La Petite Mort

by glaucous_seas

Summary:

"What else?" Chan pressed gently.

"The chains," Minho whispered, his face burning with embarrassment. "I wondered what they would feel like."

"On you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And I... I thought about you putting them on me." The admission came out in a rush. "About you being in control while I..."

"While you what?"

"While I let you do whatever you wanted," Minho finished, his voice barely audible.

-

Or: Minho's hired at Cle Entertainment by none other than his ex's father.

Notes:

ehehheheheeh. Minho for that gucci event has me barking cuz wtf you mean he went there with THOSE eyes? With all those rich men around?? Like I'm sorry if this sounds beyond delulu and a little stupid, but I would definitely fold if he looked at me with those eyes if I was any of those rich guys there.

Regardless, I conjured and barfed literally 20k words after seeing the image. The next three chapters are heavily messy cuz of how many sidenotes I've left of me screaming. Lmao. Also, his shirt was sheer. SHEER. You could see his lovely tummy and belly button and oh my god someone exorsice me.

That being said, thank you chosing this fic to read, my lovely readers. Note that this has elements of cheating (not with minchan), implied dysfunctional family, eventual confrontations that involves too many slurs, BDSM scenes (i think it'll come in chapter 2 or 3), and yeah, a 14 year old age gap.

enjoy reading!

Chapter 1: Trepidation

 

From the day it started, most of their mutual friends joked that it seemed destined. The best dancer and the newly joined freshman. 

 

Minho and Bang Seri had fallen in love through their dance studio team. They'd performed countless couple dances together, but it was during their final routine that Minho felt his world tilt—when she pulled him into a kiss at the end, asking against his lips if they should date.

 

It had seemed perfect—they’d bring each other flowers every other week, eat buldak by sneaking into the dining hall’s kitchen late at night, would oggle over cats and famous people with equal reverence. A month of going out, official by the second. Minho told her he was bi by the third month, and she'd said "same." The conversation never came up again.

 

When they’d been together for almost a year, Minho learned that she was loaded. Her father was some director at an entertainment company. Cle Entertainment, to be specific. Minho had assumed he’d be stoic, a little distant and uncaring, but he turned out to be anything but.

 

He'd met her father several times—Bang Chan—when he came to pick Seri up for "bonding time" after studio sessions, or sometimes when Minho and Seri were sharing popsicles despite the cold outside the university gates. Chan would wave politely at Minho, and Minho would wave back. That was it.

 

Except it wasn't really just that, was it?

 

Chan was beautiful, handsome, with silver-dyed locks that sometimes went blond. Minho's favorite had been the wavy blond hair Chan had sported for over a month. And there were the looks—lingering glances that made Minho's skin prickle with awareness he didn't want to acknowledge. 

 

The way Chan's eyes would track over him when he thought Minho wasn't looking, or how his gaze would linger just a beat too long when they exchanged those polite waves. Sometimes Minho would run into him when he’d wake up in Seri’s bed, searching for water and drifting to the kitchen. 

 

He’d talk to Chan out of politeness, and learned that the older man had insomnia, and he wondered if he was fucked in the head for offerring to spend time with him, going over whatever Chan was working on. It had been a choreography Chan had to approve, and despite the sleep tugging Minho back into half reverie, he told Chan he’d dance it for him.

 

He did, and felt his world slim down to just Chan watching him. The choreo was beautiful too, Minho had always looked forward to joining Cle as one of their choreographers upon graduation. When he was done, Chan just blinked at him softly and smiled. “That was lovely, Minho-ya, I suppose I can approve it without worries now.”

 

Minho had convinced himself he was imagining it. Chan had had Seri with his ex-girlfriend when he was sixteen—some hookup gone wrong. Minho was two years older than Seri, which meant the age gap between him and Chan was a stark fourteen years. Chan was in his late thirties while Minho had just turned twenty-two, months away from graduation with his bachelor's in arts.

 

Things had been going awfully smoothly until a single bump turned into two, and the road became cracked and unmapped.

 

Usually, they stayed over at each other's places often. Minho didn't prefer hers because of the sheer size—it felt impersonal, cold—but it was what it was. They'd been comfortable, easy. She'd curl into his side during movies, steal bites of his food, leave her hair ties on his nightstand.

 

But Seri began stepping away for calls, slipping out onto balconies or into bathrooms with hushed voices and nervous laughter. There were trips she'd never mentioned before—weekend getaways with friends he'd never met, family obligations that seemed to multiply overnight. Her tardiness got her in trouble at the studio, and when Minho tried to take the fall, the other members told him that just because she was his girlfriend didn't mean he had the right to ruin his future.

 

She'd withdraw from his touch too—subtle at first. A slight tensing when he'd reach for her hand, turning her cheek when he'd lean in for a kiss, claiming tiredness when he'd try to pull her closer in bed. The warmth that had always existed between them began to feel forced, performative.

 

Maybe that was the nail in the coffin.

 

Minho had come over unannounced with a bouquet of baby's breath, wanting to apologize for pushing too hard, for asking too many questions about where she'd been. The butler tried to usher him away, but Minho fought free and peeked through the door.

 

Seri was on another girl's lap, just in her bra, while the other girl cupped her breast. They were laughing softly, intimately, in a way that made Minho's stomach drop.

 

Honestly, Minho couldn't even feel anger. If she'd gone for a guy, he probably would have had his knuckles bloody. But at that moment, he just felt... empty. He looked at the butler, who gave him a sheepish look.

 

"Give these to her," he said, handing over the baby's breath. "Tell her we're done."

 

He left fast. He didn't cry because he didn't see the point. He told his closest friends—Changbin and Seungmin—about the incident, and they rushed to his dorm with food and snacks. They watched horror movies until they were saturated with clichés.

 

Life went on. Eventually, Seri was kicked off the dance team and graduated, moving abroad. Minho pursued his master's in business administration, and once that was over—

 

"Lee Minho-ssi?"

 

He snapped out of it, seeing the woman across from him in her clean, chic suit sliding a neatly packed binder toward him. On top sat a card: Cle Entertainment.

 

He'd declined their first two approaches, but the money from his internships and part-time work was waning. He needed something stable. And it seemed like once one entertainment company had their eyes on you, they pretty much blacklisted you from other approaching companies.

 

Minho stared at the binder. "What is the job posting?"

 

"At the moment," she began, checking the binder once more as if doubting something, "administrative assistant. The salary is... around one hundred..."

 

"Thousand?" Minho questioned.

 

"Million," she said. "Lee Minho-ssi would work directly under Bang jeon-mu-nim."

 

CFO? Chan must have been promoted from his position as vice president. Minho inhaled. "Isn't... that a bit too much?"

 

"Jeon-mu-nim has specifically outlined you, Minho-ssi. If I were you, I'd take it. Mostly because there aren't many companies that might want to go against him."

 

Minho opened the binder and flipped through the contacts and contents. "Okay," he said after almost half an hour of reading everything word for word. "I'll call you tonight, is that alright?"

 

"Yes, my number is on the card as well."

 

When she left, Minho ran a hand down his face. He was over Seri. He was twenty-six now. It had been three years since she'd left without a trace. Some of her belongings were still in his apartment—moved from the dorm—like the coffee maker he refused to give up because it had been too expensive to just throw away.

 

He stared at the card, then at Bang Chan's name printed beneath the company logo.

 

Great. Just great.

—

Minho begrudgingly made his way to the Cle Entertainment building three days later, wearing his father's old suit—the one his family kept trying to convince him to sell for extra money. It was different for its time: a cream turtleneck, soft against his skin, paired with an almost soft brown blazer and matching pants. Felix had styled his hair to match the vintage vibe, and Minho had chosen to apply just some foundation in case he had a nervous breakdown and his face decided to betray him.

 

The building was sleeker than he remembered from the few times he'd glimpsed it in passing during his university days. All glass and steel reaching toward the sky, intimidating in its pristine corporate elegance.

 

When he entered the interview room, his breath caught.

 

Chan was there.

 

They made eye contact across the conference table—Chan seated among other management personnel, looking polished and authoritative in a way that made Minho's chest tighten with something he didn't want to name. Chan's hair was dark now, professionally styled, but those eyes were the same ones that had lingered on him years ago outside university gates.

 

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Chan's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, and Minho forced himself to look away.

 

The other executives went over his portfolio and resume with meticulous attention to detail. They asked him the exact questions Changbin had drilled him on for hours—behavioral scenarios, technical knowledge, hypothetical problem-solving. Minho answered each one with the practiced confidence his friend had beaten into him, hyperaware of Chan's silent presence at the table.

 

When it was over, he left the room with a bow and what he hoped was equal grace, his heart hammering against his ribs.

 

Within two days, Seungmin called to tell him he'd gotten the job because he had taken liberty of watching over Minho’s Gmail and SMS.

 

It felt weird. He'd struggled before—scraped by on part-time wages, lived off convenience store meals, worried about rent. But this seemed... easy. Too easy.

 

He was told to start the following week, giving him almost four days to overthink everything. He visited his parents, kissed his cats, told them about the new ginger kitten he'd recently adopted, and came back the day before his start date to celebrate with his friends. They went out for drinks and karaoke, Changbin and Seungmin insisting this was his big break, that he deserved this.

—

 

 

Monday morning started with chaos. Minho had been told to strictly stick to formal wear, making him ravage through his closet for some old button-down and white slacks as he rushed through the subway, nearly missing his stop twice.

 

When he finally arrived at Cle Entertainment, slightly out of breath and definitely not as put-together as he'd planned, he stopped at the reception desk to announce himself. To his surprise, Chan entered right after him, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Minho's self worth.

 

"You're early, Minho-ssi," Chan said, his voice warm but professional.

 

Minho glanced at him, trying to read his expression. The receptionist smiled politely. "Jeon-mu-nim will lead you up."

 

Minho swallowed as he followed Chan toward the elevators. He wanted to ask—needed to ask—if Chan had chosen him for some misplaced resentment over his relationship with Seri, some twisted form of revenge or closure. But Chan simply led them to the eighth floor and paused, turning to face him with that same unreadable expression.

 

"Let me show you around," Chan said, gesturing down a hallway lined with frosted glass offices. "This floor houses our creative and administrative departments. You'll be working closely with Hwang Hyunjin—he's our lead designer. Brilliant mind, though he can be... particular about his workspace."

 

They walked past several offices, Chan pointing out various departments—marketing, talent coordination, financial planning. His voice was steady, professional, but Minho caught the way Chan's eyes would flicker to him between explanations, assessing his reactions.

 

"And this," Chan stopped in front of a corner office with solid walls on three sides and a glass wall facing the hallway, complete with a glass door, "is your office."

 

Minho blinked. "My... office?"

 

"Your office," Chan confirmed, pushing open the door to reveal a spacious room with a sleek desk, ergonomic chair, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It was easily twice the size of his first apartment—a one bedroom (no living room) with a bathroom and a kitchen. "Hyunjin's is right next to yours—you'll be coordinating on several projects together."

 

As if summoned by his name, a tall figure appeared in the doorway of the adjacent office. Hwang Hyunjin was striking—long dark hair, sharp features, and paint-stained fingers that suggested he'd been working since dawn. He gave Minho a curious once-over before offering a small wave.

 

"The new administrative assistant?" Hyunjin asked, though something in his tone suggested he found the title amusing.

 

"Lee Minho," Chan said smoothly. "Minho-ssi, Hyunjin will brief you on the current projects requiring administrative oversight."

 

Hyunjin nodded and disappeared back into his office, leaving Minho standing in his new workspace, trying to process the surreal situation. An administrative assistant with a corner office? It didn't add up.

 

Chan stepped closer, close enough that Minho caught that familiar scent—expensive cologne mixed with something warmer, more personal. "My office is on the same floor," Chan added helpfully, his voice dropping just slightly. "Feel free to come to me for any queries."

 

The only query burning in Minho's mind was the elephant in the room that had been growing larger with every passing moment. This wasn't about his qualifications or his Master’s in Business Administration. This wasn't about administrative skills or project coordination.

 

"Chan-ssi," Minho started, then caught himself. "Jeon-mu-nim, I—"

 

"Is something wrong with the office?" Chan asked, tilting his head slightly. There was something almost predatory in the way he waited for Minho's response, as if he knew exactly what Minho wanted to ask but was enjoying watching him struggle with it.

 

Minho's jaw tightened. The professional distance, the formal titles, the carefully orchestrated tour—it was all a performance. They both knew why he was really here, standing in an office that was far too generous for his supposed position, working on the same floor as the man who used to pick up his ex-girlfriend while giving him looks that made his skin burn.

 

"No," Minho said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "The office is perfect."

 

Chan's smile was small but satisfied. "Excellent. I'll let you get settled. We have a briefing at ten."

 

As Chan moved toward the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Minho-ssi. I've been looking forward to working with you."

 

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Minho alone in his spacious office, staring at the city skyline and wondering what exactly he'd gotten himself into.

—

The briefing went smoothly—project timelines, budget allocations, creative direction meetings. Minho took notes diligently, hyperaware of Chan's presence at the head of the table, the way his voice commanded attention without effort.

 

As everyone filed out, Hyunjin caught Minho before he could step away. "Would you like to grab lunch with me?" he asked.

 

Minho blinked. "I haven't paid for—"

 

"Lunch for staff is free," Hyunjin said with a small smile. "Unless you'd prefer to eat elsewhere?"

 

Minho vaguely remembered his forgotten lunch sitting in his apartment, already imagining Seungmin letting himself in and devouring whatever food he'd left behind.

 

"Right. That sounds good."

 

He followed Hyunjin to the company cafeteria, picked up a tray, and began loading it with food. The selection was impressive—far better than any university cafeteria he'd experienced.

 

"So, how come you decided to join here?" Hyunjin asked as he carefully selected salad that hadn't been contaminated by pickles.

 

Minho scrunched his nose as he placed japchae in the corner of his tray and picked up a bowl of seaweed soup and rice. "Blacklisted," he mumbled.

 

"You too, huh?" Hyunjin huffed, a knowing look in his eyes. "Same scenario. I wanted to pursue my master's in design, but I needed money. Got stuck here instead."

 

Minho nodded sympathetically. "How... is the work environment?"

 

"It's better than what I'd assumed," Hyunjin said, settling at a table by the windows. "It's hard in the beginning because when you imagine entertainment companies, you imagine having some active role with idol groups. But really, you're responsible for overseeing everything behind the scenes."

 

Minho brought a spoonful of rice to his mouth and sighed. "What about the... superiors and everything? Is it...?"

 

"Bang-nim is great," Hyunjin said, and Minho's stomach twisted at the casual familiarity. "He's excellent at observing and critiquing work. You'll be working with him quite closely, given that you're new."

 

Shit.

 

"Closely?" Minho tried to keep his voice neutral.

 

"Oh yeah, he personally oversees all new hires for the first few months. Daily check-ins, project reviews, that sort of thing." Hyunjin thoughtfully stabbed at his salad. "He's very... hands-on with his approach. Some people find it intense, but I think he genuinely wants everyone to succeed."

 

Minho's grip tightened on his spoon. Daily check-ins. Personal oversight. He could already imagine Chan leaning over his desk, that cologne filling his senses, those dark eyes watching his every move.

 

"Has he always been like that?" Minho asked, trying for casual curiosity.

 

"As long as I've been here," Hyunjin shrugged. "Though I've heard from others that he's gotten more... selective about who he takes such a personal interest in. You must have really impressed him during the interview."

 

The japchae suddenly tasted like cardboard in Minho's mouth. Selective. Personal interest. The words echoed in his mind, confirming what he'd already suspected—this wasn't random. This wasn't just about his qualifications.

 

"He seems very professional," Minho managed.

 

"Definitely. But he's also fair, and he actually listens when you have ideas or concerns. Not like some executives who just want yes-men." Hyunjin paused, studying Minho's expression. "You seem nervous about working with him directly. Is everything okay?"

 

Minho forced himself to take another bite, buying time. How could he explain that Chan wasn't just any superior—that they had history, that every interaction felt loaded with unspoken tension?

 

"Just want to make a good impression," he said finally.

 

"You will. He obviously sees potential in you, otherwise you wouldn't have gotten such a prime office location." Hyunjin grinned. "Plus, Minho-ssi will have me as a buffer. We'll be collaborating on most projects anyway."

 

The conversation was veering into dangerous territory, making Minho more anxious with each reassurance about Chan's personal attention. He needed a subject change, fast.

 

"This food is really great," Minho said, gesturing to his tray with perhaps too much enthusiasm. "I wasn't expecting company cafeteria food to be this good."

—

 

The next day was a whirlwind of introductions. Chan personally escorted Minho through the building, introducing him to existing idol groups, solo artists, and their managers. Then came the trainees—bright-eyed teenagers with dreams bigger than their experience—and their coordinators. Chan explained that Minho would be overseeing their training schedules, performance dates, and coordination between departments.

 

"Administrative assistant" was clearly a misleading title. This felt more like project management on steroids.

 

Hyunjin helped him settle into his office over the following days, nagging him about personalizing the space. "It looks like a corporate prison cell," Hyunjin had complained on the second day. "Doesn’t Minho-ssi have any certificates or awards?"

 

Minho had mumbled something about winning a national-level dance competition, and Hyunjin immediately dragged him about bringing it in. By the third day, his office looked less desolate.

 

The certificate now hung adjacent to the door, positioned where it wouldn't be immediately visible to anyone entering. There was a photo frame on his desk—him with Jisung, Changbin, and Felix during a camping trip in the woods, all of them laughing at something off-camera. Seungmin had taken the photo at some point, and it made the sterile office atmosphere feel lighter.

 

A few binders and notebooks were stacked on the previously empty shelves, and Hyunjin had gifted him a fake succulent for "aesthetic purposes." Lastly, Minho had settled his nephew's handmade clay cat paperweight on a stack of blank sheets—a small piece of home in this overwhelming corporate world.

 

"They'll get a printer for your office," Hyunjin had added, glancing at the bare corner. "And a new monitor. This one looks scratchy."

 

Minho shook his head gratefully. "Thank you for all this."

 

"Anytime," Hyunjin replied with a genuine smile before disappearing back to his own office.

 

That left Minho with half an hour of quiet to process everything, to let the reality of his situation sink in. He was actually here, in this office, working for Chan's company. The absurdity of it wasn't lost on him.

 

Then there was knocking, and Chan appeared in his doorway.

 

Chan stepped in, his eyes scanning the newly arranged office with approval. He nodded at the setup before pulling up the chair from the small conference table and positioning it right next to Minho's desk chair.

 

"Let's start," Chan said, settling close enough that Minho could smell that familiar cologne again.

 

Chan opened a thick binder filled with budget spreadsheets, income reports, and financial projections. "You'll need to understand our revenue streams first," he said, leaning closer to point at specific figures on the page. His shoulder brushed against Minho's as he reached across to flip to another section.

 

"These are quarterly projections for our active groups," Chan continued, his voice low and professional. "Training costs here, marketing budget allocations here, and projected returns based on album sales and touring."

 

Minho tried to focus on the numbers, but Chan's proximity was making it difficult to concentrate. Every time Chan leaned in to explain something, Minho caught the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his skin beneath the expensive cologne.

 

"The trainees are a different calculation entirely," Chan said, turning to another page. His hand briefly covered Minho's as he pointed to a specific column. "Investment without guaranteed return. We're essentially betting on potential."

 

"Right," Minho managed, hyperaware of how Chan's thigh was now pressed against his chair arm. "And the... the success rate?"

 

"Statistically? Low." Chan's fingers traced down the spreadsheet, and Minho found himself watching those long fingers instead of the numbers. "But when it works, it pays for all the failures combined."

 

This was torture. Chan was explaining complex financial concepts with the same voice that used to greet him politely outside university gates, but now there was an intimacy to it—the shared space, the quiet office, the way Chan's attention was entirely focused on him.

 

The elephant in the room grew larger with each passing minute. Why was Chan doing this personally? Why was he sitting so close when he could have assigned this training to literally anyone else in the finance department?

 

"Questions so far?" Chan asked, finally leaning back slightly, though he remained close enough that Minho could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

 

Minho had questions, alright. Just not about budgets and revenue streams.

 

"No, this is... very thorough," Minho said carefully.

 

Chan smiled—the same small, satisfied smile from the day before. "Good. We'll continue tomorrow. Same time."

 

As Chan gathered his papers and stood to leave, Minho realized that this was going to be his reality for the foreseeable future. Daily sessions with Chan, sitting close enough to touch, pretending that there wasn't years of unspoken history between them.

 

The door closed softly behind Chan, leaving Minho alone with his racing thoughts and the lingering scent of expensive cologne.

—

When Minho approached Chan with his first work plan, he braced himself for the kind of harsh critique his previous managers had always delivered. Instead, to his surprise, Chan didn't dismiss him or barely glance at the documents. He put on his gold-rimmed glasses, saved his work on his monitor, and turned to give Minho's presentation his full attention.

 

Minho stood there awkwardly as Chan went through each page methodically, his expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a couple of minutes, Chan hummed thoughtfully.

 

"It's great," he said, looking up at Minho with approval. "Good job, Minho-ssi."

 

Minho blinked a couple of times. That sounded... lovely, actually. Good job. Simple praise that his parents rarely gave him, that his previous supervisors had never bothered with. But he knew the type of man Chan was—that's why he'd been so wary from the beginning.

 

There had been a time when he'd gotten lost in Seri's house after using a bathroom one of the servants had directed him to. When he came out, he only remembered that her room was on the second floor, so he climbed the stairs but lost track of which hallway led where. He'd entered some room on the opposite end, thinking it might be hers.

 

When he stepped inside though, he had to pause. The room was something that simply stood out against the soft white and floral tones of the rest of the mansion.

 

The room was large, for one. The walls were deep burgundy, and in the center was what looked like a platform bed with intricate metalwork—something Jisung later stared at him over for five solid minutes before asking where the fuck Minho had even gone.

 

There were other items too. Chains hanging from hooks on the walls, leather restraints, silk ropes arranged with artistic precision. Some lingerie draped over a chair. The room had been cold, cold enough that goosebumps prickled across Minho's skin as he stood there, trying to process what he was seeing.

 

He'd only jumped when a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder.

 

He turned to see Chan, still in his work clothes, expression carefully blank. Minho moved back immediately and bowed. "I'm so sorry, abeonim! I—I was searching for Seri's room—"

 

"It's on the other side of the hall," Chan had said, his hand remaining on Minho's shoulder, gently prompting him to stand straight. "And I've told you not to call me abeonim, haven't I, Minho-ya?"

 

Minho's mouth had gone dry at the informal address. "Right, Chan-ssi," he'd managed, eyes flitting away from Chan's steady gaze. "Seri's room—"

 

"I'll lead you to it," Chan had said simply, closing the door to that room—what Seungmin later informed him was called a BDSM dungeon set-up that rich pigs made for themselves—with a soft click.

 

"Minho-ssi?"

 

The sound of his name in the present snapped him back to reality. Chan was watching him with concern, those gold-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Did you hear what I said?" Chan asked, tilting his head slightly.

 

"No, excuse me, could you please repeat it?" Minho asked, hands beginning to sweat.

 

"I said you and Hyunjin-ssi could work on this together once he presents me with his model. Unless you prefer working alone?"

 

Minho grimaced internally. If working alone meant Chan personally checking in on him even more frequently, then— He pushed that thought away. The entire situation was already as twisted as it could get.

 

He bit his lower lip before nodding. "I'll collaborate with him."

 

"That's great," Chan said, flashing that damned smile with dimples that made Minho's stomach flip. "If you want, you can talk to Jeongin-ssi about the finances too. He's at the end of the hall."

 

Minho opened his mouth to say he could find it himself, but Chan beat him to it.

 

"How about I lead you there?"

 

Déjà vu prickled along Minho's spine. He knew Chan was making a reference to that day years ago. He didn't like that Chan was making that reference. But he followed anyway, walking silently beside Chan to the end of the hall where someone sat behind frosted glass.

 

"Jeongin-ssi," Chan called out. When Jeongin called back that the door was open, Chan smiled at Minho, patted his shoulder—the same shoulder he'd touched years ago—and left.

 

The touch lingered long after Chan disappeared around the corner.

—

A month of this odd dynamic passed in a blur of close proximity training sessions, lingering glances, and professional boundaries that felt increasingly blurred. Minho had run out of proper formal shirts, so he'd resorted to wearing a semi-formal navy blue dress shirt—something he'd seen on Hyunjin and Jeongin at least a couple of times. It was a bit more relaxed than his usual attire, with a slightly deeper neckline that gave just a peek at the dip past his collarbones.

 

He was standing next to Hyunjin, who was seated and reading through Minho's latest proposal, in the common area outside their personal offices. It was a comfortable space surrounded by indoor plants, with two long leather couches and two smaller ones arranged around a glass coffee table.

 

The door to Chan's office suddenly opened, and several older men and women stepped out. Their faces held the same carefully blank expression that sometimes appeared on Chan's face, but there was something else there—something that made Minho feel watched, uncomfortable in his own skin as he felt their eyes tracking over his body.

 

The men tried to hide it, looking away when he finally turned around. One older woman patted his shoulder with what seemed like false sweetness and said, "Good work, kid," before walking away. The entire exchange felt wrong, loaded with implications that made Minho's stomach turn. They looked at him like they wanted something from him—something he didn't want to think about.

 

He glanced at Hyunjin for some kind of reassurance, but the other man was nose-deep in his work, oblivious to the tension.

 

Then he felt those familiar eyes on him and looked up to see Chan standing in his doorway, arms crossed. He was wearing a simple charcoal suit, but with a gorgeous burgundy vest that made him look timelessly elegant—and dangerous.

 

"Minho-ssi," Chan's voice cut through the lingering awkwardness, "meet me in my office. We need to discuss something."

 

Minho and Hyunjin exchanged glances, and Hyunjin patted the side of his thigh reassuringly. "It'll be something small, go."

 

Minho entered Chan's office and immediately shivered at the cold blast from the AC when the door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made his pulse quicken. Why did every room which Chan graced with his presence have to be so frigid?

 

Chan was sitting at his mahogany desk, a gold pen balanced between his fingers. "I thought I specified the dress code clearly," he said without preamble.

 

"Oh," Minho began, then backtracked. "But this—I've seen others wear it."

 

Chan just hummed, and the lack of a proper response had Minho's skin crawling with anticipation. Chan stood up abruptly, the sound of his chair rolling back snapping Minho out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into.

 

Chan moved toward him with deliberate steps and stopped just two feet away—close enough that Minho could smell that familiar cologne, and could feel the warmth radiating from his body that his own took in like a blessing.

 

"Can I fix this?" Chan asked, his voice lower than it had been moments before.

 

Minho didn't know what he meant, but whatever would get him out of this increasingly tense situation, he nodded.

 

Chan started by neatly adjusting the collar of Minho's dress shirt, his fingers brushing against Minho's neck as he worked. Then he moved to the front, carefully folding the fabric that revealed the hollow of Minho's throat and the hint of his collarbones. His fingers pressed against Minho's chest through the fabric, smoothing and adjusting with practiced precision.

 

"All those old bastards just want a younger plaything," Chan said, his voice tight with what sounded like irritation. "That's why they looked at you the way they did. Thought they could buy you into something."

 

Did you? The thought flashed through Minho's mind unbidden.

 

He blinked when Chan's hand settled on his shoulder, thumb resting dangerously close to his neck. He couldn't breathe, but somehow he could breathe too much all at once. He looked up at Chan carefully, wondering if his eyes were as wide as they felt—they always got big when he was surprised or overwhelmed.

 

Chan's hand retreated slowly, fingertips trailing. "You'll be good, right, Minho-ya?" The informal address sent electricity down Minho's spine.

 

Minho's brain short-circuited. He felt his stomach tighten with something that definitely wasn't professional anxiety.

 

"For this company, for the future of it," Chan continued, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "we need your insight."

 

Minho felt his skin become scalding where Chan had touched him. "R—right," he managed to mumble.

 

Chan moved back to his desk and retrieved a small safety pin, undoing the clasp with nimble fingers. Minho held his breath as Chan approached again, pinning the fabric closer to his collarbones so the shirt looked more conservative, more appropriate.

 

Then Chan stepped back and looked him over with the intensity of someone appraising a work of art. Minho felt completely exposed under that scrutiny, fidgeting with his thumb as he tried not to squirm.

 

Finally, Chan looked away. "Go back to work," he said, moving to lean against the counter with deceptive casualness.

 

Minho found it difficult to move his legs, but he eventually managed to turn toward the door. As soon as he was out of Chan's office, he headed straight for the nearest bathroom, locking himself inside and breathing hard as he realized his pants had become uncomfortably tight.

 

He waited until his body calmed down, then spent several minutes trying to convince himself that he was completely losing his mind.

 

But the phantom touch of Chan's fingers against his chest lingered long after he returned to work.

The same incidents kept occurring over the following weeks—the sexual tension building with each interaction. Minho would be working at his desk when Chan would lean over him to check files, his cologne heavy and intoxicating, making Minho's thoughts go hazy. Chan would move him by the waist when he needed to get past him in tight spaces, those large hands burning through Minho's shirt. When Minho successfully got through one of his first major presentations, Chan's praise—"Excellent work, Minho-ssi"—delivered with that dimpled smile made Minho's stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with professional satisfaction.

 

Each time, his body betrayed him. Each time, he had to excuse himself to the bathroom to collect himself.

 

Two and a half months into the job, their company's top group DREAMEZ won three global awards consecutively after their third comeback. It was a co-ed group with three girls and two guys that Minho had worked with several times, asking about their schedule preferences, wishes, and future plans.

 

During the celebratory party, one of the male members approached him with a grateful smile. "Thank you for listening to us, hyung," he said earnestly.

 

Minho smiled back. "That's what I'm here for."

 

"No, seriously, hyung. Mina had been having some serious health problems, and the moment you relaxed our schedule, she was back on her feet."

 

Minho blinked, not having fully considered the impact of his scheduling adjustments. He just smiled. "I'm glad she's better."

 

When the celebratory event ended, Chan offered the main staff drinks at his place. Minho immediately tried to decline, claiming he was busy, but Hyunjin and Jeongin began dragging him along despite his protests.

 

He found himself back in the same mansion he had grown indifferent to years ago. He knew the way to the kitchen, around most of the ground floor, and it felt surreal being back. The memories of Seri, of that burgundy room, of polite waves and stolen glances—it all felt like a lifetime ago.

 

Most of the management staff was drunk, slurring and laughing loudly while Minho sat awkwardly on one of the leather couches with his first bottle of beer. He'd drunk a little, but not enough to be drunk or even tipsy.

 

Chan appeared beside him, settling onto the couch with practiced ease. "Did you stop drinking?" he asked, not "Do you not drink?"—and that distinction hit Minho oddly.

 

It was because Chan knew that he used to drink. Embarrassment crept up Minho's neck as he recalled a particular evening when he and Seri had been making out on this very couch, both of them half-drunk on wine, when Chan had walked in. They'd sprung apart like teenagers caught by a parent, and Chan had simply nodded politely before continuing to whatever room he'd been heading to.

 

Minho shook his head, pushing the memory away. "I have to drive back. Hyunjin is coming with me."

 

Chan nodded, then did something that made Minho's breath catch—he took the bottle from Minho's hand and took a swig himself, his lips touching where Minho's had been moments before.

 

"How do you like the job so far?" Chan asked casually.

 

Minho stared at the expensive carpet beneath his feet. "Why did you give me the job?" he asked instead, the question that had been burning in his chest for months finally escaping.

 

Chan studied him, then smiled. "Do you think I chose you specifically?"

 

The question made Minho feel foolish, and he immediately shook his head. "No, but it's just... odd."

 

"You worked for Yeosung Tunes, our biggest competitor, during your internship," Chan said matter-of-factly. "Their sales went up significantly during your time there, so we looked into it and found you. I ran a background check—your qualifications were solid, your LinkedIn was clean, and we needed someone with your skill set to work for us."

 

Right, Minho wanted to say. Regardless of our history? He wanted to press further, but he held his tongue and looked down. "Okay."

 

"That doesn't seem like the answer you were looking for, Minho-ya."

 

Minho's head snapped up at the informal address. "Chan-ssi—"

 

"Call me hyung outside of work," Chan insisted, his voice softer than usual.

 

Minho blinked, swallowed, and licked his lips nervously. "Right, hyung, I—"

 

Chan hummed encouragingly, his hand settling on Minho's shoulder over the back of the couch, thumb brushing against the nape of his neck.

 

"Nothing," Minho said quickly, swallowing down whatever he'd been about to say.

 

Chan smiled, that same satisfied expression he'd worn in the office. "That's what I hoped. You got this job because of your qualifications, Minho-ssi. Savor it."

 

Minho felt increasingly unsettled as the moments stretched between them. Chan's hand remained on his shoulder, a warm weight that seemed to brand his skin even through his shirt. The party continued around them, but it felt like they were in their own bubble—a dangerous, charged space where the past and present collided in ways that made Minho's pulse race.

 

He knew he should move, make an excuse and find Hyunjin. But Chan's presence beside him was magnetic, and despite every rational thought screaming at him to be careful, he found himself leaning slightly into that touch.

Notes:

Peek into the next chapter:

As Minho chopped vegetables and worked at the stove, Chan began to hover nearby, ostensibly just watching but close enough that Minho could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"The cabbage is browning nicely," Chan observed, stepping behind Minho and placing a hand on his waist to guide him slightly to the left. "You want to see how it's turning golden at the edges."

The casual touch sent electricity through Minho's entire body, and he had to concentrate hard not to let his hands shake as he continued cooking.

"You're very good at this," Chan murmured, still standing close enough that his breath brushed Minho's ear. "So domestic. So... attentive to detail."

Minho's knife stilled against the cutting board as Chan's voice dropped lower.

"You'd make someone very lucky someday," Chan continued, his hand still resting on Minho's waist. "Taking care of them like this. Such perfect wife material."

The words hit Minho like a physical blow, and he had to grip the counter to steady himself. The casual, almost throwaway comment was loaded with implications that made his face burn and his body respond in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a kitchen full of people.

Chan stepped away as if nothing had happened, leaving Minho standing there trying to process what had just occurred while his heart hammered against his ribs.

Chapter 2: Transgression

Notes:

eheuehe. here you go, dear readers. I know the speed is a bit fast, it's fast for me too. but this fic is just 20k words long, so I suppose that makes sense :<< I prefer writing slowburns but this one already has a lot of timeskip in it. like they literally have sex after almost six+ months of their push and pull. I kinda do wish I'd written more to rile you peeps up, but I was impatient as well.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy this, reader-ah 0-0//

Also, this chapter does introduce the d/s dynamics and does have sexual content.

 

The monthly drinking gatherings at Chan's house had become a tradition. There would be excellent food, usually catered from high-end restaurants, and most of the management would attend. It was a carefully orchestrated evening of networking disguised as casual socializing.

 

Two months had passed when Minho finally decided to let himself relax completely. Maybe it was the stress of the job, or maybe it was the constant tension of being around Chan, but he drank more than usual—enough to stumble around in search of the bathroom with unsteady steps.

 

Usually, the household staff would politely redirect guests away from the private areas of the mansion, but when Minho stumbled past them, half-drunk and swaying, they simply let him pass. His alcohol-fogged brain thought nothing of it.

 

He made it to the second floor, his memories muddled together in a haze of wine and confusion. Ironically, he did find a bathroom—one of the guest bathrooms he remembered from years ago. After doing his business, he caught sight of himself in the ornate mirror.

 

His face was flushed beneath his foundation, eyes wide and glassy, lips stained red from the wine. He was wearing his father's suit again, paired with a less formal shirt that was slightly sheer. The blazer covered most of it, but if he were to take it off, the outline of his stomach and the shadow of his nipples would be visible under the right lighting.

 

He swayed for a moment longer, studying his reflection, before washing his hands and stepping back into the hallway. He wandered aimlessly, trying to figure out why the hell he'd drunk so much tonight, when he paused in front of a familiar door.

 

He couldn't recall much through the alcohol haze, except that this was the exact room he'd stumbled into years ago. The burgundy room. Chan's room.

 

A steady hand caught his wrist just as he realized he was reaching for the handle.

 

"Minho-ya," the voice said sweetly, with just a hint of something darker underneath.

 

Minho turned to see Chan beside him, looking at him with what appeared to be concern. "Hyung," Minho began, blinking rapidly to try to see straight. "Hi."

 

"How did you find your way here..." Chan's eyes moved from Minho's face to the door, then back again, and they softened with something that wasn't entirely innocent. "After all these years, still curious?"

 

Minho's knees felt weak, and not just from the alcohol. "Huh?"

 

"Come with me," Chan said, his hand moving to the small of Minho's back, guiding him away from the door. "Do you have a ride home?"

 

Chan led him back toward the main living area, where fewer people remained. Hyunjin was dozing off on one of the leather couches with his head in Yeji's lap, soft snoring sounds escaping him while she scrolled through her phone.

 

Jeongin had left hours ago, and only two or three other staff members remained, looking ready to call it a night.

 

"Yeji-ya," Chan called softly, not wanting to wake Hyunjin. "You two can stay over in the guest room if you want. These two probably can't get themselves home without causing an accident."

 

"Yah," Minho protested, though his words were slightly slurred. "I can drive."

 

"Walk in a straight line first," Chan challenged, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

 

Minho tried to take a step forward and immediately swayed into Chan's side, unconsciously clinging to his arm for balance.

 

Yeji looked between them for a long moment, something knowing flickering across her expression before she sighed. "Immature bastards. Thank you, Chan-ssi."

 

"They're staying over?" Minho asked, confused by the logistics of the situation.

 

"So are you, by the looks of it," Chan said, his hand still resting on Minho's back. "Where's your phone? We should let someone know you're safe."

 

Minho fumbled for his phone, only to realize the screen was completely black. "Oops," he giggled, still pressed against Chan's side. "It died."

 

Chan's arm tightened around him slightly. "Come on, let's get you to a room where you can sleep this off."

 

He guided Minho up the grand staircase, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Minho found himself leaning heavily into Chan's warmth, the expensive cologne making him feel even more lightheaded.

 

Chan stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall—not the burgundy room, but another guest room that was elegantly appointed in soft grays and whites.

 

"Whose room is this?" Minho asked as Chan pushed open the door.

 

"One of mine," Chan replied simply, helping Minho sit on the edge of the bed. "I have several rooms I use depending on my mood."

 

Minho's alcohol-clouded brain latched onto something from earlier. "Don't you sleep in the dungeon room?" he asked without thinking, then immediately felt his face burn at his own boldness.

 

They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Chan's expression was unreadable, but there was heat in his dark eyes.

 

Finally, Chan shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "Some nights," he admitted quietly. "When I'm with someone."

 

The confession hung in the air between them like a challenge. Minho felt his heart racing, his mouth suddenly dry despite all the wine he'd consumed.

 

"Are you..." Minho swallowed hard, meeting Chan's intense gaze. "Are you with someone now?"

 

Chan stepped closer, close enough that Minho had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The older man's voice was barely above a whisper when he answered.

 

"No one."

 

The weight of those two words settled between them like a promise and a threat all at once.

—

 

Minho woke up early, sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains as his hangover hit him like a truck. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was—then the memories came flooding back. The drinking, Chan's steadying hand, the conversation about the burgundy room, those two words, "No one."

 

He buried his face in his hands, mortified. What had he been thinking, asking Chan such personal questions? The alcohol had clearly loosened his tongue in ways that could jeopardize his job, his sanity, everything.

 

After beating himself up internally for a solid ten minutes, he finally dragged himself downstairs to find Yeji already in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a heated frozen waffle in front of her.

 

When she noticed him, her eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Want tea?" she asked.

 

Minho blinked, still disoriented. "How am I still here?" he mumbled.

 

Yeji gave him a pointed look. "Chan had you stay over yesterday. Your phone was dead, remember?"

 

Minho ran his fingers over his temples, trying to massage away the lingering headache. "I'll make the tea. I don't want to bother you."

 

The tea was in the same place he'd last seen it years ago—stored in white ceramic jars labeled 'Butterfly Pea,' 'Green Tea,' 'Chamomile.' Minho knew teas had been more Seri's preference than Chan's chronic coffee addiction, something she used to rant to him about.

 

He worked methodically, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease, only looking up when he felt eyes on him.

 

"You look like you've lived here," Yeji observed, studying him over her coffee cup.

 

Minho blinked and quickly shook his head. "The items are in obvious places—the tea is labeled, the sugar is on the kitchen island—"

 

"You move with less hesitance than anyone I know who's supposedly never been in this kitchen before," she said pointedly.

 

"I just... I'm good at adapting to new spaces," Minho deflected, focusing intently on steeping his tea.

 

"Uh-huh." Yeji didn't sound convinced. "And how long have you known Chan exactly?"

 

"We work together," Minho said quickly.

 

"That's not what I asked."

 

"I've only been at the company for a few months."

 

"Still not what I asked." Yeji's tone was getting more pointed with each deflection. "You two have this... energy. Like there's history there."

 

Before Minho could formulate another deflection, footsteps on the stairs announced someone else's arrival. Chan appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing casual home clothes—a black hoodie and gray sweatpants that somehow made him look younger and more approachable.

 

"Good morning," Chan said, his voice still slightly rough from sleep. His eyes found Minho immediately, taking in his rumpled appearance and the way the morning sunlight streaming through the window made his sheer shirt practically transparent.

 

Hyunjin stumbled down shortly after, looking thoroughly disheveled and apologetic. He bowed several times toward Chan. "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Chan-ssi. Thank you for letting us stay."

 

Chan just laughed it off with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. You both needed to sleep it off."

 

But Minho could feel Chan's eyes on him throughout the exchange. He'd forgone his blazer from the night before, and he was acutely aware that the morning sunlight filtering through the large windows was probably giving Chan an almost transparent view of his torso through the thin fabric.

 

Minho swallowed hard, suddenly desperate to do something with his hands. "I can make this up by cooking breakfast," he said quickly. "Would you prefer that?"

 

They all nodded in agreement, but Minho felt Chan's gaze fixed on him as he moved around the kitchen, gathering ingredients to make a proper meal. The tension from the night before hadn't dissipated—if anything, it felt more concentrated in the intimate morning setting.

 

As Minho chopped vegetables and worked at the stove, Chan began to hover nearby, ostensibly just watching but close enough that Minho could feel the heat radiating from his body.

 

"The cabbage is browning nicely," Chan observed, stepping behind Minho and placing a hand on his waist to guide him slightly to the left. "You want to see how it's turning golden at the edges."

 

The casual touch sent electricity through Minho's entire body, and he had to concentrate hard not to let his hands shake as he continued cooking.

 

"You're very good at this," Chan murmured, still standing close enough that his breath brushed Minho's ear. "So domestic. So... attentive to detail."

 

Minho's knife stilled against the cutting board as Chan's voice dropped lower.

 

"You'd make someone very lucky someday," Chan continued, his hand still resting on Minho's waist. "Taking care of them like this. Such perfect wife material."

 

The words hit Minho like a physical blow, and he had to grip the counter to steady himself. The casual, almost throwaway comment was loaded with implications that made his face burn and his body respond in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a kitchen full of people.

 

Chan stepped away as if nothing had happened, leaving Minho standing there trying to process what had just occurred while his heart hammered against his ribs.

 

The rest of breakfast preparation passed in a blur of stolen glances and carefully controlled breathing, but that comment—wife material—echoed in Minho's mind long after they'd all finished eating.

 

Later, alone in his apartment, Minho found himself thinking about Chan's words, about the way they'd been delivered with such casual possession, and despite his best efforts to push the thoughts away, his body's reaction was immediate and overwhelming.

—

 

Minho started trying to avoid Chan after that morning in the kitchen, but somehow that only resulted in Chan inserting himself even more into his personal space. The avoidance strategy backfired spectacularly—Chan seemed to interpret it as a challenge rather than a boundary.

 

And Minho's thoughts became increasingly dangerous. He found himself wondering what Chan used that burgundy room for, what kind of people he brought there, what sounds echoed off those deep red walls.

 

Minho wasn't a newcomer to BDSM. After he and Seri had ended, he'd had a kinky hookup streak with Jisung that had lasted several months. He knew he liked having his hands tied, knew he liked being held down and controlled. It had worked well because Jisung had started getting buff around that time, building the kind of strength that made the power exchange feel real.

 

But then Jisung had begun fostering feelings for some cute emo girl, dated her for exactly one month before breaking up and realizing it was all a cover-up to hide his feelings for Felix. Minho still watched their pining game play out to this day.

 

Regardless of his friends' romantic complications, Minho found himself thinking—and it was dangerous territory, because he started watching Chan's hands more than necessary. Those long, elegant fingers that gestured when he spoke, that signed documents with confident strokes. Minho wondered what they'd feel like wrapped around the chain connected to a leash at his neck.

 

The thoughts made him feel spacey, unfocused, and it became even worse when Chan was nearby with that heavy cologne clouding his senses.

 

Their tension escalated over the following weeks. Minho spent an entire evening convincing Chan to implement a modified training regime for their girl group because some members were showing signs of poor health—missing periods, unexpected hormonal imbalances from the hectic schedule demands.

 

That led to more meetings, more close-quarters discussions. Chan seemed to actually enjoy it when Minho fought him on policies, even over seemingly minor issues. There was something almost predatory in the way Chan's eyes would light up when Minho got passionate about employee welfare.

 

Then things took an odd turn around the sixth month. The exhaustion from work finally started taking its toll, and Minho grew snappy. He stayed in his office longer than necessary, worked through lunch breaks, and minimized socializing with everyone except Hyunjin.

 

But Chan seemed determined to press his buttons. Minho tried to keep his cool, but when Chan made some teasing comment about an upcoming company event, he finally snapped.

 

"Can you stop bothering me?" Minho asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended. "Me specifically. There's no need for us to be talking at the moment, and Hyunjin is literally right next to me. I understand if you have to check my work—"

 

"I do," Chan interjected smoothly.

 

Minho felt his irritation spike as Chan settled into the chair beside him, checking over reports that Minho knew he'd already reviewed. It was like Chan was purposely trying to provoke him, and Minho had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from saying something that would definitely get him fired.

 

Then he decided: if Chan got a free pass at pushing boundaries, so should he.

 

He started wearing the low neckline shirts again. He'd behaved himself after Chan had "corrected" that first navy shirt, but something rebellious in him wanted to turn the tables, even just a little.

 

When he wore the dress shirts—sometimes tight and form-fitting, sometimes silk that caught every press of his nipples, sometimes sheer enough to hint at skin underneath—he could feel Chan watching. The weight of that gaze followed him through meetings, lingered during their training sessions, burned into him when Chan leaned close to point out something on his screen.

 

And oddly enough, he liked it. The attention, the tension, the way Chan's jaw would tighten almost imperceptibly when Minho bent over his desk in those fitted shirts.

 

Until Chan called him into his office one afternoon.

 

Minho was wearing a particularly daring choice—a cream-colored shirt with two thin satin ribbons at the neckline that were meant to be tied almost like a choker to keep the deep V-neck from falling completely open. He'd deliberately left them untied, so much so that if someone looked from the side, they'd get a clear view of his chest.

 

Chan just stared at him for a long moment, leaning against the front of his desk with his arms crossed.

 

"I wasn't firm enough about the dress code last time, was I?" Chan asked, his voice deceptively calm.

 

Minho blinked, fighting the urge to roll his eyes but somehow doing it halfway anyway. His gaze shifted away from Chan's intense stare.

 

"Come here," Chan said simply.

 

Despite every rational thought screaming at him to refuse, Minho found himself moving forward until he stood maybe a foot away from Chan.

 

Chan raised an eyebrow and let his hand settle on Minho's shoulder before it slipped down, fingers trailing along the edge of the open neckline. The touch was warm against Minho's skin, and he shivered despite himself.

 

"You have such soft skin," Chan murmured, as if stating a simple fact. "Pale. It would bruise easily... wouldn't it?"

 

Minho wanted to point out that this constituted workplace harassment, but the words died in his throat because he was clearly responding to it—his breathing had quickened, his pupils were dilated, and there was no hiding the way his body leaned slightly into Chan's touch.

 

He didn't say anything, and Chan's eyes narrowed slightly.

 

"I asked you a question."

 

"Maybe," Minho mumbled, needing to say something, anything, to break the charged silence.

 

Chan hummed in satisfaction, then his hands moved to the loose satin ribbons at Minho's throat. He held them lightly, testing their weight.

 

"Turn around," he instructed.

 

Minho's mouth opened to protest, but his body was already moving, turning so his back was to Chan. He felt those skilled fingers loop the satin around his neck like a choker, tying it snugly enough that it created a gentle pressure against his throat.

 

The sudden restriction made his head go fuzzy, his breath hitching audibly.

 

Chan turned him back around to face him, then leaned back against his desk with his arms crossed, as if admiring something he'd created.

 

"That looks much better," Chan said softly, then reached out to trace his fingers along Minho's neck, just above the makeshift choker. "Do you like how it feels?"

 

Minho sucked in a breath, his teeth clenched together as he fought for composure. "I..." he began, but his head felt cotton-soft, thoughts scattered. "Why does it feel good?" he whispered, the question escaping before he could stop it.

 

Chan's eyes widened the slightest bit, as if he hadn't expected such an honest response. He continued rubbing gentle circles against the side of Minho's neck.

 

"It makes you aware of your breathing," Chan explained, his voice taking on an almost educational tone. "And of the person who caused that awareness." Then he smiled, sweet and dangerous. "You'll be good and wear it for the rest of the day, won't you, Minho-ya?"

 

Minho nodded jerkily, his own fingers coming up to touch the satin at his throat.

 

"Good. Finish your work," Chan said, his tone shifting back to professional. "We'll talk more on Friday."

 

"Friday?" Minho's voice came out slightly hoarse.

 

"Drinks at my place, remember? The monthly team meeting."

 

Right. The gathering he'd somehow forgotten about entirely.

 

Minho managed to finish his work for the day, though his concentration was completely shot. Every breath reminded him of the gentle pressure around his throat, of Chan's hands tying the ribbons, of the way his boss had looked at him like he was something to be treasured and controlled in equal measure.

 

He went home still wearing the shirt, fell asleep in it, and woke up the next morning with the satin ribbons still snug around his neck and a very clear understanding that whatever game he and Chan were playing had just escalated beyond his ability to control it.

—

 

After that day in Chan's office, Minho found himself watching Chan more carefully—and slowly realizing that his boss was responding to him just as intensely. When Minho's eyes went wide and doe-like during their meetings, Chan's jaw would clench almost imperceptibly. When Minho would bend over to grab files from lower drawers, positioning himself directly in Chan's line of sight, those dark eyes would track every movement with predatory focus.

 

Minho began testing the boundaries more deliberately. He wore the provocative dress shirts regularly now, let Chan "correct" them with those careful, possessive touches, and left each interaction feeling an odd sense of pride and anticipation.

 

Friday came around again, and he found himself back at Chan's mansion. This time, Hyunjin and Yeji hadn't attended, and Jeongin had left early after getting a frantic call from his younger brother about some family dinner he'd completely forgotten about.

 

The other employees gradually filtered out as the evening wore on, but Chan's meaningful glances had made it clear that Minho should stay. He was wearing the same cream shirt and black slacks from that day in the office—the one with satin ribbons that were once again deliberately left untied, practically inviting Chan's attention.

 

When the last guest departed and the household staff scattered to clean up, Chan settled onto the couch beside him with deliberate casualness.

 

Minho's body felt warm at the proximity. He felt Chan's familiar hand at his neck again, fingers tracing the open neckline.

 

"Turn around," Chan said simply.

 

Minho complied, feeling Chan's hands gather the ribbons. But instead of tying them immediately, Chan just held them, maintaining that gentle tension.

 

"I need to know that you're comfortable with this," Chan said suddenly, his voice more serious than usual. "That you understand where this is leading."

 

Minho nodded, but Chan gave a gentle tug on the ribbons in his hands.

 

"Words."

 

"Yes, I do," Minho whispered.

 

"And I need your explicit consent, in case it does lead where I think it will."

 

"I'm okay with it leading to... sex," Minho said quietly, then shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts.

 

"You also seem oddly unfazed by the idea of this particular dynamic," Chan observed.

 

Minho tried to turn to face him, but Chan's grip on the ribbons kept him in place.

 

"I'm not a newcomer to BDSM," Minho admitted. "Maybe not the traditional kind, but I know where my... preferences lie."

 

"Is that why you've been obsessed with my room since the day you arrived here?" Chan asked, his voice dropping lower.

 

Minho felt his face burn. "I haven't been—"

 

"Haven't you?" Chan interrupted, giving another gentle tug. "You found your way there twice. Completely by accident, I'm sure."

 

"It was an accident," Minho protested weakly.

 

"And the way you looked at it? The way you've been looking at me ever since?" Chan's fingers traced along Minho's neck. "Tell me you haven't been thinking about what happens in that room."

 

"I..." Minho's voice caught.

 

"Have you been thinking about it, Minho-ya?"

 

"No."

 

Chan made a soft sound of disbelief. "Try again."

 

"I said no."

 

"Your body language suggests otherwise. The way you respond when I touch you, the way you dress for me now..." Chan's voice was patient but relentless. "Have you been imagining yourself in that room?"

 

Minho's breathing grew shallow. "Maybe... maybe once or twice."

 

"What did you imagine?"

 

"Chan-hyung, I can't—"

 

"You can. What did you picture happening?"

 

Minho's hands clenched in his lap. "Just... being restrained. Maybe."

 

"By me?"

 

The question hung in the air. Minho's silence was answer enough.

 

"What else?" Chan pressed gently.

 

"The chains," Minho whispered, his face burning with embarrassment. "I wondered what they would feel like."

 

"On you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And?"

 

"And I... I thought about you putting them on me." The admission came out in a rush. "About you being in control while I..."

 

"While you what?"

 

"While I let you do whatever you wanted," Minho finished, his voice barely audible.

 

Chan was quiet for a long moment, and Minho could feel the weight of his consideration.

 

"How long have these thoughts been in your mind?" Chan asked finally.

 

"Since that first day I saw the room," Minho confessed. "Maybe even before that. Since you started touching me in the office, correcting my clothes. I couldn't stop thinking about your hands, about what else you might do with them."

 

"And now?"

 

"Now I think about it constantly," Minho admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "Every time you're near me, every time you touch me, I wonder if you're thinking the same things."

 

Chan's grip on the ribbons tightened slightly. "I am."

 

The simple admission sent a shockwave through Minho's system.

 

"Turn around," Chan said softly.

 

This time when Minho turned, Chan was looking at him with an intensity that made his knees weak. Before he could process what was happening, Chan was pulling him forward by the ribbons, guiding him to straddle his lap.

 

Chan's hand remained on the makeshift leash as he looked up at Minho, their faces now inches apart.

 

"Do you want this?" Chan asked, his voice husky with desire.

 

Minho could feel his own arousal pressing uncomfortably against his slacks, could feel the neediness taking over his rational thoughts. What made it worse—or better—was that Chan seemed perfectly composed, completely in control even with Minho literally on top of him.

 

"You're perfect," Chan whispered, using the ribbon leash to pull Minho closer until their foreheads nearly touched. "I think it's time I showed you that room a little more closely, don't you?”

—

Chan led him through the hallway, his hand still maintaining that gentle grip on the satin ribbons around Minho's neck. The familiar sound of the door lock clicking behind them made Minho's pulse quicken. The room was exactly as he remembered—burgundy walls, elegant but intimidating furnishings—but the cold air made him feel smaller somehow, more vulnerable. Chan's cologne seemed more intense in the enclosed space, making his head swim with a dizzy mixture of arousal and anticipation.

 

The bed dominated the center of the room—what Jisung had once called a bondage bed, with its ornate metal framework and strategically placed attachment points. Minho swallowed hard as he took in more details he'd missed during his previous glimpses: the careful arrangement of implements, the way everything seemed purposefully designed for control and restraint.

 

"How do you want this to proceed?" Chan asked, his voice calm and measured.

 

Minho frowned slightly as he settled onto the velvet covers of the bed. He didn't want to think, didn't want to be the one making decisions, but Chan seemed to be asking him to do exactly that.

 

"I..." he began hesitantly. "I'm okay with whatever you want."

 

Chan approached him slowly, then leaned over him, the shift in position forcing Minho to fall back onto the bed. Their faces were close now, Chan's dark eyes searching his.

 

"Even if I want to make you cry, Minho-ya?" Chan asked softly.

 

Minho blinked, feeling suddenly helpless beneath Chan's intense gaze. "Maybe," he whispered. "How would you make me cry?"

 

"Is kissing okay?" Chan asked, deflecting with his own question.

 

Minho nodded quickly, then caught himself. "Yes, hyung."

 

"Good boy," Chan murmured, and Minho felt something shift inside him at the praise, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. 

 

"Do you know the color system?" Chan continued, toying with the ribbons.

 

"Yes, hyung."

 

Chan took one of Minho's hands in his, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to his palm. "I could tie your hands above your head and edge you," he said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Or overstimulate you. Make you come over and over again until you cry from it. Now it's your turn to choose."

 

Minho felt his thoughts scatter, his head going pleasantly fuzzy. "Yeah?" he asked, a hint of challenge creeping into his voice despite his submissive position. "As if you could."

 

Chan raised his eyebrows, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Are you challenging me?"

 

"Maybe," Minho whispered.

 

Chan chuckled low in his throat and ducked down to kiss Minho's cheek with surprising tenderness. "Don't make this hard for yourself, aegi," he murmured against his skin. "We haven't even started.”

 

With a firm nod, Chan released his grip on the ribbons and took a step back. "Strip, Minho-ya," he said, his voice still low and soothing despite the command. Minho's hands trembled slightly as he stood up and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing his smooth, pale chest. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the coolness of the room against his skin, then quickly removed his pants and underwear. He sat back on the bed, his legs folded beneath him, trying to cover his growing arousal with his hands.

 

Chan tilted his head to the side, studying Minho with a curious expression. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle.

 

Minho swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing. "Nothing," he lied, his eyes darting around the room.

 

"Look at me," Chan said, his tone firm but not unkind. Minho's gaze met his, and he felt a strange comfort in those dark eyes.

 

"Good," Chan said, his smile returning. He reached into a drawer beside the bed, pulling out a set of soft black furred handcuffs. "Hands above your head," he instructed, pointing to the metal loops attached to the bed frame. Minho complied, feeling his heart race as the cuffs clicked around his wrists, securing him in place. "Color?"

 

"Green," Minho said, blinking rapidly as his brain tried to process. Chan hadn't told him what he was going to do. Edge him or overstimulate. Jisung had bullied enough out of him in the previous years, but he wanted to know how Chan planned on approaching it. 

 

Chan climbed onto the bed, his movements fluid and graceful. He settled at Minho's side, their legs entangled. He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from Minho's forehead with a gentle touch. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, and Minho felt his cheeks burn even hotter, cock throb. "Now, let's see how good you can be."

 

Without wasting another moment, Chan leaned down to kiss him, his lips firm and demanding. Minho's eyes fluttered shut as he felt the warmth of Chan's breath against his skin. He parted his lips, allowing the other man's tongue to explore his mouth, the sensation making him moan softly. When they broke apart, Minho's chest was heaving with excitement, his breath coming in short gasps.

 

Chan's hand traveled down Minho's body, his fingertips dancing over the sensitive skin of his stomach before wrapping around his erection. He began to stroke him, the touch feather-light, as if he were afraid to go too fast, too hard. "Just like that," Minho breathed, his eyes still closed.

 

As Minho grew closer to the edge, his body taut with need—Jisung had mentioned that anyone could tell he was close with how his voice grew high pitched; Chan's hand stilled. Minho's eyes flew open, his mouth forming a silent protest. "You're so close," Chan whispered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "But not yet."

 

“But hyung,” he said, heaving as he felt his orgasm ebb away.

 

Chan looked at him sweetly, like someone who expected more of him but the same at once. “You said you’d be good, said hyung could do what he pleased, hm? That you'd cry for me?” 

 

Chan began his pace again, and Minho tugged lightly at cuffs above him, the helplessness arousing him further. His whines grew louder as the need for release built up within him. "Hyung," he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

 

Chan's smile widened, his eyes never leaving Minho's. "Again," he said, his grip on Minho's cock loosening till Minho shook from the second lost orgasm. He began to stroke him once more, his pace deliberate and measured. “Color?”

 

“G… Green!” Minho's hips bucked against the touch, his body begging for more. He felt like he was on the verge of something incredible, something that would shatter him into a million pieces. "Please," he moaned, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

But again, as he reached the brink, Chan pulled away, leaving him panting and trembling. "Patience, Minho-ya," he said, his voice filled with amusement as he watched Minho whimper from the loss of his fourth orgasm.

 

Tears of frustration began to spill down Minho's cheeks, his breath hitching with every attempt to speak. "I can't," he choked out.

 

Chan leaned in, his lips brushing against Minho's ear. "You can," he assured him. "Trust me."

 

And then he was back, his hand moving with purpose, his thumb pressing against the sensitive spot just beneath the head of Minho's cock. The world narrowed to just the two of them, the sound of Minho's breathing and the slick sound of skin on skin.

 

Finally, unable to take it anymore, Minho's hands tugged at the fur-lined restraints, his body arching off the bed. The feeling of his composure slipping away was intoxicating, a thrill that made him feel alive. He watched as Chan's eyes darkened, a smirk playing on his lips as he clearly enjoyed watching Minho squirm.

 

"That's it," Chan said, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down Minho's spine. "Give in to me."

 

With one final stroke, Minho felt himself teeter over the edge. His orgasm crashed into him, a wave of pleasure so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. He watched as Chan leaned down, capturing his lips in a searing kiss as he took Minho's cock into his mouth, swallowing his release greedily. The sensation of being so thoroughly consumed was overwhelming, and Minho's cries grew louder as Chan's tongue swirled around the sensitive tip.

 

As the pleasure subsided and his breathing grew ragged, Minho felt his body go limp, the tension draining out of him. Chan pulled away, his eyes shining with satisfaction as he unbuckled the cuffs and let Minho's arms fall to his sides. The younger man immediately reached out, desperate to cling to something solid in the haze of pleasure that clouded his mind.

 

Chan's arms enveloped him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "That's my good boy," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to Minho's overstimulated senses. "You did so well."

 

Minho buried his face in the crook of Chan's neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against his skin. He was trembling, his body still trying to process the intense release that had just occurred. "Thank you, hyung," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

 

Minho found himself clinging to Chan afterward, his body still trembling from the intensity of what had just happened. Chan seemed almost enamored by Minho's neediness, running gentle fingers through his hair and murmuring soft reassurances. But after a few minutes, he carefully extracted himself from Minho's grip.

 

"Let me get more comfortable," Chan said softly, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside, leaving him in just a thin undershirt. "We should sleep."

 

As Chan settled back onto the bed, Minho immediately curled against his side, arms wrapping around his waist. That's when the realization hit him.

 

"Hyung..." Minho said, his voice still slightly hoarse.

 

"Mm?"

 

"You didn't..." Minho pulled back slightly to look at Chan's face. "You didn't come."

 

"Ah, it's fine," Chan said dismissively, trying to pull the blankets up around them.

 

But Minho puffed his cheeks in that stubborn way that made him look younger. "It's not fine. You didn't get to—"

 

"I'm... kind of asexual," Chan interrupted gently. "I'm not exactly sex-averse, but I like seeing people more than... participating in that way."

 

Minho blinked at him, processing this information. "You like seeing them writhe and come? So like... a sadist?"

 

"What?! No," Chan sighed, letting Minho settle properly against him as he arranged the blankets around them both. "Well, yeah, but not exactly."

 

"That's confusing," Minho mumbled against Chan's chest.

 

Chan's hand resumed its gentle stroking through Minho's hair. "I get satisfaction from giving pleasure, from watching someone lose control because of what I'm doing to them. The power exchange, the trust, the way you responded to me... that's what I enjoy. My own physical release isn't really necessary for me to feel fulfilled."

 

"But you got hard," Minho pointed out drowsily.

 

"Bodies react," Chan said simply. "But my satisfaction comes from your satisfaction. From knowing I can make you feel that good, that I can push you to places you didn't know you could go."

 

Minho was quiet for a moment, then: "So when I was falling apart, you were...?"

 

"Completely absorbed in watching you," Chan admitted. "The sounds you made, the way you moved, how beautiful you looked when you finally let go... That was better than any orgasm I could have."

 

"That's..." Minho yawned against Chan's shoulder. "That's actually really hot."

 

Chan chuckled softly. "Is it?"

 

"Mm-hmm. Means you were focused entirely on me. On what you were doing to me." Minho's voice was getting sleepier. "Like I was your whole world in that moment."

 

"You were," Chan said quietly, his fingers continuing their soothing motion through Minho's hair.

 

"I've never been with someone like that before," Minho murmured. "Someone who got off on just... watching me get off."

 

"How does it make you feel?"

 

Minho considered the question, his thoughts growing fuzzy with exhaustion. "Special, I guess. Like... like I'm enough. Just me, just my reactions." He pressed closer to Chan's warmth. "Jisung always seemed like he was chasing his own pleasure too. But you... you made it all about me."

 

"Because it was all about you," Chan said softly. "Your pleasure, your surrender, your trust in me. That's what I wanted."

 

"And you got it?"

 

"More than I ever imagined I would."

 

Minho's breathing was starting to even out. "So this isn't just... you don't see me as just a convenient body?"

 

Chan's hand stilled for a moment. "Minho-ya, if I just wanted a convenient body, I wouldn't have spent months carefully orchestrating situations to be near you. I wouldn't have found reason after reason to hire you in the first place."

 

"You orchestrated it," Minho said with a sleepy smile. "The job, everything."

 

"The job was your game, you had the certifications I couldn’t fake, I just gave you an opportunity," Chan admitted without shame. "I wanted you close to me. I wanted to see if what I felt when you were with Seri was real, or just... complicated emotions about the situation."

 

"And?"

 

"It was real. More real than I expected."

 

Minho hummed contentedly. "Good. Because I think I'm falling for you, hyung. Not just the... the bedroom stuff. You. The way you care about the employees, how you listen when I fight you on policies, how you make me feel like my opinions matter..."

 

Chan's chest tightened with something warm and unfamiliar. "Sleep, aegi. We can talk more in the morning."

 

"Will you still want to talk in the morning? Or will this be weird?"

 

"I'll still want to talk," Chan promised. "I'll still want you here. This isn't just one night for me."

 

"Good," Minho mumbled, already half-asleep. "Because I don't think I could go back to pretending I don't want this. Want you."

 

Chan continued stroking his hair until Minho's breathing deepened into sleep, marveling at how perfectly the younger man fit against him, how right this felt despite all the complications it would bring. He'd spent months planning this moment, but nothing could have prepared him for how deeply Minho's trust and surrender would affect him.

 

 

Notes:

Peek into the next chapter:

“I know we haven’t talked about the… nature of this relationship,” Chan began.

Minho squinted. His only frame of reference was what Seungmin had once teased about contracts and limits. “Boundaries,” he guessed.

Chan nodded. “Exactly. I don’t have to tell you about workplace conduct—you’ve been careful already. You only come to me when the door’s locked.”

Minho hummed agreement, tilting his head. “And?”

Chan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “There’s no easy way to say this, but you said you liked being restrained. More on the submissive side.”

Heat crawled up Minho’s neck, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s alright,” Chan reassured softly, his thumb brushing Minho’s knuckles. “But I need to know what else you like, and what you don’t. So I don’t hurt you in the wrong way.”

“Okay,” Minho whispered. “Is there… a format?”

“Minho,” Chan said gently. “It’s just me. You know I don’t sleep. Take your time.”

Notes:

Thank you for reading, reader-ah, I really hope you liked it! Comments and kudos are nomnom.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Minchan <3