Work Text:
It isn’t fair.
This is an incredibly competitive internship, they said. There are two spots open every year, and they get applications from all over the world. You had gone through six interviews, which included making the four-hour drive from your university campus to the luxurious high-rise office building three times. You had scratched and clawed your way here, with hours and hours invested into moulding yourself as the perfect candidate.
You had seen dozens of other candidates, waiting in the same room as you to be interviewed. Most – and by the final interviews, virtually all – of them came from money. You’ve got a knack for spotting it now. You’ve had all the tells drilled into you, after ten years of education at one of the most elitist private academies in the country, the lowly scholarship student in a sea of exorbitantly wealthy kids.
You knew the pretenders by their audacious watches, watches that look impressive but clearly weren’t chosen to go with their suit – the best indication that this was the most and likely only expensive accessory they owned.
You knew the rich ones by the sleek, stylish cuts of their suits, the ones that fit their bodies perfectly – personal tailors are pricey, especially when dealing with multiple-piece suits.
And you knew the really rich ones by how they sat. The way they lounged back, oblivious to the way their insanely expensive coats would wrinkle. The way they greeted the staff who served them coffee with warm smiles and easy conversation – because these were the kids raised by ‘the help’ while their parents were away, the kids who attended elocution and etiquette lessons twice a week from the moment they began to talk, the kids who had to figure out how to hold conversations with investors and politicians at dinner parties from the age of nine.
You knew the kind of backgrounds they all had, every single candidate that interviewed alongside you. You had still beaten them all.
And not once, not even at the very last interview, when the number of applicants had been whittled down to a mere handful, had you seen him.
You didn’t see him until the very first day of your new job – your new life – when your supervisor called you into his office and introduced you to your fellow intern, the candidate who had managed to land the only other spot.
No. ‘Introduced’ is inaccurate.
Because the two of you had met before.
In fact, as you stood in that office, faked your brightest smile, and shook hands, all you could think about was the last time you had seen Choi Yeonjun.
Prom night. You were eighteen years old, in a second-hand dress, being dumped by your first love – and Yeonjun had been watching across the room, a gleam in his eyes as you tried and failed to stop yourself from bursting into tears in front of your entire class.
You remember locking eyes with him as you fled the room and being hit with the cold realisation that he knew what would happen that night, that he’d been part of it.
Four years on, and it was all you could do not to crush Yeonjun’s delicate, manicured hand in your grip.
You stayed away from him, as much as you were able to without being obvious. You were civil when you needed to be, of course, but you prided yourself on maintaining as little contact with him as possible. You came to work before him, you left after him, you took barely fifteen minutes to eat lunch at your desk while he palled around with co-workers and spent every second of his break outside of the office.
Was this really the best thing to do? You couldn’t decide. If Yeonjun was anyone else, any other spoiled rich brat from your high school days, you would have made the effort to reconnect. No one gained anything from holding grudges, especially in the workplace.
But Yeonjun? Yeonjun was…
Yeonjun had hated you. You, specifically. From the moment you had started dating his best friend, Yeonjun had taken it upon himself to ensure you would never fit in with their group. He was so sly about it, so deeply malicious and vindictive and petty under a veneer of calculated indifference, just a hateful tangle of spite targeted at you and you alone.
It honestly seemed better for your career if you just kept your distance, and never spoke more than the barest necessity to him.
And, to your surprise, Yeonjun did the same. You half-expected him to corner you, or drag you out of hiding and put you on the spot in front of all your new colleagues. It was what high-school Yeonjun would have done, if not worse.
Instead, he kept his distance. He didn’t confront you. He seemed perfectly fine with you ignoring him.
…For about a month.
It’s past midnight, and you’re still in the office. A last-minute disaster had you scrambling all afternoon to redo three days of work in about twelve hours – and now you’re just feeling hollow, dead-eyed, staring at the photocopier as you try to summon the will to go back to your desk.
You’re almost done for the day. In theory, once you are done with the machine, you can rush back, tie up all your remaining loose ends, and leave in about half an hour.
In theory.
But you’re exhausted. Too exhausted to do anything but just…stand.
Maybe it’s just a caffeine crash. Maybe you’re two seconds away from a nervous breakdown. At this point, it’s really just a toss-up.
And then, because the universe hates you, the door to the copy room flies open. You turn, tensing already, to see Choi Yeonjun in the doorway, looking back at you.
Fuck.
It’s like you’re a teenager again, watching Yeonjun’s eyebrows slowly arch as he drags his gaze up and down you, judging you. You can only imagine how wrecked you look, how tired, how dishevelled.
“…Didn’t think anyone else would be in the building this late,” Yeonjun notes, and even just the sound of his voice brings back all those memories of glaring at him across a table, aching to throw something at his smug little face.
You turn back towards the photocopier, trying to force your posture to relax. You don’t have the energy to formulate some kind of civil, small-talk reply, so you settle for the barest minimum of a response. “Mm.”
You’re prepared to just leave it at that.
Until you hear Yeonjun fucking…scoff at you.
“You’re still keeping this up?”
Your head snaps toward him, as his words sink in – his words and his fucking tone. “Excuse me?”
He rolls his eyes, before stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. He’s changed his look since high school, let his hair grow out just a touch and dyed it an inky black colour. You remember that doe-eyed, brown-haired boy that looked at you like you were the dirt on the bottom of his shoe, and can’t decide whether this could be called an improvement. At the very least, it’s different.
“Holding some little high-school grudge really isn’t a good look–”
“A grudge?” You interrupt, levelling him with a glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have I been anything but civil?”
He scoffs again, the way he used to before making some little snide comment about you to make all his cronies giggle. “Barely. I wouldn’t call the silent treatment civil.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not kissing your ass every second I can, but I’ve got a job to do. It doesn’t leave a lot of time to coddle your ego,” you snap, folding your arms over your chest.
Yeonjun’s eyebrows shoot up at your harsh words, and something like dread settles in the pit of your stomach. Fuck. You’d taken the bait. Your eyes dart around immediately, trying to spot any cameras that might have caught your outburst. Thankfully, there aren’t any in this copy room, but you still don’t like your chances against Yeonjun’s word.
He practically saunters closer, one hand slipping into the pocket of his slacks. “That wasn’t very work-appropriate language, was it?”
You swallow, taking a second to get your anger back under control, trying to let the emotions slide right off you. It’s a technique you’ve mastered over the years, in no small part thanks to the man standing in front of you.
With a deep breath, you respond, perfectly calm.
“Feel free to lodge a complaint with HR, if it bothers you so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to–”
“Fuck HR,” Yeonjun cuts you off, dismissive. “This needs to be settled between us, no one else. Unless you want to start causing problems the first month here.”
‘Causing problems’. This fucking asshole.
Yeonjun, being Yeonjun and therefore incapable of basic self-awareness, continues to run his mouth. “I just don’t see why we can’t start over, if you really care about this job–”
“Fuck you.”
The words are cold, abrupt, and enough to throw Yeonjun off for a second. It’s satisfying to watch him stumble, just for the tiniest moment, in the face of such blatant dislike. If his last few years have been anything like high school, you know people must have been walking on eggshells around him.
“If I didn’t care about this job, I would have quit the second I saw you,” you confess, taking a step forward, pressing further as you feel this new swell of confidence.
Yeonjun blinks, before quickly recovering, hiding his shock with another little scoff. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No, not really,” you argue. “I know what you did. What you fucking said.”
His eyes light with the briefest flicker of realisation, and you see how visibly his body reacts to being challenged. You watch the defensive stance he takes, shoulders drawing together, chin tilting up. “What?”
“You told your entire group of friends – you told Soobin – that my family were fucking gold-diggers,” you hiss, and it hurts. It hurts to voice that horrible little truth you’ve been holding onto for four whole years.
And it only hurts worse when Yeonjun rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say your whole family was.”
You still, rooted to the spot. You can feel your muscles tense, you can feel your body bristling.
He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t fucking care.
You thought you might explode, but instead, your reply comes out low. Shaking. “No, just my mother and sister, you fucking asshole.”
You watch as he takes in your anger, the way his stare zeroes in on every tell, every movement of your body. You realise he’s enjoying this, just like he did all those years ago. You might have remembered his cruelty, but you’d forgotten the sick kind of amusement he had in dealing it out.
“Well, maybe if they could go two sentences without bringing up Soobin’s trust fund–”
Finally, finally, you explode.
“They weren’t dating him! I was!” You shout, your finger jabbing at your chest as if he needed a visual reminder. “And you told him to dump me.”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow at that, apparently unfazed by your shouting. If anything, it only adds to the smirk slowly creeping across his face. “I didn’t tell him to dump you.”
“Oh?” You ask, with an unconvinced sneer. “So, what did you say?”
“I told him to be careful. Apparently, to him, that meant dumping you,” Yeonjun said, shrugging, as if totally blameless. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“That’s such fucking bullshit,” you say, anger punctuating the final word with a sharp hiss.
You need to get out of here before you punch this man – because there is a real, genuine chance you would risk this internship just to do that.
You make to do just that, practically storming your way past him, towards the door. You reach for the handle, only for his hand to suddenly dart forward from behind you, pressing against the door, holding it shut.
You spin on your heel, livid. Yeonjun’s a tall man, but even at his height, he was alarmingly close to you. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re not leaving this here,” Yeonjun argues. “You don’t get to make all these accusations and then fucking skip out.”
“Accusations?” You repeat, incredulous. This man was either incredibly bold or incredibly fucking stupid. Both? “What, they weren’t true?”
Yeonjun’s mouth opens, as if ready to argue, but even he can’t deny it. Instead, all he can do is pause for a second, floundering, before eventually declaring, “I had my reasons.”
You laugh. You can’t help it, you laugh in his face. “Reasons. Sure, OK. Go on.”
Yeonjun hesitates for a second, and you notice the way a muscle in his cheek twitches, as if he’s clenching and unclenching his jaw. “You and Soobin…you weren’t even a good match, anyway.”
You blink. You wait for him to elaborate, to give any explanation for this…fucking bizarre defence he’s claiming.
He doesn’t.
“…’Good match’, the fuck does that mean?” You ask, too disbelieving to even summon an appropriate amount of rage. “What, because I wasn’t rich like him?”
“No–”
“Because I wasn’t in your shitty little country club group?”
“Because he would have bored you.”
His words hang there, for a moment, in the shocked silence that follows. You wonder if Yeonjun even meant to say them, judging by the expression on his face. He even draws back, just a little, dropping his hand from where he’d planted it by your head.
Of all the reasons he could have given you, that had to be one of the most unexpected. Criticising Soobin was surprising enough, but that kind of reasoning…
It was so much more than just a surface observation, it was as if he’d actually given it thought. Like he’d dwelled on it, observed the two of you, spent time thinking about the two of you and–
“…Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you murmur, voice dropping to a whisper. You stare at him - really stare at him, taking in his expression, every little hint his eyes give away - as you reach the obvious conclusion. “Were you jealous?”
Yeonjun’s lips part. In shock? In disgust? In fear that he’d finally been caught out?
“Don’t…don’t be stupid–”
“You fucking were,” you interrupt, eyes widening. There’s a laugh building up in your throat, threatening to escape. “Oh, poor little rich boy, wanting what he couldn’t have, obsessed with me–”
“You’re delusional,” Yeonjun spits, backing away, but there’s panic in his movements. He’s lost the upper hand, maybe for once in his life.
This time, you’re the one who presses forward, closing in on him, and when he tries to side-step you to get to the exit, you throw out your hand, planting it firmly against his chest to push him back.
He half-stumbles, righting himself after barely a step backwards. He’s still close enough that your hand doesn’t break contact, and you leave it there, curving around the firmness of his chest, right over where his twisted little heart must be pounding.
“Liar,” you accuse, tilting your head. You’re so close now, closer than you’ve ever been in the years you’ve known and hated him. If he wasn’t so freakishly tall, you’d almost be nose-to-nose. Instead, you have to crane your head back slightly. “Admit it.”
“Admit what?” Yeonjun asks, his attempt at sounding nonchalant being undermined by the swallow he takes. You’re close enough to see the way his throat bobs. “You–”
He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, because you raise yourself slightly onto your toes, just enough to reach eye-level with him, just enough that your nose just barely brushes his.
You wonder if he can tell this was a test. If he does, it doesn’t seem like he cares – because he fails miserably. With one slow release of breath, Yeonjun’s self-control crumbles, and he grabs at the back of your head to pull you into a kiss.
Your lips meet with an almost bruising force, and it’s enough to make you freeze for a second. Your brain is finally catching up to what is happening, to the absurdity that was fucking Choi Yeonjun kissing you.
He makes it a little easier to believe, because this is not romantic. This is angry, heated, volatile. Years of frustration, building up like steam, never escaping, never releasing, just growing and growing and growing until what could it do but explode?
This is where you should break it off and claim victory. Rub his desperation in his face, mock his defeat, and leave with your head held high.
You don’t.
In your defence, there are a number of perfectly understandable reasons. They flash in your mind, as the seconds drag by, and you still don’t break away. It’s been a while since you’d even kissed someone, so focused on building your career. It is so very, very tempting to see how far Yeonjun would go, to see how deeply he could abandon that infuriating indifference he’d kept up around you. There is something so fuckingintoxicating about having this effect on someone.
When would you ever experience something like this again?
Do you really want to give it up, never to taste it again?
Yeonjun’s arm circles around your waist, his hand digging into the side of your ribcage. He’s realised that you haven’t pulled away, and now he’s doubling down, yanking you closer to him.
You’re annoyed that he’s a good kisser - that he so clearly has experience with this. Yet another addition to the long list of reasons to fucking despise Choi Yeonjun.
He breaks the kiss to press his lips to your jaw, and there isn’t an ounce of gentleness to it. He leaves a trail up to your ear, even nipping at the skin once or twice.
“You were so fucking annoying,” he hisses in your ear, and his voice is shaking with rage. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but his tone sends shivers down your spine. You can feel the effects it has between your legs, like he’d spoken the words directly against your clit. “I couldn’t do anything without you picking it apart, made me feel so fucking worthless-“
“Because you were,” you gasp, unapologetic. “Living on Daddy’s credit card, unaware how fucking embarrassing that was, acting like you were special.”
He pulls away from your neck to look you in the eye. The direct eye contact should have been unnerving, or maybe awkward, but you feel your breath catch. His eyes are so dark, his skin flushed, and his lip curls into a sneer. “We used to laugh about you, when Soobin couldn’t hear. How overboard you were going, trying to fit in.”
You meet his glare with one of your own. If the younger version of you, the earnest, anxious, idealistic you who hung on Soobin’s arm, who researched designers and the stock market and fucking yachting just to keep up with conversations, had heard those words, you would have fallen to pieces. Now, your lips curl upwards into a smirk, and you bat your eyes in mock pity.
“That must have been hard, pretending like you didn’t jerk off thinking about me the second you got home.”
His grip on you tightens, and his lips are on yours again with an almost bruising force. You get the feeling that you’d struck close to home. You close your eyes and imagine it. The image of that snickering, arrogant piece of shit you used to know in high school, laying on some ridiculous thousand-thread-count sheets in his mansion, eyes closed, moaning, fucking himself into his hand at the thought of you.
God, you feel fucking powerful.
Yeonjun drags you away from the door, hand fisting in your shirt, making it ride up and out of where you kept it tucked into your skirt. Before you can even open your eyes and get your bearings, you feel him push you up against the wall, trapping you between it and his tall, burning hot frame. Sandwiched together like this, you can feel his dick pressing against you through his slacks, almost embarrassingly hard against the dip of your hipbone.
His fingers search for the buttons of your shirt, his movements almost frenzied in his rush to undo each one. They only stumble with the final one when, in his hurry, he tugs too hard - and you feel it tearing free from its stitching, dropping onto the floor with an audible thunk.
Yeonjun doesn’t apologise, doesn’t even acknowledge it, in his eagerness to get your shirt off. But it sparks a wave of new anger in you, a resurgence of that long-buried bitterness you had towards people like him, the carelessness they had when anything and everything could be replaced. You feel it coursing through you, controlling you as you lift your hands up to the opening of his shirt.
And rip it open.
Three buttons go flying, and a fourth barely manages to hang on by a thread.
Yeonjun pauses, even glancing down at himself, at the damage you’ve caused.
“Whoops,” you deadpan. “Hope that shirt wasn’t expensive.”
His gaze flickers to you, and you recognise that cocky gleam in his eyes. He’d given you the same look years ago, when you once made the mistake of turning up to a yacht party with shorts and sunglasses. You bristle at the familiar sight.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he croons, sickly-sweet. “I won’t charge you for it. You can still pay rent this month.”
You wonder how much worse a knee to the dick hurts when it’s hard. You’re almost tempted to find out.
Yeonjun saves himself by reaching for your hands, gripping tightly around them, and uses his strength and yours to rip open the rest of his shirt. He strips out of it, letting the entirely ruined garment drop to the floor without a second thought, and leans down to press his lips to yours once more.
Your right hand slides up to the back of his head, fingers twisting around his unbearably soft, dark locks and pulling. You’re rewarded with an unexpected groan from Yeonjun, just a little bit choked in its surprise and undeniably filthy.
A predictable response, you want to sigh, pretending like you couldn’t feel your core muscles fucking twitch.
Yeonjun slides a hand up your torso, letting his fingernails just scrape over the smooth skin. He wastes no time sliding his hand under the cup of your bra, squeezing your breast. It’s almost possessive, the way he explores them, the way he breaks the kiss to stare down at them when he tugs your bra down, exposing them.
“Fuck, you’ve always had nice tits,” he breathes, his thumb brushing across a nipple. You have to fight back a gasp at the sensation, biting your tongue when he takes the nipple between two fingers and pinches slightly.
Instead, you let your head tilt back, and you force yourself to speak, staring him down.
“Yeah. Soobin loved them,” you remark, so innocent, watching the way his eyes snap upwards to meet yours at the jab.
There’s a new flash of anger in his eyes, but his voice is uncannily calm as he recounts, “I once told Soobin your tits were the only good thing about you. That was the angriest he ever got at me.”
Part of you expects some kind of hurt at his words, but there is none. Instead, you feel the strangest urge to laugh at the thought of that cruel boy, how pathetic he was with his little crush.
Yeonjun ducks his head, and his tongue drags one long, slow swipe across your breast. So lazily, leisurely, pointedly. Like he’s staking some kind of juvenile claim. If I lick it, it’s mine.
“He didn’t punch me though,” he says, just a touch too nonchalantly. “I was expecting him to.”
“I would have, if you’d had the balls to say it to my face,” you spit, unimpressed. “And you probably would have gotten off on it.”
He grins, and instead of replying verbally, his lips close around your nipple - and you can’t hide your shiver when his tongue returns.
You feel one of his hands slide up your inner thigh, lifting your skirt. The way his fingers rest against the soft cotton of your underwear, you think his plan was to tease you through the fabric.
But when his hand starts wandering, you know the second he discovers just how damp your underwear is. He stills, almost freezing in his tracks, and there’s an almost clumsiness to the way he pushes your underwear to one side to check, like he almost can’t believe it.
And then, you can feel the smirk growing on his face, the way he releases your nipple to look up at you. Your jaw clenches at the fucking sickeningly smug expression on his face.
“Oh,” he murmurs, and he can’t even try to keep up the fake sympathy, “isn’t it embarrassing, baby, being this wet for me?”
If looks could kill, you’re pretty sure Yeonjun would perish on the spot.
“It’s surprising,” you retort, jaw relaxing only slightly so the words aren’t through gritted teeth. “With how much you’ve been chatting, it’s a miracle I’m not drier than the Sahara.”
Yeonjun laughs - he fucking laughs - but his next words are filled with venom, even as his fingers slide gently along your folds. “God, you’re such a bitch.”
You smile. “Maybe. But you’re still going to fucking cry the second you get your dick in m-“
You cut yourself off with a gasp, chest tightening, as Yeonjun finds your clit.
Fuck. Fuck.
He’s such a tease about it, tracing slow circles into you, the pad of his thumb dragging maddeningly.
Your grip tightens in his hair, too stubborn to give up and moan, too weak to pretend his ministrations have no effect at all.
His lips press into a thin, displeased line, and you shouldn’t be surprised when he quickens the pace. It teases a shaky, halting breath from you and your free hand moves to his shoulder, gripping onto it for support.
You still refuse to make a sound, to give him the satisfaction. It’s petty, but if there’s one thing this evening has made increasingly clear to you, you’re an exceptionally petty person.
Yeonjun catches on immediately.
“Oh, you don’t want to play this game, baby,” Yeonjun croons, letting his thumb swipe across in a way that makes your legs wobble for a split-second. “You’re not going to win.”
You suck in a breath. “…Fuck you.”
Yeonjun’s smirk deepens, and you know he must have a dozen different responses on the tip of his tongue.
But instead, he sinks to his knees. You watch, a strange mix of dread and anticipation making your stomach clench, as his head disappears under your skirt – which means instead of seeing, you feel the second his tongue makes contact with your clit.
Your whole body shudders, one hand jerking upwards to press against your mouth, the other that was gripping his shoulder sliding upwards to grasp at the back of his neck.
He is merciless, abandoning all traces of his earlier rough nature and instead just fucking teasing with the barest flicks of the tip of his tongue, all too aware of the way your body jolts forward with every swipe. His right hand comes upwards to grab you by the hip and trap you against the wall.
Your breaths grow increasingly short, frantic, shaking with restraint. You will not admit defeat to this man, even if the effort is causing you to shake in his hold, even if the choice is rapidly becoming clear between making noise or letting frustrated tears form.
Yeonjun steals this choice away from you by choosing that very moment to close his lips around you and suck, and the first broken moan slips out between your fingers.
And the fucker pulls away, breaking contact, making you whimper in frustration as he breathes, “Told y–”
You don’t let him finish that sentence, your fingers tangling themselves in his hair and pushing him back towards you urgently. Thankfully, he seems to take the hint, and continues to lick into you at an infuriating pace.
Since it was pointless trying to keep silent now, you let yourself relax, losing yourself in the sensations. Choi Yeonjun was on his knees, eating you out, and you deserved to enjoy it. In fact, with your newly-free hand, you lift your skirt a little higher, just so you can see what he’s been reduced to.
His face is flushed with exertion, and his eyes lock with yours. He’s so completely and utterly shameless, not a trace of embarrassment despite the position he’s found himself in.
When his left hand trails up your thighs, you barely have time to draw in a sharp breath before he slides two fingers inside you – and you hate that he knows better than to just piston them in and out, you hate that he knows exactly where to focus his attention that he knows exactly how to curl them, you hate him, hate him–
“Are you close?” Yeonjun asks, but it’s barely a question. He knows, he can tell from the way your legs are starting to shake, the way your breath keeps catching, the tiny little whines that keep escaping. “From just this? My mouth and a few fingers? Didn’t take much from me, did it?”
Your fingers twist in his hair in retaliation, but he barely pays attention to it, too busy watching you.
“Say it,” he murmurs against you. “Tell me you’re going to come on my fingers. Go on.”
You can barely piece together what he’s saying, the words entering through one ear and out the other, your attention struggling to latch onto anything but what you’re feeling, how close you are to falling over the edge. “I…fuck, Yeonjun…”
You don’t mean to say his name, but it clearly unlocks something in him, judging by the noise he makes against you, the way his hand tightens around your hip. You build and build and build and shatter, eyes squeezed shut, knees almost buckling under you. You imagine that without Yeonjun’s vice-like grip pinning you to the wall, your legs might have given out from under you.
Fuck. You can barely breathe.
You hear Yeonjun push himself back up to his feet, and by the time you’ve opened your eyes again, he takes your face between his hands and forces your mouth back to his again.
This time, his kiss is sloppy, rushed, just this side of clumsy. His dick must be painfully hard now, trapped in his slacks, and he doesn’t even hide the way he grinds against your hip. With you – briefly – satiated, it is Yeonjun’s turn to be the impatient one.
He moves to press his lips under your jaw, muttering breathlessly. “You’re so…fucking…”
You’re not sure if that sentence was going to end complimentary or deeply insulting, but both options pale in comparison to the way it actually ends – with him choking on his own moan, as your hand finally moves to palm him through his clothes.
“Do you have a condom?” You ask, and maybe you’d admit that should have come up sooner.
Yeonjun is flushed, panting, but he manages to crack open one eye and fix you with a smug look. “Do I need one?”
It really is a talent, sparking such irritation in you so soon after making you come, but apparently, Yeonjun is just gifted.
You stare at him, incredulous. “The fuck kind of a question is that?”
“A good one. Maybe I’m surprised you’d let me fuck you,” he drawls, before reaching down for you again, very pointedly running his fingers along your ruined underwear, watching the way you shiver, “or maybe you’ve been that desperate, I’m surprised you’re not just letting me fuck you anyway, protection or not.”
You tense, seizing his wrist in the blink of an eye and jerking his hand away from you, squeezing tightly, purposefully, as an unspoken warning. Looking him dead in the eye, you respond. “If you don’t have a condom, the only thing touching your dick tonight is going to be this fucking hand.”
You expect him to be angry, affronted even. You don’t expect him to stare at you, dark eyes practically glittering with some sort of unreadable emotion.
You clench your jaw. “Do I need to repeat the question?”
“…No,” he replies, with a fucking smile of all things, and uses his free hand to reach into the back pocket of his slacks. He brings out his wallet – sleek black leather, expensive, unquestionably designer – and, shaking off your grip, fishes out a familiar square of foil. “Do you want to put it on for me too, baby?”
“Why? Have you still not figured out how to do shit on your own?”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow – but still, he’s not angry. You worry that you’re losing your touch.
“I managed to make you come on my own,” he reminds you, sounding so confident and unruffled, even as his hands impatiently work to undo his belt.
He’s never going to fucking let that go, is he?
You swat his hands out of the way, making quick work of his belt, but you draw out unzipping his fly, just because you can. “Maybe that was a fluke.”
To your delight, that sparks the briefest hint of irritation in Yeonjun. “A fluke? You–”
Whatever he was about to say, it is lost the moment you slide your hand into his briefs. Yeonjun gasps, so softly you could mistake it for a simple exhale of breath, and he leans into your touch.
…Fuck, ignore all that came before. This is real power, holding Yeonjun like this, hearing every little reaction you drew from him. You run the pad of your thumb over his cockhead, already slick with pre-cum, and he hisses.
“Stop teasing,” he demands.
You smirk. “Why? Isn’t this how you imagined it? All alone in your bedroom?”
You take him out of his pants completely, and your hand squeezes around him, pumping once, slowly, firmly.
“I imagined you with your mouth shut,” he grunts, trying to rock his hips against you, trying to gain any kind of friction he can.
You want to laugh. “No, you didn’t. That would bore you, wouldn’t it?”
Yeonjun’s eyes meet yours once more, and you relish the look in his eye, like you’ve caught him out. But before you can say anything, he starts tearing open the foil packet, fingers fumbling slightly in his haste.
“Had enough already?” You ask, because you’re so tempted to keep moving your hand, make him cum before he even has the chance to get inside of you. Would that be the ultimate revenge? A final embarrassment, in return for all he did to you out of jealousy, out of misplaced feelings and petty spite?
Maybe it would – but what would you get out of that, really?
You’re sick of making everything about him. It’s time for you to be selfish.
You move your hands away, letting him roll on the condom – with such ease that you’re almost infuriated by the level of experience he must have over you – and loop your arms around his neck.
Yeonjun hikes one of your legs up around his waist, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh, as he lines himself up with your entrance.
This is the point of no return, you think, and you’re surprised by how little you’re second-guessing this.
And then, without even a moment’s hesitation, Yeonjun pushes into you.
Your moan is choked, breathy, but his is loud. You can feel just how much his body tenses at the feel of you, the way his grip tightens.
It’s shocking how right this feels. You don’t have to adjust, he doesn’t have to realign. The perfect angle, the perfect fit, the perfect feeling. You squeeze around him, greedy for more.
What isn’t shocking is the ruthless pace he sets. For all the whimpers that slip out of his mouth, his thrusts are rough and hurried. You press your face into his neck, where the moans he’s driving out of you can be muffled, and try to meet him move-for-move. You’re tempted to open your mouth, bite down and mark his pale skin – but you’re starting to think you’ve already made more than enough of an imprint on him.
“This…” Yeonjun gasps, “this is…what I…”
He can’t even finish the sentence, falling into wordless groans as he presses against you. When you let your head loll back against the wall, you find his eyes open, albeit heavy-lidded, watching you.
His hand snakes down to where the two of you are joined, just to torture you a little more. This time, your moans come far more easily, and you barely even care that the corners of his lips curl upwards at the sounds.
Blood is roaring in your ears. You feel like you’re transfixed in this moment, like nothing exists outside of this room, outside of Yeonjun and your desire to strip everything but his most painful vulnerabilities away. You can already tell he’s starting to falter – his breaths are quickening, the moans pulled from him are growing louder and more desperate.
You think he wants you to come again before him, and you don’t know how to feel that he won’t quite make it. It should frustrate you, and yet you can’t deny the growing sense of vindication. You are doing this, you are unmaking him.
With one last broken moan, Yeonjun drops his head to press his forehead against yours, his grip tightens to an almost bruising force, and unravels completely.
He’s shaking, breathless, almost mindless in the way he tries to push himself even deeper inside you. You don’t offer even the tiniest shred of mercy, clamping down even tighter around him as his thrusts grew sloppier. You hope for one last little triumph – a whimper, maybe, from the arrogant little shit who used to look down his nose at you.
Instead, he surprises you by ducking down slightly and pressing his mouth to yours one last time. The kiss still isn’t romantic, but there’s a…
There’s a tenderness, almost.
You hate it. You hate the way it buries itself under your skin.
He breaks away, exhaling sharply, eyes closing. Eventually, with great reluctance, he withdraws from you. You ignore the void he leaves behind when he pulls out of you, too busy focusing on the growing soreness of your muscles.
Yeonjun looks down at himself, expression dimming slightly, as he realises the new problem he has to confront – what to do with the condom. He curses to himself quietly. “…Shit.”
You want to laugh at that. You want to delight in his discomfort, just as you always have.
You want to.
You busy yourself with fixing your clothes. Your buttons, save for the last, are easy to do back up. Your underwear is probably unsalvageable, but perfectly hidden as your skirt falls back into place. To the untrained eye, it would seem as if nothing had happened.
You leaned back against the wall, legs still yet to recover. What you wouldn’t give for a bed, or just something semi-comfortable to lay yourself down upon. Anything but a fucking wall in the fucking office copy room.
Yeonjun, in the meantime, had apparently managed to solve his little problem with the use of sheets upon sheets of copier paper. You watch him stuff the suspiciously large wad of scrunched-up paper into the bin, wrinkling his nose as he does so. For good measure, he even shakes the receptacle, presumably in the hopes of letting it sink further towards the bottom.
You wonder how often someone like him has had to cover his own tracks. Maybe this is a first for him, having to do it himself.
“So,” you say, clearing your throat. That awful…something was still digging its way underneath your skin, making you itch, making you tense. “Congrats on finally getting that out of your system.”
Yeonjun stills, turning his head towards you. “…What?”
You force a shrug. “Six years is a lot of build-up. Must be a weight off your chest now.”
“What are you talking about?” Yeonjun snaps, exasperated. And then, you see it dawn on him, and his next words are almost spat out in sheer disbelief. “What, was this a one-time thing?”
You smooth down your skirt, unbothered. “What else would it be?”
Your words are calm, composed. The perfect final nail to drive into the coffin of whatever lay between the two of you. Closure, you decide. The best way to finally move on with your life.
You move towards the door, head held high – only to be blocked by a furious Yeonjun, jaw tight, eyes blazing. The perfect image of the spoiled boy he is, watching his favourite toy be dangled within reach and then snatched away at the last possible moment. He’s even pouting, just a little, and you immediately smother the briefest urge to lean forward and bite down on that lower lip.
He eyes you for a moment, and there’s a part of you that resents the way he can stand so tall and confident while looking like that – bare from the waist up, unbuttoned fly, sex-rumpled hair. Completely fucking shameless. Infuriating.
And then, slowly, Yeonjun begins to smile.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, simply, and you can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat.