar sound of infomercials playing quietly on the television in front of you, Minho sitting on the floor in front of the sofa you occupy. His head hangs as he holds a book in his lap, probably some cheesy romance he projects onto him and his girlfriend, and his thin wireframe glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

The dull narration on the television advertises jewelry tonight, and you let out a sigh as you feel your swollen eyes adjust to the bright screen in front of you. At this, Minho turns around, giving you a sheepish smile as you try to shut your eyes again. But it’s too late- he’s already seen you awake for the evening.

“Hi,” Minho says for the first time today, bookmarking his page and lowering the volume on the television. “She’s late again today, but I saved you some takeout.”

“I’m not hungry,” you reply quickly, sitting up and reaching for your bag. “In fact, I need to go home.”

“Oh, sure,” Minho replies, a little hurt at your rushed tone. “I can walk you-”

“No need,” you say to him, pulling on your sneakers and doing everything in your power to avert his gaze. He furrows his brows a little, knowing you never reject his offers to walk you home.

“Is everything-”

“Fine. I just need to get home,” you reiterate, finally sitting down and smoothing down your wrinkled dress.

Every part of him is annoying you right now, your mind teeming with the reminder that you’ve been wasting your time trying to know him better while he’s been entertaining a whole girlfriend these past few months.

“Y/n, wait,” Minho calls, still intent on telling you tonight, while the feelings remain stronger than ever. But you’ve already crossed the room to the front door, where you avert his gaze so he won’t see you begin to cry again.

“Bye,” you call to him, not even looking back before you’re turning the knob and seeing yourself out. “Tell Mrs. Lee it was an emergency.”

And he wants to ask if it was, but he can’t, staring at your rushed figure jogging down the street as you distance yourself from him before he can string you along any further.

Thus begins the game of avoidance.

It starts through keeping your conversations with Minho as short as possible, not engaging him when he tells you about theories he’s studied this week or what his days on campus were like. When he asks about your day, you give him one-word responses, muttering a simple “fine” before turning your attention to Joon again.

When Minho asks to go to the grocery store, you pretend you have a headache- for three days straight. So he makes the trips solo, balancing bags on one arm and telling you about how the cashiers have begun to ask where his pretend wife’s been. You give him no reaction, nodding as you feed Joon his dinner and glance at the clock for the umpteeth time, desperate to get away from him.

And the mystery woman remains, marching into the Lee household in afternoons like she owns the place, already having memorized the path to Minho’s room as she makes her way up the stairs and doesn’t acknowledge you. She’s beautiful everyday that she’s here, short skirts and long ponytails you can’t seem to look away from. And she’s even more hypnotic when she’s in the presence of Minho, the two of them as a couple certainly a sight for sore eyes. If they were a married couple, you’d reckon they'd be much more distinguished than you and Minho would.

“Do you want a coffee?” Minho peers into the library one night to ask you. You keep your gaze locked on the computer in front of you, trying your best to keep your guard up as he waits for a response.

“No, thank you,” you say coldly, continuing to work on your essay.

When he realizes you’re not going to say anything else, Minho enters the room reluctantly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe and gives you a once-over. You say nothing, still, holding back your emotions so as not to cause a scene. And Minho can tell something’s wrong in the way that you shift your eyes to him briefly and shake your head as if scolding yourself for doing so.

“Did I do something?” Minho finally asks, his voice a little shaky.

“No,” you say quickly, skimming the same sentence on your laptop screen over and over again.

“Are you… sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He fiddles with a loose thread in the pocket of his pants, keeping his gaze on the floor and thinking about your differing behavior toward him the past week.

“We just haven’t talked much. And you never really leave here anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep any boundaries-”

“Overstep?” You interrupt, scanning your eyes over the screen of your computer. “There’s nothing to overstep. I get paid to watch your brother, not hang out with you.”

You feel guilty the minute the words leave your mouth, but you feel even worse knowing he’s just been stringing you along with a girlfriend this whole time. The atmosphere feels akin to when you first met him, awkward and cold, and with tensions high like this, you don’t feel at home in the Lee household anymore.

“Sorry,” Minho says, nodding. “You’re right. I guess I’m overstepping by asking.”

You only look up at him when he leaves, his shoulders sagging as he leaves you alone once again- only this time, you have a feeling he’s going to stop making an attempt to rekindle things anymore.

And you’re right- Minho stops trying entirely. There are no more offers to walk you home, no philosophical debates over coffee or grocery store trips where you act as a married couple. You’re still covered in knit blankets when you fall asleep accidentally on the couch, but Minho doesn’t stick around watching his infomercials to wait up for you anymore. And he still saves you his takeout when he orders, but he leaves it neatly packaged for you in the fridge instead of bringing it up to you like he used to.

You’ve gone from a mutual infatuation for each other to complete strangers once again. The house feels lonely and cold like it once did, your only real human interaction occurring in the few minutes you have with Mrs. Lee at the start and end of the day.

Minho doesn’t talk to you at all, locking himself away in his room like he did when you first started caring for Joon. And when you see him in passing at late hours of the night, he looks indifferent, sagging his shoulders as he averts your gaze with a book in hand and disappears down the corridors again. At some point, you begin to see his girlfriend less- in fact, his stoic composure makes you wonder if something’s happened between them. But as time goes on, you start to realize this is less about his girlfriend- and more about you.

What a gift it is to feel- but also what a curse. To let something consume you so entirely you can barely breathe without it. It’s laboring to think of anything else, of anyone else besides Minho and what he means to you. And as you replay your last interaction in your head for the nth time this evening, you think back to the day you started here. You knew the fundamentals of caring for a baby, having trained just enough to land a job doing it. All you wanted was to be liked by Mrs. Lee, and by baby Joon- and by extension, Minho. This household quickly became someplace you felt like you actually belonged in. But your purpose here has completely diverted from its original path, having prioritized Minho’s complexities and his feelings toward you above what you were hired here to do. You’ve experienced a roller coaster of emotions trying to understand him, and just when you thought you’d cracked him, you realized his heart belongs to someone else. So with the comfortable knowledge in mind that perhaps the universe isn’t, in fact, conditioned for you to mean anything more to him than just a babysitter, you understand it’s time to stop forcing any other version of it.

There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary two weeks into your avoidance of Minho.

You still haven’t talked, he still keeps his distance and you get paid to perform the job you’re here to do. But one afternoon before Minho’s even home from school, Joon refuses to eat. It starts with a tantrum he throws at breakfast time, which you consider typical as he knocks his cereal onto the floor and waves his hands around restlessly. You can only spoon feed him a couple spoons of yogurt before he’s put down for his afternoon nap. And when you wake him for his post-nap meal, he’s just as fussy. He seems to be bothered by something, crying loudly as you offer him different snacks and try your best to calm him down. But nothing seems to work, and when he begins refusing his bottles late into the afternoon, you start to panic.

Mrs. Lee isn’t home for a few hours, you’re unsure of when Minho gets home and you don’t have any way of getting to a hospital right now. The guilt and the fear eat away at you as Joon cries loudly, his face turning a bright shade of red as snot dribbles from his nose onto his shirt. He must be hungry, and clearly uncomfortable by something, only you’re entirely unsure what. His pacifier doesn’t calm him, nor does his favorite stuffed animal or his favorite television program. When his crying reaches the 10-minute mark, you feel hopeless, well prepared to drag him onto the bus to the nearest hospital yourself, fully convinced you’re going to lose your job. And as you begin to cry, too, the front door opens, Minho walking in with his backpack clutched casually in one hand and his car keys in the other. His girlfriend is with him this time, her head hanging as she uses her phone, completely oblivious to the atmosphere around her.

“Minho,” you call helplessly from the kitchen, and his head snaps instantly to look at you. Your eyes are nearly bloodshot from crying, your sleeves drenched in tears from wiping your eyes and your voice shaky as you speak. It’s the first time you’ve said his name in weeks, you realize, feeling your heart race as you call for him.

“What happened?” Minho asks when he turns the corner, throwing off his backpack and approaching a very fussy Joon.

“He won’t eat,” you reply through hiccups, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater again. “I’ve tried everything. He won’t stop crying.”

Minho takes Joon in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth, to no avail; Joon starts crying even harder now, dribbling snot onto Minho’s sweatshirt and hitting his chest repeatedly.

“I’ll have to take him to the clinic,” Minho says in a rushed tone, fishing his car keys out of his pocket and making his way toward the door.

His girlfriend finally turns the corner into the kitchen, putting down her cellphone and huffing frustratedly.

“What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” Minho replies, shoving past her with Joon in his arms. “I have to go. We can work on our project another time.”

Your heart drops at the words- project. Project, as in a project for his university. With a classmate.

You want to cry more now, for being so stupidly angry with him over nothing, but you still have to help Minho take Joon to the clinic. Sujin doesn’t protest, quick to exit without so much as a goodbye as Minho scrambles to fetch Joon’s car seat.

“I’ll get him in the car seat,” you say, pulling your sneakers on as he balances Joon in his arms.

“You’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” you scoff, already taking Joon from his arms and ushering him outside. “Go start the car.”

“Lee?” A nurse calls, holding a clipboard close to her chest as she scans the waiting room.

You and Minho both stand up, Minho balancing Joon in his arms as the nurse gestures you to the door.

“Please, follow me.”

Both of you walk side-by-side down the corridor as she double-checks papers on her clipboard, making a sharp right and leading you into a private room.

Minho sets Joon down on the examination table, holding his arms to steady him, and you stand beside him as you wait for the doctor.

“She’s just reviewing the results,” the nurse says, referring to the x-rays Joon took earlier. “She’ll be in shortly to discuss them.”

Minho nods silently as the nurse leaves the room, leaving the two of you alone once again. You say nothing, unsure of how to break the awkward silence as Minho wipes a string of drool from Joon’s mouth and avoids eye contact with you.

You feel awkward, embarrassed and so, so stupid, for having treated Minho like absolute scum because you assumed the worst of him. It breaks you to see him avert your gaze like this, treating you the same way he did when you first crossed paths. He has his guard completely up again, and you’re not sure he’s ever going to let it down around you. As you lose yourself in doubtful thoughts, the door opens, Joon’s doctor sauntering inside and wiping her hands with the strong scent of hand sanitizer.

“Hi there,” she says cheerfully, giving you both a warm smile. “Are we here for baby Joon today?”

“Yes,” you both say in unison, and she laughs a little.

“You two are very synced. They say it happens in the first year of marriage.”

“We’re not married,” Minho chimes in quickly, and you turn to look at him, feeling a pit in your stomach all over again.

“No?” She questions. “My apologies. Is mom here today?”

“I’m just his babysitter,” you say quietly. “This is his brother.”

“I see,” the doctor says, eyeing you both. “Well you may notice I’m fairly calm, and that’s because there’s no terrible news I have to share. Baby Joon is just suffering from a little mucus buildup. He’s probably feeling the impaction, and the discomfort has caused a loss of appetite.”

You feel a weight off your shoulders instantly, relieved that this isn’t a more serious matter. He’s going to be fine, you think to yourself. He’s going to be his normal self as soon as this is over.

“… Just be sure to use a syringe to drain the mucus a couple times per day, and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”

As the doctor writes Joon a prescription for his saline syringe, you catch Minho’s gaze briefly, shooting him a relieved look. He gives you a small nod in response, as if to say he’s glad you came along. And he is, he just can’t say it out loud.

“I think he’s finally sleeping,” Minho says, patting Joon’s back gently as he stands up from his chair. The two of you have been sat in the library for nearly two hours since getting back home, in complete silence as you read your books and wait for Joon to fall asleep. You take breaks every now and then to drain Joon’s mucus, alternating roles between holding his face still and using the syringe on him. And when he’s finally comfortable again, he dozes back off to sleep, little snores escaping his lips.

Minho leaves the room to put Joon to bed, and while he’s gone, you take the opportunity to pack your stuff and prepare to leave for the night. You feel guilty, not having said much to Minho this evening, especially with the newfound knowledge that this mystery woman was just a partner for his project. But you’re not sure what to say, well aware that he’s probably already decided you hate him, and there’s not much else you can do to fix things.

“He’s down,” Minho says as he re-enters the library.

“That’s good,” you reply with a solemn smile, packing your laptop in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

“Do you… need me to walk you?” Minho asks a little shyly, and although the offer is tempting, you shake your head no.

“I’ll be fine. It’s really not as unsafe as you’d think.”

Minho just nods, understanding that you still don’t want to be close to him. And he gives you a little bow, before he exits the room and makes his way up the stairs to his own.

As you begin to leave, an object left on the chair across from you catches your eye.

It’s Minho’s book- the first edition copy of Love and Limerence you gifted him. You take the small book in your hands, scanning its contents briefly and examining the pages. He’s already annotated several of them, despite having read the book numerous times now, and you can’t help but smile at his scribbled notes circling all his favorite quotes and underlining them twice. You know it’s valuable to him, despite coming from somebody he probably despises right now, but you decide to take it up to him anyway, not wanting him to lose it.

When you’re outside his door, you give a small knock as it’s left ajar, and Minho hums in response.

You enter quietly, holding the book out to him and shooting him a small smile.

“You left this downstairs,” you say, and Minho reaches for it quickly, embarrassed you might’ve seen some of his annotations.

“Thanks,” he replies, setting it back on his bookshelf of romance novels.

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to him, and you join him at a comfortable distance as he keeps his gaze on the hardwood floor.

For a moment, no one says anything. And then he sighs deeply, before finally speaking.

“I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you’re quick to reply.

“I clearly did,” Minho retorts. “And I know I’m quiet, and I kind of shut myself off from the rest of the world. But I never meant for it to affect you.”

“It didn’t affect me,” you reiterate.

He scoffs lightly in response.

“Why won’t you just say it? You haven’t talked to me in weeks. You don’t even look at me. I clearly did something to push you away.”

You don’t reply immediately, pondering what to say. And ultimately, you let your emotions speak for themselves.

“I was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of the girl. The one who’s been here almost every night.”

“Sujin?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know who she is or what she is to you-”

“My project partner,” Minho interrupts. “One who hates my guts.”

“Project partner,” you continue. “It doesn’t matter who she is- I like you, Minho,” you finally emphasize, turning to meet his gaze. His lips are parted in shock, his eyebrows furrowed as he hears you speak.

“I’m fucking infatuated with you, and it drives me crazy. I can’t go on vacation without seeing you in the books at the stores, I can’t sleep at night without your stupid theories replaying in my head. And I jump to the worst possible conclusions when you’re even near another girl. I’m going crazy trying to be liked by you- trying to look at everything through the lens of your romance theories or your book quotes, or whatever. But it’s so scary to like someone this much.”

Minho says nothing for a minute, collecting his thoughts as you let go of the breath you’ve been holding. He’s not used to people liking him- let alone being this intrigued by him. And especially when it’s in the form of reciprocation, from the one person he’s infatuated with, too.

“Why is it scary?” Minho questions, facing you now, his eyes darting briefly over your lips and then back up to your worried gaze.

“Because I’m here for a job. I’m not supposed to be feeling all this. You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“How do you know that?” Minho retorts, leaning in a little closer to you now.

“I just…”

“You’re allowed to feel, y/n. You’re allowed to want this.”

And before you can protest his words, his lips are on yours, kissing you passionately like he’s pacifying the arguments before they can come to fruition. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, your mind racing with a million thoughts about what you’re doing, and what this whole thing even implies, but you shut them out with the rest of your concerns, pressing your thighs together as he brings two hands to your face and cups your chin gently. His lips work against yours so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the two of you have done this several times before. And maybe you have, in all his alternate universe theories- on your honeymoon, on the run from the police- right here in the comfort of his grand bedroom, his hands snaking up to pull off your cardigan as you tug desperately at the fabric of his t-shirt. Minho says nothing between passionate kisses, afraid if he talks you might realize what’s happening and leave. But you won’t leave, especially not when you’ve been dreaming of this, too.

When your cardigan is off, Minho moves a little closer to you on the bed, letting one hand guide itself onto your waist and trace the gentle curve of your body there. He’s delicate with his movements, careful not to startle you with his touches, but he’s also admittedly thought about this for weeks. The thought of you confessing was never something that crossed his mind- he was so sure he’d driven you away after that night. Never in his wildest fantasies had Minho considered the possibility that you were this smitten with him, too. But he did have thoughts of your lips on his, thoughts of your hands intertwined with his and ungodly visions of you under him, right here in his bed. Visions of his mouth on your breasts after you’d accidentally exposed yourself to him in the kitchen and he was forced to give attention to the massive erection that grew in his pants. And after you’d gifted him his favorite book, attentive to the details he’d indulged you in which he never otherwise shared with people, visions of making love to you ran rampant in his mind, filling you up over and over again with remnants of him as a form of saying I’m infatuated with you, too.

Minho’s kisses become needier as your words replay in his head, darting his tongue out to dance against yours with the sounds of exchanging saliva present between your plump, eager lips. He pushes you back gently so that you’re now lying on his pillow, the angle so intimate, the view of his room from here like something you’re not supposed to see. The ceilings appear even larger when you’re flat against his bed, the curtains that drape over his bedpost seemingly miles high.

Minho’s kisses trail down to your neck now, eagerly peppering your flesh in wet kisses as your hands reach up to tangle in his hair, holding him closer to you and letting him graze his lips wherever he desires. You can’t help but feel guilty having him all over you like this when you remember how you’ve treated him these past couple months- criticizing his tendencies to be quiet, intruding on his space and pushing him away because of a girl you’d assumed to be his girlfriend. But you also know most of it has been because you want him to mean more to you- perhaps you’ve just been trying to change things so that in this version of the universe, he’s not just an enigma to you. You want all of this- his lips on yours, his body pressed into you and to give yourself completely to him.

“Just so we’re clear,” Minho says suddenly, pulling away from you to hold eye contact with you. “I’m crazy about you, too. I really like you.”

And you can’t help but smile back in response, pulling him in again to press his lips on yours. He smiles into the kiss, too, satisfied you’re both on the same page. And although your now eager movements imply something more is about to happen, you don’t have to verbalize anything, his fingers snaking up your shirt serving as answer enough.

“Is this okay?” Minho asks, grazing your flesh with his big hands as he toys with the hem of your shirt.

You nod in response, sitting up a little and completing the task of pulling it off over your head and discarding it beside you. You waste no time on your bra, either, reaching around to unclasp it and rid yourself of the fabric without him having to ask. His eyes widen again at the sight, having remembered every curve of your body since that incident in the kitchen. But now in front of him again, he feels his cock swell in his pants, desperate to act on the urge. In nimble movements, his hand cups the mound of your breast, kneading it gently and sighing at the sensation of your soft skin against his. His mouth finds yours again, indulging you in a slow, passionate kiss, and then he trails down until he meets his hand at the mound of your breast, pressing a chaste kiss to your flesh before finally latching his lips around your nipple.

He starts with gentle kisses while your nipple rests between his lips, a string of saliva dribbling down to coat your hardened bud. And then he takes it between his lips with more force, beginning a gentle sucking motion as he gives your other nipple attention with his free hand, circling the tip with his thumb in tender movements.

You sigh beneath him, the sensation sending a shiver up your core, your nipples hardening even more in his touch, now eager for him to give your soaking core some attention. But he takes his time stimulating you, moving to your other breast to take your nipple in his mouth and leave a trail of saliva. Your body shivers when the cool air grazes your wet nipples as he pulls away, and he meets your lips again to kiss you passionately.

While he kisses you, your hands now toy with the hem of his shirt too, signifying for him to take it off. And Minho reciprocates with a little nod, finally pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his bare chest to you. It’s a marvelous sight to see more of his honey-tanned skin, his toned muscles and his broad pectorals practically begging for you to touch them. And just above his stomach, a horizontal pale pink scar, one that he eyes momentarily and then gives you a shy shrug.

You run your fingers along the scar briefly, tracing it in its entirety and bringing your hand up to caress his face.

“I didn’t think I could be any more attracted to you,” you say to him sheepishly, tracing the scar again. “You look like the poetry you’re so obsessed with.”

Minho feels an involuntary smile pulling at his face as he leans in to kiss you again, this time intent on giving himself fully to you the way you deserve.

Your kisses both grow hungrier, needier, as your bodies tangle into each other, and Minho loops a finger into the hem of your panties, tugging them down so that he has access to your sopping cunt. As your hands tangle further into his soft brown hair, his finger traces down the length of your stomach, dipping into every curve and over every inch of flesh he only got a brief sight of. And when he finds your mound, you arch up into him, parting your legs slightly to give him access. Minho doesn’t waste another second, attaching the pads of his fingers to your clit and working you in circular motions as he kisses you. Little gasps escape your mouth as he does, breathing heavily into his kisses and grinding your core closer to him as he quickens his pace, smearing your arousal around your aching clit and circling two fingers around to massage you gently. His cock is now fully erect against his abdomen, prodding into your upper thigh as he trails his kisses down your neck again, but he’s patient, forgiving with his movements, eager to pleasure you first.

As his kisses graze your neck, you tug his boxers over his cock, pulling them down so you’re equal parts undressed. Minho winces a little at the sensation, a bead of precum already dripping down the head of his cock, and you feel yourself clench around nothing at just the sight of him hard for you.

When he takes note of your anticipation, he glances down at his own erection, locking his gaze with yours again as if to confirm again that this is okay. You nod in response, reaching your hands around to loop them behind his neck and pull him a little closer. And then your gaze falls to his cock again, waiting for him to make the next move.

The two of you say nothing as Minho’s hand finds the base of his cock, pumping himself gently before leaning in to kiss you. He lets himself hover closer over you, until his cock is kissing your entrance in the same gentle, wet movements as your lips. You lift your leg up slightly to grant him access, and then in gentle movements as your eyes remain shut, you feel him push his tip inside of you, stretching you out around his girth and causing you to gasp. He’s bigger than you anticipated, even the dripping arousal of your cunt having trouble taking him wholly. But he brings his fingers down to your clit again, massaging you slowly to ease the pain. And it works, your body relaxing around him as he pulls back a little and thrusts in again, this time pushing further until he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, his cock pulsating inside of you as he holds it there, feeling every inch of you clench around him and take him so well now. And then with a gentle kiss to your lips, he begins to move, his hips pulling back slowly to thrust back inside of you.

You feel so full of him, having him exactly as you’d always imagined him- circling your thoughts, hovering over you and finally inside of you, his cock brushing against your cervix so delicately with every thrust. Your labored breaths become one as you pant into each other’s mouths with overwhelming pleasure. Minho steadies himself with one hand on the mattress beside you, quickening his pace a little as he feels his cock twitch inside of you in response to a particularly pornographic moan of yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes as he continues to slip in and out of your soaking cunt. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you?”

He brings his lips to your neck again, nibbling the flesh between his teeth and letting it bruise as you moan beneath him.

“I’ve thought about you everyday,” you respond, angling his lips to yours again as he fucks you. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

“Yeah?” Minho says with a satisfied smile, working circles back onto your clit.

“Yes,” you breathe back, toying with his hair as your arms wrap around his neck. “I wanted you to fuck me like the characters in your romance novels.”

Minho feels his cock twitch again, wincing and slowing his pace so as not to finish just yet.

“I can’t help it,” you whimper underneath him. “I think about you all the time. I think about you fucking me all the time.”

Minho intertwines his hand with yours, pressing it down on your abdomen and letting yourself feel when his bulge fills you up at every thrust, the motion visible beneath your palms.

“Feel that, baby?” He asks between kisses to your drooly lips. “Feel how good I fuck you? Is this what you imagined?”

You gasp at the sensation once you feel it, the bulge of his cock protruding against your palm with every pump inside of you. You nod breathlessly, almost unable to reply to his words now.

“I imagined it, too,” he says, picking up his pace now. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to bend you over the couch and fuck you right there the moment I met you.”

He groans a little as you clench around him and moan in response.

“Minho,” you say breathlessly, not missing the way his cock twitches inside of you once again. “Will you finish inside of me?”

He pauses for a moment, scanning your expression for a sign of whether or not you’re being serious.

“Please,” you beg, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m on birth control. Just want to feel your seed inside of me.”

He shuts his eyes briefly as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in a little closer.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Minho asks, locking his gaze on yours again. “I want to, but I want you to be sure about it.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, the last syllable hitching in the back of your throat as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Please, just wanna feel you fill me up.”

He thrusts harder into you now, the room teeming with the squelching noises of your pussy taking him so effortlessly.

“You like it when we play house like this, huh?” He says, wrapping a hand gently around your throat. “You like imagining me as your husband, don’t you? Fucking you like we’re married?”

And it doesn’t take you more than a second to think before you’re nodding desperately at his words. You do love it, this sense of belonging when you’re in the Lee household. But you also get aroused at this second life you lead alongside him, caring for the baby like it’s one of yours and being fucked by Minho when no one else is around to hear your lewd moans.

“Yes,” you reply, your response muffled by his grasp on your throat. “You make such a good dad.”

“We’d make such good parents,” he emphasizes, kissing you breathlessly. “What do you say I fuck a baby into you and we find out for real?”

You feel yourself contract around his girth at the words, not having considered it seriously, but turned on at the idea of carrying a child just for him.

“Is that what you want?” Minho asks, nearing his orgasm as he thrusts even faster into you now, panting into your mouth above you.

“Yes,” you reply with a whimper. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”

“Yeah?” He cuts you off, pressing your abdomen harder with his hand. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Want you to feel it.”

Your senses hone in on the feeling of your palm over his bulge, pulsating rhythmically as he nears his orgasm.

“I’m cumming, fuck, I’m gonna finish,” Minho says, shutting his eyes in pleasure as he moves at his fastest pace now, his grip around your throat holding you steady as you lose yourself underneath him. He’s never finished inside someone before, but he has no intention of pulling out now, the conversation of impregnating you sending him over the edge as he reaches the cusp of his release.

You contract around his breathlessly now, eager to take his load, never having taken someone’s either, but desperate for Minho to be your first.

And with a few more harsh thrusts, Minho’s cock twitches once inside of you, finally letting out a generous load of his cum inside of you, the gush of his release filling you up so fully, the warm sensation of his milky white release thrusting deep inside of your pussy as he fucks the rest into you.

He feels his head spin, his eyes shutting instinctively at the sensation as he lets go fully inside of you, no urgency to pull out or stave off his release like he usually has to. And it takes a while before he’s begun to soften again, the knowledge of giving you his cum almost rousing him again and lengthening the period of his release inside of you. Minho already knows he’s going to be addicted to finishing inside of you from here on out- and he doesn’t want it any other way.

The warm feeling is all it takes for you to finish in mere seconds, contracting around him as he fucks you through his orgasm, your release mixing with his and dribbling down the side of your thighs as he begins to slow down. Minho doesn’t pull out immediately, instead caressing your face to gauge your reaction as he softens inside of you.

“Was it okay?” Minho queries, tucking sweaty strands of hair behind your ears and loosening his grasp on your throat.

“It was more than okay,” you say breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as he smiles down at you. “I feel so full of you.”

Minho kisses you sweetly, rubbing his thumb along your hand soothingly as he pulls out of you, a string of his cum connecting to you still and dribbling onto the sheets as he rolls over to lay on his side.

For a moment, the two of you say nothing, your chests rising and falling as you catch your breath and ponder the day’s events. It’s not what you expected was going to happen when you saw yourself up to his room again, but it is what you’d hoped would happen eventually. And the atmosphere feels much lighter around you now, completely void of the lingering sexual and emotional tension that’s plagued you for so long.

“Minho?” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Philosophically speaking, how many versions of us do you think are lying next to each other like this, right now?”

Minho thinks over your words for a moment, and then he chuckles lightly.

“Well if the universe was conditioned right, I’d hope for an infinite amount. But considering how long it took us to get here in this version, I’d say just one.”

And he sits up, leaning in for another kiss as two fingers tuck his arousal further into you, holding his release inside of your still-sensitive body.

“Have some bacon, honey,” Mrs. Lee says to you as she scrambles to get her things together for the day. “I made a lot, so help yourself.”

“Thanks,” you reply, strapping Joon into his high chair and smoothing down your skirt.

Ever since that evening, you and Minho have been inseparable. The two of you wait until Mrs. Lee is gone for the morning, desperately grabbing at each other and giggling between kisses until Minho has to leave for his classes. And when he returns, it’s much of the same, the two of you helping put Joon down for his afternoon nap before escaping up to his bedroom and making love until Joon wakes again.

Minho is completely and utterly obsessed with you, the same way you are with him, but you both know this game of house you play can’t go on forever. Mostly because you feel the guilt eating away at you day by day, every waking minute you’re tending to your duties as a babysitter or conversing with Mrs. Lee. It’s hard to be in the same room as Minho when she’s around, the urge to just confess even more present when she attempts to facilitate conversation between the two of you and you’re forced to act like he’s still a mystery.

But you have him more figured out than you ever have before, memorizing the freckles on his body like the back of your hand, reciting his favorite quotes like prayers and replaying the melodic giggles that escape his lips. You don’t want to be apart from him, but the point still stands- it’s scary to like someone this much. He consumes you more than he ever has before, filling every waking second of your life with remnants of him. You love when he reads romantic philosophical theories to you, or when he cooks you and Joon dinner after a long day. But you feel guilty when you’re alone with Joon again, hoping he can’t somehow tell that you’re only thinking of his brother when you’re preparing his bottles or feeding him. You hope Mrs. Lee doesn’t notice when your hair is a little too tousled to have just been from a nap, or the time you had to cross your legs to keep Minho’s release inside of you when the two of you had finished just in time for her to make it home. It’s selfish, and it’s unfair. And with no sign of this fling stopping anytime soon, you don’t see any other option to be fit.

“I’m leaving,” Mrs. Lee finally says, grabbing her car keys off the kitchen table and pulling her heels on. “Make sure to get Joon his medicine!”

The two of you watch as she shuts the front door behind her, and then you wait until her car starts, holding your breath as she pulls out of the driveway and begins down the street in what feels like an agonizing amount of time.

The minute she’s gone, Minho turns to you again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you lean back against the counter.

“Morning,” he says with a shy smile. He wastes no time leaning in for a romantic kiss, which you reciprocate, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling into him.

When he pulls away, the two of you say nothing, holding each other in a comfortable embrace as he rubs little circles into the small of your back.

“I guess it’s just mom and dad home right now,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your neck. “I’ll ditch class right now if you want me to fill you up again.”

And his offer is tempting as he presses his erection into you, working more kisses down the nape of your neck and trailing his hands up your skirt.

“No,” you finally say, pushing him away and collecting your thoughts. “You need to get to class. I have a lot of stuff to do. I’m working, in case you forgot.”

“Okay, okay,” Minho says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I digress.”

He pulls back to caress your face with a visible smirk as your eyes graze his thighs, so beautifully sculpted under the fabric of his jeans. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so sinfully tempted by somebody before, like Eve to the apple, like a moth to a flame- he’s intoxicating, but you know you shouldn’t be indulging this while you’re here to fulfill your role as a babysitter.

“You should go,” you say to him, swallowing nervously as his hands trace the outline of your lips.

“Yeah,” Minho replies, a hint of disappointment present in his voice.

And without another word, he gathers his car keys off the table, sending you off with a little wave as he disappears for the day.

You may have Minho mostly figured out now- his fascination with romance and philosophy, his soft interior under the stoic exterior he presents everyone else with, his astounding levels of emotional intelligence and unwavering kindness for the people he loves. But now that things have become a little more complicated between the two of you, you fear all of this will come to an end as fortuitously as it all began.

The reality is, this isn’t one of Minho’s romance novels- you’re both real people, with emotions and convictions and reservations. And though you want this fleeting thing to last forever, you’re well aware that things don’t work that way, especially when you’re just a babysitter at the end of it all. Sure, Minho sees you as much more than that- but you were hired to be here in the Lee household, paid to fulfill your role here, and once this comes to an end, your relationship with Minho likely will, too.

… and thus, the decision to quit your job isn’t one you take lightly. It succeeds hours of thinking, weighing your options and planning out exactly what you’re going to tell Mrs. Lee when she asks why you’re leaving so suddenly. You want to do another internship, you decide on telling her, hoping she doesn’t poke enough holes to get the truth out of you- “I think far too much about your eldest son and it’s eating me alive.”

All day long, you try your best to shut Minho out of your thoughts, focusing on your online courses and caring for Joon like you used to. But it feels futile, this task of pretending things are the way they used to be. They’re not- you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back and hooking up with her eldest son. When all’s said and done, you’ll be right back in your own home, with your parents desperate to send you elsewhere once again, and your own life to tend to. This double life you romanticize isn’t real, nor is it attainable anymore.

Your phone call with Mrs. Lee to announce your decision doesn’t set anything in stone yet, her words urging you to speak with her later this week when she has some free time. But you know once you do speak with her, you’ll only have a few evenings left with Minho until this is all over. And you don’t have the heart to tell him just yet, but if things go anything the way they did when you first brought it up to him, you know he’s going to be heartbroken.

When Minho arrives home that evening, he can already sense something is wrong. You’re sat in the garden, where you typically don’t go, your legs crossed neatly over one of the sunlounger chairs as you let your thoughts consume you. Mrs. Lee’s koi fish fountain stands nobly in front of you, a robust stream of water trickling from its lips and into the concrete bowl below. You’re mesmerized by it as you always are, the steady sound of water coupled with the birds chirping in the sunny greenery around you as peaceful as ever.

“Hey,” Minho says, sliding open the screen door and stepping outside to meet you.

“Hi,” you reply, holding a hand up over you to shield your eyes from the sun. You’d forgotten how divine he looked today, his white button up now folded up at the sleeves and exposing his veiny forearms to you.

“How was your day?” Minho asks, pressing a small kiss to your temple as he occupies the spot beside you and stares at the fountain.

“Okay,” you respond, though you’re lying through your teeth. “Joon went down about an hour ago.”

Minho nods, and then he furrows his brows together as he speaks again.

“Why are you out here?”

You shrug in response, keeping short with your words as he pushes you for answers. And you want to tell him it’s because you made the most painful decision to call Mrs. Lee and forfeit all of this, but you know it’ll only hurt more, so you divert from the truth.

“It was stuffy inside,” you voice back, shooting him a small smile.

Minho seems to relax beside you, his shoulders sagging a little as he takes notice of your calm demeanor. He doesn’t have reason to believe anything’s wrong, judging by the way you converse so casually.

“You want me to cook you something?” Minho asks, placing his palm up next to you, and you let your hand intertwine with his.

“Will you read to me?” You ask, eager to indulge in your favorite activity alongside him.

“I can read to you,” Minho echoes back, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your hand. “Which book?”

You’re both in the cozy atmosphere of the library later that evening, Minho sat on his favorite velvet armchair as you occupy a spot in his lap with his arms wrapped around you. The book is positioned in front of him so you can both see, his fingers holding open the thin pages as the poetry leaves his lips, pausing in between lines to press kisses to the crook of your neck when he’s reminded of you in his favorite characters.

And you hold back tears in the moment, wanting so badly to tell Minho that you’ll be letting go of all of this, running back to the monotony of your old life, one where Minho doesn’t exist and you don’t have to balance the complicated feelings of liking someone to this degree. But you bite back your words, careful not to ruin the intimate moment you share while he loves you in an ignorant state of bliss.

“The pleasures of love are always in proportion to the fear,” Minho begins a new chapter, grazing your neck with his lips.

He trails a bit lower to graze your shoulder now, pressing a small trail of kisses as he pauses his reading. You giggle softly in response, feeling his fingers find the strap of your tank top to pull it down your shoulder so he can pepper kisses there, too.

“Minho,” you say softly, writhing in his embrace as he tickles every inch of your skin with his kisses, now shutting the book and setting it on the arm of the chair.

“Can’t help it,” Minho responds, shutting his eyes as he snakes his hands up the back of your tank top. “You look so beautiful right now.”

As you adjust in his lap, you can feel he’s now rock-hard in his jeans below you, his thighs flexing underneath you as he wraps two hands around your waist and runs them up and down your sides. You take the hint, turning around in his lap to face him, and let your arms wrap around his neck to steady yourself.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho asks, bringing his lips to yours as he feels his hardened cock graze against the fabric of his jeans, eager to pleasure you.

You want to express your fears, your doubts, to tell him the truth about what you spoke about on the phone with Mrs. Lee earlier today. But you can’t, not when he looks so tantalizing in front of you like this, his bulge perfectly outlined in his tight jeans and his veiny arms flexing below the fabric of his collared button-up. You’ve been roused for him since he left in the morning, his offer swirling your mind coupled with his appearance, like something out of a wet dream.

“You,” you voice back, whimpering pathetically into another kiss and rocking your hips gently over him so that he’s practically whimpering for you, too.

Neither of you have to say much, knowing already where the evening is headed, as you unzip his pants and palm his erection through the fabric of his boxers. Minho watches as you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him and tugging the fabric of his jeans. He complies with your urges, pulling them down to his knees and freeing his erection from his boxers, exhaling deeply as the cool breeze of the room grazes his leaking tip.

Without a second to waste, you take him in your mouth, letting your saliva coat his shaft as you kiss his tip tenderly and then guide him down your throat, the base of his cock just barely meeting your lips as you struggle to take him fully. Minho groans at the contact, bucking his hips off the chair to guide himself further into you, feeling his cock twitch when you gag a little at the contact. You stay like that for a good while, bobbing your head in rhythmic motions up and down his hardened length, your saliva allowing you to graze his shaft with ease.

Minho’s thighs contract desperately below him, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s been longing for since the moment he saw you this morning. His hands find your hair, pulling your locks into a makeshift ponytail and gasping as you take him a bit deeper now, pulling back again to pepper the tip of his wettened cock in drooly kisses.

“Fuck,” Minho breathes out, clutching the arm of the chair so desperately. “Baby, stop, I don’t want to finish yet,”

And you release him with a gentle pop, knowing exactly what it is he wants so badly. You never deny it, sitting back up again to position yourself over his cock you intertwine his hands with yours. He uses one hand to tug your panties to the side, and then in one swift motion, you guide his cock inside of you, sliding down the slick of his length and bottoming out with ease. You take him so well now, always able to adjust to his girth instantly as your cunt is always dripping in anticipation when he’s near.

Minho’s hand moves to push your tank top up, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking harshly as you begin to bounce on him with gentle movements. The room fills with sounds of panting, sucking and desperate moans as his cock fills you fully with every thrust, brushing against your cervix as he moves to your other nipple and kneads your breast desperately.

“What was that quote again?” You ask in labored breaths as he comes back up to kiss your lips.

“The pleasures of love,” he begins, breathlessly working his lips against yours as you clench around his length. “Are always in proportion to the fear.”

Minho feels his cock twitch inside of you, always nearing his finish much faster when you make him recite all his favorite quotes and book excerpts to you.

Except this one speaks much louder to you, directly aligning with your present-day emotions, circling your mind relentlessly as he fills you. Maybe this is what his book speaks of- the pleasures of love, being filled so fully and lovingly by Minho, two pieces of one whole like you’re both made for this, to make love into the late hours of the night while he recites poetry to you.

And all of this in proportion to the fear- this constant fear that he’s just a fleeting entity, that you’re both naive to play house like this and pretend it’s anything more. The fear present while you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back, letting him fuck you like he’s married to you and indulge you in all of his deepest secrets, as though you’re the only one allowed to know him this intimately.

The love and fear and indeed in proportion to one another- you love him as much as you’re afraid of loving him.

“I love you,” you say suddenly, bringing him in for another kiss before he can respond. But the way his kisses work against yours, hungry and passionate, there’s not a hint of reluctance in his response when he pulls away to speak again.

“I love you,” Minho breathes back, working his kisses against yours as his cock pulsates inside of you, desperate for release. “And I hope every version of the universe is conditioned for us to be right here.”

You smile into him, slowing your movements as you feel him contract inside of you, and then his thighs flex as he finally finishes inside of you, shooting hot white ropes of his cum into your still-clenching cunt, his release already beginning to dribble back down his length as he feels you slow down over him.

You bring a hand between the two of you, gathering his cum on the pads of your fingers to circle your clit in gentle movements, stimulating yourself to your release, too, as you contract desperately around him and breathe labored kisses back into his mouth. Your juices mix with his as you catch your breath, keeping him inside of you as your chest rises and falls with gentle movements. But the two of you say nothing, pressing your lips together to indulge in more passionate kisses for the few minutes you have left before Mrs. Lee makes it home for the evening.

The garden is particularly beautiful the next afternoon, teeming with the sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. Mrs. Lee let you know she’d be home a little earlier to have a chat about your decision to leave, and when Joon is put down for his afternoon nap, you receive the call that she’s in the garden waiting for you. You enter hesitantly, worried Minho might catch you and question what you’re doing out here. But he’s not home from school yet, you remind yourself, glancing around the tall grass and neat rows of potted plants for Mrs. Lee.

“Y/n!” A voice calls from one of the patio chairs. “Come, sit!”

Mrs. Lee sits with her back facing you, a large white sun hat atop her neatly styled hair and complementing her matching white jumpsuit. Her gaze remains locked on the koi fountain you’re always transfixed by, too.

“Hi Mrs. Lee,” you say, giving her a small bow as you take the seat next to her. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She nods with a smile. “So good to see you when we have a little more time. I’m sorry I’m always such a mess in the mornings.”

You shake your head quickly, brushing off her words. “Not at all! It’s always nice to greet the family before I start my day.”

She just smiles in response, turning to nod at you, and then she turns back to the fountain.

“I was a little surprised when you called the other day. I hope things are going okay.”

“They are,” you interrupt quickly. “They absolutely are. Joon is so pleasant, and the job is great. I really love it here.”

“I hope everything at home is okay,” she moves on to say, and you quickly reassure her.

“Yes, everything is fine! Everyone is doing great.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Lee says, eyeing the ground before turning to face you now. “You’ve done so much for us, I’d be lying if I said I’m not going to miss having you around here in the mornings.”

You shoot her a sympathetic look, feeling a pit form in your stomach, too. You feel the same, probably tenfold, at the idea of leaving behind the household you’ve called home for so many days.

“I’m going to miss it here, too.”

“And I know Joon is going to be heartbroken,” Mrs. Lee says with a chuckle.

You chuckle too, giving her an understanding nod.

She pauses briefly, furrowing her brows together, before continuing her speech.

“You’re such a bright young woman, and I know you’re destined to do amazing things. If there’s a way I can help in this transition, please don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”

You nod at her words, and watch as she smooths down her top before standing up. She seems to wait for a moment, as if hoping for you to say something, and when you don’t, she begins to make her way back inside.

“Well, I’ll let you go for the evening. Thank you again, for everything. And you have my phone number if-”

“Mrs. Lee?” You call out suddenly, catching her before she can get much further. She turns around at the worry present in your voice, her face shifting into that of concern.

Without having to voice anything else, Mrs. Lee sits down again, waiting for you to continue. But you can’t, your heart beating wildly in your chest at the thought of even bringing up the topic of Minho. I’m in love with your son, you want to say to her. I’m so in love with Minho and I hope you understand I don’t have a choice but to leave this all behind me.

“You know,” Mrs. Lee interrupts your thoughts, breaking the silence that fills the air. “This koi fountain was my first gift from Mr. Lee.”

You nod at her, remembering when she introduced it to you on your first day here.

“We weren’t married yet. It was his first restoration project, and my dad hated him. So he had a lot of trouble getting it over to me.”

You chuckle lightly, amused at her story which seems to calm you down a little.

“Luckily his parents adored me,” she continues. “And they offered to house it in their backyard until we married. For the 15 years we dated, my koi fish lived in their garden. And when we did marry, they rented a big truck to help haul it over. It was such a project! But it’s my favorite part of the garden.”

You shoot her a saccharine smile, well endeared at the way she speaks of Mr. Lee. You can tell she’s in love with him, even this many years later.

“Sometimes I wondered why they would do something so nice for me. But as I grew closer to them, I learned not to question what was meant for me. They loved me, as did Mr. Lee. And I wasn’t going to run from any of that, no matter what I felt I deserved.”

Your head snaps in her direction at her last words, realizing how they apply to you. But she doesn’t know about Minho- at least not to your knowledge, or Minho’s. She gives you a sheepish smile as you furrow your brows, and then she takes your hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze.

“I hope you won't run from what you deserve, either.”

You nod a little bit at her words, finally understanding the weight of them, and then you look back at her with a confused expression.

“Mrs. Lee, are you talking about…”

“Minho?” She finally says, with a warm smile. She takes your other hand in hers, too, tilting her face to yours so that she’s making proper eye contact as she speaks.

“I had wondered why he was so happy these days. Minho’s always been a bit of an outcast. But I haven’t seen this spark in him since he started his obsession with all those romance novels and philosophy studies of his.”

You chuckle lightly, a weight off your shoulders as she finally speaks of what circles your mind so heavily.

“But how did you…”

“I knew it when I saw it,” she says. “I knew it, because he had the same look in his eyes as when I met his father.”

You feel your heart swell in your chest, your shoulders relaxing as she continues to speak.

“He speaks of you like poetry,” she tells you. “And for that alone, I’m thankful for you. Now what you choose to do is your decision- but I hope you know you will always have a home here with us. Not just as a babysitter, but as family.”

When Mrs. Lee finishes her speech, she gives your hands a little squeeze, smiling at you and back at the koi fish fountain. It feels much more sentimental to you even now, the beautiful waterfall that cascades serving as a reminder of its permanent restoration rooted in the infatuation Mr. Lee had for Mrs. Lee. And watching it stand so beautifully like it did all those years ago, you’re reminded that love can be a lasting thing, no matter the circumstances. The universe can condition itself to make things last, affirming the philosophical notions Minho’s always told you. And that perhaps you do deserve this, a sense of belonging here in the Lee household, right here alongside Mrs. Lee and Minho, and even baby Joon.

As you watch the fountain together, the sound of the sliding door makes itself known behind you, and you turn around to find Minho entering the garden, baby Joon sitting comfortably in his arms as he makes his way over.

“Hi,” Minho says, coming around to give Mrs. Lee a kiss on her cheek. “What’s going on here?”

He looks visibly worried, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Mrs. Lee, as if to silently ask you what she’s told you.

But Mrs. Lee just smiles at him, as she gets up from where she’s sitting and smooths down her jumpsuit.

“We were just having a girl chat. I’ll leave you two alone.”

And she disappears behind the screen door again, shooting you a little wink as she does, her anecdote circling your mind, still.

“What happened?” Minho asks, settling down next to you and balancing baby Joon on his knee. Joon fists at the fabric of his shirt, babbling incoherently as you smile down at him.

“Nothing,” you say, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. You refrain from saying anything about leaving, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment you share with Minho and Joon in the sunlight of the garden.

“You have a really cool mom,” you settle on saying, smiling at Minho as he chuckles softly in response.

The afternoon sun beams through the glass windows of the library as you lie comfortably in Minho’s lap, his book positioned in front of you as he presses a small kiss to the back of your hand before turning the page.

Outside, the birds chirp songs of early spring, the steady stream of Mrs. Lee’s koi fountain audible as you peer down at the garden.

Mr. and Mrs. Lee sit in the tall grass, fiddling with a box of tools as Mr. Lee repairs a new project for Mrs. Lee. This one’s a much larger fountain, one he’d told you would take several months, perhaps even years. But Mrs. Lee sits beside him, relishing in stories of his restoration process and laughing with him as he works. You can’t help but smile at the sight, her stories about him playing in your mind whenever you catch a glimpse of them together.

“Do you think they could be us in another universe?” You ask Minho, turning to face him as he peers out the window, too.

“I hope so,” he says with a smile.

You settle closer to him in his lap, pressing a small kiss to his hand as he continues reading.

“And think not that you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

At his words, you hear baby Joon cry out, having woken from his afternoon nap.

“I’ll get him,” Minho says, shutting the book and setting it aside to go tend to the baby.

And as you peer back out the window, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s laughter filling your ears, baby Joon’s voice calling to you, Minho’s philosophy book perched on the chair beside you and the sun beams shining their light through the windows, you know that this is belonging, this is love.

#stray kids #skz smut #Lee Minho #Lee know #stray kids hard hours #Lee know smut #lee know scenarios #skz x reader #skz hard hours #stray kids x you #skz #fanfic #request #requests open #Spotify

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kooyabooya · 13 days ago

Text

SPECTRE

m reader x giselle // 32k words

part one of silken promises

This astonishing thing about fate you realize - probably, is that it doesn’t have a solid line on the end of a paper for you to sign off on. And honestly, if that were to be the case, you’d wipe off the ink immediately after; call the offer off and hide under the flashing lights, waiting to reap you of your secrets.

In pure and utter laziness, you’re saying: “Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.”

Giselle twists her face to you with a raised eyebrow, clearly insulted.

“Sure, the simple life of having a house outside of town and in the woods sounds nice and all, maybe some kids to fill the empty space between the rooms, but I just thought that we would have-”

She flicks away her cigarette. “It’s an arranged marriage, you dumbass. They wouldn’t care how we thought it’d go either way.”

The conclusions were already drawn up, and agreements were already in place. You have your reasons for stalling the talks. She tells you that the deal’s ludicrous; you consider it to be archaic - as a counterargument, you think, and holds your point there.

“Now that you’ve signed the damn papers finally,” Giselle proposes, “How do you want to go about this?” She asks, already wondering what will make the two of you being ‘officially’ together.

Your answer didn’t matter to your parents nor hers, but just with Giselle and Giselle only. She sees this forced entanglement to be a matter of principle; to appeal the masses, and suffer the flack in the latter later. You see it as your own life being sealed away, without fully grasping your head at the fact of what you’re getting yourself into.

–

To address the armageddon of narratives bouncing around and between the headlines capped in bold fonts through the phone screen, this is what you know:

You’ve got a stake in the family business - a rough, sizable percentage in the double digits if you want to consider it comfy but - no point in disputing the diluted shares over your father’s dead body. He’s overseen the company’s growth from when you were in diapers, blindly convincing you on a dare to work alongside him; law and business degree aside, you wished that you’d focused on writing, or architecture. You’re not so entirely sure yourself, but your luck in being born into a family that’s made themselves well off two to three decades away from retiring and enjoying the tempting pastures that life has to offer; it’ll happen soon, but needless to say: you’re rich, and pretty famous.

There’s this new family merging into the family business group: the Uchinagas. At first glance, the family is like yours, probably placed on the other side of the coin. The father’s been a longtime friend with your father since college, starting up various start-up projects before eventually parting ways to build their own business to high degrees of success. The same could also be said for the mother: knee-deep in the fashion industry with connections and almost every top model that she could ever call in her contact list, and your mother’s got her nose in some brands that crossover with her mutuals. Then, there’s the daughter.

On another refresh and through a different outlet of news on your phone, you see this one website was claiming that the Uchinaga’s are a bright new addition to the family business, a cover photo capturing you and her standing side by side for a gala event that was hosted by her family. Her birthday party, as a matter of fact.

Right off the bat, she looks amazing in the photo, there’s no denying that. It’s got everything within the lines of glitz and glamor, considering the amount of effort that they’ve put in towards the party held in their backyard, let alone the sizable guest list (that you had no idea of making it in, but it’s written in ink); Giselle Uchinaga’s shoulder brushes against yours - drinking in the moment - where all the eyes, cameras, and lights are solely on her, and you also arm your look of genuine admiration to her at the side.

Her hair is in these embered, wavy locks, resting right beside the bust of her off-white dress, wrists and neck shining with the most expensive jewelry that could ever be gifted to her. More of the pictures from her birthday celebration actually make it into the article, building a profile for the hottest global ‘it girl’ that’s got nearly all the rich guys or guys with notable profiles fawning over her when she’s in close proximity. She seems very camera shy at times, and that’s apparent when your shoulder shields half of her face when you’re beaming the widest smirk that you could wear. In a way, this still serves as a clear foreshadowing that’s yet to be foreseen, since the posse that you two possess almost candidly appears that way: a wedding celebration, or a grand coronation of something bigger, like royalty.

(It’s a pairing that the people realize that it’s the kind of pairing that wasn’t wanted, but needed.)

The pictures from the party continue to get swiped across the screen. And you can kind of see what everyone’s been talking about.

Sure, there’s the shared history of attending the same law school together, taking the same classes, meeting in various events with the respective families in different showcases and brand engagements. Sharing a few words with each other but never really escalating above that imaginary barrier that you’ve falsely put up in your mind to make sure that you’re not thinking about the different kinds of ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s’.

You and Giselle aren’t exactly friends, just mere acquaintances - to better the title between you two at best.

(You’ve played it safe, however: away from the tabloids, not getting yourself into any kind of trouble whether it’s outside of office hours or in various business dealings that you were tasked with. Needless to say, you’ve got it easy; while the same can’t really be said for Giselle, who’s always getting herself into trouble. She’s no stranger to scandals, let alone having her name and face on the front page of a newspaper or the first thing you see starting up your computer in the mornings. Always involved in some form of drama that gets twisted by the journalists, some of them wanting to taint the image of not only her’s, but the family’s as well.

Aside from that infamous picture of you and her together at the birthday party, there’s also one other article from a shady news source that only focuses on the worst in celebrities. She’s managed to put herself right into the primed position - where she’s getting busy with someone she met from the nightclub on a whim, fingers twiddling with the belt buckle of said lucky contestant, while his hands are about to get busy, pressing deeper into the mix of fabric harboring the skin of her hips. Everyone within the first five seconds of seeing that picture can immediately put two and two together - write up different points of commentary and subtext between the lines; but the words, especially the ones that are created soon after - it sparks a supernova of sorts in the media.)

But you switch to the original tab and scroll back up to the photo from the birthday party, just to get a good look at it. A double take with the provided optics. You can see why people are in awe between you two. It’s laughable that people online are calling for this waiting ship to sail.

So much for saying that you and Giselle are just ‘mere acquaintances’ to each other, but you’ll let the rumors curdle in speculation.

–

This merger, however, was supposed to be seen with a positive outlook in mind.

It was supposed to be seen as a healthy, mutual relationship between the two parties of your family and Giselle’s family, along with the deeply rooted rapport lying underneath the professional connection. It was supposed to be a step towards something great; not only for the business, but the image of all companies involved to gain a massive boost in profits from the public.

Doesn’t help with the fact that there were some ambitious individuals in the field of journalism who were willing to undermine this special moment, threatening to expose a scam that involved your father and Giselle’s father in a business venture gone bad years ago. Murky details aside, but we’ll just say that there’s blood on someone’s hands. No amount of money bribed could ever sway those guys to walk away from a story that will create shockwaves throughout the industry - if it did get out.

Luckily, they agreed to the hush-money settlement, with some persuasive (and questionable methods, but you couldn’t care fuck all about their overall condition physically) methods from your family’s legal team, but that incident was just the sole catalyst for more people to start sniffing around the business. The questions keep coming in, and the news are always hungry for a story born out of blood.

So.

There was an agreement that’s nearly set in stone. An agreement without you or Giselle knowing of the deal in the first place: to have you and her to be used by the family as trojan horses - as scapegoats - to veer the burning spotlight away from the anticipating merger and have it focus on the forced relationship fabricated between you two.

The announcement has still yet to be made, the primary reason is because you were reluctant to show up to the three meetings prior with Giselle’s family to discuss terms and conditions, but she’s also done the same in not being in attendance. A form of protest that you didn’t even get in contact with her to do, but you’re also content that she’s on the same page as you.

Albeit this was a clear non-verbal middle finger to both your parents and Giselle’s, you’d do everything you can to drag out the talks for as long as you could. This proved to be effective, until your father started to meddle with your personal stake of the company, intimidating you to reconsider the offer; or else your piece of the business, the one that you’ve created from the ground up, was absorbed back to his control.

You’re fighting a battle that you cannot win. Not when you’re cornered and bottlenecked to the point where it feels like you’ve got no way out.

At least you’re not alone on your side.

–

“The Uchinaga’s are waiting,” someone says to you. Your eyes fixated on the monitor and the packet on your desk being skimmed through with a twirl to your pen, “Should I let them know that you’ll head over in a minute or two? Sir?”

Then it hits you when you look up. The deadline. This arrangement was the last round of talks before the final decision could be drawn up, regardless if you put in your own word or not. It’s a little late in the morning, and you’ve got yourself knee-deep in paperwork. What’s even the point of showing up to the meeting if you haven’t been to them for the past couple weeks?

“My bad, Winter,” you say to your secretary, dropping whatever you were doing at your desk to prepare yourself, listening to the clicks of heels along the floor as Winter helps you put on your jacket, following her out of your office, “I completely forgot that the meeting was today. I owe you for that.”

“You can save it for after when you get out of your own little pickle,” Winter tuts, sitting back down at her desk right outside the main walkway. “May I remind you that you’re also the one that got into this mess in the first place?”

“Do you really have to remind me with that question every time these meetings are about to happen?”

“What? It's a good starting point in conversation.” Winter answers, looking over along with you to the increase of people pooling through the main entrance past the elevators. “Look at that,” she says, raising her eyebrows when you're doing the double take, “And so the hurricane comes crashing in.”

Even from a distance, you can still single out Giselle and her parents as they walk more into the floor of your office. The visuals are still insane to see; not a flaw to be noticed from any of the three. It’s a little bit frightening. Giselle takes her place right behind her father and mother, as if they too, were her own line of defense, protecting her like some prize that was worth attaining, diverting some of the attention towards her in a different direction. The surrounding office workers take a pause to look, watch as they meet your parents, exchange greetings and the usual niceties since it’s second nature. Your mother looks at your father, assuming that the inquiry was about your presence, and your father actually flashes his eyes in your direction, telling you from afar: We’re expecting you to be here. Don’t be stupid and make us wait here all day.

As much as you’d want to refuse with a simple turn the other cheek, you know that today was not that day to do that. Not anymore. With a simple nod, you comply with your father’s demands, and he nods too. He then motions your mother, along with Giselle and her family inside the assigned room set up for the gathering, looking back to ensure that you won’t be long behind.

“Are you busy?” you ask Winter, surprising her with the sudden question that makes her tense up in her seat, “Normally you’re not busy since you’ve done the stuff that I’ve asked you to. So I’m just gonna assume that’s a yes.”

“How’d ya know? What are you, some kind of mind reader?” She laughs, hands up to emphasize the sarcastic propositions, “Who do you think you are, me?”

You shake your head, nicking it to the side to signal your request, “I’m not even gonna answer that. Just walk with me.”

Winter obeys, immediately standing up and rounding her desk to be at your right hand side, bearing down the pathway to the main conference room where the meeting was happening. “I gotta ask: Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Haven’t had an idea in the slightest.” You answer, speeding up your pace by one or two bigger steps in your stride. “Remember that preliminary assessment we had on Giselle? Why don’t you run that by me–”

Winter clicks her tongue, mind already fast enough to pick up on what you were asking: “Giselle is the only child of the Uchinaga family. She graduated top of her class with a degree in law at your alma mater, also has degrees in finance and business. She’s got praises from well-known individuals to be the poster child with her line of work. Oh hey, that really reminds me of someone else now that I think about it-”

“You smartass.” you smirk at the hidden verbal jab thrown at you, walking past the cubicles and heading right up the walkway, “Keep going.”

“She’s got herself in business and ambassador deals with brands that upped the stock prices for posters, billboards, social media posts, selfies with fans, daily engagements and appearances, etcetera etcetera- you name it.” Winter continues with the mini info exposition dump, matching your stride. “Every picture or tag that has her face or name plastered and attached is never ignored. Not to mention she’s-”

“I need to hear what matters, Wint.”

“She’s also a bit cynical, blowhard, a pretty pick-me girl, uncrowned royalty, someone that’s a bit reckless and in for the thrill of trouble. A bit spoiled with her things, I think. Bratty might also be another term thrown up in the air. Presents the refined etiquette when it matters, but in most cases, she doesn’t really care.” Winter muses, listing all of the different characteristics with her dainty fingers, “Is that too much, or can I add more?”

You stop at the door of the conference room. Behind it was your parents and Giselle’s, along with some considerable figures orchestrating the deal along with them, waiting for your arrival to commence the meeting. Right when you were about to enter, you bridge your eyebrows together towards Winter, nearly appalled at all the things she’s mentioned about the girl you’re being paired with, “Are you sure that’s what you assessed, or is what you’re saying about her just out of spite?”

Winter cocks her head, rolls her eyes up to where the eyelids rest at the top, “If you wanted me to be nicer, why didn’t you say so?”

(You know that Giselle’s got some good graces in her heart - but she’s not perfect, clearly - she’s on the same boat as you: a little problematic with a thing or two that’s worth hiding.)

“Just wanted to see what was your personal angle about Giselle, that’s all. Nothing too deep.”

“Among other things,” Winter breathes, stopping herself with a hand on her hip, “I think she’s amazing, aside from everything I just said about her,” she concedes soon after, sighing, “Most people with a status would kill to be in your position right now, even if they knew what was happening behind the scenes or not.”

“Are you telling me that there’s benefits to this?”

“Giselle’s a heartthrob.” Winter puts it simply. “Play your cards right with this deal, and who knows what might happen.”

Winter then walks away, walking backwards while maintaining eye contact with your widened eyes. There’s something in the back of your head that wants to admit some form of defeat, finding comfort that there’s a possible silver lining in a connection with Giselle. You don’t hate the girl. No. That would be too harsh - a spectre manifested deep within your mind out of uncertainties that would prove to be your own demise in the false name of love.

Love. You’re thinking as your fingers grip the door handle. That’s a little bit out of your lineage anyway - but what’s the worst that could happen?

–

Giselle, her parents, along with a few people that were comprised to be the additional handlers on the team are all seated around the table, binders and folders with various contracts - revised and refurbished - covering all the necessary details and crooks within the lines; you remember hearing the talks having orderly returns in terms of feedback, assuring that everything would cover the shady deal story from ever breaking out. You’re getting the proper representation, but still feel like you don’t have a say in this.

(But like you realized earlier: you’re not the only one, remember? You’re content that there’s at least one more person, other than yourself, who can share your hidden levels of pent up frustration - and she’s sitting right across from you.)

And even with the substantial profile, the aristocracy between these men and women wearing designer suits and pretty dresses, it still fills your mind with unease that there’s this tug-of-war, a dispute over control. You’ve got your own life to seize, and you definitely know that better than anyone else here sitting in this room with you.

But the press will love this, Giselle’s parents are explaining, but you and Giselle both have your tongues tied to the top of your throats - publicists and others managing your loose ends jotting down notes to make sure nothing is left unkempt. Giselle sits on the opposite end of the table, in between her parents mirrored to your format. She’s emitting this sense of tiredness, laid back and disconnected, like she was dragged to be here. Her eyes make contact with yours before darting away to a corner up on the ceiling or towards the window, while you twiddle your fingers in circles. The sigh that leaves your lips only exemplifies the boredom evermore.

“Is there a problem here?” Giselle's mother asks, laced with a tinge of annoyance - almost like you’re taking this as a complete joke, for what it’s worth. “I’d like to remind you of the fact that you and our daughter are the sole reason that there hasn’t been any motion moved forward with this plan in the first place.”

This is where one of your core flaws come to light: the absolute sense of unbotheredness that you bear in your demeanor. It’s not that you’re far-removed from things that you have no control over, it’s the notion that when it does get out of your hands, there isn’t really any effort coming from you to do something about it.

Your gaze returns to Giselle, who looks at you dead in the eyes, slightly pressed and on edge. She’s telling you with her irises that she would rather break that window five feet away from you, take a leap of faith, but instead she remains sitting still - looking over to her mother again who’s clearly unimpressed with your present attitude.

“Not at all,” you answer, a wave of the hand to double down on the sly smirk spread across your face, “I just hope that we’re not here for long so that I can agree to your terms and sign the damn contract. Is that not what we’re here for?”

Giselle’s father looks over to his wife, the people around the room also exchanging murmurs as to what just occurred. Your parents are also aren’t willing to even look at you for a second, shifting their attention to a hand or random page on the docket, discreetly sighing before your mother puts a hand on your shoulder to dial it back. Please, she’s telling you. Don’t make this any harder than it already is for us.

But Giselle’s mother stifles a laugh, one filled with languor and regalness as she turns her cheek the other way to hide her visible amusement. To be fair, she’s not the one that’s getting shoved into the deep end playing a cover up story; she’s got other things to divert her focus on, no worries filling up her head because she knows the endgame already. You’ve dealt with people like her before - to no avail, putting up with their tangents of how people in a lower step than them can’t really see eye to eye with those who are in the upper realms of society.

You’re wondering too, if Giselle is like that - god forbid if that’s the case, but only time will tell.

“Alright,” Giselle’s father says, easing the tension with a cleared throat once the laughs subside. “I don’t see why we can’t get straight to the point then: Why haven’t you signed the marriage license agreement?”

The answer has been pretty simple and straightforward up to this point, and you gave it to them the same way you’ve always had: “I still need time to think it through.”

“Think it through?” mocks Giselle’s mother, “What’s there for you to think through? You’ll marry our daughter while our family merges into your family’s business group. While that also takes care of the other ‘incident’, you’ll also get our unwavering support going forward.”

No doubt that you’ll get the benefits and the support, but if you’re really being honest with yourself: you’re just a simple guy when dancing with the idea of love. You’d rather tie the knot with someone that you have a genuine connection with that isn’t Giselle. It might be selfish for you to think that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless.

“It’s not that I have some sort of connection with Giselle,” you say, flipping fast to the end of the page where the blank line is still waiting to be written in ink, “I just think that it’s not fair or right for you to force us into this position; to be married, but not in love.”

“Love? You don’t think that you could be in love with my daughter?”

“Mrs. Uchinaga, perhaps my words weren’t as-”

Giselle’s mother grabs her daughter’s hands, delicate and precious as if she’s encased in marble. “Play your words carefully and wisely, young man,” coy smile armed and ready to fire, “I’ll have you know that she’s got more options in the list to choose other than you. I really hope you reconsider.”

“If I sign this contract, will you be satisfied for us to submit to your archaic idea?”

The question drops out of thin air, with silence filling up the room again. Giselle’s parents just stare in awe while you have the pen in your hand, putting your name down in cursive across separate documents. Your mother looks over your arm while your father raises his palm up to the ceiling, a smirk at the corner of his lip with an eyebrow raised. He’s probably saying, see? I told you guys that he’ll come around. Now we can discuss the other matters that need to be taken care of.

You exhale as the pen hits the desk. A relief of unnecessary stress lifted off your shoulders while Giselle and her parents look at you in genuine surprise.

“Okay,” you sigh, scanning everyone’s faces on the opposite end of the conference table. “Do you mind if I get some fresh air while you guys sort out the rest of the deal?”

–

Had it been any other meeting that you attended, you’d power yourself through and stay inside to discuss the final details and clauses, but your parents and Giselle’s parents both agreed that you could stand outside on the balcony while they shackle both of your names down to the legally binding contracts.

A ‘cathartic’ experience could also be one word to describe the thirty to forty-five minutes sitting in that room, hand quick to the pocket of your pants where your nearly cleaned out pack of cigarettes were. There were more ideal ways to relieve your stress that doesn’t involve in deteriorating your overall health, but your ears close in on the rough click of the lighter-

“Didn’t know that you were the smoking type of person.”

That moment right there. That’s what gets your attention; right when you least expect it and with your guard down.

At the turn of the head, there’s this flash of these bright, heavenly, light coffee brown locks. Her jewelry is also another point of interest, illuminating and highlighting the points in her neck and wrists where the sunlight will bounce right off of them. It’s like watching a firework pop up from two feet away, blinding you with this sort of simple elegance that compliments her cool, balmy expression.

“Do you normally come out here during the day on your breaks?” She asks, approaching closer to you while you’re indulging the rolled up piece of small paper captured between your teeth. “I mean, your parents aren’t exactly responsible for you but-”

“It’s already a bad first impression right off the bat. I know,” you tell Giselle, handing over your half-burnt cigarette, to which she takes from you as a surprise when she turns her profile out to the skyline and huffs out the smoky curls trailing from her lips. “Though, who’s gonna judge what you and I do in our spare time?”

“You have a fair point,” says Giselle, wrist slacked as she watches the embers at the end glow in a fading orange, “Can’t keep troublemakers like us in one place. And I still can’t believe that I had to be at this stupid meeting anyway. Like-”

“I mean, what did you think was gonna happen?” you ask, scoffing as you lean the side of your body to the paned glass on the balcony, “I’m curious to hear your side of the story.”

Giselle brings the cigarette to her pouty lips again. You watch as her eyelids flutter shut when she hollows her cheeks slightly for the inhale, tilt her head down a bit over the balcony where she has the streets of the city in her view. Her side profile is flawless, to say the least, until you notice a small string of hickey’s blooming on the bridge of her collarbone - it’s a mental note to keep to yourself - also not your place to ask, but you can assess early on what kind of girl she is.

The exhale she lets out is exaggerated, then the stream of smoke follows through soon after.

“Nothing but complete bullshit, if you ask me.” She answers, tapping the ends off the edge while examining, “What about you? Since it looks like you’re the one who’s holding the end of the deal for God knows why.”

She’s right in that regard, and you’re not denying it.

“Among other things, I just didn’t show up. And neither did you.” The hand behind your head softens the guilt - but not by much.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.”

–

The remaining details and clauses along with the marriage are finally set, with a schedule also talked about once you and Giselle head back inside.

But there’s nothing really significant that gets mentioned regarding who will be responsible for what, and the fact that you and her aren’t even giving a single fragment of attention to your parents, solidifies that.

“The job’s simple as it is, isn’t it?” You’re rolling your eyes while asking, “All we have to do is just pose like a married couple and look pretty?”

Giselle snorts, gratefully falling into the mere folly of the idea. “Didn’t think we’d be in this position, but I’m behind it.”

–

Here’s the thing about the whole idea, anyway. It never goes according to the original plan.

It’s out of your hands though, and it’s neither yours or Giselle’s fault to put the blame on the aspect of control and logistics:

“Mrs. Uchinaga. What can I do for you?” you greet Giselle’s mother at the desk of your secretary, interrupting their super-important gossip session in the opening hours of the usual workday. “I wasn’t expecting you to be back so soon, let alone have an opening for you in my schedule-”

“I’m just dropping by, don’t worry,” reassures Giselle’s mother, holding the button of her coat when you stop your bearings right in front of her and Winter. “I was just leaving, but not to inform you about your appointment.”

“Appointment? For what, exactly?”

“Your marriage in court.” Giselle’s mother sighs, with a flash of your eyes towards Winter, who looked completely out of the loop as well with the sudden news being dropped like a fresh bomb in water. “I had the date moved up because of some personal reasons, which I hope you don’t mind. Giselle was supposed to tell you, but I caught her out late at night, so here I am.”

“But-”

“I’ve left the note with your secretary,” she continues, beginning to depart from the desk. “It’s not a good look for you to be late to your own wedding now, is it?”

You only get the last flashes of her flowing hair as she reaches the other end of the walkway, mind still processing everything that just happened in the last minute or so. Turning to Winter, “Did you know about this? Or did she just-”

“I’m just as shocked as you.” Winter responds, an outreached hand with a simple note in her fingers, taking it and opening up the contents which confirms your suspicions. She then leans forward with the tilt of her head, “Am I invited to your ceremony? Hm?”

“I don’t need to answer that.” You tell Winter, crumpling up the court order redecorated into an invitation. “Just clear my schedule for lunch. I’ll be having it with Giselle today.”

“Hitting it off right from the jump, are we?”

“I’m gonna fire you if you don’t shut up.”

–

You’re hoping that this would be the first and only time you’d ever set a foot inside a courthouse.

Luckily, it isn’t too busy for anyone to really notice as to why you’re here. Just fulfilling your civic duties as a law-abiding citizen as a plausible reason; with the company of your family, your soon-to-be wife, and along with her family, everything about today might go well for you - keep wiping the sweaty palm along your slacks, you’ll do great, just trust me.

Right when the ceremony is about to start, your father walks up to you, doing some last minute checks along your outfit; patting down and fixing any loose crinkle or slant along your suit, goes a bit too tight on the necktie, making you pull the collar a bit so that you could breathe.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve thrown me into?” You ask your father, watching him get one good look at you before nodding in content.

“You know the story well enough, kid,” he answers, and you smirk at the subtle appreciation of honesty that your father has for himself. The no-nonsense type of deal, giving it to you straight - it’s how he made you the way you are, and you’re thankful for that. “I know that you can hold your own, so be proud.”

He gives a thumbs up from his seat as the doors open at the end of the room, welcoming Giselle. Her dress was simple, a floral pattern scattered across the cloth that radiated in this off-white tone, hugging every curve of her body (and her legs are just- okay, really? At a time like this?) as she finally reached the makeshift archway.

She locks eyes with you, light makeup and everything. Everything that’s framed on her face just leaks out perfection, it’s captivating. From the tilt of her lips, to how her long lashes bat towards you, the tilt of her chin when she slightly looks up to compensate for the height difference. It isn’t so bad after all: realizing how Giselle Uchinaga leaves quite the apprehension on you, all five-five of her to be exact.

“You look good,” you tell her in lieu of a hello, palms up to where her hands meet in the middle, taking yours as the small crowd of various family and team members take their seats, letting you two take the stage from this point on.

“Why thank you,” says Giselle, hiding the small blush breaking through cheeks as her fingers cling onto yours, voice gentle as you’re smiling along with her too. “I didn’t have time to prepare, so-”

“I didn’t have time either, so that makes us even.”

Giselle giggles a bit, holding herself back with a turn of her head near the wall. You decide you like that about her, but she pulls her composure back once the officiant finally gets the procession going. Everything that’s done in a wedding ceremony, regardless if it’s traditional or in court, it just ends up with endless words being stretched out for miles and miles, preaching about the joy of unity between two people. The idea alone is a beautiful tale to tell, but when it comes to the whole experience itself, it doesn't really translate the same way.

You remember upon arriving that Giselle was going to be the first in saying the vows. Not that you were complaining, of course, mostly because you were gazing into the universe hidden behind her eyes to not even hear your name from the officiant, but she answers I do, which doesn’t cause a hitch at all.

And what feels like forever, finally turns to the moment that everyone in the room was waiting for:

“Do you take Giselle Uchinaga to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The officiant asks.

“I do.”

Here is where you’re having second thoughts - for just a brief moment, not too long - how Giselle’s eyes know exactly what your worry was in that instant, telling you that it’s okay. It’ll be something that gets talked about after, no doubt a good laugh to come out of it, but if you’re gonna jump down into this sort of new hell, it’s a relief that Giselle is the one to jump down with you.

A close of the book: “You may kiss the bride.” The officiant says, and you do.

The angle where you take your mouth into hers is something worth swooning over. A proper lock where you’re tugging Giselle’s bottom lip slightly, slipping a bit of your tongue into her mouth that makes her grip on the back of your neck a bit tighter. She helps along with a raise of her leg with your hand, leaning her back until she presses a fingernail down into your skin, signifying a pause, returning back to the roaring cheers and applause from your inner circle watching from the seats.

You pull her back while her hands are loosely corralled to your collarbones, taking a note of how her perfect lips mesh with yours, how small her waist fits into your arms, nicking your forehead into hers, eliciting a laugh while looking left towards your parents.

“Hopefully I wasn’t a terrible kisser,” you mumble, parting a wisp of hair away from Giselle’s eye. “That was good, right?”

Giselle blinks again a few more times, watching your finger treat her cheekbone. “A bit of an impromptu, but we can practice that more if you want.”

You’re not opposed to the proposition already.

–

Another perk, or incentive - a benefit if you will, comes in the form of your living situation from your family estate to a proper loft settled into the heart of downtown. This also means that the commute to work won’t be much of a hassle - and you can most definitely dabble with the suggestion of sleeping in a little bit more, since you are your own boss, duh.

Just when you think that the issue of how your personal belongings would be moved over to the new place, your parents and Giselle’s had already taken the liberty of sorting that out for you two. The only thing that’s the main priority now is filling up the fridge with some of the essential goods from the market, along with some of the utensils, all in one trip up the complex.

“Do you think-” you’re huffing, fixing your grip on the paper bags brandished across your forearm, looking over as Giselle fiddles with the keypad of the lock, inputting the wrong passcode for the second time now, “-you can open a little bit faster? My arm is killing me.”

“Shut your whining,” Giselle replies back, getting the passcode right and swinging the door open, welcoming you and her into the relatively new space that you’ve only had for five or six days since the court wedding. Life moves a bit fast, but you’ll have a laugh to yourself when everything gets settled. “There, just set the bags down on the counter, I’ll sort them once we take a breather.”

The city lights shimmer in the open paned windows past the living area, given the fact that the clock on the wall adjacent to the glass tells you that it’s 8 pm, and taken into account of the two boxes brought in by your mom which had some of the last few things from your room - which you’ll get to later once the shoes are off and not on the walnut flooring.

“So,” Giselle’s beginning to say, the paper ruffling on the marble of the counter, “Just so that we’re clear again, we’re-

“Living in our separate rooms, like you requested.” You answer, circling around the kitchen island as Giselle hops up on the countertop, dangling her legs while she treats herself with a bowl full of grapes. “When we have guests over, we’ll use your room as the shared one.”

“Cool.” She happily bobs her head, popping a grape between her lips before sucking it in the second after. “And it’s not because my room is the bigger one.”

“Of course not,” you say, assessing the open space again before you fish another grape for yourself.

“Before we do our own things,” she starts again, fingers in her handbag, taking out a small box encased in leather. You could already tell what it is from the crimson shade protecting the contents inside - it could be anything inside you think, let the mind imagine all of the wonderful possibilities with the intention as a gift. “My mom wanted us to have this, for added insurance.”

When she opens the box, it reveals a silver pair of couples rings. The rigid pattern molded across the metal in two different sizes - had that not been obvious enough for who’s going to wear them.

You pull Giselle’s ring out first, take her left ring finger, and nestle that where it belongs. She does the same for your finger, watching as her eyes concentrate on her fingers grazing across the knuckle as she twists the ring a bit in place, to add some security in the placement.

“Looks cute,” you assess, matching your left hand with Giselle’s, watching the ring shimmer below the overhanging light. “Didn’t think your mom would be good with jewelry, but I hold my doubts back.”

Giselle stifles a chuckle, hitting your shoulder while hunching over, tapping your arm again before sitting upright. Her hair curtains a little more than half of your neck, a quick whiff of that oceanic scent from her body wash; but she pulls just a bit to where she has this glow emitting in her wicked smile. It’s almost worth falling for - the domesticity - you’ve got your keepsakes and Giselle’s got hers, in spaces big and small where it feels like they belong. There’s also that luck of moving things fast (maybe too fast, you’re also realizing, but given the circumstance, it’s for good reason) and the telltale of it all is something literally ripped out in multiple pages of a book. You and Giselle will occupy this space for as long as you need to, and who knows what that trail might lead to - it’ll be a bridge to cross once you get to it.

“Gotta have the appearance before you act the part,” tuts Giselle, letting her left wrist go slack, lightly resting her chin on the top of her hand. “We’ve checked off one box already, but for the other?”

“So you're saying that we should practice that more?”

“If you’re willing, then yes.”

It’s something you’re not willing to fight against, the way the balls of your feet elevate your heels off the floor, tilting your head and to the side when your lips lightly press against Giselle’s. She tastes sweet, how gentle she is when her hands wrap around your neck, pulling you, eyelashes fluttering in this twitching motion when you move up, deeper into her mouth, not ever wanting to part from them in the first place, but you yield for now.

Giselle pulls herself away, fingertips lightly gripping on the felt of your cardigan, exhaling as you lick your lips, savoring the sense a bit longer. “How was that?” she asks, your hands resting to the sides of her thighs, “You still feel uncomfortable?”

“That’s not exactly the word I would use,” you remark, but you might be falling apart already.

–

Not long after the last meeting with the families - give it about two or three weeks, maybe more - you’re not entirely sure at this point, the announcement regarding the arranged marriage set between you and Giselle gets out into the open world. Confirming the supposed relationship while also steering the rumors about the fraud case between both of your families away from the spotlight, just as they wanted.

The impressions and engagements from the various article posts say a bunch of good things in high regard between you two. Most of the comments you’re seeing and hearing are raving all over you and your new fiancė, claiming that there’s a lot to be expected in how your appearance in the public will change overall going forward.

You’ve got yourself involved with various testimonials and meet-and-greets, preaching about the value of success, with the occasional questionnaire at the end of every one of them. Some people ask about you, which you have no issue answering. While others ask about your love life (for fanservice, you assume, and something that makes all the girls crazy), to which you share your praises about Giselle; spewing all the good parts about her while holding yourself back from spilling too much, forcing a gushy expression to sell the act, but everyone adores it apparently.

(You never forget to give thanks for how people can be swayed into falsely believing anything that they read on paper or on their phones. A tragedy in itself, but when you’re high up on the pyramid of society-

“If only they knew the truth,” you’re telling her over the phone in the car, shaking your head at the tinted window after noticing all the people who came to the event - waving and screaming as you’re being escorted off the premises, seeing a picture on your phone of yourself hiding your face when they put a picture of Giselle on the big screen, scoffing as you get a closer look at it.

“Just be glad that they’re loving the news.” Giselle tells you, softly laughing on her end. “Because that shows proof that the whole idea of us is working.”

You’re probably wondering how long you can keep this facade up with her as the car continues to roll away.)

–

“I have a thing for you,” Winter declares in another way of saying ‘good morning’, looking up with a small scowl to her face as you closely approach her desk, “Your tie is also crooked, so unprofessional.”

“Wow, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious,” you reply, “I was just about to fix it.”

“It’s called an observation, genius,” retorts Winter, twisting her chair left towards you resting your elbows on the desk, “Rough night?”

“I guess you could say.”

Winter chuckles, types a few words on the keyboard, hits enter. “Do I really want to know?”

“You don’t.”

“That I can accept. And oh- by the way, Giselle actually dropped by just ten minutes ago,” she adds on, placing an envelope next to your arm. “I think that’s the event happening tomorrow night.”

“What event?”

“Some party that both her and your parents are putting together. I don’t know, I’m just the messenger here.”

You rip the seal open and flip up half of the paper, which turns out to be an invite - or notice - for the obligatory gathering. Meeting with the extended family past the in-laws, all together for one big dinner and mixer. The preliminary plan right off the bat was to stay and indulge a bit, get acquainted with some of the other figures that Giselle is familiar with, then eventually leave the place and never come back for the rest of the night.

(Part of you wants to tear up the paper and bolt straight to the nearest window.)

–

“Our car’s already outside the lobby,” Giselle tells you the next day, a simple black gown with an opening to the side where some of her leg sticks out. “And I also have your watch if you’re still looking for it.” The bluntness is already enough as it continues to add in her paradigms of sayings.

“I’ve been ready,” you muse, stopping short by Giselle as she treats a hand to the collar of your shirt, you yourself patting down the jacket until she steps away; the blinking doesn’t stop however - seeing the prettiest features of her face up close. From those sly eyes, feathery lashes, even the dead expression shifts something in your composure.

She hands you back your watch which clicks around your wrist in no time. You raise it up after with your ring in view - it’s Checkov’s gun, a necessary tool for the appearance, a staple in the new look. Not to mention that it shines well along with the fanciness of your appearance and Giselle’s when she puts her hand up to match. “Look at us, hm?”

“Ready for some madness?” you ask, elbow out for her to hook. “I already want to leave.”

“Leave as in leave our place or leave from the party?”

Giselle gives you this look of genuine concern, causing you to look away with flared nostrils and a smirk painted across your lips.

“I was hoping that you’d get the joke,” you sigh looking down, and open the front door on the way out.

–

Once the sunset disappears into the horizon and the shroud of nightfall takes its place, you’re fighting every single urge in your body to look at the hands of your watch - strategizing the proper time frame to sweep Giselle from whatever conversation she’s got herself into with people that look like they’ve got enough money to hideaway on an island for the rest of their lives, a big circle in the sense of community, but also a really small bubble.

Anyway,

The rundown of the current party for you right now: everything’s relatively tame with the people that you’ve been talking to. Some of which you haven’t seen since grad school. You get pats on the shoulder, get a glass raised for your biggest score that you’ve ever hit in your life marrying Giselle. While you’ve got the feel-pretty-good face while nursing a mojito down, because you deserve it, it’s been a long week as it is.

So you talk - and keep talking, get some more drinks (but just enough for your own alcohol tolerance), grab a few bites from the provided food thanks to the insane catering service brought in by your parents. A few members of the press got inside access to this event, with the agreement that nothing was to be overshared. Aside from all the bright lights and nicely fitted outfits everyone’s got going on across the pad, it’s almost like they’re a part of the group too.

Word gets round the different pods of groups; your name getting bounced around with Giselle’s, but a lean of the ear and a side eye is all you give them. You’d assume that it’s in good faith, cocking your head back over to see Giselle at a bar on the other side - upper body leaned over the counter, sharing a laugh with someone, but her body language tells a different tale entirely.

It’s something not worth thinking twice the way your feet move at their own volition.

A closer look the more you maintain your heading: she’s got a hand stacked to his arm, the angle her body is facing appears to show more cleavage, leaning over to stick the round part of her ass some more, the wistful gaze she’s giving this person also puts a dirty look on your face. She’s gone way too far.

“Hey,” you greet, nose buried into her hair before you pull yourself back, giving the guy a quick look then back at Giselle. “Everything okay?”

Giselle nods, “Just conversing. Sorry.” She’s got her hand over yours, showing the glint of the rings towards the guy, and he gets the hint - walking away with a string of apologies spilling out of his mouth. “What the hell was that for?”

“I think we can take this discussion inside.” you say, and you grab her hand instinctively.

–

Aside from the liveliness happening right outside the doors, you’re sheltering yourself away deeper and deeper into the walls of this massive estate. Just down a few steps, into the hallway. You don’t even live here, not anymore at least. But anywhere far away until the crowd noise and music is nearly diminished. Giselle gets rid of your grip on her wrist, and the faint vibrations of the bass match with your heart, between your ears.

Her guard is slightly up, and she didn’t even have that much to drink:

“Wanna tell me what the fuck was your problem back up there?” Giselle asks, backpedaling away until her posterior taps the wall. The overhanging dim light in the hall makes her smaller. “I didn’t even do anything wrong, I swear.”

“You think?”

“No!” She softly exclaims, letting her shoulders drop while she racks her head about. “I couldn’t stand being with those girls earlier when we walked in, talking about all of my-” Her breath gets trapped between her lips, frozen still, as if she completely lost her train of thought right then and there.

“Your problems?”

She winces a bit, as if the word was a rough tear on an old wound. “Yes.”

“You could’ve,” you’re trying to say, stepping closer with a hand to the side of her head, looking up to the staircase where there’s an influx of laughter at the top steps, “Said something earlier, to me.”

The next revelation that follows hits you right on the nail, to the top of your head.

“I wanted to come to you.”

It’s a sinking ship; a capsize happening in full effect.

“So why didn’t you?”

In the low highlights of fluorescent purple mixed with darkness, you meet her eyes when they shine every few seconds. A thought is there, you can tell from her gaze alone. But this was just a part to play; you remember suddenly too, why was this going to be an instance where you’re worked up over nothing?

Deafening silence builds between the space of your bodies. A momentary time to reflect.

“I just didn’t,” is all she answers with, and her eyes go wide, hand to your tie, fiddling away. “I should’ve, but-”

“You didn’t.”

It could’ve been anyone else to be with her. It could’ve been someone other than you standing where you are right now. But you’re holding your breath, endlessly wondering why if at all-

“I’m glad that you did anyway.”

Everything gets thrown off the table when you have Giselle’s face in your hands, kissing away to your heart’s content. You ask questions later; the only thing that matters now is how you’re bruising up her face with yours, press into her lips, her cheeks, her nose, tilt her chin up with one wrist meshed into the wall, she’s twisting and tensing, returning the pressure and indirectly asking for more, her grip is getting greedy, greedier.

You’ve got a hold, and she’s got one on you. Her arms corral you, her leg hiked up by your hand, running upwards on her thigh. A small pocket forms between your lips and hers, and she inhales, nearly floating on air.

(This is a litmus test, a dry run, an improv - you don’t know how far the limit is but this is essentially a leap of faith. How far can you fall from grace in the short span of time spent with someone like her?)

But you hold back; not in nervousness, no, though her lidded eyes are in view while your breath weighs heavy. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, what she’s feeling. You’re also in the same boat as her; a finger to her jaw, her bottom lip, a potential claim waiting to be traced by you. It’s only natural for your hands to shift their way down to her hips, anchoring her in place with the wall, twisting her body as she patches a hot kiss to your cheek, the line of your chin, whimpering mindlessly as her dress rumples up between your fingertips-

“Watch yourself,” you mumble in her lips, get a quick hiccup out that makes her giggle - catching her open mouth again to keep her quiet, the hands also aren’t helping when they sift down lower to her ass, a grasp where she accepts it wholeheartedly, nodding away like yes, this is good, love it when you touch me like this, I know you want more.

The shared stumbles you and her take scaffold into this gentle slope, hobbling down the walkway as she figuratively and literally can’t keep her hands off of you, keeping herself close to where any second apart would pretty much kill her. An arm from you keeps her in check while the other is searching for an opening, a passage, a temporary asylum where you and her can harbor for a bit, away from the noise.

“Come on,” Giselle grits, her breath shaky and stuttery. “Don’t keep me waiting. I swear to fucking god. Don’t you dare make me wait.”

That ups the ante a bit, kissing as it’s the equivalent to drinking water. You and her are shuffling down the hallway, playing a little lottery game of opening doors that lead to somewhere safe, and a stroke of luck strikes after two or three attempts. It's a bit murky with all the alcohol in your system, but the tolerance is still there.

“What do you want?” you ask, the line coming off as a mere mutter when you take the space broadened by the tilt of her neck upwards, a lick as she burrows herself into your collarbone, seething at the teeth. “Tell me. Please, I’ll do it. I promise. Anything you want.”

“You,” she says, biting the sensitive skin of your throat that only makes the grasp of her waist even tighter. “I just want you. Nothing more.”

Giselle pleads, and she begs. Even when her back is against the closed door of one of the guest rooms. You’re not worried if someone will come looking for you. This shouldn’t take long, but it should also last forever.

“I’ll treat you right,” you tell her, and it’s an act you’ll double down on. She knows how good you’ve been. You can see it in the way her body relaxes, letting you have free reign for as long as she lets you. Even as you’re kissing her again, her hand’s already quick on the gun, bringing it down to her hiked dress, past lace she’s hidden under your nose cast aside for your fingers to dip down into her slick, and her mouth goes slack suddenly, spreading her apart, chest fluttering to the peak. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You can feel her, yeah. There’s no point in denying, if at all.

“-s’more than that, remember?” she barely spits, voice tethered, and the gratitude she has in the way her hand is literally a death grip on yours, inching your digits as far as you could take them; it also doesn’t help how your thumb it lightly pressed into her clit, and she just falters on the wall, completely fucked out in tandem with some of the drinks too. “God, I can’t believe-”

You let her have this: the way that she’s fucking herself onto your fingers, the yelp of pain into a sound of relief when your teeth mold into her skin along the line of her collarbone and neck. She’s got a little bit more of her dress higher now, watching her eyes go from sweet - to something more primal, the want infecting every inch of her body and mind as she shakes herself down again. In a split-second, you’ve got her on the nearby vanity, leaning down to keep her quiet with your mouth, a handful of her dress in one of your hands; she’s shutting her legs together with a hand stuck, fingers fully covered in her slippery cunt, yelping out loud to the point where the palm has to come in play as another muzzle, her eyes are welling up in tears and her cheeks are in this perfect rose shade, pumping your fingertips well past her breaking point. A part of you gets worried, but the soothing smacks of your lips across her exposed chest and marked up neck serve as an act of amnesty for her poor body, and she’s still asking for more.

“Shh,” you whisper in comfort, and Giselle calms down for just a bit - but she stills every muscle and bone in her body when you find that one spot that drops her whole mouth wide open, holding her breath right in her chest and throat. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. I bet it feels amazing: having you like this.”

She bears no answer to your merciless teasing, and the only thing that you’re fixed on is the feeling of her sopping pussy stretching out around your fingers. You almost laugh at how her hips slightly buckle upwards, and the irregular breathing as she looks down to witness the damage.

“Please, please, please,” says Giselle. “You know what I want right now. Don’t fucking-”

You’re reminded again at how well she can leave quite the impression. A bit unbelievable that all five-five of her small fame set on the vanity still functions properly after you’ve fucked the daylights out of her for the time being: her hands quick to undo the belt buckle and button and zipper, palming your cock that sends all synapses and impulses towards one action, and the both of you know that it’s something that you need. Her dress gets removed off little by little and-

She wasn’t wearing a fucking bra underneath that dress. You’ll come back to that later.

The jacket goes, then the collared shirt gets unbuttoned. Giselle’s got her legs spread out wide along with her folds, a thick tip as the first point of contact, throbbing at how the fucking clamp gets you off guard, sliding more into the proper groove. Giselle eyes lose focus, fluttering shut with a delayed movement to them, blinking. Her cunt embracing you fully, warm and inviting; it’s a lifeline, a burning one, you’ve got yourself buried deep where breaking her down comes a lot more easier.

Her cries get through your ear canals, muttering nonsense even when you’ve got your lips on her again to shut her up. Fuck, she’s telling you, and you’ve got half the frame of mind to be with her on that.

“Holy s-” you huff, no point in stopping now, “Yeah, okay, you-you’re so, fuck.”

And when you do reach the base, sheathe yourself right at the hilt, this could be a culmination long awaited, but it’s right here, in this moment, where no one else is watching - let alone noticing where you two have gone, the strokes pick up a bit with Giselle’s breath in these staccatos with the thrusts you’re giving her, her head hits the mirror a bit, and a heel falls onto the floor.

“Fuck,” she groans again. “So-so fucking deep, ugh-”

“Oh you fucking know it,” you mutter again at the fine line of her throat, leaving another claim to the row of marks blossoming, unsure if this was what she wanted (but in truth, it’s exactly what it is.) “Relax baby, I know. Just be good for me, that’s all you have to do.”

She begs again. A quick please that gets silence with another harsh snap of your hips into her. You’ll take her. Tear her apart until the crimson is visible everywhere on her body. She’s got a hand to a singular tit, the rebound of these endless ripples on her hips and into the curves of her body. Looking at her will do damage to your brain, and listening was already bad enough as it is - the hisses, her moans, the praises showering you at how well your cock carves into her volcanic cunt-

You’re pulling yourself into this sort of flow state, kind of like zeroing in on a singular thing. Nothing else really mattered what was happening past this door, or what you’re thinking of doing come the next day. Giselle’s creaming cunt keeps you focused as she reaches out to lean your body forward again, lips forcing you to stay the course. As if the mere possibility of getting lost with her body was almost a one-hundred percent certainty.

“Christ,” says Giselle, back sliding down onto the counter as your fingers find a new hold into the crease where her hips and thighs meet, yanking her back as you meet her in the middle driving forward. It sends a shock up her spine, along with a forced yelp from her lips, gasping soon after you groan while steadying yourself again back into the consistent rhythm you’ve built. “So good, so-so good.”

“Wanted me to knock some sense into you huh?” You’re grinning as Giselle’s eyes roll back, borderline sobbing; the fucking too much to bear that she’ll give you an earful about it once all of this is done. But when her eyes look up it’s an expression that’ll be something worthy of a taunt or pretense for the next time: determination, and you might be done for. Her glint in those watered-brown eyes of hers are filled with satisfaction as they disappear underneath the eyelid again. “Was that the problem all along? What other issues do you fucking have as baggage, hm?”

“Not your business right now,” she shrieks a bit when your cock carves a bit deeper into her. “Jesus,” her ankle gets taut around the small of your back, pussy clamping hard around your cock, pausing your strokes in line with the heavy breathing. “It’s just- your cock, I can’t bel- ugh, it’s too- mmm, god.”

When you’ve got her past the edge, it’s a beautiful sight to see, watching her orgasm front and center. It’s in the rolled back eyes, the bright flush of pink spread across her face.

“There we go, Gis,” you say to her as her walls respond to the bodily reflex of your cock twitching inside of her. “Good girl, breathe for me. You naughty little-”

She grabs onto your hand while her teeth hold themselves captive in her mouth, muscles along her waist tensing until she leaks out a clear yell, “Fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck your mouth, your fucking co- God, I hate how good you are at this, it’s infuri-”

You muffle her with the necktie, and a pinch of her clit while your cock bottoms out in her momentarily sedates the screaming.

“Too fucking loud,” you spit, watching her whimper away with the article trapped on top of her mouth: “Is my cock not enough for you to shut up?”

She couldn’t give any care for the questions - granted that they are rhetorical. But her pussy is still unbelievably tight around your cock still. She’s got some of her lower back rolled up, the slick spread across your hips and onto the vanity counter as well. Her heat is already addicting enough to where you only want more.

“Please, honey. Please keep going,” her voice is close to a siren’s call, laced with the begging, but your hands are a little faster than your mind, pulling her into you again, leaning down for another desperate kiss. You take and give, and you’ll let her have it. She’s gonna feel the soreness come tomorrow morning when you’ve carried her up the stairs and into her bed, watch her cling onto your arm or waist or the nape of your neck; get the grip of her in your fingers to a point where you’re pressing down so fucking hard that she’s gonna need a massage gun to better service her hands when she’s rubbing those hard-earned and sorry bruises across her hip bones and legs. A selfish thought consumes your brain; long-manifested from watching her at a distance with someone else that isn’t you-

“You’re mine,” you grit, biting into her skin. You simply can’t stop. “You’re all mine, oh god, baby, just-”

There’s really no other explanation to put in: filling her pussy endlessly as the back of her head hits the mirror, letting the clench of her walls around your shaft hold so tight to the point where you’ve got your fingers holding you true; in that dripping mess that keeps on leaking - hooking on one of her folds where she’s twitching again. Her entire body goes slack, a firm slap of her hand on the counter as her back arches upwards while you flinch at the pocket of air created in her cunt.

“No one else,” she says with a bit of a hitch, a winced noise followed by the crinkle across the bridge of her eyebrows, “you’ve always wondered why.” It’s a spontaneous confession, she’s too unsure if it’s her talking or the alcohol. “It’s just you.”

You get a bit sloppy with the snaps, fix her legs up to where the balls of her feet are pointing up to the ceiling - you kiss her calf and ankle, toss her other heel in a dark corner of the room. No surprise that you’re unsure too about the toss, but it’s worth going with the flow.

“Don’t do this to me,” you’re telling her, pleading, the sigh leaving your lips is almost pathetic. You’ve got your fingers right at her underboob, the dress rolled up to her waist where you hold yourself down with every motion, watching her uncovered tits ripple on the upstroke, putting your cock deep into her to the point she might go slack in her body. She gasps, an exhale of relief - and you could feel the meat of her calf tense along your shoulder; pressing her legs closer together - to wrap her around your cock tight. Tighter. The weight of your is unbearable for her as her back flushes across the table-

You get one good thrust in her again. Bottoming out, watching her keen at the thickness of it. Hold her there for a bit, listening to her steady stream of dry air, reveling in the slight throb your cock pulsates inside her cunt; you needed to take a quick breather, it’ll be too much if you get ahead of yourself-

She doesn’t seem to bother about your quick desire to stop, saying: “Go,” and, “Move for me.” Fucking hell, this front of her is going to be a nuisance. Her eyes roll back forward with the slimmest smile, slowly, cautiously-

“Do you always fuck your girls like this? Or am I just the lucky one who gets to see you this way?”

The grasp to her neck proves to be the sufficient answer you could give her.

Let alone the sound of the harsh crack of your hips slamming into the underside of her thighs.

“Oh god- baby, yes.” Even when her throat is wrapped around your fingers, the noise she makes and the words mold all around your digits. “Just like that.”

Another drag out of her wetness, and the pin drop inside her is a lot more forceful than the last. You’re pretty sure you could pick up the slight squelch her pussy makes around your cock.

“Jesus.” You’re saying, the simplicity alone is enough to not elaborate any further. “Giselle, your cunt, my goodness.”

Giselle nods, plummeting your mind deeper into her madness.

It won’t be any long now for her drink in the sight of you filling her up, your body bent over forward and buried between her tits, unwilling to look up at her small grin of satisfaction. And even when you do, just out of curiosity, she whimpers again once you’ve decided that the pace needed to be upped a bit faster; feel her quivering cunt collapsing around the length, watch her eyes go wide, match her parted lips and groans in the same volume as you hold her down - right where she belongs. A small intermission. A pause - spreading her wider, closing in the space between her legs again with your hips, and you pick up right where you left off into fucking her.

You’re being pulled in close again, a mandatory kiss where Giselle’s got her fingers into the line of your neck, slipping your tongue into the corner of your mouth. She laughs through her nose when you brush the tip of yours across her cheek, let her feel the crease in your eyebrows that gets tangled with her platinum shade hairs. Her lips taste like this mix of cider, with some additional drinks that she’s had in the past hour and a half or so, tongue licking away of all the sweat and slick spread across, hips moving on their own accord as you’re rebounding her back after every thrust.

“You feel so good.” That’s an admission that you’ll come back to every given time, slipping inside of Giselle’s pussy so easily. Consuming you. Safe to say that you’ve had your fair share of sexual experiences and escapades up till this point - some of which are more worthy of remembering than others, but for some reason this time is different, and you’re not so entirely sure as to why. “This fucking- ugh, your pussy is amazing.”

“Uh huh.” She simply nods, grazing her lips across your cheek and lips, lost in the movements, her throat bobbing down a swallow. Your grip loosens up a bit, tenderly, slowly dragging your cock out of her well-fucked pussy and watching the small slings of her slick form on her thighs and your hips. Her whole appearance is a battlefield personified: clean porcelain now tattered and stained with marks in a darker, rosy shade, her lipstick smeared at the corners, the fringes in her hair falling forward - curtaining her forehead just a bit, the glint in her eyes still shining in all of its glory, hiding behind her heavy eyelids in every languid blink as she rests her head on the mirror again for what might be the last time. “You’re-you’re gonna, you’re gonna make fucking cum.”

The reflexive clamp she has on your throbbing cock, brings you back to reality, drawing yourself back and pummeling deep into her creaming hole as you see the first hints of white splotches resting at the base when you coax the rhythm for a few seconds. It’s in the devil’s details, watching Giselle fall apart again right before your eyes, hands grasping and letting go bundles of your shirt as she spreads her legs even wider, holding her right at the divot of her hips and top of her legs; swollen pink pussy folds well wrapped around your shaft. She’s like a nice bundle of rope: unraveled, tattered, used.

“You’re getting so close,” she assesses, a teasing finger along the firm muscle of your stomach, clutching onto your shirt after. “I can feel you shaking.”

“Fuck-”

It comes in a shudder, when you’ve finally reached that high apex you’ve been working towards with her body, her cunt, her lips - sliding out of her with a hand fast around your shaft, fingers slipping a bit across the length as you leak out hot cum all over her hips. She’s gritting her teeth when you press her leg up a bit too high, the stretch of muscle a little bit too much as she’s shuddering at the feeling of your thick load hitting her flushed pink yet porcelain skin. A sigh of relief leaves her lips, loving everything about it; a bit shocked as you continue to pump out of your hand.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles, humming as her chest heaves in a decreasing pace, coming down, “You really just- wow, what a fucking mess you’ve made. Dirty boy.”

You pay half-attention to the taunt, doing everything in your power to lower your heart rate back to normal. The grip you have on your cock is a bit too tight, slapping the head on her clit, gets a soft ‘ah’ out of her, then she coos; grateful, satisfied.

“Can’t call me that with all the shit you said just now,” you tell her, thumb to her cheek, her bottom lip. She gives in so easily, a small peek into the neverending black hole she possesses with that look on her face, especially in her eyes, the way that your thumb slips into those plush lips of hers, sucking greedily, like she wants more out of you. The way the plane of her tongue brushes across the pad, how her cheeks hollow and suck as if it were your cock - oh, about that, that’s already a can of worms you’ll open up and uncover as a practicing theory, what will become of her after tonight - the different possibilities opening up as her eyelids flutter at your loving touch; the way she leans-

“Mmm,” she gives you, and her doe eyes give you this expression of neediness, the sparkles of lust still apparent in them, her tongue swirling as you try to fight the urge of catching your teeth with your bottom lip, wanting to do something about her slutty attitude. And the idea pops up in your head more quickly than expected.

Your hand retreats from her face, trails down to those perky breasts of hers, her sweaty abs, a quick hook onto the top of her thighs to pull her closer to you as she tries to sit up. Giselle laughs a bit as your cock lightly taps her pussy lips, making her suddenly tense up at the contact, humming after as she watches two of your fingers scoop up some of the filthy mess you’ve left all over her waist, rub it between your tips like it’s some sort of substance that’s unfamiliar, tap it against her lips as she opens up her mouth, following along to what you’re doing. She can be like this, which might be a good thing, and you’ll treat herself to the reward.

It’s in the way her cheeks flush again in the low light of the vanity. Your fingers in her mouth, holding, rubbing, cleaning off the sticky mess between your digits. Those plump, half open lips, you could see a bit of your cum on her tongue.

“Swallow,” you’re telling her, mind still trying to process the sight of her licking your load in between your fingers and knuckles. “All of it, Giselle. Swallow it all.”

She doesn’t say anything else after that, just being obedient to what you demanded of her to do.

Part of this feels right, but then at the same time it doesn’t.

Your hand trails the same pathway down, only this time stopping right at the side of her left breast, staying there. She offers up a hand for you to take, sitting her upright, lets her knees hang off the edge as you’re standing in between the pair of them still, stroking her thighs while you smother yourself back into her chest. This could be a moment of realization or regret, or that could just be your own mind playing the game of worrying too much over something that’s too little to be that big of a deal.

Giselle licks her lips, offers them to you, which you take - kissing her again. You could feel her jaw clench when you pull her by the side of her face, tongue slipping unconsciously back into her mouth, pressing and clashing with hers, inhaling the sweet stench of sex emitting from her body and yours too.

“You’re a mess,” she whispers, leaving a few strings of kisses across the lower half or your cheek, winces a bit when you pinch the side of her waist a bit too tightly, soreness still present. “How long have you been wanting to do that to me, mm?”

“Think we could save that for another time?” And you just happily play along to what she’s inquiring, voice low and inviting. “I’d rather worry about getting out of here first.”

You give Giselle a bit of space for her to rearrange her dress a bit, looking over your shoulder for that discarded heel in one of the dark corners; hand quick to her waist to lick and clean up the leaking mess while you swipe a piece of the bedsheets nearby to wipe down the mess on your waist and all over her cunt-

“Lend me your jacket.” She asks politely, finally standing up with a bit of a wobble in her legs. “It did get a little bit chilly when we walked on the way in.”

–

You see, nobody bats an eye or raises a brow in suspicion when you’ve managed to leave your family estate in record time.

As for those who did take notice, you simply told them that going home early was always the plan in the end. The valet who took care of your car at the front foyer also gave a look to you holding the door for Giselle; well, he could easily tell judging at the way your jacket was on her - heels in your hand as he could only assume one thing and one thing only. Kudos to him for keeping it on the low, in addition to the considerable tip you handed before driving away.

“Should’ve left a whole lot sooner,” she tells you, a bit of a harsh press on the brakes when you then stop at a t-junction.

She’s got the seat almost all the way back, her legs bunched up with your jacket now covering her front, fiddling with a finger between her lips as you alternate glances from her and the intersection. “That’s what I told you before we walked in earlier.”

To be fair, it isn’t your fault in the first place. All honesty aside, it was nice to spend some quality time with some old friends, play catchup and all. You could’ve stayed as long as you would’ve liked, stayed over for the night and just go back to your new home the next morning. Giselle would’ve been on board with the idea had you told her, but instead she had other things to set in motion.

“It’s events like these,” she breathes, “They’re always boring. So boring. It’s been that way with me since I was little.” The jacket falls a little below the shoulders, exposing her clavicles, and runs a hand over them as if she was doing some heavy lifting. Doesn’t help that her hair falls along with the piece, showing more of her pale, yet marked up neck.

“We’ve always crossed paths,” you say, slowly steering the car left and down the road. “I mean- I was literally with you at your birthday party, so of course I can relate to what you’re feeling.”

She looks left, then down at your hand resting on the gear shift, remembering the not-so-distant memory. “Yeah, I guess you can.”

“Hm?”

“Nobody else was appealing, when my parents were searching for someone that could be best suited to be my ‘husband’. All of the other considerable candidates never really made a case to be a worthy suitor in this absolute shitstorm.”

“Don’t you know it?”

Giselle chuckles again, the bright glow of the arrow signs reflecting off of the headlights, then fading away into the eventual darkness. Most of the ride has been filled with silence, with the low growl of the tires rolling against the pavement and the constant ambient whirring that the engine was emitting.

“So why me?” you ask, darting your eyes back from Giselle onto the road. “You could’ve gone with anyone else, but why choose me?”

“It was a simple decision,” she answers, shifting her body to the side with the seat belt loosening as you move through a few sequences of winding turns. “Most people aren’t very easy going when they warm up to me; but since I’ve known you for quite a bit, I thought it would feel just as natural since we’ve had that sort of-”

“Connection, huh?” you chuckle, putting the car in a lower gear when you reach a decline on the road. You give another look at her face shimmered in yellow, low eyelids and slightly parted lips as you and her examine each other’s features, nodding in agreement when nothing else is said.

Giselle then moves your hand over to her exposed thigh, letting it rest there as your thumb runs across the plush surface.

“I want another,” she says, clasping your hand on her leg, nails slightly digging into the skin of your wrist.

You snort in response, almost thrown off at the sudden request. “What do you mean, another?”

“You should know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’m following you on this.”

“Do you want me to put it in a way that makes you understand?” She asks, her voice teetering into a small smile, the blatant innuendo splayed across her face. The grip of your wrist in her hand grows a bit stiff, and yours holds steady on the underside of her thigh.

“How do you suppose that’ll go?” you ask, sliding your hand up into her more. “I can pick up on things pretty fast.”

“Pull the car over and I’ll give you the explanation.”

–

(Like you needed the necessary explanation.

All it took was a hand to your hardening crotch beneath your pants and before you know it, you’ve got the car off to the side of the road, not exactly secluded and discreet about the way that she’s bent over on the side of the car, hot breath fogging up the metal across the hood as she’s got other things to worry about in your cock filling her up again. Her dress is already back up to her waist as your slacks are slipping off the rim of your thighs. There’s also the occasional presence of some crickets sheltered away in the patches of grass, the slaps of your hips fucking into Giselle’s, turning your head in reflex when you hear an audible snap somewhere in the darkness - probably a fallen branch, or something like that.

It’s a bit hard to keep yourself composed when she’s cumming all over your cock again.

Her body goes limp, a hand is splayed on the headlight. You’re holding her by the breast, cream-slicked cock slipping inside her once more, ripping her open. She can’t even look back over her shoulder, the strained noises coming out of her keeps on filling your ears, throwing her lower half back into yours to make the blowback just as brutal. Every passing second underneath your pressure, she crumbles - well-worked and carnally raw.

“-s’deep. Fucking- bitch. Oh, darling - ah”

Your hands hold firm at her waist, driving in, watching as her ass perform this hypnotic ripple against your legs. She loves this, adores the fun of having a rough-fuck; unwilling to get enough of your cock sliding through her throbbing nerves when your shaft makes contact along the slick surface. The motion itself gets you lost endlessly, cupping her ass, pressing and grasping at the supple skin, leaning over when her back arches a bit, getting your face buried in the back of her head, flushing your hips into hers like it’s some long lost art piece. Like you realized just moments ago: she just can’t get enough, and neither can you. “Giselle,” you’re breathing, soft and gentle. She hushes you, lets the sopping wetness of her pussy speak for itself, grinding an angle at the hilt that makes your breath hitch.

Every plea, utterance, and worry that’s said after her exaggerated gasps when your cock slows its drag inside her walls, the declining rubs inside her cunt make her body convulse.

“You’re the fucking worst,” you tell her, and she nods with a smirk at the corner of her lip - an admission.

“Sounds just like me.” she says, all fucked out and gratified.)

–

The weekend passes, and the weekday rolls around again to take its place.

On most days, it’s a rinse and repeat: walk in, settle some deals, make some calls, sit through these boring ass meetings, toss the post-it notes stuck on your monitor by Winter in the trash can before your occasional smoke break, treat yourself to the catered lunch provided for the team members by the company. It’s relatively tame for the most part, and Giselle pops in the building every now and then in her family’s stead, making sure that the transition period in the merging process is going as smoothly as possible.

“She looks like she’s in good spirits,” Winter tells you when she sees you and Giselle wave goodbye to each other one afternoon outside your office, pen tapping on her pursed lips as you stop at the corner of her desk. “I’m surprised that she’s doing some work for her parents around here as well. Didn’t expect that.”

“Keeping me in check,” you say, closely observing the curve of her ass peeking around the fabric of her dress as it goes out of view past the corner and near the elevators. “It’s a transactional thing: ensuring that I’m doing my job just as much as she’s doing hers.”

“So, is it clicking between the two of you?” Winter asks, not even facing you.

“What do you mean?”

“I guess I meant that you’re holding up well after the whole arrangement?” Winter adds on, turning again fully invested, “Being forced into an arranged marriage. A loveless marriage would be a better term to coin it.”

“Well,” you try to answer, but your train of thought gets lost in your own head. “I feel like it’s a little bit out of convenience - letting my parents take advantage of a huge part of my life that I wanted to have control over. But we’re willing to make it work, I think.”

“Huh?”

“We have history, Winter.” The shake of your head makes your secretary laugh a bit, almost baffled at the declaration. “Who knows what happens from here on out. Besides, I might have a change of heart at some point, so have some hope.”

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” says Winter, tapping your hand resting on the railing of the cubicle. “You’ve got the ring on your finger to prove it, partially, but I’ll always love and support you in whatever you do with her.”

You wave a hand at her as you move away from her desk, a bit annoyed - still smiling.

“Do you wanna grab lunch with us whenever she drops by the floor again?” you ask, walking back to the open door of your office. “Offer stands on the table for the time being.”

Winter muses. Me? Third-wheeling? Pfft- low blow, boss. The mutter could be heard under your low chuckle. She raises a fist up in the air to celebrate, hides it away when you tell her to get back to work.

–

Giselle sends you a text two hours later in between breaks: Pick me up?

You’ve got roughly until five until you could clock out, but this report needs to be sent to your father before you leave. I could make a detour before we get some food later, but yeah. I can make that happen.

A smiling emoji. She sends. A bit vague, but you could tell that she’s ditzy on her end of the phone screen.

Almost done?

Some last minute submissions.

Nice.

Dinner somewhere?

You ask, you buy.

What about after?

I’ll pay you back when we get home.

(No point in asking how, she knows exactly how to go about that.)

–

It takes about one missed call followed up with a few more rings at the second time calling to the return, but Giselle answers with a whole-hearted laugh on her end.

“Sorry,” she greets after saying hello, “There’s been a change of plans. I’ll see you at home. Someone came to see me on my way out of the office and-”

There’s another laugh in the background. Sounds familiar, nearly cat-like and sly. A clear contrast to the gleaming tone Giselle has, radiating like the glare of the sun bouncing off the overhanging windows from the neighboring towers across the three-building campus.

“Darn,” you say, “And here I was actually getting excited to come see you.”

“We can move it to tomorrow, I should probably have you meet-” then the phone picks up a little shuffle of handlers, Giselle complaining a bit and suddenly, another feminine voice takes over the call - Sorry not sorry for stealing your girl. She’s been putting me off, but now she’s on my time. Hope you don’t mind.

“Wait,” you’re telling her again, confused, “Who’s your little girlfriend? She sounds cute as well.”

“You’ll see soon,” says Giselle, a bit airy. “A real dazzler, she’s absolutely perfect, a fucking bitch, but the complete package.” You’re thinking twice when there’s an audible smack of a pair of lips on her neck that makes her mewl on the microphone.

You’re rolling your eyes as you nestle in the backseat of the car, and say, “better play nice. I’ll see you later,” and then you end the call.

–

But you never really figure out this mystery woman is, who poached your wife right outside her office building. At least you’re thankful for the wonderful gentleman on Giselle’s detail bringing her back - in one piece, despite the disheveled appearance from the smeared lipstick to the waves of messy hair that would need to be tended to on her own terms. So, uh. You’ll ask for the debrief sometime in the morning.

–

Coffee grounds are getting brewed, and nothing fills up the apartment more than some homey jazz softly blasting from the speakers on the record player.

It’s an exceptionally slow kind of morning: the kind where you look at the alarm of your phone screen and just toss it off to the nightstand while muttering to yourself to stay in bed for five more minutes, and to be fair, maybe for the rest of the day.

While you’re waiting for the food on the cast iron to cool down, you indulge yourself to an article that covered a past press event that had you and Giselle both in attendance. Granted that it was one of her close friend’s fashion line releases in the form of a pop-up event Giselle insisted that you’d tag along just for the testy thrill. To get out of the office and breathe a little bit. C’mon, it’ll be fun.

There’s a thread of pictures you scroll by on your tablet of you and her taking in the moment of presentation; people absolutely losing their shit just by being and breathing the same air as you and her, nothing short of the love well received for the two of you. It’s seen in the details: you look up to the four levels above of people cheering both of your names, the next slide looking outward to a distant camera capturing the image. A few more following images show you laying your eyes on Giselle, from the embracing smile, her hand up in bright surprise, with another still showing her returning the same look she always does earnestly. But what the people don’t realize is that just before this showing, you and her had a small heated argument in the elevator minutes before stepping on stage; she came out of it clean while you’re the one with damage control - fixing up your collar and smearing some of the lipstick left on the single corner of your lip. The confused beam on your face sells the whole thing entirely.

The feed’s comments are still raving and fawning about this whole pairing, too. And it seems that isn’t going away anytime soon; even when the most liked comment says: “i bet they smile at each other when they fuck. God they’re so hot.”

<“you think their parents high-five each other whenever they see them together?”>

The list goes on, and one says: <“it’s still unbelievable that they’re actually together and omg i just can’t get over them!”>

Various comments are just filled with exclamation points and lovely emojis.

Another person also says a few swipes down: <“doesn’t seem convincing to me. almost as if they’re just showing for the title/label rather than out of genuine affection.”>

<“you’re right. also, where tf are their wedding pics?”>

See? It’s worth the subtle nod and the raise of impressive eyebrows to know that not everyone is fully onboard with the whole situation. You think, people can’t be easily swayed by what the media portrays, considering the fact that any shrivel of credibility is either legit or nothing but smoke.

Giselle then walks in from the hallway; encased in a linen robe, messy bedhead and with a lazy yawn. “You’re up early.”

“It’s almost ten.” You tell her. “I’m getting a late start to the morning.”

“Busy day?” asks Giselle, one eye open still when she rounds the kitchen island, puts her cheek against your shoulder, looking over to see your daily spontaneous read. “I was supposed to see someone later today.”

“Is it ‘your dazzler’ date from last night?” you address, towering over the top of Giselle’s head when she leans into you to see the assorted breakfast. “Looks to me like you had a little too much fun with her.”

“Not your business,” she replies, stealing a blueberry from your stack of pancakes. Not the ideal response from her - especially since she’s usually open and practically blunt with sharing bits of her life and adventures. “I saw those comments on that article you were looking at from our outing a while back and let me tell you: they’re right.”

“You think?”

“I know.” Her answer alone should serve all the truth as to what things are between you and her. The label of ‘husband and wife’ isn’t all extravagant fireworks and worth pulling the aged wines to swirl big glasses around over - let alone fooling nearly every person that follows your daily life into one big, misleading lie. When she settles into the high chair with a knee up, her sweater that isn’t exactly her’s and you know it, her pensive expression is far ahead of your thought process already.

“Do you think this whole marriage is out of convenience?”

She looks at you clearly baffled, eyes wide. “I- well, I was gonna ask you the same thing. What do you think?”

“I think your thoughts are more important than mine at the moment.”

Giselle leans forward with an elbow on the table, chin dipping low and heavy. “There’s something for our parents to gain from this. Some cover up; more money, more pull - blah blah blah blah blah. I think they just wanted us to get involved in some way, they’ve had the idea of us being set up since we were teenagers. The picture is one big fucking mess to me.”

“Well if you look at the comments, then-”

“We’ve already commensurated on that note, don’t you forget.” Giselle smirks, a faint fingertip tracing the inner part of her bottom lip. “A marriage out of convenience could also mean that we’re sex partners out of convenience. You’re not slick for ogling at me either, but what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna head to work,” you say with the shake of your head, “We can have a chat about this later.”

Giselle looks at you in a firm victory; the corner of her lip quirks when you pass by her while clearing your throat, avoiding her question for the time being.

–

Yet the question bounces around your mind all day while in the office later, trailing off in spaced daydreams of all the things Giselle as you sit at your desk.

(She has completely fucked you up.)

–

You’d expect for an easy walk-in past the door once the long day’s already passed. Nothing too exhausting: a few business calls here, an outing with a client from your father’s agenda, and just staying chained to your office chair for a majority of the time isn’t very grand, but it’s the usual work flow.

But to your surprise, somebody’s already made themselves at home.

A quick dig into the heels of your loafers next to the pair of heels and you settle your bearings towards the living room - lights on and everything, safe to assume that Giselle’s only been here for no longer than a few minutes (hinted by handbag resting on one of the high-rising seats next to the kitchen island). Exhaustion fills up your mind, weighed down by the assortment of your keys and watch in hand, which you toss into the designated bowl signifying your arrival and growing presence that gives off this small echo down the hallways (since you also know that Giselle likes to keep her door propped open for better airflow).

Entering to your right, you hear: “Hey, home already?” She meets you in the middle as you stop short before the couch, turning to see Giselle in her casual one piece dress, half of her hair present as she combs it down with her fingers, blinking dutifully. “I thought you’d be back later.”

“Well yeah. But I figured that I could use some of the downtime now,” you’re saying, fishing a pen out of your pocket, then your phone; both of which get tossed to the center portion of the furniture. You unbutton your cufflinks with a tilt in your head as Giselle slips out of her cropped coat, “I don’t have anything for the rest of the evening.”

“Really,” she replies, and the prose isn’t necessarily a question nor proposition when she says that single word - hands already working to the zipper on the back of her attire. “I was hoping that you did.”

The first few buttons on your shirt start to part, and Giselle carries forward out of her dress, the black lace underneath presented to you in all of its glory.

“And what would you do with your alone time had I not come home at all?” you ask, closing the distance between you and her. “I suppose you would’ve had another problem on your lap for me to deal with.”

“You still have to answer my question from this morning.”

When she gets both hands deep into the space of your collarbones, hopping up from the floor as you catch the underside of her thighs, holding her in place at the hip when you lightly press her into the nearby pillar of your foyer, it’s a bit laughable in your head as to how easy it is for her to fall into this sense of rhythm - much like a waltz even, lips fast to yours with the dirtiest and most insatiable smile she could ever pull on you. These habits, her issues, the livelihood that she lives by, it’s a tattering case to your own personal code in which you have no complaint or refute to bring up-

“Sex partners out of convenience?” You say to her as she’s left breathless under your pressing touch, warm mouth and hands claiming familiar territory. “Now what makes you think that’s the overall gist of what we’re doing here?”

Giselle raises an eyebrow, hides away as she leans down to kiss you again, wanting to let her current appearance and actions do the talking for her. She plays you like it’s some game; pushing your buttons in all the ways that she knows and likes - for you to treat her like an exploit and an advantage to get her point across. And maybe you realize again: that’s all that she’s ever good for.

You run a finger through the fabric of her panties: “Baby, you’re soaking wet.”

“Now you’re talking about my kind of discussion.”

–

With that said discussion, there’s a few laws of honesty drawn up in your head:

The first law: it’s the rush of dopamine to blame when you have Giselle’s slick soak your face and fingertips - how she groans and writhes into the mattress as your tongue licks up the mess left out of her cunt; the shade goes to a hotter pink as she grinds her hips against you, eyes opening wide and fluttering shut, clenching in the same way her teeth scrape together. Another implication could be seen in the way that your hands hold firm on her plush, thick, marked up ass; how she let you have control as you turn her head and bend her limbs in all the ways to get you off, hushing out these profane sayings and words to her as you work up to her second orgasm - or third (who’s really keeping track at this point, huh?) You like it when she asks to take a breather, have you walk away for a bit before she gets in this pouty fit, a mood that needs to be sated in cumming again, choke her moans out on the couch for a change of scenery. When she reluctantly admits - as three of your fingers slide into her tightness while your other hand is to the small of her back and your head is at the side of her face, buried in her hair and keeping her arched up, digging deeper.

The second law: you wouldn’t have to do anything to Giselle and she’d immediately pick up on what you want, the way her eyes would tell you to ‘just come fuck me already, you know you want to’ and the sheer glint beneath her irises sparkle a bit more when you’re teasing the clit as you settle into the seat.

“Y’know, I always wondered what your other fuckbuddies would think: if they saw you with me and how I’m handling you,” you start to say, eyes focusing and unfocusing in the valley of her breasts - red lines visible along the pale skin as your fingers slip along her thighs a bit - still covered in Giselle’s juices.

“Hmm,” she sighs out, lowering herself onto your lap and the hitch of breath apparent as she expected for you to get right down to business; but you’re not, and clearly that’s driving her up the wall. Listless words whispered out with little to no meaning. It’s in the wet blanket of her pussy, the stickiness dragging a torrid heat all over your bare cock.

“Too bad they don’t have that kind of luxury anymore.” you continue on your senseless rambling. “Considering that I’m the lucky one now, which to be honest, is kind of one of the best things I have against you.”

“What are you even saying?” Giselle questions, losing her train of thought with a good thrust upward, letting her grind down on your hips; holding her down at the top of her thighs as her hands find their place around the crook of your neck. “Just because I let my past flirts use me as- as some fucktoy? You have that as the idea against one of my many points of leverage, baby. God, you-”

“I get what they mean, if that’s what you’re selling,” you assume.

She swears.

“Imagine that, Giselle - with a body like yours, only used to be fucked. Sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.”

She elevates her hips for a slight second, hovering over your cockhead. The first few inches following your tip dips up into her cunt, the drenched, most prettiest pair of lips. You tilt your head back - watch the reaction on her face when you dial it back - the twitch in her shoulders and neck muscles as if she already was at that high again, the look on her face in nothing but positives and unbounded; and somewhere in her cerebral cortex, she should know that the moment you thrust up, she’d be a goner - that’s the effect your cock has on her, how she’d mindlessly fuck herself into using it, every opportunity presents a new suggestion, the intent of making her into a messy puddle of mush, a blithering wreck.

And it’s a form of entertainment in itself when the propositions are thrown up. In a rough write-up in paper and in the sketchbook in your head, the way that she looks in bed: her glistening pussy, dripping, and in a fucked-out mess. You keep dragging your cock through her swollen folds, stagnant, lethargic. You press on with the inquiries - asking, taunting - they’re never meant to be taken literally: “don’t you know that you can think of better ways to convince someone about something without putting your body and attitude to the equation?”

Her eyes open carefully, her grin tilts a bit, cheeks blushing, and the voice carrying the lump of air past her mouth gets winded: “wouldn’t have the slightest idea, honey.”

You could feel the warmth growing from her forearms as it nestled over your shoulders, fingers twitching for a proper hold, the press up of her thumbs raises your head to look up at her. She also tossed the idea to you when she visited your office earlier this week, the tempting proposition of just fucking her right then and there across your desk.

(It didn’t help in the way she presented it too:

“What would your other team members think?” she probes, the shiniest twinkle in her doe-eyes with the falsest naivety, “Hearing me getting fucked by you with the door wide open? Raise my skirt up for the easiest access you could ever have. Leave a few lipstick prints over your shirt so that everyone knows who you belong to?”

Blindsided or not, it sends a few synapses in your brain firing.)

So you’re playing the hard way, a clear contrast to how things unfolded last time, honestly - watching her do this little wiggle over your lap, eyes brimming with light. Her hips, and the little gut-punch movement of her stomach are slow, then pick up suddenly a second later, searching for something close to a rest but coming up empty. Your head dips back a bit to the crown of the couch when the sound of her whines hold steady, breathing cautiously when she fills the open space of your chest, panting into it.

Your grip on her waist when you bring your head forward again to kiss her left breast - catch a nipple between your teeth, nibbling, biting.

“Ow, ah-” she blurts, a pitiful chuckle following soon after. Maybe it’s in the double jeopardy - the way she gasps from the shackled chamber of her chest in this stuttering fashion and goes a little more frantically than normal when your thick tip rubs against the outright nub of her clit. She’s sensitive, and very fucking responsive. “Wow. Jesus.”

Giselle’s hot, pink, satin lips of her pretty, puffy little cunt, hovers right over it: dripping onto your hardened length as you dip your cockhead back in again, nearly there, the heavy weight of her sitting on your dick - but not quite yet, almost. She’s indecisive between grinding her bottom half on your cock, or getting more of your lips and fingers, could be both, anything would suffice for her. She isn’t really begging, per se, but you can just tell: all of the pretty little things that she wants, but can’t admit; the quiet please, I swear to God, why don’t you just stick it in me- or, the incoherent ‘more, baby, I can’t wait any longer, don’t make me- it’s so good - and you already know, you’ve heard it before, how badly she wants it when you let the pads of your fingertips deeper into the spots she loves and likes.

“You would lose it, so fast,” you start, a sigh of relief into the canal of Giselle’s ear, holding the bottom of her spine steady as your cock starts to stretch the drenched walls of her cunt and let her fall slowly - you could feel the tension in her thighs, her toes curl into the cushions. The sharp, high-pitched whine sounds broken.

She mutters a ‘please’ - and it rings so prettily, too.

“I really could let you just slide your perfect, sloppy cunt all over my cock. Be good for me. You wouldn’t even stop for a second, getting yourself off in an instant.”

Giselle’s eyes squeeze shut, nodding profusely, lips parted.

And in a way, christ, she could switch that look in her eyes from a flickering promise to a dwindling vortex instantaneously; the wide pupils she has that are near impossible to examine, the pretty mouth hung low a little past halfway, this magenta shade she emits and her head’s lolling. She’s getting more restless, hips moving shallow and not in the way that she wants them to. She knocks a bit of your forehead to your crown, a mix of a whimper and whisper of your name, and it’s a tempting beck and call to her.

It’s a little overdue for dinner and she’s fucking lost it, hips grinding with yours; the smooth, practied moves of her working cunt, hard, like she means it, like the need to cum for her has to be around something in the most vile ways - her whole face and neck and chest are flushed in this new shade of color and her eyes are hidden behind her eyelids, cock grinding hot between the space of her thighs. She’s squirming - coming apart and pleasing when she’s so out of control, only reduced to her barren sense. To the feeling, the fulfillment of your fingers - or the fine, hard line of your cock dragging along her wetness and thighs, at an angle that you’ve managed to hit a few times before.

“Just by thinking about it - it’s making you even more antsy,” you say delicately.

Giselle just blinks.

“You’ve managed to get me like this, using me to get yourself off whenever you fucking feel like it, right? Imagine. Anytime you just need it - in your office, in the kitchen, get a quick one out before we have a testimonial or showcase, don’t give any care for other people watching you get your pussy railed- stop, I know that look, fuck- it’s not gonna work on me.”

“Pretty good idea, right?” Giselle sputters out, panting, because you’re working deeper into that spot, you can tell - you can feel it. Her hands are clawing on your shoulders. “Just lift up my pretty dress or skirt and make a mess of me right there.”

“-be the problematic little bitch that everyone always talks about and has no other sensible thought because you enjoy it as it is.”

Giselle’s cunt tightens around your cock. You’re also pretty sure that there’s a hint of her squirting. Quite a bit. Dripping and molten-

“You-”

“Mhm?”

“Just- God, please. Want it - you, so fucking bad. Let me ride, I swear-” Giselle tells you, desperately - fucking sit there. She sounds so tenacious. Her hair a nice shade of brown, curtaining at the front of her cheek and a bit stuck to the side of her face.

There’s like this sheer sense of inevitability - you can see it in the way her body gives, the imaginary cloth around her body coming down. It’s in everything, the stimulation, the teasing - then there’s nothing, a clean slate. As if someone had all her thoughts on a small piece of paper: her arms go slack, a breath wriggles out of her esophagus. Her weight, yielding and bearable, easing herself down on top of you and the heatwave of her cunt snugs around your cock so perfectly, like it was meant to be there, where it always belongs. It also wouldn’t take long for her first fully-fledged orgasm to come in the form of a mixed gasped and whine: ugh, god, thank you - like the effort couldn't have been any easier.

Her head tilts back, and a smile slips out into something straight out of a lucid dream: falling, calling, chasing - until you realize it wasn't a dream at all.

And she’s keeping her upper body up with her dainty fingers, pulling herself back into you as her lips drag up into yours, thrusting up, slow and controlled. You feel it as Giselle clamps down again; that throbbing, quivering sensation before that tsunami of warmth captures you.

So you let her ride, in the way that she is. Her face is tucked to the top where your forehead and hairline meets, moaning for pretty much the entire time. “J’so fucking big, your cock inside me, fuck. I just move and it- god, it just rubs itself in every part of my pussy - yeah, okay, you did it again, so deep. Ugh. How do you do it?” Giselle sounds a bit on edge, frantic, talking complete gibberish - the heavy weight of her hips and ass presses onto your body and her nails mark up on your shoulders and sides as she keeps on riding through one orgasm onto the next, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and letting a series of sighs and slips out of her throat. These sweet, desperate, shameless cries and begs as she drops down, sucks you into her warmth.

“Honey, honey- so thick- like that, holy shit,” her pitch lines up to the tempo of her slaps.

“Look at that,” you mumble underneath her praises and heavy pants, the fast, jagged sounds - head nodding and shaking side to side furiously. She can’t even think straight to talk properly. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“God yes. Fuck yes, s’good-” Giselle moans, totally unchasted and debauched.

“And your pussy’s soaking up my cock again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” and most of her sentences are muddled in curses, the phonemes of her sounds morphing into one. Her eyelids are dropping low again, mouth curving to a close shape of an ‘o’ as your cock drives up against every sensitive part inside her, rubbing against the velvety folds. Digging, taking more.

Your voice comes as a hush following a groan. “Stretching out so well for me, taking it all in - isn’t that wonderful? Your needy little pussy, sliding up and down all over?”

Giselle’s trembling picks up where it left off, the noises curdle from the bottom of her throat, low and just flat out desperate. It’s in the responsiveness of her body, every single part of her thrust into chaos.

You could consider this to be a beneficiary: you being inside her. Giselle’s moaning out your name as she holds you close to your chest, burying your nose in between her tits like an offering, her body goes weak. She’s got her hair netted to the lines of her neck and chin; the pistoning of your cock upwards as the hinge in of her hips roll so she can cum all over your waist.

Giselle cums just like that. Again and again, totally impenitent.

The reaction on her face is one of pure bliss, full of relaxation; where everything working between the muscles and nerves go down for a second - her lips molding into a tiny fuck, holy fuck; the small uptick of her eyebrows as the aftershocks ripple through her hot cunt. An incredible sight, this thing.

“I guess that’s why you and I clicked so fast,” you note, a hand to the swell of her ass, the other on her hip. Every free curve of her figure invites the touch, how rough you can go, how far you could wreck her. It’s without any sense of remorse. You kiss the words right between her tits: “knowing that a special someone could ever make you feel like this, give wonders to you right where it’s needed, as if nothing else matters.”

“Stop- shut the fuck up,” and Giselle does the worst thing here, letting her upper half fall back outward, slips a hand behind and under to where your balls are, cradling them, the slightest cup of her fingers, it tenses up your thighs and the bottom of your spine and the grip in your fingernails creates this new line of light red across her hips.

“Gis-” you yelp on impulse, “holy shit, I-”

The angle is too much for her as she barely manages to keep herself upright, and then, “-fucker, that’s so deep. Do it again-”

“You’re something, baby. I can’t believe-”

She’s got a hand to the back of your head, thumb between your lips, moving her hips upward at the hilt that makes your cock twitch inside her. The giggle passing through your ears allures you towards a primal motive, a raw uncut want.

“Shh,” she coos.

“You-”

“This right here,” she says, “Could be our little secret. My little secret.”

“Giselle-”

“Hush, darling. And keep it that way.”

You grind, lift her up, and smack her back down. It’s the slap. The fucking moan. Her arms coil around your neck once more.

Taking in the makeshift taut of her waist. Growling, “fucking test me again, I dare you,” and Giselle gives nothing but an evil grin in good nature when she cups the side of your jaw to lift your gaze.

Her head knocks into yours and she cards her fingers through your hair, tugging away as you increase the pumps a little faster, harder. She’s trying to hold herself together with what little common sense she has left; in a bit of a disbelief, she tells you, off-the-cuff in the nook of her head, how you’ve put yourself far ahead than the past guys she’s fucked around with, the simplicity in her causalness as a royal gesture in itself.

“I guess you could say that,” you tell her, in the figures of semantics where you could take her literally.

A way to repay that said loyalty to her, would be fucking her tight little pussy until you’re dumping your cum inside her sopping cunt or painting all over her fucking waist, her ass, her face - an art piece curated by you out of ruination that wants to be flaunted and presented like it’s something that the people want. This woman with such grandness; this idol, showcased in the fanciest dresses and bows, to be showered in diamonds, to have anything she ever wanted worth purchasing be done with a wave of her finger.

Your cause is a bit different, lest not forget, but you’re complicit nonetheless - satisfying both parties of families to ensure that no one is left holding the bag in the event that they’re caught. But at least you can have a fill with an aching cunt between your legs, leaking all over your groin once the rush eventually dies down. Yeah, maybe you are right in this situation. “I’m the last one you’ll ever need.”

That cuts both ways, she tells you. A wicked smile is all she gives; she’s won.

You eventually snap, however, fucking Giselle on her hands and knees, flip her back around with her tits facing you again. You carry her back onto the pillar behind the couch for some more before moving to the bedroom, a little over a minute spent letting her reach that peak. Some fun gets thrown into the mix, pressing her front to the window as you carve your cock back up into her cunt. Your name keeps falling out of her mouth, obscene and maffled, over and over and over and over: fuck, you feel so good inside me, taking me so well, god, don’t stop, that feels so fucking good for you, doesn’t it? - she slams her ass back into you, face pressed against the glass, her breath fogging up a small portion of the pane. You take it back to the edge of her mattress where her ankles hook around your thighs and manage to dig her nails into the skin of your back. She acknowledges the small act of generosity, when you cum a little bit inside her pussy (to which you could admit that it’s one of the hottest things you can do to her, honestly), knowing that your cock fits so nice and snug into her cunt and fucks out all these dirty sounds that are some of the cutest things that she can sing out of her mouth; this little pussy messing you up as you tug yourself out of her properly-fucked cunt and leave the mess right where it stays. Where it should stay. That’s how this thing goes.

Giselle presses a nail into your hip, another bruise along with the scratches and bite marks that’ll show up tomorrow. You’ll look at it in the mirror at work sometime, just to think back.

Though she’s created an opportunity for herself where you have to answer whenever she’s around. No matter what the excuse may be, she’ll slither her way inside your office or at home, talk about something about the day, and you’ll try to stay on task or topic until the option to eat her out or fuck her till she can’t walk straight or maybe even both doesn’t seem too far off to pass time.

(She’ll ask: you mind doing a favor for me? Of course you have to say yes.

And it’s practically impossible to refuse anyway, since it’s not worth telling no when there’s advantages.)

–

Giselle is not perfect; despite what the media presents and what the people say portraying her to be.

She’s got a past, one of which she's not proud of. She has her shortcomings, her flaws, but she’s still human. You’ve assumed at first that there’s things about her to be accepting even with the stuff she’s got herself into. Giselle’s impetuous and a bit dense, but she’s also a strong thorn in points you hate to admit that she could have an upper hand on.

But even so-

Even so-

Despite her imperfections, she’s aware of them. She’s turned them into strengths that very few people can break down without effort backed behind it. You get one good look at her and it’s simple. Her grin with closed lips is wicked and unbeatable, and now that you’re with her in this mess of a marriage you can’t find anything that’s worth swaying you to think otherwise.

“What is it that you want from your family’s company?” she asks, her body melded one with the sheets as she lays on her stomach, feet sticking up with ankles crossed, face still fading from the hot blush of pink. “I mean, there isn’t really an incentive for us exclusively while they’re trying to make this story go away unnoticed.”

“If I knew everything. And I mean, everything, then I’d tell you. But I don’t.”

“So what, you don’t know what happens despite us being protected?”

“It may look like we’re safe,” you say, looking down and out the window again, holding yourself back from rambling even further. “But it’s only a matter of time until people start sniffing around places that they’re not supposed to.”

“They’re not gonna stop searching, hun.” Giselle presumes, “Not until they really figure out what’s going on behind the scenes. But where’s the exposure in that?”

“What makes this whole thing dangerous is that all it took for people to find this relationship believable was a good lie and a lot of money to twist the words in the press into reality.”

“Isn’t that a shame,” her voice trails off, head falling left to the nearby pillow resting on her arm. She keeps her eyes on you, rubbing up your shoulder from the amount of scratches and bite marks she’s left all over it, the skin still red to the touch. “Watching yourself settle as bits and pieces of your life start to wither away. No risk taken for the reward or consequence to follow. You’re so boring, but your cock, and the way that you fuck me deflates the whole argument entirely.”

“Amazing,” you deadpan, “That’s probably one of the nicest compliments you’ve ever given to me.”

Giselle rolls her eyes, holds back a laugh between her lips. “You’re so into me and you don’t even want to admit it. Where else would you get the ring on your finger from, hm? Let alone who?” The squint in your eyes proves that she’s winning this dispute. “Still got no answer for me, babe? Hmph. I guess you just solidified my thoughts just now.”

“You really are the worst pick for guys like me, aren’t you?” you ask, approaching closer to the bed as your kneecaps make contact to the edge, bending them until you’re crawling across the mattress.

She has an outreached hand to you; taking, pulling, inviting. “Who said I was a bad choice for you? Someone’s got to keep your mind off the deal for the time being.”

Before you even say anything else, you kiss her twice, and then some more. It’s a thing remotely close to yielding yourself to her - you pull the sheets from underneath her over, get your lips back on her neck again, and fuck her deep into the bed.

Some pressure is relieved off of your shoulders and head, and you wonder if she’s the one responsible for that.

–

Everything resumes as normal. Business stays busy, public engagements and appearances are still a regular occurrence every other day or so, and you’re ensuring that the tracks get covered up before anyone in the press starts to take notice. You’re not a bad person - and neither are your parents in this case, the needs of this cause will pay off in protecting your own life. Being a workaholic isn’t the healthiest way to go by, but in all fairness, you’re just doing your job.

Giselle also holds her end of the bargain; while you’re married to your work, she’s married to her blessing of wealth. When you’re swamped with paperworks and projects compounded with usual check-ins with her parents and yours about the investment failure cover-up, she seeks her own adventures elsewhere: getting herself into these entanglements with other guys at high-profile events, reining them in with her flirty charms and in return gets their dick stuck up inside her. She may be terrible at keeping faith in you when she does go out with her friends, but you know that she’ll always come back to you in the end.

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with the meeting?” Winter asks you one afternoon, sitting on the edge of your desk as she looks over one of your client’s portfolios to see if the numbers add up, “cause this does look finished, but I can set some time aside to run a final check before you send it over.”

For some reason, and only God really knows why, but you feel this sudden chill run down your neck as Giselle makes her way past the door into your office; her stride a little more pushy today than usual, and that spells only one thing: she’s aggravated.

“Sorry Winter, do you mind giving us the room?” she tells her, and it’s not a request. You nod your head as Winter immediately picks up on the sudden shift of tension in the air, swapping places as Giselle drops her handbag on the chair while darting a quick glance at Winter.

“The door, please. And you know what to say.” Winter closes the door on her way out while Giselle rounds the desk and settles herself into your lap. You remember her barging in when you had a meeting with one of your early acquisitions in the business, sitting in the same way that she is now for the entirety of that appointment.

“Cancel your meeting.” Giselle commands, fingers quick to the middle of your necktie.

“I can’t. It’s the new person my father just brought in yesterday.”

“I wasn’t asking. You promised.”

Her lips proved to be a suitable truth-serum to your inhibitions; and suddenly you completely forget what she was even complaining about earlier.

–

So you make good on your promise. You had to.

Giselle’s hand shoots up to her mouth, not doing much with the moans that leak out from the bottom of her wrist.

“Baby,” she coos, and you draw yourself back from between her thighs to swallow a bit, drink in the sight of how her face writhes in pleasure. You hate how pretty she is when she looks like this, eyes closed elegantly and mouth dropped in pure awe. She literally had her pussy eaten out by you in the morning, but it’s clear that she can’t get enough, and you’ll definitely do it again.

The pager on your desk starts to beep, and you don’t answer it; instead, you dip your tongue back into her leaking entrance. Her breath starts to stutter as the sides of her thighs start to press against your head. A spread of her lips between your fingers, and you slash up your tongue inside her walls again, hips bucking forward off the woodwork.

“You taste so fucking good, honey,” you praise, holding her down with the flex of your wrists and press of your fingers. Giselle shudders a bit as you shove your nose right up against her clit, let the vibration of your hums send shockwaves up her waist from within. Her hand tangled into your hair serves all the signs of her wanting, begging for more. When you ask, and it’s just out of plain fun when you do: “Wanna cum so badly on my face, don’t you? Soak your shit into my mouth and all over my chin? Tell me what you want. You haven’t had enough cock this week, haven’t you? Fucking filthy ass slut.”

Giselle, in the current state that she’s in, just sighs. If there’s anything that you’ve learned from all the times you’ve spent exploring her body, imploding her senses from within, she loves to be held down and fucked ruthlessly - but more than anything, she loves to be teased, to be degraded.

That stupid pager is still fucking ringing.

But you inhale the sweet aroma of her pussy, slide your tongue up those slutty, puffy folds, stop right at the clit, and you suck.

“Yes, yes- fuck, God yes, just like that,” she breathes out, pulling your head deeper into her cunt. She wants you to be cruel, to rip off that pencil skirt of hers, raise that dress shirt she stole from your wardrobe and put your cock inside her like she so undeservedly owes. Giselle’s eyebrows twist along with the lines of her face, squeezing your hand as she soaks more of herself onto your lips, the taste of her slick flowing down like water, lapping her up clean.

“Close,” she tells you, breaths becoming irregular as her voice goes up in familiar, ascending octaves. “God- keep going, yes, baby, I’m g- I’m gonna-”

You just hum, let the sweet venom of her release coat your taste buds - a delicacy that you’ll indulge in every time. You fail to let her go from your grasp, meeting her dreamy gaze, lashes gliding up and down gracefully, trying to conjure up some sort of thought. “Your cock,” she says, chest heaving. “Give it to me.”

It’s not worth denying the demand; and besides: you were never going to make it to that meeting anyway.

–

The workflow chokes up the rest of the week so much to the point where the days and nights start to blend together. You’re doing some nightly readings midway out on the couch until Giselle walks in with a robe encasing her nice figure - dropping the piece in front of you which makes you toss the tablet off to the side.

“A gift for you,” she says, a towel tending to her damp hair that wets the front of her shirt while you’re fixing up a quick meal of eggs on the stove, following you cumming inside of her and on her face not too long after that ends up staining her sheets. “For the race this upcoming weekend.”

You’re paying zero attention, focused on not letting the scrambled bits stick to the pan as she slithers a hand through the open space of your hand-to-hip, stealing a bite of the waffles you also made off to the side for more variety, watch as she fills up her cheeks with the food. The simplest of actions, she does with ease. But then you say: Race? You didn’t tell me you were into cars like that. If at all.

“Had I told you that I had a stake in a racing team, and you would’ve been instantly hard,” she deadpans, her stare flickering with a shake of her head. “Like I’ve told you before: I have my own interests.”

“Prove it.” you taunt.

Giselle then walks over to her handbag resting on one of the seats where she always leaves it for a quick grab of whatever, pulls out two special passes; the red lanyard with your picture and hers highlighted at the center with a barcode below it as well as the details of the event. The raise in your eyebrows indicate a hint of impressiveness and Giselle just tilts her head in victory, because she knows you’re not hard to convince.

“F1 passes, huh?” you muse, taking the one from her hand to further examine it, “Now how in the hell did you score these?”

“Courtesy of a friend,” replies Giselle, taking your pass back and into her handbag. “You probably know her, but if you don’t, I’d love for you to meet her.”

“Aren’t you excited.”

“What’s with that tone?”

“Tone?”

She sighs, chin lifted up as her hum rises in amusement, “It’s not like you to have my attitude suddenly, it actually fits you well.”

“I’m always like this,” you tell her.

“Right.”

“I’d be happy to pitch you as to why if you’re interested.”

“Save it,” Giselle tsks, flipping her towel forward from her shoulders. “Besides, it’s gonna be a fun weekend either way. And oh- happy birthday.”

–

Much like other events you’ve attended in the past, this one is certainly no exception. Stepping out of the car to be greeted with endless amounts of people stretched across the barriers outside the track, screaming your name and Giselle’s to offer a variety of things to sign: a hat, a bottle, a racing jersey, and some random person’s arm; a nice gesture to show, and it’s all in good fun.

The photo op’s are having a fucking field day with your appearance, cameras nearly floating across towards you walking to get their many mandatory snaps of the day. Hey, over here! Click! Click! Click! You and Giselle keep it casual in answering the questions also like how’s the morning going? Who do you think is gonna win the race today? Are you the special person that’s going to be waving the checkered flag or present the trophies to the top three racers later?

Click! And someone greets Giselle off to the side - probably someone running social media from one of the racing teams, you think. Her hair flows so coolly in the wind, walking in a fashion that pretty much trumps every other hot model you’ve seen at shows; the curves of her body sloping along her clothes. Her sunglasses only punctuate her cunty expression when she takes them off, earning a few gasps from other surrounding VIP members, which isn’t fair, but it serves you exactly right when her face lights up greeting the provider for your special passes.

She smiles so effortlessly. Her energy is infectious the more she steps into the paddock.

Everything is pretty much major brain overload, astounded at how everything is sleek inside the garage; tools hidden away in perfectly-fit drawers that literally look straight out of a sci-fi movie. The car alone is a sight to behold too; sure, the wheels aren’t on and they’re still doing some minor tweaks across the chassis, but the race engineer who bumps your shoulder puts you in a momentary conversation about how insane everything looks.

It wasn’t long until Giselle disappears from your view, only to return with a plus-one that irks your curiosity - laughing and sounding clearly in awe and excitement.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this charmer before,” Giselle introduces, hand tugging on your jacket so casually, pulling you closer. “Has a thing for cars, if that isn’t news to you already.”

“Looks familiar, but never up close.” Her mouth peers into this wide grin, lips coated with a light sanguine shade, the gloss almost shimmering. Your ears perch up to the tone of her voice, a sleek and piercing characteristic to notice, considering how dangerously familiar it sounded. She’s got a racing shirt on, despite her bottoms being baggy jeans. The temperature around the track was forecasted to be hot, and she’s wearing a simple dad cap to pool those flowing locks over her shoulders. Judging from the hoops hanging from her ears, you assume that she and Giselle are in the same lineage - since they’ve got so much money deep in their pockets to afford everything and all that jazz.

Yu Jimin takes your hand in hers, and asks something along the lines of: you’re into cars? Is this your first time in an F1 garage?

You laugh, and answer: I’ve dabbled here and there. Giselle didn’t tell me that she had a minority stake in something like this.

“She’s the one who gifted the passes,” Giselle supplies immediately, because apparently Karina should already have this as common knowledge.

“Never got to hear you two say thanks.” She blinks and smiles. You blank out for a second. Though it’s also interesting how her face is so molded in the right angles like she’d been carved to perfection in one take. Her figure is undoubtedly amazing, with a long waist and these wide hips. It’s a bit of seeing to actual believing - where you think that all women like Giselle had similar traits. You’re still unsure, however, but maybe that’s just the simple commonality women have when they’ve either got money or a status.

“Your wife here funds the team’s success,” Karina adds - looking over to see a handful of mechanics having a laugh about something with her racing teammate. “She’s the reason why I’m winning.”

“That so?” You fire back with pursed lips. “Hopefully her money’s put in good use.”

Karina laughs. “It has, believe me.”

Giselle, in this situation at least, the last person who takes charge of calling your shots. Or reading the room. You’re just keeping it casual, though, getting acquainted with someone new like it’s nothing wrong.

“How else could we have swayed you into signing that new deal?” Giselle presses her tongue up to the inside of her cheek - throws a side-eye at you. She’s reminiscing over a certain reference that you clearly have no idea of understanding.

“Didn’t think the figures would be that much,” ponders Karina.

“Need I mention you’re little ‘incident’ with the other-”

“Are you fucking crazy? I almost got crucified with the press if that story got out.” She leans closer to Giselle with her fingers covering her mouth. Her hair moves in these calm waves - laughing like there’s no care in the world for her actions.

So the two of them go at it a bit, trading moments and memories between them. Giselle’s attempt of pressing herself back onto your crotch serves as some sort of provocation rather than a distraction. You play it off with a hand to her midriff, pinching it slightly as a rebuttal, and a promise.

Aside from the ice breaking topics, you look over to see Karina’s personal performance coach, notifying her of the preparations of the race ahead. She hasn’t got much time, so she leaves the both of you off with this:

“Think I can find you guys once this race is finished?” A mechanical drill sounds off on the far end of the garage. Then, she glances in this devilish way that means she knows everything, Karina says: “I can have my guy grab you two back to the trailer.”

“You can make that work,” Giselle answers, rolling her head into the upper profile of your chest and smiling. “We’re your special guests for the day, so I expect the best hospitality.”

–

And, about the race later as you’re watching, Karina blows everyone else out of the competition. Her winning first place is an absolute certainty.

–

Once the champagne showers have died down and everything logistically in the press gets recorded and logged in after another successful race weekend, it didn’t take Karina that much longer to find you and Giselle hanging around the complementary areas, prompting that the celebrations outside the track can start a little bit later. Since the party was well going to be deep into the night somewhere in the city, the three of you actually never make it there on time.

Probably because your back to the door with a hand to the lock is preventing you from ever getting out; the two bodies of Karina and Giselle pinning you down the middle between the pair, a hand to your waist while the other is well worked around your cock. It also didn’t help that the lights were off, to give the impression that no one was inside - the worrying thought of someone knocking would suddenly be washed away when Giselle lowers her wet mouth all over you; a hand through her hair and a small shuffle of your feet as Karina smoothens your shirt, humming gleefully into your chest as the same feeling happens further down south.

“You love her mouth so much, hm?” Karina asks, the brim of her cap hitting your nose, tilting it upward to slide her tongue back between your lips. “She’s been telling me how much her jaw aches when it comes to blowing you.”

You try to look down, but Karina had other ideas. Ah ah ah, pretty boy. Keep your eyes only on me. If Karina’s lips were meant to spill out all of these subtle projections of sex, you’re able to deduce the fact that Giselle likes to be all talk - though she prefers to let her mouth serve a different purpose. She lets out a small gargle in her throat when her plump lips reach the base, the tip of her tongue swipes the point perpendicular where your length stems out from the root, feeling that twitch of your cock head hit the top of her mouth. All to play for when you’re losing focus, and then-

“Karina, your hat,” you stumble in your words, watch her flip the cap back around, “Shit, baby. The door too-“

“Shhh, relax,” she coos, hand ghosting over your face, the broad line of your shoulders. She kisses you with the cap facing backward. “Bet that feels really good for you, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck,” you barely manage. It’s a bit early for your voice to be this raked through the mud; though, the light depression of your lungs serves as an emphasis. ”She’s perfect.”

Giselle gently laughs, slightly hollowing out her cheeks some more. Slapping her plum, bottom lip with your tip, she flashes an innocent smile, sticking her tongue out just to push your urge further. “That isn’t news for anyone,” she yields, sliding her palm up the length. “Take my other boy-toys in the past. Ask them about anything, really. They’d all say the same thing: how I keep a hidden talent for sucking dick a personal secret of mine.” Karina provides a nod and a laugh, knowing that her saying goes both ways.

“Consider me shocked, then. You two are absolute freaks.”

“Okay,” Karina deadpans, and her expression goes calm, a lifted eyebrow in suspicion. She gets her hand to the back of Giselle’s head, pushing her back between your legs. Giselle takes you right back into the well of her mouth and picks up right where she left off, this smooth flow - in tandem with the friction of her fingers, as her lips take in the soaked inch or two of your cock, gagging a bit, fuck. Her eyes go wide, and then they close, braces herself with her hands on your thighs, pushing herself deeper until her lips finally reach the base; the head, and the rest of your shaft, into the velvety opening of her throat, willing to hang you for as long as you or her could possibly take.

Your palm slides down against the sliding door, and the impulsive shift of your hips forward comes as an act of desperation into that addicting rub in the big of her mouth.

Karina doubles down her efforts, kissing up your neck, your jaw; carrying your face with her dainty finger to the right to graze the tip of her nose against yours, feeling her hot breath touch your chin as she’s telling you all the right praises of how amazing you two look. She’s got a handful of Giselle’s hair in her hand, pulling her up and driving her back in, the subtle sighs and staggered breaths that gets overpowered by Giselle’s endless gagging, hands braced to your thighs as your hips work a bit to meet in the middle of her effort. This engulfing heat, rising up from waist, much like diving feet first into a bottomless hot spring - nerves going haywire from your spine, the muscles along your lower half constantly tensing as Giselle bottoms you out again, slathering your cock in her saliva as she chokes.

“Fuck her mouth again. I know you want to,” Karina says, pressing up her tits to the side of your chest, another lick of the end of your collarbone, it earns her another shallow ‘christ’ from you. “She’ll let you do anything,” and in a way, she isn’t wrong: “‘Cause I know that you’ll give her the promise of fucking her brains out after.”

So, all you had to do at this point: was follow and listen.

The constant deepthroating would make anyone go mad, really; have their balls burst in a matter of minutes. Karina takes this emphatic role of judge, jury, and executioner to a whole different implication, her hands and mouth an extension of the many things you want Giselle to be ruined by, and you’ll shower her some form of thanks for that.

And when Giselle does slide you out of her mouth, a trail of spit forming around the crown, twisting her hand languidly around you as she clears her throat. Right around that time, the three of you hear a knock on the door - probably Karina’s security detail, or someone else, there’s really no point in knowing. You and Karina look at each other to hear whatever the hell the guy outside was saying, but Karina has a finger between your lips as Giselle continues where she left off, giving your brain a dilemma on what - or who - to focus on.

“We should’ve left thirty minutes ago,” you confess - the honesty alone an antithesis to your level-headedness; a moment to reflect, at how pathetic you are - “how long are-”

Karina giggles, a cheeky grin to add: “we gonna take? Hopefully we’ll wrap you up soon, sweetie.”

You’re hoping to unravel in the next few minutes or so. Giselle’s mouth is not worth throwing up the curtain of ignorance, as she continues bob her head up and down the length - each knock of your cockhead to her uvula is flawless.

Karina on the other hand, does the least merciful act she could possibly do, considering how she’s a walking devil in broad daylight: sliding her hands across your chest as she sinks down to her knees at Giselle’s level, nose buried in the cuff of her ear as she grasps her boob while the motion of her head starts to match with Giselle’s tempo of gags. She pulls back, the cap nearly falling off the top of her head, draws her hair over her ears as she settles in with those quick licks at the base where Giselle struggled to reach and well - crap. Giselle drags the tip of her tongue over your head, Karina treating the underside before meeting her lips with hers. They both giggle at the first kiss - hot air over your cock right smack in the middle of that space. Indulging a bit more with their clashing tongue, wanting to get more of a savoring taste of cock. Of you. The inner cavity of your chest broadens up, drawing in a sharp inhale, and the heat of the trailer gets a bit sweltering. Okay, you might be sweating more than usual.

As if they’d rehearsed this before, the pair at your hips take turns with your cock, licking up the slick spit, your precum, all these wet kisses and heavy moans across the surface; they pull half of your shaft back into their mouths, drag your head to the inner part of their cheeks, slowly and gracefully taking you in, treating the areas where they’re not touched. “Mmm.” and “Hmph.” Karina is still laughing - fingers now tethered around the root of you and your balls while Giselle slacks her jaw a bit more, letting you fill the space of her throat as you’re holding yourself steady against the wall. The chinch of her shut eyes and eagerness to go past her personal threshold of taking you deep; and Karina has a hand to the back of her head, caressing her throat whispering these praises into her ear. Good girl, all the way into your throat. You know that he likes it so much. There there, keep choking on his cock - because it’s yours.

And when she does pull herself up and out, she’s coughing, eyelashes fluttering and eyes shimmering. They both look at you with their jaws hung, a small tug of a smile at the corners of their lips, tilting their heads up as you impulsively move your hips forward and back - slathering the belly of your cock with the pads of their tongues.

“You girls look so good like that,” you barely manage to say. Their swollen and plump mouths already serve as this new vehicle of addiction. “The sluttiest kinds are always the ones where you least expect it.”

Giselle breathes out this hearty laugh, shields her face with the back of her hand. Karina’s mouth then takes over for a bit, and you could feel her fingers start to press deeper into the skin of your thighs. “She’s a messy bitch. Believe me when I say this: she’s been dying to have a taste of you.”

“Not true,” Karina butts in, a trail of spit forming from her bottom lip when she kisses your soaked tip. “At least, that’s what she was trying to say, when I had her stuttering in her words with my mouth and fingers all up inside her. Came on my face a bit after - she’s the one who’s more dirty than me.”

“Didn’t you make a bet that you can make him cum faster than me?” Giselle inquires, doe eyes and with a hint of a taunt mixed in with her tone. “I could’ve sworn that you did.”

While she asks, Karina doubles down her efforts, taking you well into the column of her throat. You’ve got a hand through her hair, gripping to a point where the need for these two girls to fuck you senseless in the trailer takes over. The sense of control and liberation courses through like a reflex - a fight or flight response - you can’t let them have their way for too long, and it’s way too early to yield from their oral assault.

“He’ll be good for us, I’m sure.” Karina says, a bit quizzical at that too. Her hand is jerking around the base while Giselle takes the hint and slides her hand across the upper half of your shaft. “I’m sure this isn’t his first rodeo of letting two girls drop to their knees and have a little bit of fun for themselves, right?”

Yeah, the groan you give punctuates the point clearly: they broke you.

It didn’t take much long after that, when the both of them have an alternating cycle of hand to mouth and mouth to hand, working you up through these harsh sucks, the fierce licks across your slit, engulfing your balls and colliding their lips - trading off stares as they could tell in the way that your legs are shaking. They see this. They feel this. All this hard work was about to be paid off soon. Your hands are reaching out in desperation - the inevitability of it, the pulses and wires in your body already at the limit, pushing your buttons with the ever-concluding contraction of your muscles-

“Cum for us, baby,” Giselle murmurs. With her hand and Karina's wrapped true along with her desperate hums and moans across your shaft proves as the lethal combination, “all over our pretty little faces, okay? All over. Just let go and let us taste you, that’s all we want.”

They both look up at you, the image seared into your optics: your cock is practically magma in their hands, releasing in harsh jolts and jerks, every thread of your cum landing on their foreheads and on the slopes of their cheeks - blissed out and and job done. Giselle tilts her head back while Karina’s hand finds the bottom of her chin, lapping up the mess below her lip as you press your cock in between their faces again, the sounds of satisfaction humming low in their throats, and their congratulatory kiss comes as a celebration. Your head feels dizzy, chest cavity staggering with the inhales and exhales; you’re not even sure how you’re still standing at this point-

“Fucking look at that,” Karina sneers, fingers pressing into the skin of Giselle’s cheek - the other digging down her unbuttoned pants, assessing the damage as she kisses up along the side of her face, “She’s so wet for you, like the perfect girl she is, lapping up your hot mess to make up for being the filthiest, fucking, fine whore-”

“Mmmm- fuck,” Giselle just says, sucking harshly on your sensitive cockhead, retreating with a loud ‘pop’ as Karina scoops up the dribbles of cum on her fingertips, cleaning them up as the both of them soothe the fading ache in your thighs.

“You guys are the worst,” you breathe, head hitting the door to the closet as you’re fighting every urge to not melt right into the floor.

“He doesn’t mean that, right?” Karina asks, eyes pleading.

“Don’t worry,” Giselle adds, “He owes us more when we get back home.”

“Should we get out of here?” Karina prompts, wiggling her head back as Giselle matches the look from below. “Oh- and Giselle honey, you can’t clean yourself up.”

“What?! That was the deal? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Giselle asks in shock.

“It was better to see your reaction if you didn’t know; but now that you know, the forfeit still stands.”

These two are basically asking to get themselves trending on the headlines first thing tomorrow morning.

–

It’ll probably be ignored as you’re doing the daily checks of your meetings, reminders, or emails on your phone, but there’s a surfaced picture of you and Giselle seated together in one of the booths at the club you were initially going to. Karina managed to tag herself along despite not being on the exclusive guest list - though, she thanked Giselle for pulling some strings to get inside.

There isn’t much to recall from last night, however, aside from letting yourself unwind from the stresses and pressure of work. Karina and Giselle keep the conversation going over a few drinks - toying with the idea of leaving so that they could pick up on the fun you three did back at her trailer. A few laughs are shared here and there, you’re not so entirely sure, until you make the judgment call to leave and Karina manages to get her lips on you in the hall walking out.

“I’ve got the-” you say on your way into the bedroom when a pair of lacy panties latches onto your shoulder, looking up in confusion. “-coffee you asked for.”

Giselle’s laying on of the mattress, head at the edge, her tits just left barren and facing up to the open air. A ruffle in the sheets next to her occurs, and the person underneath does this mix of a yawn and giggle as the typical fringe of her messy bed head rests along the front of her chest. You’ve had your fair share of having a few triad’s in your lifetime, but it’s safe to say that this current lineup takes the cake.

“He’s cheating by the way,” Karina says, sitting upright as her breasts are revealed to you above the sheets; all marked up and tattered from last night’s fuckfest that move in this heavy and hypnotic way as she does this little wiggle with her upper body - like she’s pouting for an apology after committing a scandalous act. “Why does he get to put his underwear on?”

“I’m not walking around the house naked,” you rebuke, “It’s just weird.”

“But I do it all the time and he doesn’t complain,” Giselle says to her, flashing a look back at you as she watches you take a sip from her cup of coffee. “Breakfast still on the cards?”

“What do you have in mind?” you ask, walking up to the two fine girls taking refuge in your bed. “I can go out of my way and set an arrangement.”

Karina scoots up next to Giselle, laying in the same fashion as she’s doing, traces a line along the elastic of your boxers. Giselle bites her lip as she starts to palm the growing bulge pulsing between your legs. She asked for a cup of coffee, but it’s always better to chow down on something while she drinks; her personal preference, really.

“I think your coffee needs a little creamer, no?” Karina proposes, testing with a swift lick on the underside of your cock, snorting soon after.

“You’re really fucking weird,” Giselle tells her, and pulls the waistband down, springing your cock forward. “But I fucking love it”

–

Life, in every passing day and night amongst you two, starts to make sense. Giselle at first used to do things separately: the contrast of staying in different rooms, the deliverables and press engagements of her brands and investments, keeping the scheduling consistent without any changes unless she saw fit or just by feel. Her presence was an oddity let alone a fast flurry of complications falling onto your lap.

Now:

There’s a growing flow of comfort between the two of you. Always has been. With all the dates and hangouts and impromptu office visits, it would be basically impossible to not get acclimated in the short span of time. She’s gone from her bed to yours, her toothbrush in the same cup on the bathroom sink, there’s far less dishes to wash meal to meal, watches you work or even get some work done herself - leading to a familiar end of the night that becomes all the regular.

“You’re staying in tonight?” you ask, noticing a woozy Giselle bunched up in one of your shirts, leaning against your arm on the couch one late evening, a split-screen of a portfolio and the typical news articles that you have little to no care of skimming through on your laptop. “I thought you had something planned.”

“I did,” she admits in reply; her tone is lazy, dry, sleepy. As if this was the first time in a while where her social battery was depleted to zero.

You sigh, tilt your head over to the right side, and kiss the crown of her head. “Guess I should call it also a night, then.”

Giselle nods, eyelids slowly falling shut as you toss your laptop off to the side, pick her up in your arms, and start to make your way to settle back into your bed - playing the role perfectly and as authentically as you could create it.

–

Later that morning after, she plays the part so well:

“For me?” she asks, arms well wrapped around your waist as you’re tending to the first batch of pancakes. Her nose is buried into your shirt, never wanting to let the scent of you go to waste. “You might be the best husband ever, I fear.”

Your nose scrunches as she giggles, leaning your head down with a chaste kiss to her lips - pulling away with a hum, “Sweetie, I’d be terrified.”

–

“Your father’s calling,” Winter tells you while hanging her head along the door frame of your office, “He’s on line one.”

The lift of your eyebrows signifies that you got the message, and he doesn’t sound pleased when you pick up the phone saying: look, I’m all for the idea of getting all nice and cute and cozy with Giselle, but we need a little push from the both of you. I’ve got some figures in our board and investors that are catching wind of our past case. People like them aren’t easily swayed by the media, they’re smarter than that.

You knew what you were doing when you first made the company, dad.

And I know that you’re aware of Giselle’s previous activities? Do I need to remind you of who made the file for you to look at when we first set up this whole damn thing?

(Goes without saying, she was problematic. Keyword: was.)

What’s your point?

Don’t bullshit me with filling the blanks and details. You know. I’ve pitched you to her parents for a reason. You didn’t like the idea of sleeping with someone you aren’t familiar with; but now look at you, doing exactly that.

Creative writing can only serve so much purpose to the public.

All the more reason to use some money to twist a few words about you and that whore.

Dad-

Do the right thing, son. We’ve got you in a good position, now take advantage of it.

–

Staring out your window serves as a second viable option partial to marooning yourself on the balcony; taking some time aside to personally reflect on the state of your life, figure out what your next move is, etcetera etcetera. To be fair, you’ve got a good track record of not getting into trouble whatsoever. You’re clean - and sure, there’s a few hiccups here and there, but nothing too monumental to really derail your career and success.

All of this has been public from the start, you and Giselle. Ever since you two tied the knot, it’s been nothing short of coverage for the both of you, the usual freakouts people have when they see you or her doing the usual events or activities like everyone else. It’s in the recognition, the exposure. You’d honestly hoped that carrying on with your duties in the family business would be sufficient enough to satisfy the needs of the higher ups - all the while trying to keep what’s going on in the inner circle a secret.

Too bad that secret isn’t nicely kept under wraps, and you’re aware of this; you understand so much of the extent because there’s everything to lose since the microscope is so close. Even when you’ve parted Giselle’s legs and slid your hands up the sides of her waist, it’s the beauty in that risk - like the suggestion was already guaranteed from the start.

“What’d I tell you?” Giselle says to you, lounging on your couch in the office, rucking down her dress and combing her slightly tattered hair to the front, her toes in the pantyhose curled and spread soon after, the portion of the clothing at her inner thighs are torn through, looking out the window to see if anyone had noticed (but they heard it all already,) “They gave us a hand to play.”

“And you want us to play their game? It’s basically letting them call the shots if you ask me.”

“Hey,” she leans back to the head of the couch, lounges her legs a bit further out, “That’s my line.”

You scowl at her as she looks down with a subtle lip bite.

–

So there’s two incidents that follow:

The first one was out on a regular nightclub outing. Of all places, you let Giselle get the best of you in the bathroom stall, keeping your cock warm inside her as she’s itching for the filthy feeling at your hips. Doesn’t help the fact that other guys were coming in the restroom at a regular pace, not paying any sort of attention to the indecency they’re witnessing. They all look at you for a second, identify your face, and shake their head soon after.

“You two really couldn’t help each other to get a room, huh?” Someone asks, but you don’t bother answering other than a nod. He then turns his head to face the wall as he’s relieving himself with the urinal.

–

The second time, unsurprisingly, happens at work. Giselle was the first one out of the printing room, a stray hand trailing behind her with one of the associates in your team, with you following behind them. Some of the worker’s eyes fall between one of you three, and when you’re settling around Winter’s desk:

“Did you and Giselle just-”

“Winter,” you sigh, fixing the knot of your tie. “Just don’t.”

–

But there’s also the third time, where she calls you out of the blue when your father’s in the office for the day, debating: “Emerald green or Scarlet rose?”

Naively, you answer: “Just say green, sweetie.” Right after, Winter swoops in to pick you up before the meeting and Giselle ends the phone call, leaving you a bit confused as to what color scheme she was putting together for her outfit.

The vibrations of your phone thirty minutes into the meeting throws the overpassing voice into white noise as you get a closer look.

Green. Green. Green. It’s all you see. She’s wearing a lingerie set, there’s these pretty little bows tied up around her hair, and the unfortunate dress shirt stolen from your closet seals the whole look. A vixen is what she is. The plethora of photos and selfies sent show her laying across the bed, aiming at the mirror, her legs canvassing the comforter - one of them reveals her panties, and the fact there’s nothing in the fucking middle-

“You like?” She texts, but she adds on, “You come home in forty-five and you can take it off with your hands, any later than that and you’re doing it with your teeth.”

–

“You should take a break.” Giselle calls out to you one night, watching as you’re settled into your personal study, reading multiple screens of different reports about you and her. “It’s late anyway.”

You look up from your glasses, notice as Giselle’s standing on the doorframe, swirling a wine glass in her hand. And the thin layer of lace isn’t doing her any justice covering her figure. She’s got nothing underneath.

“Who are you to stop me?” you ask, the tablet in your hand falling onto the desk as you stretch in your seat, eyes focused on her as she starts to make her way towards you. The tongue captured between your teeth already starts a spur of ideas of how you’ll twist and bend her fragile body, rip the robe off of her shoulders as she’s light on her tiptoes. There’s also the effortless flow of her hair rising and falling with every step, and the bounce of her tits is too casual for someone like her. “Besides, I just felt like reading the assurance that we’re doing our job.”

She keeps swirling the wine, downs the last bits of it. The glass gets thrown somewhere across the room, and hits a random bookcase. There’s shards everywhere. Being mad at her right now is one thing, but you’re playing the long game as you swivel your chair towards her when she sets herself up on your desk, crosses her ankles together as she leans back and fiddles with the outlines of her robe.

“Are you drunk?” you ask her again, the fingers resting along your thigh starting to curl up in a short flare of anger. “We’ve only had that glass set for a week.”

“That should be the least of your problems.” Giselle refutes, shifting herself across the smooth woodwork. Until she’s rested over your thighs, a coy smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes stay trained on you as her forearms land on the bridge of your collarbones, fingers carding through the hair on the back of your head. You give a sign of impulse when you tug the underside of her knees closer to you, lean further back on the chair until she’s properly straddled, tilting herself down as the press of her lips start to fall across your neck. “Why’d you think I came to you in the first place?”

“You told me that you were going to bed early.”

“I was,” her voice trails off when she tilts your head up by the chin, gently leaving a peck of your lips once, twice, thrice. A thumb rubs the side of your cheek, and she pulls you back in again, the sharp inhale from your nose only boosts the confidence further. You could feel yourself sinking deeper into the seat, your stomach plummeting further down as your mind is trying to play defense and put up a response. But you’ve got your hands and lips full of her, and decide to plunge into that need she’s got you tethered to.

So you pull back, for a momentary second, and Giselle sees an opening where she fixes the sudden crookedness in your glasses, holding your face gently as she examines the slopes and lines of your expression. You’re still sitting there, breathless, gaze almost in this form of wonder as she admires from the high ground. “What changed your mind?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“Doesn’t really help my case in any way, if at all.” you concede, and Giselle starts to laugh a bit, knocking her head against yours which earns a soft ‘ow’ from your lips. “Okay, what is it that you want?”

“A lot of things, actually.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I’ve got a few ideas so far,” you say, blinking with a skeptical arch in your eyebrows. Giselle sighs a bit when your hands snake to her ass, fingertips pressing down as your hips produce the lightest, and slightest grind against your pants. The quick exhale and dip of her head proves as a sign of satisfaction. You’re on the right path. “Maybe my hands are thinking ahead of the curve here?”

Giselle tugs her hips forward, her fingers curl around your nape a little more desperately. The whine bubbling in her throat starts to collapse her whole facade, the pressure of your hands gripping tighter around the swell of her ass while your mouth canvasses her chest and collarbones, letting her take you deeper into her arms. “You’re brilliant when you’re speechless.”

She nods through it, knowing the whole truth.

“Want you-” she attempts to say, the breathiness of her words leaving her lips coming off as an uncertainty, “want you to tell me-” you’ve got her so close where the cornerstone of your hips holds her down, the inside of her thighs pressing on the outside of yours. There’s a clear wire being cut, the curtain raiser, the green light clicking in her head. She’s whittled down so fast and you’ve barely laid a finger on her sensitive parts. “What should I do?”

You push her back, watch as her eyes flick up in confusion, but her lips hang in limbo for a second before the next set of words leaving your mouth serves as the proper instruction: Move your hand down. She does. Slowly. Her right hand trails down her midsection so painstakingly slow - until she shifts her legs wider in the seat of your knees. You’re no help too; sliding your hand up her inner thigh as she finally reaches the region just above her clit, her finger taking the first move when she starts touching herself. Look at you, so needy. The wince she does lower your eyelids, that wave of lust consuming her little by little. Your thumbs rest nicely in the divot of her hips, grinding her back as you lean forward to rest your head right right where her heart is.

“Need a little help there?” You prompt, hand shifting over to where hers is between her legs, pushing her fingers along the glide of her leaking folds. Giselle’s breath is seeping out of the gritty cage of her teeth, driving herself insane with the way that you’re teasing her by her own hand. “It’s pretty how wet you are for me, I like that.”

Giselle’s eyes are hooded, the light in her irises fading as if there’s another entity taking control of her. “Want you to grab me. Fuck me. Make me yours.”

(She always wants a challenge, and you’re not getting it twisted here. But hey, when the opportunity persists-)

It’s a bit of a swift move when you lift her up from the chair and onto the chair. Different articles of pens and papers and other various amenities hit the floor, and there’s nobody else in this home besides you too. “When you put it like that, it already looks like that I’ve won.”

Giselle keeps on nodding, trying to keep her focus away from how your fingers slide into her aching cunt, laying her delicately across the smooth surface once she slips out of her thin robe. The anticipation. The thrill. All roads with her end in the same way of sorts. She tries to go on the offensive when she pulls you in for another desperate kiss, guiding her leg around the bend of your hip as the seat of your pants grinds against her aching heat.

Your hands are fast on the buckle, she’s playing the supporting role with the curls of her fingers abducting the waistband of your pants, sliding them down. A lick of your thumb is the apparent preamble, swiping up her pussy as it draws out a hushed gasp from her, the strain in your cock firing up all nerve impulses. Her eye contact with you goes away, as she anticipates the inevitable outcome; the way that your cockhead presses up against her entrance, the euphoric rush of her clamp when she softly chirps, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

She goes limp over your weight pressing down on her. That motion repeated, over and over: embedding your cock right into the heat of her lovely cunt. Her nails scrape along the skin of your arm, the length easing as you move deeper, sinking.

“-ere we go. Look at you, all dicked out of enjoyment, huh?” You rasp, the two senses of your sight and hearing focused on the way she writhes underneath you, her voice fading in and out of your ear canals. “Couldn’t have a proper good night’s sleep until I fucked you properly-”

“Hate it. I hate how hot you sound when you talk to me like that.”

You snap your hips, and the rebound of her tits wiggle across her chest.

“You’re gonna cum so fast. I can feel it,” you tell her, pushing yourself deeper into her cunt with these practiced strokes. “Fill you up so well that you’ll come back for more. Or maybe, I can take that away, and have you squirting all over my face to have the real deal later-”

“Please-”

“Hmm?” you coax, dragging yourself out and meticulously sliding back in, throwing her off of the typical rhythm that you always give her. “Use your words, honey. I didn’t quite hear you there.”

Her body jitters at your touch. She manages to get an elbow on the desk, the fringe of her hair falls forward onto her face - a sight that you’re so used to seeing no matter what time of the day it is. The words are a bit incoherent, barely mouthing them. You slap your hips up against the underside of her thighs to knock some sense into her, and her head bobbles back, waking her up.

“-take-”

She looks amazing. She feels amazing.

“Come take what’s yours,” she orders, huffing. The glint in her eyes makes the whole command an absolute guarantee; because she knows, and she’s programmed you long enough for you to cement that resolve in your head.

So it’s just like this: you’ll give it to her. Hard.

Because you’ve learned early on how easy it is to fuck Giselle like this - picking up on her little habits and through countless times before - you’ve got her wrapped so well around your cock, and she’s got you well wrapped around her finger. It’s a clear trade off, transactional. Your arm hooks under the small of her back as she digs her ankles around your waist, pumping into her at a fast pace to where she’s constantly leaking all over your cock with every passing second.

“God,” she giggles, and there’s the little slip-up of a sob falling soon after. It’s the bait and switch - how she finally got what she wanted, but the burying of your dick inside her baptizes that quick relief, only to be swept across the desk and find a new angle to put down, “fuck.”

“A little speechless, are ya?” You ask. The pressure closing in, enveloping. It’s in the length, your weight, the stretch, finally settling your fill. You’ll siphon the air right out of her lungs, leave her with the rest.

Her head falls slack: the beginning of her downfall; or yours, it’s all the same.

“Mhm.”

“Like this?” you ask again, arm teetering to her side, hand to the back of her neck. “A little more of what you can take?”

“S’good-”

“Again, baby.”

“You’re s’good, I love riling you up like this, irritating you to the point where you just have to fuck me. Please, ugh- keep going, god-” she tells you, her hand flies up when one of the strokes into her was a bit too much, and your monitor is one of the things that falls off the desk. You’ll worry about damage control later, all the while you’re using Giselle’s sopping cunt.

“See what happens when a pretty girl like you has nothing but issues? They don’t know how to handle themselves unless someone tells or shows them the right way,” you pant, grinding yourself down to the hilt, and you give her the generosity of gyrating her hips for her in circles.

Giselle closes her eyes, breathes in, and realizes.

You’re aware. Her brain is split up in two halves: frizzled and rapture, her tits are hypnotic in the way that they move with every piston your cock makes inside her. She isn’t moving her head much now, she looks up to the ceiling for something to keep her gaze on, but to no avail. Her hands don’t really know where they’re going at this point as it goes to your arms, then the desk, then wherever she could grab for a proper hold. She’s helpless; blowing her pussy out to smithereens where all of the obscene phrases and noises she’s letting out can be captured into these books on the shelves, a post-it note on your desk to have her play the beck and call to relieve your stresses with the simple clutch of her cunt. Her spine is basically ground zero at this point, tearing her apart nerve by nerve until she finally cums all over your waist.

You’ve got no right to be gentle with her. Not anymore.

Not when she’s inviting you in the way that she is. She’s glistening in sweat, smothering your cock in her cream, the slickness making the simple push in and pull out motion all the easier. You’ve reduced her well enough to just mere sounds and nods, bottoming her quivering cunt out as you rest your cheek well above the plush of her breast-

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whisper, snapping your hips forward with the little bend of your lower back. “I’ll let you have me. I know how bad you need it. God, baby. You’re beautiful. Whining nothing but nonsense just to get me to use this body. This pussy, fuck-”

“Uh huh,” she says, since the single utterances and mantras of ‘yeah’s’ can only say so much. She’s fogged up your mind, but also clears it in a sense. You have to fuck her. You’ve got to. “Don’t-” she sputters again, but the message was already registered in your head, voice cracking, “Don’t-”

Her hands slide up to the sides of your ribs, some part of hips aren’t even touching the desk anymore, and the angle where your cock carves it’s pathway into a deeper spot that she couldn’t even imagine you hitting - she fucking wails.

You don’t say anything. Hell, you can’t even afford to say anything. Giselle is so fucking shameless, it’s a bit pathetic. Every passing thrash her body makes against yours is like a panic mode - similar to a state of shock where the mind and muscles are in this disconnect, fighting each other over what is the best course of action. She keeps taking your cock so well, the shake in her thighs, it’s no different. The symphonic tone of her voice rising up in these octaves as the pace gets faster, erratic.

“Like that. Please, just like that- like that, like that, like that, oh fuck!” She’s shattered, much like the blowback from an explosion or shockwave. The yank you give her to her legs is nasty and mean. All bets are off the table, she’ll seal the deal in any way that you like. You’ve ruined her. She’s completely fucked - all these sharp noises and mewls and moans earning a rite of passage past those pretty lips of hers; fucking and pounding her sorry cunt as a means of shutting her up, which has worked countless times before, and it isn’t any different now.

“Baby, you’re amazing,” you praise, and the heat of your forehead meets hers. And you swear there’s a sudden shock happening between when you rock your cock down into her cunt at the same time during the contact.

Her brows collapse above her closed eyelids, and her stomach is so sucked in where you could see the bottom of her ribcage. You’ve got your fingers rested into the divots of her back, rutting your hips as your cock is well rested into her cunt clenched at the base, rubbing her clit - and she fucking keens. “Gonna cum all over your fucking cock,” she mutters, lip wobbling, “Keep going, I swear to-”

There’s no reproach. It’s got pleasure written all over your body and hers. The grip of her cunt over your cock, that vice - she puts your frame of mind on a pedestal that not a lot of people were able to put you on, so you do the next logical thing to fill that bucket of ego in your head: drive that aching cock so deep into her fucking cunt, fuck her hard and fast until she shrieks, keep pumping and pumping and pumping until that sopping cunt is nothing but mush. And when you do, you hold her down at the crease where her hips and legs meet, fucking your pusling load into that tight hole of hers. She screams at the spill, cooing soon after once her mind registers past the wreckage.

“So much. It’s so much. God, it’s so fucking much.”

Yeah. You know.

Giselle’s gravity has you so low, where you’ve rested well inside her, so close to where you can take it, feel it, that fucking suck of wetness where your cock shapes perfectly into her cunt. Marking the spot as yours. The soreness of it is downright disgusting. She thrives in the ache - the fine line met in the middle with your hips; maybe in a place deep within that no one else really sees, besides her. She can’t stop babbling the nonsense; so you just keep- you keep fucking into her. Until you finally stay as the pace fades.

When the thrums of your beating heart start to subside.

The ragged breathing you two profess is the only constant as your cock softens up inside her, pulling out as a few remnants of your cum leaks out of her thighs, dripping onto the desk, staining the stray paperworks caught in the crossfire.

She keeps on whimpering, even when you’re running your fingertips and lips over the valley of her figure. Her chest carries on with the rise and fall as you’re pulling the messy strands away from her face, lock your gaze onto hers; the mere intimacy of it not your typical craving or cup of tea, but the lazy and sweet smile she pulls earns a tilt of your head, and you keep on admiring.

“Umngh,” she finally says, worn-out and pliant.

“Tired?”

Giselle raises those lazy, doe eyes of hers, the flush of her cheeks still fresh to the image - almost feverish. Her mouth wobbles a bit, jaw dangling as she tries to find the right ways to move them like she normally does. But she nods. She nods and nods and nods.

You kiss her forehead, and tell her, “alright, I’ll carry you to bed.”

–

“Maybe if,” she’s telling you later, snuggled up against your side, finger tracing along your bare chest as you continue to let your eyes wander around the ceiling, “We could throw in the idea of leaving everything behind. Light the match. Elope. Get away from this circle so that it can just be us, only us.”

You shift a bit in your crater of the mattress, the low hum rumbling in pensiveness, “For once, I actually think we agree on something.”

Giselle moves up to leave a kiss to your chin, nestles her head back into the dip of your collarbone. “You just get me. It’s one of the few things I love about you.” She doesn’t say anything after that, drifting away into her eventual slumber.

(It gets you thinking, though. The potency to do exactly what she suggested: to create a whirlpool of shit that tanks the whole cover story plan into oblivion. You’re not feeling any sense of regret whatsoever, for the very few things that were handed to you while you worked hard to capture the rest.

You’ve always believed that things happen for a reason. And even as you’re aware of all the details and facts, you can’t help but feel left in the dark despite knowing that there’s a inkling of light to be seen at the end of the tunnel. All it takes for the tinderbox to ignite, is for someone to start the fire.

If Giselle was willing to start it, then you would be willing to also.)

–

To describe the current state of this whole situation with a single word, you’d draw it up to be content; comfortable felt too safe, and with that said notion of security it’s right there in the meaning, but falling short just a bit.

Chatter surrounding the family mergers does die down for a bit, and the media cycle’s attention goes towards other things. In layman’s terms: it’s a nice refreshing breath of fresh air. You’ve held your end of the deal for your parents, running the fake play much to the point that the chief editors got fed up with having their lens too close to you. They can’t scan nor decode from the stills and written reports alone, at least for now.

Giselle’s lounging on your couch in the office as per usual, heels off and legs folded nicely after coming from a breakfast outing with one of her tight-knit business partners, filling you in on the various discussions they had over a few cups of expensive espressos.

“You’ve got anything on your agenda still?” Giselle asks, rubbing over the touched-up polish on her nails, waiting for an answer.

“Just stepping out to get a drink for Winter,” you say, walking over to her with a hand in your pocket, the same head tilt you always give her to keep you grounded, “since I owe her.”

“Long?”

You shake your head, take her hand in yours and place a kiss to the three knuckles of her fingers, “No, it’s a quick run to the place right at the corner.”

Giselle nods soon after, “Okay, I’ll be here. I just have to make a quick phone call to someone.”

The swivel on your neck stays on her as the rest of your body is moving towards the door. She gives a longing look, one with a slight of visible confusion as she presses her phone to her ear, waiting for the line to connect at the other end. The arch of her eyebrows says ‘What?’ and you’re smirking like a carefree idiot, mouthing the old expressive phrase that sounds too cliché to even say aloud, but she tips her head down, sighing out an airy laugh to let you know she got the message.

“You idiot, I know. Now go.”

No bother in refusing, because that wavelength was already established from the start, and you move forward.

–

What happens next, will be a moment in time where the world stands still; for just a moment. It leaves everyone in shock as to the how’s and why’s, and some are rather more piqued at the aftermath than the cause.

(The cause itself is harmless at first, until the twist of time and circumstance finds some sinister way to turn it against you.)

You’re following the usual routine as always getting the occasional drink once in a while: walk out the main entrance of the building, get into your car, weave into traffic for about five or so minutes until your driver pulls over to the curb with the hazard lights on as you’re putting in the typical order of Winter’s go-to beverage: a simple iced americano with two packs of sugar to give the test a little more tackiness and bite that somehow does the trick in her productivity. She could’ve picked something more simpler, but it helps her get the job done.

The thing is, you never actually make it to the car in the first place. Rather, you’re stopping yourself right out the front door when a peculiar figure stands right at the bottom steps next to one of the neighboring railings. A girl; someone that you give a quick glance to and go on with your day. She’s got a small Versace handbag in her left hand, her right with a cigarette as she looks about done with the roll anyway, but holds it up once her eyes are dead set through her shades, examining.

Here’s where the disarm happens, and it’s so easy to fall into - because whether she’s five feet close or two hundred feet away, she’s got you right where she wants. “Funny. I was starting to think that your phone was broken.”

You look dead set at her face, confused. The voice alone pulls you in like a flood. No. No, there’s possibly no fucking way-

So you test: “Yiz?" You're pretty sure entirely, it's her. "Oh god, don’t tell me.”

Yizuho laughs softly, pulling her sunglasses away from her face, and the hair flip she does is subtle, but one where she’s done countless times, and every instance has the same effect on you. It’s lethal, captivating, attractive, downright beautiful - exuding all of the things that push the boundaries of traditional classiness. She looks down, flashes her eyes back up to yours; an inquisitive expression is painted across her face, “You know how much I hate that name. Jesus, you’re the worst.”

You’re not helping yourself, leaning a bit to the right with a hand in your pocket, lowering your guard. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine, you know this. Ningning.”

Ningning concedes, accepting your poor apology, looking off into the distance again - almost as if she was being followed like in those thriller movies where she would be the damsel in distress, coming to you for a sense of protection. She picks up fast after the niceties, “You got a minute to talk?”

“Not really. I’m on a schedule here.”

Getting sidetracked wasn’t in the cards for today, and you’re doing a decent job of neutralizing the conversation when you’re about to walk away. Only to be sucked in by Ningning’s voice again, a poor move on your behalf. “That’s the thing. It’s urgent.”

“Think we can arrange something for later this week?”

“I was hoping that you can talk now.”

Your feet freeze at the right time as two guys come up behind your flank, grabbing your arm and wrist as the metal grind almost sounds like the rip of a sheet of paper. Next thing you know, you’re handcuffed; and the only thing that your mind at that second was: shit, this is not good.

“Ning, what the fuck-”

“Retribution, sweetie,” she sneers, “It looks perfect on you.”

And it’s almost as if the universe decided to spin the wheel on you today, of all days, to take another turn in your fate; undermining nearly all of the good deeds you’ve done in your life up to this point. But that’s not the worst part, people take notice of the commotion, and start to close in on you four. They’ve got their phones out, recording, taking pictures; documenting the whole thing.

Ningning’s got her phone to her ear, most likely confirming with the person on the other end that the deal’s been done, and her screen is faced towards you as soon as she ends the call.

Make no fucking mistake, you’ll fight the world bare-handed to get to the bottom of this. Even if the first person you'd go for would be the contact on Ningning's phone whose name starts with the letter ‘G’.

#giselle smut #aespa smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader smut #giselle x male reader #aespa x male reader

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