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youthguk · 4 months ago

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Encore 2: Intermission

“Some scenes only happen when the lights go down.”

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You’ve worked too hard to become untouchable. He still knows exactly where to touch. After one night of stolen pleasure, you’re determined to walk away — but Jungkook isn’t ready to let you go again. Between silk sheets, half-spoken regrets, and a black-tie dinner where flirtation becomes revenge, your past and present spiral into something dangerous. It was supposed to be physical. But feelings don’t follow the script.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, rimming (f receiving), protected sex, angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 10k

author's note: ugh, this part really broke me🖤 writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

part 1 | part 2 (you're here) | final part 3

You stand in front of Seo In-kyung’s office door in borrowed heels and smudged eyeliner, praying your face doesn’t betray the night carved into your body.

The morning light bleeds through the glass walls like scrutiny. Her office is pristine — sharp angles, a curved leather chair behind a white marble desk, walls lined with editorial archives and thick matte prints. A minimalist arrangement of white orchids sits perfectly still in one corner, untouched by dust or emotion.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

You step inside, clutching your tablet too tightly. Your hair is pulled back — barely — in a low twist that you smoothed with shaking fingers in the backseat of a cab thirty minutes ago. Underneath the oversized Saint Laurent blazer, your dress is the same one from last night. You're hoping it passes as intentional. It doesn’t.

Seo In-kyung is already seated. Flawless. Impeccable. A navy Mugler blazer sharp enough to slit throats, heels lacquered, wrists bare. She doesn’t smile. She gestures to the chair opposite her without looking up.

You sit, spine straight. For a moment, silence.

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

She’s flipping through a printed copy of the BTS campaign spread — full bleed photos, minimalist layouts, editorial perfection. The same layouts you stayed past midnight refining. The ones you pushed through legal, color, and styling approvals with nothing but caffeine and willpower.

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

“This,” she says, “brought the entire industry back to us.”

You exhale. Just slightly. “Thank you, Director Seo.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes still scanning the page. “Thank your instinct. You were right to strip it down. No gimmicks. No clutter. Just tension.” She turns a page. “Even Jeon looked like a man worth remembering.”

You freeze. But she doesn’t elaborate. Just closes the folder, places it gently beside her, and finally looks at you.

You wish she hadn’t. Her gaze is cool. Calculating. The kind that scans and files away. You feel it — the mess behind your eyes. The mascara you didn't have time to fully erase. The faint redness at your mouth. The scent of a man that no water could completely wash off.

She leans back in her chair. “Fondo di Luce.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

“It’s an international art and fashion initiative,” she says. “A luxury gala held annually at Villa Fioretta, Lake Como. Private guest list. Couture-only. Funded by Dante Seo’s Light Fund and Vogue’s European partners.” A pause. “And we’ve been invited.”

Your breath stirs.

“I want you to represent Vogue Korea,” she says.

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

“Yes. You pitched this campaign. You shaped it. People in Milan want to meet the girl who made the cover go viral.”

You feel lightheaded. Not from panic this time — from the taste of possibility. Of respect. Of validation earned, not handed.

Your mouth opens to thank her but then she speaks again.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The room shifts. Your spine locks. Her gaze hardens. She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t tolerate editors who sleep with clients,” she says. Voice smooth. Flat. “It’s unprofessional. It’s disgusting. It makes us look like we earned our place on our backs.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“You, Y/N, are better than that. You’ve proven yourself. Your instincts are rare.” A pause. “It would be a shame to lose someone like you because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. You nod once, eyes fixed on a nonexistent spot on her desk. She stands.

“That’ll be all.”

You rise mechanically. Thank her. Bow. And walk out of the office with your pulse screaming in your ears. The moment you step into the hallway, Kara is there. Perched by the espresso machine in the break corner, sipping an oat milk latte with glossy lips and smug silence. She doesn’t say anything.

Your fists clench. Your face burns. You want to tear the smugness off her face and throw it back at her in headlines.

Instead, you walk past her — heels echoing like threats — and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Unknown Number

Still quiet, hm? Should I send someone to pick up my jacket or do I get a kiss as collateral?

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

You delete the thread. Turn off your notifications. And get back to work.

You don’t cry in the hallway. You don’t clench your jaw, or turn on your heel, or demand Seo In-kyung look you in the eye when she delivers the kind of warning she never would’ve given to a man. You don’t remind her that half the board she answers to built their careers on affairs with photographers, designers, founders — powerful men who never had to answer for the women they fucked.

You just breathe.

Measured. Controlled. Counted down like pills in the morning. You walk back to your desk with your back straight, your heels clean against the tile, pretending you don’t feel the ghost of his hands still pressing into your hips. You can almost hear him still — that teasing, velvet-coated filth, low and smug against your skin. You hear it in the vibration of your phone every hour since sunrise. You hear it in Kara’s eyes every time they rake over you. You feel it in the way your own body responds when you close your eyes at night — when your fingers trail down beneath the sheets and it’s his name that sits between your teeth, no matter how hard you bite down.

You tell yourself it was just sex. A one-time indulgence. A lapse in judgment that began and ended in a penthouse no one else has to know about. You tell yourself it was closure — that there’s no gravity to the way he held your face in his hands like he still knew how to ruin you. That the ache still curling inside your chest is nothing but delayed shame.

But the problem is, it wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way he looked at you like five years hadn’t passed, like you weren’t a stranger in that room, like you were still the girl he used to know in a borrowed hoodie and scraped-up Nikes, standing in a dingy kitchen, editing your first column with red pen on a ten-thousand-won table. It was the way he kissed you with a hunger that felt older than his fame. It was the way he let you bite him, claw him, curse him — and still whispered “come back to me.”

And now you're here. Perfectly poised in the office you fought tooth and nail to climb into, barely holding yourself together while your editor-in-chief — a woman born with the title stitched into her spine — calls you brilliant and disposable in the same breath. She will never know what it feels like to be called a genius on Monday and a whore on Wednesday. To be handed praise with a choke chain wrapped around it. To have your best work reduced to who you might have let touch you after hours.

She can talk about dignity. She can afford to. You, on the other hand, know exactly how fragile power can be when it’s built from scratch.

✦✦✦

The message comes barely an hour after you walk out of Seo In-kyung’s office.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

You don’t open it. You don’t need to — the preview alone is enough to make your stomach twist. You swipe it away, fingers rigid, and tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Not the message. Not the sender. Not the way your name still looks when it rolls off his voice, even in text.

That night, another one arrives.

Was it the blazer? Should’ve left you something softer.

You laugh, once. Quietly. Then delete it like it burned you. You don’t respond. You won’t. Because if you let yourself type anything — a word, a punctuation mark, the space before a breath — you won’t stop. And you’ve worked too hard, pulled yourself too far out of the wreckage, to let one night drag you back into the ruin you barely crawled out of.

But the texts don’t stop.

Sometimes they’re careless. Teasing. Written like he’s still in your bed with your thighs pressed against his hips and your nails in his back. Other times, they’re sharp with weight, like he doesn’t know which version of himself you’ll tolerate — the boy who left you, or the man trying to come back.

You never reply. But you read every word.

And at night, when the world finally stops demanding your time and your poise and your reputation, when the silence of your apartment feels too loud to ignore — you remember how he touched you. You remember how it felt to let go of everything for one hour, one night, one man who once shattered you so completely that you forgot what it meant to breathe without him.

You touch yourself like it means nothing. But it’s his voice you hear when your fingers slip lower. It’s his mouth you imagine when you bite your own shoulder to muffle the sounds. It’s his hand around your throat when you finish — sharp and soft at once — and it’s his name that almost slips out, pressed against the inside of your teeth like a secret you’re still ashamed of wanting.

You don’t look at your phone after that. You tell yourself it was just sex, you’re smarter now.He’s just another mistake in a long line of things you’ve learned how to survive.

And when another message arrives — two days later, right as you're finalizing your flight details for the gala in Lake Como — you don’t even read it.

You just close your eyes, and try not to remember how he looked at you when he came.

✦✦✦

You arrive at Incheon International two hours before your flight, slipping through security behind oversized sunglasses and an air of quiet efficiency. The blazer you’re wearing is Dior this time — borrowed from the archive rack, boxy at the shoulders, sleek across your hips. Beneath it: a slate-gray satin blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers, pressed razor-sharp. You look like someone who’s going to Lake Como for work, not for war.

It isn’t until you reach the boarding gate that you see the line of black masks, tailored airport coats, and hush-voiced assistants clustered like chess pieces around Gate A7.

BTS.

Of course.

Your stomach doesn’t sink. It knots — tight, controlled, slow — like the warning of turbulence long before the plane leaves the ground.

You keep walking, silent, graceful, aware of every click of your heels on the polished floor. You don’t let yourself search for him. You don’t have to. You feel him before you see him — a presence that presses against your awareness like heat against skin, impossible to ignore.

It isn’t until you’re lowering yourself into your business class seat, reaching for the strap of your carry-on, that you finally glance up — and meet his eyes.

Row 2. Aisle seat. Black mask, black cap, rings on both hands. And staring at you like he hasn’t blinked in days. You look away.

The plane boards slowly. Assistants murmur. Photographers keep their cameras off. The boys move like shadows, trained to blend, to disappear behind the shape of fame. You keep your posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle, your tablet open with your flight agenda already pulled up — even though you’ve read it three times.

He doesn’t approach until you're halfway into the sky.

You excuse yourself from your seat, nod politely at the stewardess, and head down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory — slow, deliberate steps in heels that whisper money and control. The tiny hallway near the restrooms is dim, quiet, muted beneath the drone of altitude and distance.

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

It’s not rough. But it’s firm — and you know that grip. You’ve felt it around your waist, your neck, your thighs. You turn slowly, breath already caught halfway between fury and something far more dangerous.

He's right there. Closer than he has any right to be in this narrow corridor with no eyes but yours and his. The door to the lavatory is behind you. His body blocks the path. His scent — soap, leather, the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to his jacket from days ago — wraps around you like memory.

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, face half-shadowed by the cap, eyes hungry in a way that makes you press your thighs tighter, just to feel something grounded.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

“I keep dreaming about the way you moaned my name.”

Your stomach tightens. You don’t blink. You lift your chin instead “That’s all it was. A dream.”

But his eyes drop — once — to your mouth, and then lower. “I remember the way your legs shook. That wasn’t dreaming.”

You inhale sharply, but your expression doesn’t change.

“You should go sit down.”

“Or what?” His voice dips lower. “You’ll pretend again you don’t want me to fuck you right here?”

His hand doesn’t move. His body doesn’t touch yours. But you feel every inch of him like a scream in your skin — heat, memory, friction.

You smile — slow and cutting. “I’ve learned how to control myself. You should try it sometime.”

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. Then he leans in — not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel his breath near your neck, his voice low and ruinous.

“I’m not the one squeezing my thighs together.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your heartbeat is in your throat, that your body is already lit from the inside out. You hate that you want to kiss him. Bite him. Tear him open. But you won’t. Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You step aside, brushing past him with a look that could frost steel, and say nothing as you return to your seat. You don’t check to see if he follows.

You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway through an article you can’t remember reading, with his gaze still burning a hole into the back of your neck from three rows behind.

✦✦✦

The wheels touch the tarmac just past four in the afternoon, and the landing is smoother than expected, the kind that glides into the runway with practiced quiet, as if even the aircraft has been told to behave. Outside the small window, the northern Italian sun pools in long, soft ribbons over the hills, stretching across the landscape like liquid gold, tinting everything it touches with the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn — only stuns.

You disembark without ceremony, your sunglasses still in place, your coat folded over one arm, and your expression carefully blank. The assistant from Vogue Italia is waiting beside the hangar — her posture perfect, clipboard in hand, dressed in cropped white linen and flat shoes that probably cost more than the flight. She greets you by name, with polite English and a smile that’s too curated to be real, then leads you across the quiet concourse, past shuttered photographers and a cluster of sleek black cars idling behind a discreet security perimeter.

Your name is listed on one of the placards. Y/N — Vogue Korea.

So is theirs. BTS.

You don't react — not outwardly. There is no visible shift in your posture, no flicker in your gaze. You’ve already taught your body how to lie better than your words ever could.

The assistant ushers you toward a waiting Mercedes, its interior cool and leather-scented, the seats butter-soft beneath the press of your thighs. A silver tray holds still water, a lemon wedge perched just so. Your phone buzzes once in your lap. You don't check it. Not yet.

The drive from the airport is postcard-perfect in a way that feels intentionally cruel — narrow country roads wrapped in vine-laced stone, the distant glimmer of Lake Como revealing itself in flashes between tall cypress trees and crumbling terracotta villas. Each bend in the road opens into a view more breathtaking than the last, until you almost forget where you're headed and why your chest has been tight since the gate at Incheon.

The car finally slows as it pulls through ornate wrought-iron gates that gleam with gold filigree under the light, winding up the long private drive that spills into the front courtyard of Villa Fioretta. The estate rises from the hill like it was carved directly out of the cliffside — all creamy limestone and tall shuttered windows, manicured terraces spilling over with ivy and white flowers, and delicate copper details that catch the dying sun like jewelry. It looks like something you’ve seen on a Vogue Italia cover in a past life, or maybe a perfume ad from the early 2000s, the kind where everything was just slightly out of reach, and nothing ever truly belonged to you.

As the driver comes around to open your door, you exhale once, slow and silent, and allow your face to settle into something calm and beautifully unreadable.

Inside, the villa is all elegance in hushed tones — soft marble beneath your heels, pale walls washed in ivory and cream, every piece of furniture chosen for quiet power rather than comfort. The concierge greets you by name and with reverence, offers you a key card embossed with the letter “F” in deep matte black, and explains with the expected level of practiced charm that you’ve been placed on the fifth floor, lake view, courtesy of Fondo di Luce, and that a welcome aperitivo will be served on the lower terrace shortly after six.

You nod, thank them, and enter the elevator with the same stillness you’ve been wearing since you boarded the flight. It’s not until the doors begin to close that he enters behind you.

You don't need to look to know it's him. The presence is immediate — heavy, hot, undeniable. His cologne clings to the air, low and sharp, the same one you woke up wearing four mornings ago in his bed, still tangled in his heat.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The silence in the elevator stretches, long and taut, the kind that drapes itself over the walls like velvet, pressing in on all sides. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the panel, the floor numbers blinking upward. You can feel him beside you — not touching, but close enough to undo you all over again if you let yourself lean even an inch in his direction.

The mirrored wall reflects the shape of him — rolled sleeves, black slacks, tattoos visible where the cuff is turned, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he never needed to hide. He’s looking at you. You don’t return it.

The elevator stops at five.

You step out first. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, touched with the kind of warmth that money doesn’t have to brag about — just suggests. He follows.

Your room is halfway down the hall. You can hear the soft tread of his boots behind you, steady and measured, but it’s the silence between you that rattles louder than any footfall.

You stop at 506. Slot the card into the reader. The green light flashes. Still, you don’t turn.

"If you're going to say something stupid, Jungkook," you murmur, voice calm but edged, your hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold you steady, "don’t waste it here."

The door unlocks with a soft click. You step inside and let it close behind you without another word.

You never heard his footsteps retreat — which is exactly why your hands are still shaking when you set your bag down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed.

✦✦✦

The evening descends in a soft, golden hush, the lake catching the last streaks of sunlight and bending them into mirrored ribbons that stretch across the manicured garden lawns. The terrace is already glowing by the time you arrive — dozens of floating candles bobbing in the villa’s pool, crisp white tablecloths draped over stone tables, wine glasses catching firelight like they were designed to burn. Waiters move like shadows through the crowd, balancing trays of Campari spritzes and white truffle canapés, slipping between conversations spoken in Italian, French, and English laced with old-money vowels.

You’ve dressed for the kill.

The gown you chose is a strapless black number that ends just above your mid-thigh — sculpted to your body like it was designed for this exact kind of dusk, this exact kind of attention. The satin clings in all the places you used to hide and now let sharpen you. Your back is bare, your collarbone glistens with a soft sheen of skin-warmed perfume, and your heels are high enough to demand silence when you walk. The neckline dips low, the hem even lower, and there’s a part of you that knows—without even needing the confirmation—that if Jungkook looks at you tonight, it won’t be casual.

You tell yourself you wore it to feel powerful. You tell yourself that it’s just about proving a point.

But deep down, beneath all the polished rationality and strategic poise, you know it’s a lie. You wore it to tempt him. Or maybe to punish him. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

You glide through the terrace like you belong to it. Conversations flicker as you pass — Vogue Paris, L’Uomo, a few senior figures from Condé Nast and K-Media International — all familiar faces from the inner circle of fashion and luxury publishing. You smile, you nod, you take a glass of wine with the hand not gripping your clutch, and you keep moving.

He’s here. You haven’t seen him yet, but you feel him. You’ve felt him since the moment you walked in — like a change in air pressure, like heat blooming in places that should be cold. Each time a new shadow approaches, your chest coils tight, your gaze flicks once, and you brace yourself.

The first time you actually see him, he’s standing on the far end of the terrace near the balustrade, surrounded by three men in Tom Ford tuxedos and a woman from Vogue Italia who is laughing too easily at something he hasn’t said. His hair is pushed back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hoop in his ear catching the light each time he turns slightly, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry. He looks devastating. You don’t look twice.

You spend the next hour performing avoidance like an art. Each time he moves in your direction — and he does — you change course. A conversation with a photographer. A compliment to someone’s emerald earrings. A turn toward the pool just in time to keep a table between you. He’s watching. You know he is. And you never let yourself look back.

Until you meet Dante Seo.

He arrives like an entrance — tall, olive-toned skin that speaks of Italian summers and Seoul winters, his suit perfectly fitted in bone-white silk with a single black brooch gleaming on the lapel. His hair is dark and swept back with the ease of someone who doesn’t try hard and never has to. His smile is clean. Curated. Dangerous.

“You must be Vogue Korea,” he says as he offers his hand, eyes tracing over your form like he’s calculating how many men in the room already hate him for standing beside you. “No one told me you’d be this stunning. I’ll have to send my regrets to our editor-in-chief for not coming in her place.”

“Y/N,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “Campaign editor. But I suppose the title doesn’t matter so long as I’m stunning.”

He laughs — low, indulgent — and motions to a pair of older executives hovering behind him.

“You all remember Jeon Jungkook, I’m sure?” Dante glances sideways, eyes sparkling. “The face of Vogue Korea’s revival, the star of the cover that’s been circulating Milan for two weeks straight.”

Your spine tenses.

“I think it’s fair to say Korea brought us something exceptional,” one woman offers, sipping from her wine. “He was brilliant. Magnetic. I hadn’t seen that kind of restraint from an editorial in years.”

“I think that was more the editor’s eye than the idol’s,” Dante says, looking directly at you now, one eyebrow lifted with the kind of mischief that always ends in trouble. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you convince a man like that to surrender so completely?”

You force a smile, swirl the wine in your glass, and answer coolly.

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

More laughter. More praise. More commentary on how sharp he looked, how he carried the shot, how Vogue Korea must be so proud. The room keeps saying his name. Over and over, like it means something, like it doesn’t still taste like sweat and regret and begging on your skin.

You excuse yourself twenty minutes later, your glass half-full and your teeth aching from how hard you’ve clenched your jaw.

The moment you step back into the villa’s interior, the noise blurs. You walk past the grand staircase, through the velvet-draped hall toward the elevator, your heels muffled against the thick cream carpet, your throat hot from wine and words you didn't say.

You don’t notice he’s following you until you reach your door. The moment you slide the keycard into the reader, he’s there.

One hand planted against the door beside your head, the other grazing your hip, his body closing the space so completely that all you can smell is him — clean, woodsy, sharp with the memory of what he did to you last time.

You turn slowly, your back brushing the wood. His breath is hot against your cheek, his voice low and intimate, like a confession laced with filth.

“Do you want me to say it?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to say I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs all night? That I imagined dragging this dress up your legs while the whole fucking party watched?”

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

He leans in closer, lips brushing just beside your jaw.

“I saw how you avoided me. Like I was the one who begged. You think I don’t know you wore this dress for me?”

You swallow. Hard. His fingers trail lightly along the line of your jaw, down to your mouth, hovering there as if waiting for a tremble he already knows is coming.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “I could make you cry with my fingers before you even reach the bed.”

You hate the way your knees weaken. Hate the thrum building between your legs, the ache in your stomach, the heat spreading low and sharp like fire beneath your skin.

You should say no, open the door and disappear into the room and lock it behind you.

But when you meet his eyes — dark, hungry, full of something wild — you fumble the key, and he catches it with a smirk, sliding it into the lock like he’s been there a thousand times before.

And when the door opens, you step inside without a word. Not because you forgave him. Not because it means anything.

Only because your body stopped asking for permission the moment his mouth said your name.

✦✦✦

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, soundproofed click, and the moment it does, you feel it — the shift in air, the sharp electric drag of his presence right at your back.

You barely make it three steps into the suite before his hand circles your waist and drags you back against him. You don’t gasp, you don’t whimper, but your body tenses with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the ache that’s been clawing at your stomach since the moment he stared at you from across the terrace like he wanted to fuck you blind.

His mouth finds your shoulder first — soft, open, hot — pressing through the thin fabric of your dress, kissing along the slope of your neck while his other hand skims down the silk curve of your thigh. You smell wine on his breath, wood and heat and hunger, and he’s already hard against your ass, pressing into you like he can’t believe you’re real again.

“Fucking knew this dress was for me,” he breathes against your skin. “Knew it the second I saw you.”

You turn your face slightly, just enough to graze his jaw, your voice calm even as your blood roars beneath the surface.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens.

“This.”

He spins you — smooth, practiced, fast — and pins you against the suite wall, just beside the blackout-curtained window, one knee between your thighs, your heels barely catching grip on the polished wood floors. His hands are under your dress in a second, sliding up your thighs, growling when he feels just how little you wore beneath it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and guttural. “You didn’t wear anything for me?”

“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you murmur, tilting your head, letting your lips brush his but never touching fully.

His teeth graze your chin. “Don’t fucking test me tonight.”

“I thought you liked being tested.”

He laughs — dark, breathless — and you both know you’re seconds from snapping. His hands glide over your ass, gripping, kneading, dragging you harder against the bulge in his pants. You rock your hips back, just once, just to feel how badly he wants it.

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

His eyes flicker, and you see it — the surprise, the interest, the way his breath catches just slightly before he obeys. He backs up toward the edge of the king-sized bed and lowers himself slowly, legs spread, cock straining against the fabric of his tailored black trousers.

You follow him. Drop to your knees between his legs like it's a throne, not a man.

His eyes are already half-lidded, hands braced on his thighs, watching you as you reach for his belt with smooth, practiced fingers. You undo the buckle with no urgency, and when the leather slides through the loops, he hisses under his breath like it’s your mouth around him already.

When you reach into his boxers and pull him out, you exhale softly — not from surprise, not from awe, but from the rush that starts between your legs at the sheer weight of him in your palm. He’s hard. So hard it makes your mouth water. The tip’s flushed, leaking, pulsing against your skin.

He looks like he wants to say something — maybe a tease, maybe a curse — but the second your lips close over the head, all he does is moan. Long. Deep. Raw.

You don’t rush.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, one hand still stroking the base, the other flattening against his lower abdomen to keep him exactly where you want him. You suck slowly, carefully, letting your mouth shape around him like you’re molding heat out of gold. You glance up — and the sight of him nearly undoes you.

His head is thrown back, mouth parted, hands gripping the edge of the mattress now. The muscles in his thighs are shaking under your palms. When you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, his hips jerk, his voice cracks.

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips like a threat.

“You’re gonna what?”

He opens his eyes, looks at you like you’re the devil himself, and chokes on a groan when you go down again — this time deeper, wetter, your tongue pressed under the shaft, saliva dripping down your hand. You let your mouth contour around him, let him feel every inch of heat and slick velvet you can give.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut now. “Please don’t stop. Please—fuck—just like that—”

The begging shocks you. It makes your core throb, makes you grind your own thighs together as you take him deeper still, lips stretched wide around him, hand working what your mouth can’t reach. You love the way he sounds, the way he begs, the way this man — who fucked you like he owned you just days ago — is now unraveling in front of you with your name gasped like a prayer.

You pull off again, let your lips drag down the side of his cock, tongue licking up the vein, and you whisper:

“You taste better than I remember.”

He grabs your shoulders, dragging you up fast, lips crashing against yours like he’s trying to climb back into control.

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he mutters, voice shaking. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You don’t resist. Because you want it too — filthy, breathless, and only getting darker from here.

He doesn’t let you move far — his hands are already on your thighs, on your waist, pushing you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he shoves you down with a grip that’s firm but reverent. He follows immediately, kissing you deep, tongue filthy in your mouth, his taste mixed with the sharp salt of his own arousal. You moan into him, still breathless from the way he sounded minutes ago — the quiet begging, the desperation, the way he came undone just from your mouth.

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

He pulls away, eyes black, chest heaving. You barely register your own dress being pulled up, bunched around your waist, before he drops to his knees between your legs and drags your soaked thong down with both hands — slow, savoring the way the fabric clings to you, the wet string pulling along your folds.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, and you feel it in your spine — that growl, that tone, the sound of someone starving.

He spreads your legs wide, pushes your knees up, and leans in with no ceremony. His mouth finds your clit in the same breath as his fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed until you feel like you’re going to slide off entirely — right into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks once, then twice, then circles until your hips buck.

“You’ve missed this,” he says against your cunt. “This pussy remembers me.”

You try to argue. You try to speak. But your breath stutters when he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s tasting sugar.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the soft strands, anchoring yourself. You can’t stop the sounds that escape you now — soft, sharp gasps, your head falling back as he devours you, his mouth relentless and wet and so good you can’t think straight.

And then he slides lower.

At first it’s a tease — his tongue licking below, over the tight ring of muscle, making your thighs twitch. But then he spreads you wider, his thumbs parting your ass, and before you can process it, his mouth is there, licking into you with slow, filthy indulgence.

You moan — loud, uncontrolled, broken — and your entire body tries to lift off the bed. He holds you down.

��Jungkook—” It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that tonight, and it cracks at the edges. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t stop.

He eats your ass like he’s done it before, like he’s memorized you, like he owns the right to taste every inch of you. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his tongue drags back up to your clit again, your vision blurs.

And in the haze of your unraveling, one thought claws through everything: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hips grind up into his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing the high. And when he slides two fingers into you — slow and deep — your back arches, your moan breaks apart, and your orgasm hits like a wave dragging you under.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling beneath him, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering around his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick, his eyes feral, and he climbs back over you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“You good?” he whispers, voice raw with pride.

You glare at him, chest still rising and falling, and mutter, “You’re disgusting.”

He smirks, kissing your collarbone, licking a stripe up your neck.

“And you’re wet.”

He’s on you before you can gather your thoughts — his body pressing you into the mattress, heavy and solid and far too familiar. His chest brushes yours, warm skin meeting your peaked nipples, and the friction makes you hiss between your teeth. You try to push him back, just enough to reassert something, anything — but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You scowl, but it’s weak — half-hearted, half-turned-on, and he knows it.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He leans in, licks into your mouth like he owns it, and then slides his cock slowly through your folds — hot, heavy, dragging along your slit until you’re whimpering despite yourself. You feel him reach for a condom, hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hips notch forward, the thick head of his cock pressing at your entrance.

“You still feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, and when he pushes in — slow, so slow — your nails dig into the sheets.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He’s big. He always was, but this time it feels deeper, sharper, like every inch is a punishment you didn’t see coming.

“God—” you breathe, blinking up at the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you still feel this good?”

“Because your pussy remembers me,” he says through a ragged exhale, hips still rolling forward. “Because it’s mine.”

You clench around him at the word — mine — and hate how much it turns you on.

“You really think one night erases years?” you bite, trying to pull your voice together, but it’s breathy and cracked.

“No,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “But it reminds you.”

He bottoms out, and the sound you make is caught between a moan and a curse. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper even as your pride screams at you to shove him off. He feels too good. It’s too hot. It’s everything you didn’t want to feel again, wrapped in silk and sweat and his goddamn voice.

He starts to move — slow and deep, every stroke dragging across every nerve ending you have.

“You’re clenching,” he growls in your ear, licking down the side of your neck. “You missed this. Missed me.”

“I missed being fucked,” you shoot back, voice shaking. “I could’ve found that anywhere.”

He snaps his hips once — hard — and your gasp betrays you. Your hands fly up to his back, nails digging in.

“You’re lying,” he pants. “You never let anyone fuck you like this. Never let them see you like this.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you’re already close again, already tightening around him like he’s the only man who’s ever made you come this hard.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands from your face. “Wanna feel it again. Wanna watch you break.”

You pull him closer, arch your back, and mutter into his neck:

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes. He fucks you harder now — still deep, still deliberate, but with that edge of hunger he’s been holding back all night. His pelvis rubs your clit with every thrust, and when his hand slides between you, fingers circling your swollen nerves, you see stars.

You’re writhing now, moaning his name like a warning, and he’s kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds, your curses, your surrender.

And when you finally come — tight and fast and gasping — he moans something filthy into your mouth that you’re too far gone to understand. You feel him tense, feel the thick roll of his hips as he buries himself one last time, and then he’s groaning through clenched teeth, coming with your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room is nothing but breath and sweat and silence. Then you turn your face away. And the next wave starts building.

You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve pushed him off and walked into the bathroom, should’ve wrapped yourself in a robe and poured a glass of water and reminded yourself who you are now — not nineteen, not in love, not wrecked by the memory of a boy who never said goodbye.

But instead, you stay. Lying there, trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm that still echoes in your spine, your thighs slick and sore, your heartbeat pressed somewhere up in your throat.

Jungkook shifts beside you, his palm still on your stomach, his breath still hot against your shoulder. You can feel him stirring again, thick and half-hard between your legs, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving — rolling onto your side, facing away, pulling the sheet off your skin like you’ve surrendered to something you’ll never admit out loud.

He presses up behind you, his chest flush to your back, his mouth trailing down the slope of your shoulder with reverent hunger. One hand slides over your hip, gripping it as if anchoring himself to reality, the other skating down between your thighs to find you still soaked.

“Still dripping for me,” he mutters, voice hoarse with lust. “You love this.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers, pushing your legs apart. “That’s why you’re letting me do this again.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to get out, to stop twisting everything into something so ugly and true — but then the head of his cock is sliding between your folds, and your breath catches in your throat like betrayal.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch burns — not painfully, but beautifully, the kind of fullness that makes your spine arch and your mouth fall open. His hand finds your throat from behind, just a gentle pressure under your jaw, guiding your gaze up to the full-length mirror across the room.

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

Your eyes flicker open. And what you see takes the last bit of air from your lungs. Your body — flushed and glistening, breasts bouncing gently with each slow thrust, his chest pressed to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat. His face — focused, wild, desperate. Yours — wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groans, picking up speed. “You look so fucking good like this.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it’s weak, broken, your voice shaking.

He pulls out, slaps your ass once, then sinks back in deep. You whimper, your head falling forward, but he doesn’t let you look away.

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

You do. And that’s the problem. Because it’s not just the sex. It’s the way your mouth falls open when he rolls his hips just right; your nails claw the sheets when he says your name like a curse and a prayer. The way your eyes can’t lie in the mirror — how wrecked you are, how undone, how his.

“You’re just a dick to me,” you spit, desperate, cruel.

But he only groans and fucks you harder. “Then why are you dripping down my thighs?”

He reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and filthy, and your body convulses around him, your moans high and breathless. He fucks you through it, relentless now, slamming into you as your muscles clench around him.

The mirror fogs. Your eyes blur. And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue and your pride somewhere back in Seoul.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, curses tumbling from his mouth as he spills into the condom with his forehead against your shoulder and your scent all over his skin.

The sound of your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning.

You pull away first. Walk into the bathroom without a word, leaving him in the bed where he just ruined you all over again.

✦✦✦

You take your time in the shower, as if hot water can rinse off regret. You wash his hands from your thighs, scrub the taste of him from your mouth. You tilt your head back and let the water hammer against your eyes until it’s impossible to tell what’s tears and what’s steam.

But none of it works. Because when you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe that still smells faintly of jasmine, he’s still there. Shirtless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s praying to something he stopped believing in a long time ago.

You walk to the desk in the corner, grab your phone, place it face-down, and then turn around — arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, slower now, sharper. “This doesn’t change anything.”

He rises, but he doesn’t close the space between you. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

You laugh — bitter, quiet, worn thin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

“I felt your cock inside me,” you snap. “I thanked you for the orgasm. What else do you want?”

“That’s not what it was.”

“You’re right,” you say, folding your arms tighter. “It was nostalgia. A stupid, warm, familiar fuck. That’s all. It’s easy to miss someone when you’re lonely.”

He steps closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause. A thick, excruciating silence.

“You and I…” he says, softly now, like the words might shatter in his throat, “we were made for each other. Even our bodies—”

“Oh, right,” you cut in, vicious now, unable to hold it back. “You’d know. You’ve had so many to compare.”

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, he has no clever retort. You press forward, rage slipping between the cracks of your voice.

“How many, Jungkook? Since me? How many fans, idols, influencers, pretty things to fuck between tours? Don’t act like I was unforgettable when you replaced me every goddamn night.”

“I didn’t replace you,” he says — broken, breathless. “I was just trying to forget.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” His voice cracks. “No, it didn’t. I was stupid. I was young and insecure and fucking terrified. I hated myself for what I did. I still do.”

You shake your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, the robe cinched too tightly around your waist now.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk out when things get hard and come back years later with apologies and expect me to what— forgive you? Believe that you’ve changed?”

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a trembling breath. “I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes I made when I was twenty.”

You inhale sharply — then exhale through your teeth like it burns.

“You think I wasn’t twenty too?” Your voice rises, high and brittle. “You think I didn’t feel lost? I moved to Seoul with you. I started everything from scratch. My job. My name. My future. I met people too. Rich ones. Brilliant ones. Men who would’ve killed to touch me, to claim me, to give me the fucking world—”

He flinches.

“—but I never said yes. Because I wanted to go through it all with you. I was building something. A life. A career. A future. And I wanted you beside me.”

Tears fall now. Hot, fast. You don’t bother to wipe them.

“But you left,” you whisper. “No explanation. No closure. Just silence. Like I meant nothing.”

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

“You broke me,” you say, and your voice finally cracks — full and sharp and agonizing. “You left me alone in a city that already hated me. You made me beg for your attention without saying a word. And I still had to show up to work. Smile. Climb. Watch my dreams come true with no one beside me to see it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, eyes shining now. “I was a coward. I didn’t deserve you then. But I want to be the man who does now. Please—please just give me a chance to prove it.”

You stare at him and your heart is breaking. But you shake your head.

“Every time I look at you,” you whisper, voice like shattered glass, “I see the version of myself you left behind. Nineteen. In love. Hopeful. And you stole her from me. You robbed my nineteen year self of her happy future.”

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the quiet of the room that still smells like sex and sweat and the bitter rot of everything they’ve broken again. His eyes are red-rimmed now, chest rising like it physically hurts to speak — and maybe it does.

“I love you.”

He says it softly, like the words themselves might vanish if he says them too loud. Like he doesn’t quite believe they’ll land.

Your lips part, barely. But you don’t answer. Not at first. You just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, robe clinging to damp skin, trying to shield yourself from a wound that’s already been split open at the seam.

“I never stopped,” he whispers, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him, even now. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I disappeared. Even when I hated myself for it.”

You blink once. Your throat tightens. And then you speak — slowly, like every word is a blade you have to pull out of yourself to hand to him.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No, you didn’t love me then,” you say, voice low, calm, terrifying in its precision. “You loved how I made you feel. How I adored you. How I was yours when you wanted me, and gone when you didn’t.”

His breath hitches, but you go on.

“And now you’re doing it again. You’re confusing lust with love. Familiarity with fate. You’re looking at me and thinking this means something more than it does, because you want it to, because it makes you feel less guilty.”

“It does mean something,” he argues, stepping forward like he’s desperate to close the space. “You and me—”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that. Not anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you lift your hand — not to strike, not to touch, just to stop him.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and you mean it. “And even if I did… it’s too late.”

You turn then, slow and sharp, like your heart is finally made of steel instead of longing, and you gesture toward the door — toward the end of the night, the end of the echo, the end of whatever illusion he came here chasing.

He doesn’t move at first. But when he does, he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks to the door with quiet steps, like the weight of everything he never said is finally too much to carry.

The door opens and shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And in the silence that follows, you don’t cry. You just stand there, still barefoot, still breathing, staring out across the lake through the glass windows as the lights of Villa Fioretta shimmer back at you in the dark.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself whisper the truth. He broke you. And you’re still not sure if you’ll ever recover.

✦✦✦

Villa Fioretta sparkles like something out of a Renaissance painting — golden lanterns swinging in the breeze, shadows stretching long over the polished marble as the evening unfolds with practiced luxury. The terrace for tonight’s formal dinner is carved into the cliffside, overlooking the dark silk of Lake Como, each table draped in white linen and framed with tumbling white roses. Candles flicker in crystal holders. Soft jazz rolls under the clink of silverware and laughter that never reaches the eyes.

You arrive later than planned.

Hair pinned. Makeup fresh. The kind of dress that breathes elegance from the front and vengeance from the back — low-cut, high-slit, sharp where it needs to be and soft where it shouldn’t. Midnight navy satin hugs your waist, drapes over your thighs, whispers down your legs with every step you take. On your ears: diamonds. Around your neck: a pearl choker — delicate, pointed, surgical.

No one would know that you didn’t sleep last night. Except maybe him.

Jungkook sees you before anyone else. Of course he does. He’s already seated when you arrive, across the long dinner table, dressed in black-on-black with his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes meet yours. Then drop. Then return. He doesn’t look away after that.

You let your gaze sweep past him like he’s any other guest — beneath you, behind you, not even worth remembering. Because tonight, you’re not here to feel. You’re here to make sure he does.

“Ah, Y/N.” Dante Seo stands when you’re led to your place, a slow grin blooming on his face like he’s waited the whole day for this exact moment. “You’re late.”

You slip into the chair beside him without apologizing. “I had to recover from a… long night.”

His eyes spark at that. You don’t let them linger.

Around you, the table is littered with people who make headlines for a living — stylists, designers, fashion house CEOs, cultural editors from every Vogue in the western hemisphere. BTS is here too — seated near the far end, spaced out perfectly so the illusion of randomness doesn’t look like security protocol.

You don’t look at them either. You focus on Dante’s hand as it grazes yours every time he reaches for his wine. You focus on the warmth of the candlelight on your collarbones. On the way people lean in when you speak.

“You truly spearheaded something magnificent,” the director of Vogue UK says, dabbing at her lips. “That October cover… everyone’s talking about it. Jungkook’s never looked so refined.”

“Or so raw,” someone else adds. “There’s something vulnerable in it. Almost like…”

“Like he was seen,” Dante finishes, smiling sideways at you. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

You sip your wine.

“That was my job,” you reply coolly. “To see him as something more than a headline.”

Your words hang between you, and Jungkook doesn’t speak even once.

But you feel him. Every time Dante laughs too loud. Every time Dante leans too close. Every time his hand brushes your thigh under the tablecloth and you don’t move it away. You feel Jungkook watching like it’s a punishment. And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t look powerful now. He looks like a man barely holding himself together — knuckles white against the stem of his glass, jaw so tight you know it aches. And still… he says nothing.

Dinner ends slowly. Plates are cleared. Dessert is offered. Liqueur appears in tall, thin glasses, and conversations bloom into something silkier, messier. Looser.

Dante leans toward you again, the scent of spice and ambition warm against your cheek.

“I have a bottle I’d kill to open with you,” he murmurs. “Private cellar. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smile without showing teeth. Your heart is thudding like betrayal behind your ribs. But you nod.

“Lead the way.”

You stand. And that’s when he stands too. Jungkook.

You pretend not to see him following, just a few paces behind, not fast, not loud — but steady.

The hallway is dim, the sconces casting long shadows across marble walls as you and Dante make your way toward the private wing. At the turn, Dante checks his phone — a call from someone downstairs. He excuses himself for a moment, promises to be right back.

And then you feel it — the heat behind you. A presence you’ve memorized in your bones.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes. Then, softly — like a ghost afraid to be exorcised, “You don’t have to do this just to hurt me.”

You turn, slow and sharp, and there he is — no stage, no audience, no press-ready expression. Just Jungkook. Tense. Broken. Bare.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” you reply. “I’m leaving.”

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

His voice drops, rough and unsteady. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No one does,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

His eyes close for half a second — like that one cut sliced too deep.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re just angry. You’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m proving I can walk away from you now.”

Jungkook steps closer. Just one step. Barely enough to touch. His breath hits your collarbone.

“If you walk out with him right now… I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

You blink. But your voice doesn’t break this time.

“Then think about it.”

“Please,” he says — and it’s not performance, not charm, not strategy.

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

“Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough to break you.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” you say, voice soft and surgical. “You already took everything that mattered.”

And when Dante reappears at the end of the hall, you turn without another word.

Your heels echo across the marble as you disappear down the corridor. You don’t look back.

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

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sixeyesonathiel · 1 month ago

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academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it “delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his google drive has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with “ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: “if she cries at my funeral, i win.” writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

#gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo crack #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader crack #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk crack

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digitprintplus · 2 years ago

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Efficient Mailing Processing Services for Your Business Needs

At Digiprint Plus, we take the hassle out of your mailing campaigns with our top-notch Mailing Processing Service. From data management and list preparation to printing, addressing, and post office delivery, we handle every aspect of your mailing needs. Our streamlined approach ensures accuracy, cost-efficiency, and on-time delivery for your marketing materials or business communications.

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applepiiex · 2 months ago

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OFFICE SIREN ! ! ! ⋆. 𐙚 ⎚-⎚

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

It was simple, really. The minute you stepped into the building, walked into his office, you knew how this would end. You both did. This was your dance. Secretary and CEO. I mean, could I make it any more obvious?

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻

The second you stepped into Nanami & Co. headquarters, it was like dropping a match in a boardroom full of oil. Quiet, composed, and dressed like sin in slacks, you weren’t flustered or fumbling, you were intentional. Efficient. Too good at your job to just be “eye candy,” but too stunning for that not to be the conversation behind closed doors.

You were the new Executive Secretary to CEO Nanami Kento. And the office knew it the moment he first looked at you.

That first day, he didn’t blink when he met you. He barely spoke, except to offer a flat-toned, “You’re early. Good.” But there was a flicker, a tension, in the slight clench of his jaw, the way his hand paused before handing you a folder.

It wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. You weren’t the type to pretend not to notice. And he wasn’t the type to admit it.

It made the air between you thick with unspoken things.

The second week in, the HR representative was still pretending to “casually” check in on you. People from accounting suddenly had a lot of print jobs that needed to be picked up from the copier by your desk. One intern from Legal walked straight into a glass wall watching you adjust your sleeves.

You, as always, didn’t acknowledge any of it.

You just took notes in meetings — immaculate notes, mind you — had coffee waiting before Nanami arrived, scheduled his meetings down to the minute, and somehow, still made time to sit with legs crossed in the lobby and read a novel on your ten-minute break. Like this whole building didn’t revolve around you now.

Nanami hated how much he noticed.

The shape of your hands on a pen. The way you leaned over his desk to pass him a memo. The sound of your voice when you called him sir in a tone that was 90% professional, 10% devastating.

He didn’t speak more than he needed to. But he always said thank you. Always met your gaze longer than necessary. Always waited for you to leave the room before exhaling like you’d taken the air with you.

You were in his office now, sorting through schedules while Nanami typed behind his desk. The clock ticked. The tension simmered.

“Mr. Nanami,” you said calmly, eyes on your tablet. “You have a meeting with the board at three. Followed by your review call with the Kyoto division.”

“I’m aware,” he said, not looking up “Thank you.”

A moment of silence follows between the two. Then, he added, more quietly, “You’re remarkably efficient.”

You looked up at him, slowly. Cool. Collected. “It’s in the job description,” you said smoothly. Then, after a beat, “But I appreciate you noticing.”

There was a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. It passed just as quickly as it came.

“I assume the presentation materials are already prepared?” he asked.

“They’re in your inbox. I took the liberty of refining the talking points for maximum board approval.”

Nanami closed his laptop. “You’re wasted as a secretary.”

You tilted your head, smirking just enough to keep him thinking about it later.

“Maybe,” you said. “But I like working under you.”

The silence that followed was not appropriate for the workplace.

Nanami did not reply right away.

His fingers tapped twice, precisely, rhythmically, against the desk. Then, he leaned back slightly in his chair, expression unreadable, posture perfect, suit impeccable. But the vein in his neck twitched.

Outside the glass wall of his office, someone dropped a stack of papers.

“Is that meant to be a joke?” he asked finally, measured and dry, like you were discussing quarterly losses and not the way you just set his spine on fire.

You only smiled, softly. “Not unless you want it to be.”

And with that, you turned and walked out casually, like you hadn’t just declared subtle war. Your cologne lingered in the air. Nanami stared at the door long after you’d left, his jaw set, one knuckle curling against his temple in thought.

The next ten minutes of silence were absolute hell for him.

The office chatter dialed up after that.

“I swear he smiled at him,” whispered someone from PR.

“I heard he let Y/N skip the morning report,” another gossiped near the espresso machine.

"There's no way nothing's going on," muttered HR. "Have you seen the way they talk? It's like watching a legal liability form itself in real time."

You ignored all of it. You always did.

Until Friday afternoon after a board meeting you helped him absolutely dominate when Nanami called you into his office again.

And locked the door.

Click.

You turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong, sir?”

Nanami’s expression was as cold and unreadable as ever… but he had taken off his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. And his tie was loosened just slightly, in that way that somehow made him even more intimidating.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, slowly, like each word was weighed against his better judgment. “Professional.”

You blinked, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “You have.”

“I’ve given you space to work. Room to show your skill.”

“You have.”

He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough that your breath caught without you meaning it to.

“But if you continue making comments like that without consequence,” he murmured, voice low and firm, “you’ll make it very difficult for me to keep being professional.”

For once, the office siren faltered, just a flicker. You recovered fast.

“Well then,” you said, stepping closer with an infuriating calm. “Maybe I want to make it difficult.”

The clock ticked.

Nanami’s hand twitched at his side.

Someone knocked on the glass. “Mr. Nanami? Sorry — your three o’clock—”

“Reschedule,” he said, without looking away from you.

You smiled slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course you will,” he muttered.

There was something about the way he said it, quiet reverence with a simmering edge, that made your whole chest tighten.

The following days, the office entered the Cold War of the century.

You place a stack of files on Nanami’s desk. He glances up from a document, and for once, doesn’t look away right away.

“You got a haircut,” he says.

You pause. “I did.”

He stares for a moment too long. Then goes back to reading. “It suits you.”

You walk out of his office smiling, which does not go unnoticed by half the floor.

In the break room, someone mutters, “If I have to watch that man fall in love in real-time one more time, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

- You’re typing something into his calendar when Nanami walks in behind you.

He says nothing, just leans over to read what you're writing.

His tie brushes your shoulder.

You don’t flinch but your breath catches.

“Don’t forget the quarterly lunch,” he murmurs near your ear, and you swear he knows what he’s doing now.

You look over your shoulder, expression unreadable. “Don’t forget I’m in charge of your entire life, sir.”

He blinks.

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move for a beat too long.

- There’s a company-wide meeting. Big conference table. Full of execs. You’re seated just behind Nanami, taking notes.

At some point, he subtly pushes his coffee toward you.

You sip it without asking.

Across the table, the COO blinks. Slowly. “Am I hallucinating or are they—?” “They’re sharing drinks now,” someone whispers. “This is better than succession.”

You’re working late,again. He’s working late, again. It’s just you two and the silence of the 27th floor.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You didn’t need to stay.”

“I wanted to,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Besides, who else is going to remind you to eat?”

Nanami watches you for a long time. “You're very good at taking care of me.”

You finally look up. Your gaze is even.

“You let me.”That shuts him up for a while.

- Someone from Legal corners you in the elevator. “So. How long until the two of you combust?”

You blink, deadpan. “I assume you mean from overwork. No comment.”

They grin. “Sure. We’ll call it that.”

When the elevator opens, Nanami is already waiting by the front doors. You walk to him without hesitation.

You hand him his forgotten phone. He gives you a rare, real smile.

The Legal rep watches the interaction with the expression of someone watching a slow burn romance anime in 4K.

- Rain’s coming down hard. You’re leaving the building, umbrella in hand, when Nanami appears beside you.

You glance up. “Didn’t think you were done.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I didn’t want you walking alone.”

You stare at him. “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”He doesn’t reply.

Just takes your umbrella and holds it over you both. He walks you all the way to the train station. Quiet. Close. He doesn’t brush your hand, but he wants to. You can feel it.

When you say goodnight, he only says: “Text me when you get home.” Because of course you have his number.

Finally, the staff prepared for the company gala, a massive fundraising and charity event. It’s annual. Lavish. Hosted in a glass ballroom overlooking the city. Everyone who’s anyone is there—CEOs, board members, investors, and a lot of people who’d kill for a merger and a martini.

Nanami, of course, hates it.

You, however? You thrive.

You're not just his secretary tonight, you’re the company’s most devastating asset. Crisp tailored suit. Collar unbuttoned just enough. That magnetic calm confidence you wear like cologne. You don’t cling to Nanami like the other assistants do to their execs. You orbit him.

Close. Measured. Professional. But every time you adjust his tie or whisper something into his ear, more than one person at the table has to look away. It doesn’t help that Nanami, for all his stoicism, is visibly tense.

A partner from a competing firm slinks over. "Mr. Nanami. L/N," she says, eyes flitting over you with the sharpness of someone trying to provoke. "Quite the asset you've brought with you."

You smile politely. Nanami’s voice cuts low. “He's far more than that.”

The woman raises a brow. “Oh?” Nanami blinks once, like he’s realizing what he just said.

“I meant professionally,” he adds flatly.

You chuckle quietly behind your glass. “Mmhm.”

Later that night the two of you are alone in the company car. You’re tucked beside him, fingers scrolling through emails. He’s staring ahead, jaw set.

You glance over. “You good?”Silence.

“Nanami.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time in hours. The tension in his shoulders has built up to his neck, his posture rigid, and his hands curl on his knees like he's holding something back.

“Why do you let them look at you like that?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“The others,” he mutters, voice tight. “Everyone at that gala. At the office. The people who think you’re just...an accessory.”

There’s a pause. Then you say, quiet, “Because I know I’m not.”

He turns to you.

"And the only person whose opinion actually matters? He’s sitting right beside me."

His breath hitches. You smile slowly, eyes warm but not soft. “Unless, of course, you see me as just your secretary.”

Nanami exhales like he’s been holding that breath all year. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

After the Gala, there’s a shift. Not dramatic. But tangible. You bring him his morning coffee. His fingers brush yours. He doesn’t move his hand.

At the team check-in, he glances up at you twice. HR gossips so loudly over Slack that IT temporarily disables the chat.

Then your phone dings.

An announcement: the entire executive team is heading to a retreat. Out of town. Four days. Two nights.

Guess who’s organizing it? Guess who Nanami insists personally accompany him?

It’s a two-hour drive upstate. Forests. Fog. Secluded high-end resort with sleek wood cabins and private hot springs. “Team-building,” they said.

Nanami didn’t even blink when he insisted you ride with him instead of the company shuttle.

You’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on. He’s gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

“So,” you say casually, “shared rooms?”

“No,” he replies.

You raise a brow. “You didn’t want to share?”

“No,” he says again, quieter. “I... booked us a suite.”

Silence, heavy and lingering.

“With two beds,” he adds stiffly “Obviously.”

You smirk, leaning your head against the window. “Obviously.”

Everyone gathers around a giant firepit with wine and half-burnt s’mores. You're seated beside Nanami, your knees nearly touching. He’s unusually quiet. Staring at the flames like they’ve insulted his mother.

“You hate this,” you whisper.

“I loathe this,” he murmurs back.

A tipsy intern walks past and says way too loudly: “If those two don’t hook up before the end of the trip, I swear to God—”

Nanami visibly twitches. You sip your wine and don’t stop smiling.

The suite is warm. Modern. Dimly lit.

You’re taking your tie off when Nanami steps out of the bathroom, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled.

He pauses.

You pause.

You both definitely pause.

You clear your throat and move to unpack your things. “...You’ve been quiet today,” you say.

He exhales. “I’ve been trying to remain professional.”

“And how’s that going?”

Silence.

Then, “Badly.”

You look up. Your breath catches. He’s standing closer now. Close enough to touch.

“I don’t just respect you,” he says quietly. “I don’t just trust you. I want you.”

You stare at him.

“And not just here. Not just at work. I want... all of it.”

Your voice comes out lower than expected. “So take it.”

When you wake up the next morning, There are two cups of coffee on the table. Yours has a note,

“Meeting at 9. Your tie is under the bed. — Kento”

You walk into the dining hall 15 minutes late, hair still wet, and no fewer than four coworkers do a full double take.

Someone drops a croissant.

Someone else mutters, “So it finally happened.”

Nanami doesn’t say a word when you sit beside him, he just passes you a scone and doesn’t stop smiling.

Coming back from the retreat, things are different. You walk in precisely at 8:59 a.m. Button-down open just enough. Coffee in one hand. The tiniest, smuggest little smirk on your face.

And the office?Ferally quiet.

HR intern spills their yogurt. Three analysts whisper so fast it might as well be Morse code.

There’s already a Slack thread titled:

#kentoandsecretary???? with 84 unread messages and one blurry photo of Nanami brushing something off your collar during breakfast.

You pass by the breakroom.

“...he came in glowing. I swear, they didn’t even touch their second bed.”

“Did you see the way Nanami looked at him during the meeting? Like he was five seconds from committing arson!”

“I asked if he needed help filing something and he said he already has someone for that.’”

You smile sweetly as you walk by “Morning, boys.”They nearly implode.

Meanwhile, Nanami is back to being composed. Cold. Precise. Except… When someone else tries to get your attention? His jaw ticks. When a junior executive leans just a bit too far over your desk? His knuckles whiten on the espresso cup. When someone from accounting touches your shoulder while laughing? Nanami appears out of nowhere.

“You have something to say?”Flat. Deadpan. Terrifying.

“...N-no, sir. I was just—uh—asking about quarterly reports.”

Nanami doesn’t blink. “Then ask with your hands to yourself.”

The guy scurries off like he’s been personally marked by death. You watch the whole thing, sipping your tea like you’re watching your favorite drama.

He turns to you. “Is there a problem?”

You tilt your head innocently. “Not at all, sir.”

He narrows his eyes. You wink.

He calls you in for a “filing task.” You both know it’s fake.

The second the door clicks shut, “You’re doing it on purpose,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“...Smirking.”

You lean across the desk. “Maybe I like seeing you a little jealous.”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “It’s... unbecoming.”

You grin. “You didn’t seem to mind Saturday night.”

His ears turn pink.

Later that day, they finally call you in, HR. Just you. You think it’s for a report.

Instead, “We’re not... formally asking,” your HR rep says delicately, “but could you maybe... tone it down?”

You blink. “Tone what down?”

“The... aura. The vibe. Whatever happened on the retreat has caused a 62% spike in distracted employees and a 94% spike in caffeine intake. Half the floor is in emotional distress.”

You blink again. Then smile. “No promises.”

It happens over lukewarm coffee and passive-aggressive bagels in the breakroom. You’re at the counter, calmly stirring honey into your tea, when it happens. Bryce, two floors down, fake-deep voice, always wears too much cologne, walks up beside you. “So... what’s the deal with you and the CEO?”

You pause, blink, and smile. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, pretending like the whole floor isn’t holding its collective breath. “Just saying. You two came back from the retreat... different. And Nanami nearly bit my head off when I asked if you needed help yesterday.”

You sip your tea. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He frowns. “Come on, you expect us to believe nothing’s going on?”

You set your cup down gently. Turn to face him. “I’m Nanami’s secretary,” you say smoothly. “It would be incredibly unprofessional to imply anything else, don’t you think?”

He opens his mouth to argue—

Nanami walks in.

Silence. Absolute deathly silence.

You don’t even flinch. You smile, nod politely, and leave the room with your tea.

Nanami doesn’t say a word to Bryce. He just stares at him for a solid five seconds. Bryce almost drops his bagel.

It’s 4:43 p.m. You’re both the last to leave. You step into the executive elevator. Alone. Or so you think.

A hand stops the doors just before they close. Nanami steps in. Silent. Stone-faced. You glance up at him, all innocence. “Evening, sir.”

He doesn’t answer. He hits the button for the lobby. The doors close. The second they do— BAM.

He presses you against the mirrored wall of the elevator. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper back, breath hitching. “Smiling. Being helpful. Professional.” His jaw clenches.

“You’re not just my secretary.”

You tilt your head. “Then what am I?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just closes the distance between your lips and his with a slow, searing kiss.

You walk out first. Perfectly composed.

Your tie’s slightly askew. Your smirk? Deadly. There’s an intern waiting in the lobby.

He watches you walk past. Then watches Nanami walk out behind you, adjusting his cufflinks, not saying a single word.

The intern faints.

The day starts off normal. Too normal.

Emails. Meetings. Budget revisions. Nanami is in a sharp charcoal three-piece suit that he hasn’t worn since Q4 board reports. You’re wearing your best shirt, crisp, tailored, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the forearm tattoos everyone pretends they’re not staring at.

You’re good at your job. Unbothered. Unshakable.

But not unnoticed.

So when your inbox dings with another "quick check-in" from someone in analytics, followed by someone from HR offering to grab lunch "just to decompress", you already know where this is going.

The final straw comes just before 3 p.m. You're walking back from the copy room when Sara, the lead designer, corners you by the espresso machine with a conspiratorial smile.

“I just want to say,” she begins, twirling a pen between her fingers, “if you and Nanami aren’t exclusive or anything... I’d be happy to take you out. You know. No suits. Just fun.”

The room goes quiet. You take a sip of your drink, unfazed. “Sara,” you say with a smile, “I appreciate the offer. Really. But... I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

She blinks. “Why not?”You shrug. “It’s just not professional, is it? Us coworkers crossing boundaries?”

That earns a few nervous chuckles from those listening in. You start to walk away and that’s when you see him.

Nanami. Standing at the end of the hallway. Holding a folder from Finance. He hadn’t announced himself. He hadn’t needed to. His gaze is unreadable.

You don’t flinch. Just walk right past him. Calm. Collected.

But you don’t miss the subtle shift in his jaw. Or the way his fingers curl tighter around the folder.

You knock once before stepping inside.

“Sir, you asked for the personnel reports—”

“Close the door.” You pause. You do. Nanami doesn't look up right away. He’s sitting behind his desk, back ramrod straight, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tight grip he has on his pen.

“You don’t have to entertain them,” he says quietly. “The others.”

“I’m not.” You fold your hands behind your back. “I told her it wasn’t professional.”

He looks up. And that’s when the mask drops. The careful CEO facade he’s worn for weeks cracks in half. Something darker flickers in his eyes, want, frustration, protectiveness all mixing under the surface.

“Good,” he says, standing slowly. “Because I’m getting very tired of watching them circle you like you’re available.”

Your breath catches, just for a second. “I never said I was.”

He steps around the desk. “You never said you weren’t.”

The air between you practically vibrates. You could hear a pin drop on the marble floors.

Then, “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say softly. “We never defined anything.”

“You’re right.”

Another step. Another inch closer.

“I’ve been acting like your boss because that’s what I am. But I’m also a man who’s very aware of what he wants. And what I want is you. Not as my secretary. As mine.”

You smile, slow and dangerous.

“You’re the CEO,” you say, stepping into his space. “I’m your secretary.”

His hands are on your waist before you finish the sentence. You’re pressed against the glass wall of his office before you take your next breath.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting weeks for it. Because you have.

Rumors fly.

No one knows what happened in that office, but Nanami comes out with his tie loosened and a look of pure peace for the first time in weeks.

You come out ten minutes later. Slightly flushed. Smug.

Sara avoids eye contact. Bryce calls in sick the next day.

And from that moment on, not a single soul dares hit on the CEO’s secretary ever again.

Because everyone knows.

That desk? That office? That man?

All claimed.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #jjk x m!reader #nanami x m!reader #Nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x male reader #x male reader #x m!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #male reader #m!reader #applepiiexx writes #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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anachrosims · 2 years ago

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[TS4CC] DARK ACADEMIA: PART 2!

HELLO again! I am proud, SO proud to present Part 2 of my Dark Academia series! (Part 1 is available already.)

I have ONE more Dark Academia set on the way, but for now, please come enjoy a set full of dozens if not hundreds of swatches of matching furniture and luxurious decor. This set also pairs extremely well with some of my other sets like Dark Academia Part 1, Country Manor, 18th Century Campaign, my Historical Recolors series, and Gorgeous Georgians.

Pick and choose your item(s) or just download the whole set in a zip.

Enjoy!~

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->GET IT HERE @ PATREON! EARLY ACCESS, AVAILABLE AUTOMATICALLY ON SEPTEMBER 27th 2023!<-

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@maxismatchccworld / @emilyccfinds / @mmfinds / @ts4history

---

[ITEM LIST, NOTES & POLYCOUNTS UNDER THE CUT!]

NOTES:

All are BGC unless otherwise noted.

Items where polycount is not listed are just genuine recolors.

All items have their texture maps, shadows, and LODs.

Surface items have SLOTS!

All items have been tested IN GAME.

TOU:

Standard, usual TOU applies-- No Simsd*m, no Simsf*nds, do NOT put this behind paywalls. Feel free to include these items in build folders as long as they are not paywalled. Feel free to use textures/meshes as bases, provided you give credit & link back to my simblr and/or Patreon page.

WHAT YOU GET:

Dark Revival Wallpapers

Evening Hours Wallpapers

Storied Halls Polished Oak Walls

Historically Preserved Plaster Walls

Grand Old Flagstone Floors

Just Scraping By Wood Floors

Book Club Chair (Requires Cottage Living)

Hushed Tones Elegant Bench (1126 polys/1460 verts)

Hushed Tones Elegant Stool (1058 polys/1420 verts)

Grandfather Lamp (Requires University)

Anchor Replica (2406 polys/2401 verts)

Baron Von Butte Bust (736 polys/691 verts)

Chess Mate! (328 polys/521 verts)

Immodest Desktop Pedestal (56 polys/112 verts)

Magnificent Magnifier (370 polys/454 verts)

Model of the Astral Locale (508 polys/530 verts)

Mysterious Ancient Sculpture (958 polys/560 verts)

Skull Specimen (148 polys/157 verts)

Walk Don't Runner Rugs (3x1, 4x1, 5x5)

Forbidden File Cabinet of Mystery (770 polys/912 verts)

Hallowed Hall Halved Desk (878 polys/1232 verts)

Modicum of Modesty Dresser (710 polys/792 verts)

Bonefish (278 polys/282 verts)

Dark Botannical Prints

Observer Shadowbox (94 polys/96 verts)

Scenes & Sims Paintings (V1) (390 polys/416 verts)

Scroll of Knowledge (Vertical) (420 polys/582 verts)

#historical sims #historical sims 4 #ts4cc #s4cc #sims 4 custom content #dark academia sims 4 #sims 4 cc #ts4 custom content #my cc

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printpapausa · 1 year ago

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Full color presentation folder can take your marketing to a whole new level. Before printing them, take a look at the advantages it has to offer.

#short run folder printing #presentation folder printing

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soulsforsales · 11 days ago

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CLARK KENT X FEM!READER

A/n: guys i loved the movie so freaking much and i loved my babygirl cutie patootie Clark kent even more so i had to write something about him also this is literally my first time writing anyone other than Jason Todd but i had to bcs im in LOVE

The corridors of Daily Planet are loud with the morning hustle. The guy on the TV is providing every minute detail of a fight going on between Superman and some robot called Ultraman down the street.

You’re shuffling out the door with your newest report typed out and printed neatly into a folder, ready to be noticed by your boss. Your heels click against the floor and your eyes are down, fingers turning the pages for one last review before you slam it down on that table with a smug little grin-

You’re unable to finish that rather satisfying thought in your mind as you bump into someone. Your feet stumble. Your heel almost snapping in half before strong hands hold you up.

You blink up at Clark Kent, surprised, lips parted a little in that sudden shock. He’s staring down at you, just as startled.

He looks like he got ready and dressed on the way here. His hair is tousled, that one messy curl curling perfectly over his presently furrowed brows. The black glasses slip down his upturned nose, his blue eyes scan your face, taking in the sudden shock and you hope he doesn’t notice the heat climbing your neck.

“Clark.” You breathe out. He’s still clasping your upper arms with both hands, keeping you steady. Which, by the way, you’re thankful for considering how the sight of him makes your knees go weak.

He blinks those bright, pearly eyes at you and nods, a small smile grazes his lips before he lets you go and steps back. You get a better look at him like this. His tie is crooked around his neck and it looks like he just threw the coat over himself in haste. You can’t help but smile back.

“Hey. Sorry—“

“Sorry ‘bout that—“

You speak together, before chuckling in unison.

You brush a strand of hair behind your ear, not breaking eye contact with him. “I didn’t see you.”

Clark nods, awkwardly fidgeting with his hands before him. “Yeah—yeah, it’s alright.”

You part your lips to say something else—maybe ask him about his morning coffee, or the weather, or ask to fix his tie for him, or tell him how pretty he looks with those perfect curls bouncing over his forehead—

wait. not doing that.

Instead, you notice a smear of dirt on his cheek. You hesitate, pointing to your own. “Um… there’s… something on your…”

Clark blinks, bringing his hand up to his face to brush the fingers absentmindedly against his cheekbone. “What?”

You shake your head, smiling, before reaching out to wipe his cheek. You can’t help but notice the pink dust that spreads on his face with your touch.

“There you go.” You grin, dusting your fingers.

Clark huffs. “Yeah. Thanks. That must’ve been the fight.”

You raise a brow. “The fight?”

Clark immediately straightens like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh—uhm, yeah. The fight… I was near the area. It got, uh, really dirty out there.”

You nod, watching the way he fumbles over his words. You find it kind of cute, how painfully awkward he is sometimes.

The fight reminds you of something else and you speak, clutching the report files to your chest. “I read your column, by the way, another interview with Superman? That’s interesting.”

Clark grins. “I didn’t know you read it. And yeah, superman was down for an interview. He’s… nice like that.”

You tilt your head with a chuckle. “He is? I wonder if he’d ever let me interview him.”

“I think he would love that.”

You blink at how sure Clark sounds of his words. “Yeah?”

“I mean—I guess.” He clears his throat. “It depends…”

You notice your boss walking out of his room over Clark’s shoulder, realising you’ll have to rush it if you still want to catch him before his coffee break.

You look over at Clark again, letting yourself soak in the beauty of his face—the beauty of him before you smile.

“Maybe someday, huh? See ya ‘round, Clark.”

Clark turns to watch you walk away with all the grace in the world. “Yeah… someday.”

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kentoxo · 10 months ago

Text

friction | you x crush!nanami pt. 1

pairing: reader (f) x crush!nanami

synopsis: [AU] you have always had a crush on nanami. since the day you were hired as his personal assistant, you've been right at his side combating numbers and making money within the finance department for the company you two worked for. but, things take a turn when nanami catches wind of your feelings, and rejects you. little did he know the weight of his mistake.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, sexual tension, jealousy (future smut)

a/n: first!! ever!! story-driven smut!!! im so excited! literally love this man sm and have yet to make any sort of fic on him. ahhh!! let me know if yall like this idea! i'll be releasing mini parts sporadically as my free time allows me to :)

December | Tokyo, Japan

Nanami relied on you, simply because you made it a point to become ever so reliable to him.

Monday through Friday, you would always arrive just a few minutes before him, feigning an earlier arrival with your coat stowed away, and your computer on with work tabs open on the monitor. This morning, like every morning, went exactly within your expectations. You’d know he arrived by the sea of ‘goodmorning, Mr. Nanami’ flooding the office. The firm steps of his Italian oxfords would always remind you to straighten your back and await him with his cup of coffee in hand.

“Goodmorning, Nanami,” you hum, your words sliding off your tongue like butter. You don’t look at him, as you were busy basking in the privilege of long-dropped formalities. Although Nanami was very strict with work and coworker relationships, he only accepted you speaking to him informally. At least, in regards to his honorifics.

“‘Mornin’,” Nanami huffs. He takes a seat beside you, stripping away his black peacoat. It was a heavy winter in Japan, so in the ocean of snow and winds were city workers and dwellers, draped in coats or inappropriate attire. You knew it was rude to stare, but you were always entranced from seeing his body in his usual beige suit. A veiny hand presents itself before you.

You carefully fill his hand with his hot-brewed coffee, “just the way you like it. Your favorite barista was in today, finally. He was out with a cold, and took a few days off sick.”

Nanami’s free hand frantically moves his mouse, impatiently waiting for his computer to illuminate on. “It’s unfortunate his counterparts cannot mimic his talent. We may have to poach him into our corporate cafe.”

You begin to draft an email, the lingering warmth from his coffee resting in your hands. “I can draft an email for you if you’d like. You have a meeting with Mr. Takada at 2, so it could be opportune to mention it.”

His eyes casually flicker over to the calendar pinned on the dividing cubicle wall, between both of your computers. It was organized in neat font thanks to you and your handwriting. Hazel eyes begin to scan the calendar, with Nanami lightly cupping his mouth. “And were you able to postpone the team meeting for today?”

You nod, never missing a beat, “I’ve long sent the email, and made my rounds earlier today to remind them that we will not be gathering today. I’ve set up an alternative forum that works for everyone's schedule, including ours.” You reach over for a folder you had neatly sitting in your ‘complete’ basket. “I’ve already printed copies for the documents we’ll be going over, and booked conference room 3.”

“My favorite,” Nanami breathed out between swigs of his bitter coffee. “Did you double check everything?”

“All documents were revised 3 times for mathematical errors, grammar, and consumability. I’ve also prepared catering to be brought tomorrow, as the meeting would take place at the beginning of everybody's shift.”

The blonde man stripped off his blazer, revealing his alluring, navy blue shirt. He neatly drapes it over the back of his seat and leans back once again. He crosses his arms over his chest, the bulge of his bicep evident under the fabric of his dress shirt. “Any new updates from Mr. Takada or the team?” You could hear the office quiet down, the sudden silence of keyboard tapping and casual conversation.

“Mr. Takada has yet to send anything, so that is still pending. The team, however, has made quite the advance in their work. They’ve already predicted our numbers for the end of the year, with our solidified, confirmed numbers already calculated and organized in a shared Excel.”

Nanami smirks mischievously, “I don’t believe it. How’d you manage to get that out of these loafers?” A few of the staff playfully complain, receiving a small chuckle from Nanami. You felt your cheeks warm up from his hidden dimple coming to the spotlight of his lips.

They all go back to their work after exchanging light words and laughter. You lean over slightly towards Nanami, not giving him any sort of eye contact. “I let them choose the breakfast we will be catering for the meeting,” you whispered playfully.

He leans as well, “you truly are a woman of trade, Y/N.” He quickly opens up a few documents on the screen while finishing the final drop of his coffee. His bottom lip glistened with coffee, having him casually drag his tongue to wipe it off. “How about our lunch for today? You and I, that is,” he made sure to clarify.

You opened your drawer and fished out a menu. It was a menu from a seafood restaurant that opened close to the office. You slid it to him, opening it up to reveal his annotations when he initially looked through it. “I scheduled an order for both of the dishes that you had circled. Both options look delicious, so I figured we could sample from one another's plate.”

Nanami turns to you, his lips hinting at a smile. He lightly tugs the bottom of his lip with his teeth, sending shots directly at your heart. “What are we drinking?”

“I couldn’t find your favorite iced tea, but they have this pomegranate drink that I think you’d enjoy greatly,” you hum confidently, “it has yuzu in it.”

Nanami’s lips finally curve into that saccharine sweet smile. “Why do I even clock in anymore?” Nanami jokes, “I can be on autopilot so long as I have you Y/N. Thank you for being so diligent.” He begins to rise from his chair, causing a few of your fellow coworkers to look over. “I’m off to the kitchen to grab some snacks. Would you like anything from the cafe?”

You nod, “tell any of the baristas my name, they’ll know. They also have those apple pies you like today, so definitely grab one while they’re still available.”

With an excited hum, Nanami walks away from you, your eyes glued to how good that blue skirt hugged his torso. Broad shoulders, sharper blades, and muscular. His scent wafted you when he left his seat, the notes of sandalwood and frankincense taking you over. But your thirsting thoughts simply had to be bursted by Yū Haibara. He temporarily took a seat in Nanami’s seat, and turned your chair over to face him.

“Keep staring and maybe you might actually start drooling,” Haibara humors. Before you, Haibara was Nanami’s only right hand man. He is not as diligent as you are, but he keeps up with Nanami the way others can’t. “I thought you wanted to keep your crush a secret?”

Before you could respond, your hand immediately cups around Haibara’s mouth. “I’ll punch the drool out of your mouth so we can twin– can you please not say that out loud, in the office?” You grit your teeth after your words, letting your hand fall to reveal a cheeky smile from the obsidian-haired man.

“That is the most aggressive thing you’ve ever whispered to me,” Haibara whispered back, finally using his head voice. He was lucky his voice wasn’t too loud or else you would’ve mauled him. “That’s no way to speak to your manager.”

“If you were my manager, nothing would get done,” you teased, looking back at your computer to analyze some of the numbers Nanami sent you. “Did you need something, or are you just here to mess with me?”

“Both!” Haibara hums. “I’m not messin with ya, rather I just want to keep my eye out for you. I’ve already told you about how Kento feels about dating. I would hate to see you–”

“I know, I know,” you quickly shut down, waving your hand in his face. “I’m not trying to act delusional or anything. I already like him, so there’s nothing I can do.” Haibara stays quiet, not wanting to bother you.

Haibara knows when to draw the line when he teases you. He reveals a paper from who knows where and offers it to you. It was a thank you letter from the Sales Department. “I visited them as soon as I came in today. They thanked you for helping them with a small project and asked to transfer you back.”

You picked up the letter, your cheeks going warm again. You pucker out your bottom lip and hold the letter to your chest. “I miss my team so much! Ah, it felt so good to work with them again!” Your eyes then flicker at Nanami’s small name tag beside your desk.

It wasn’t that Nanami was this amazing man, but he was wonderful. When you were transferred from the Sales Department to the Finance Department, you weren’t sure you were going to do well. Especially considering you were transferred specifically to be Nanami’s assistant. But on your first day, you noticed that Nanami joined you in the empty desk beside your own. His office was not big enough to host you and your needs, so he has refused to use his office since then. He told you it was necessary to work with one another, and that sacrifices on his end must be seen in order for work to get done.

Since then, you have never let him down.

“But I’d never leave this,” you say, the sentiment in your words striking Haibara. “Their words are kind, but Nanami’s words are heavy. I feel… appreciated by him.”

Haibara scoffs enviously, crossing his arms over his chest, “wish that was me. Nanami never made me feel appreciated. He didn’t even congratulate me when I was promoted to Head Manager!”

“And I still won’t,” a deep voice sounded from behind you. Turning around, a smile tickled your lips as Nanami came back. One hand occupied your drink, while the other held a steaming hot apple pie. He delicately places your drink on the corner of your desk before going to Haibara, lightly spinning the chair with a push from his knee. “Off.”

“Am I nothing to you?” Haibara moans theatrically. “You’re commanding me like a dog on your couch.”

Nanami assumes his seat after ripping Haibara off of it, “I’d still let a dog sit on my couch. Anyways, what did you need Ms. Y/L/N for?”

Haibara quickly rushes to your side while playfully sticking his tongue out towards Nanami. “I was passing her a letter from the Sales team. They want to steal her back from us.”

You quickly elbow his stomach from him not saying the whole truth.

But it was too late. “Is that right?” Nanami murmurs. He moves his mouse to wake up the computer, immediately getting back to his workflow. “They can try, but it’ll never happen,” Nanami said simply, “I’d never approve it.”

It was… a compliment? Well, that’s how it felt like to you. It felt like Nanami wanted you all to himself, but only in a work capacity. Despite this being platonic and strictly work related, it still sent waves of emotion to your heart.

Haibara chuckles, “who knows? Maybe Y/N will go on her own accord.” You look back at Haibara, practically seething at his unthinkable words. Haibara quickly puts his arms over his stomach, protecting himself from another potential blow.

Nanami quickly removes his hands from his keyboard and looks over at Haibara. His face was distasteful. “Move away from my assistant before you rub your stupid on her. While you’re at it…” Nanami reaches over to his rack of documents and pulls out a very thick folder with a label that reads ‘To Do.’ He eagerly holds it out to Haibara, who reluctantly takes it from him. “These are all the clients we need to look through. Pick out at least 20 that you think would be an asset to the company if we worked with them.”

Haibara, without another word, drags his feet back to his office. You try to hide your smile as you excitedly pick up your iced drink. Taking a sip, you let out a satisfied sigh. “Thank you for getting me this, Nanami. I hope there wasn’t a line or anything.”

“None at all,” Nanami hums. “I didn’t realize that you liked your drinks so sweet, Y/N. I could swear you usually get a different drink.”

Your shoulders hang a bit from his words, but you were still quite upbeat, “it’s been the same since I was transferred to your department.” You made sure not to imbue your words with disappointment as you would hate to make him feel guilty. “It’ll be a year soon since I’ve joined the Finance Department.” You pointed to the day on the calendar, which was marked clearly with an X.

Nanami looks over at you with a warm smile, “you have been a wonderful addition to the team. I’m glad that Mr. Takada knew what I needed, and recommended you.”

Unable to contain your happiness from his flattery, you quickly glue yourself to your monitor. You tap away at your keyboard like a maniac, attempting to calm the quick beating of your heart. Your drink, in a way, was tasting a little sweeter than usual after his words.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #nanami kento #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #jjk kento #kento nanami #nanami smut #jujutsu nanami #nanami x reader #jjk fic

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redheadfiretruckgirl · 27 days ago

Text

Half of A Hundred

You work as a mid-level corporate goon while your girlfriend, Melissa, spends her days at Abbott. You have been struggling a lot at work, but have a hard time making room for your feelings at home, as you know Melissa’s job is equally as stressful.

WC: 2.21k

Taglist: @milfjuulpod (thank u for encouraging me, baddie!)

Warnings: None that I can think of? New to this, though. Let me know where I can improve.

A/N: Hi, everyone! I'm new here. I've been a certified lurker for a while but figured it was time to put my hand in and try it out myself. I haven't written a fic since I was a teenager, so I might be a little rusty, but I hope y'all enjoy this little fluffy one shot! Let me know what you might want to see in the future!

The Philadelphia sun peeks through a jungle of skyscrapers while you observe through the window-lined wall of the conference room. A never-ending brown table stretches out before you lined with the blank, greyed faces of your fellow employees, most of which, remain nameless to you.

“Is the social media and marketing liaison ready to present?” Your boss, the CEO of a popular local liquor distribution company, says standing at the far end of the table. You remain in your trance, as the Greek chorus of heads turn to face you. “Y/N?” He repeats, louder this time.

You finally snap out of it, “Oh, yeah, sorry.” You quickly shuffle your papers and rise from your seat.

At the front of the room, about twenty other faces stare you down, each just as plain as the next. They all have a certain threatening twinkle in their eyes as if they could devour you whole over the smallest slip up. This perplexes you. It was just liquor, after all, and while your job is important to you, you feel everyone else takes it just a little too seriously.

You clear your throat, “The statistics this week were very promising. Sales have been up from the last vodka campaign we ran. I have some ideas for the new gin we have rolling out that are outlined in this file here.” You hold up a manila folder and shake it in the air. “Super cool stuff coming up.”

Your boss tilts his head to the side. “Very good, Y/N. And what about the TikTok project we discussed last week? Where are you on that?”

Your stomach drops at those words. The TikTok Project. You shuffle through the binder in front of you and then the notebook beside it. You know the truth, though. You forgot to send the crucial email to the third floor to get the project off the ground. “Um, oh man,” you start, searching for the nearest lie, “I must have forgotten to print those reports. But I will say that all involved parties have been contacted and we’re eagerly waiting for a response.”

Unimpressed, your boss rolls his eyes, “Hm, disappointing,” he smirks, “But accidents happen. You can bring those printed reports to my office personally by 4pm.”

You look at the clock: 3:37pm. Sigh.

The energy over at Abbott Elementary was almost entirely opposite. Golden light pours in through the windows of Melissa’s classroom signifying the end of the day. Melissa sits exhausted at her desk and tries to focus on replying to baseless emails, but remains on edge. She looks up from her computer every few moments expecting another interruption, but her students keep their noses deep in their books.

The calm close of the day came after an extremely chaotic afternoon. Melissa had to deal with a total of two nosebleeds, an ugly third grade break-up, and a cafeteria tray incident…whatever that meant. Her foot taps on the tile, anxiously awaiting the moment she would be able to latch onto you for comfort at your shared home.

After the children were long gone, Melissa packs her things slowly. Usually, she’s quick to get out and get home, but she felt as if all energy had left her body. You two joke about this, calling it “being bitten by a snail.” She stretches out her arms and legs before hoisting her bag over her shoulder and heading out.

Though she is tired, she always vowed to create the most comforting environment for both of you to come home to. She knows of your appreciation for her home-cooked meals that you could smell cooking from down the road. You always meticulously pair each meal with a different wine each night, bringing home the newest and most exclusive bottles from work. It was almost 5pm, and knowing you would be home in just over an hour, she gets to work.

Melissa revels in every solitary second she is able to spend in the kitchen, and is grateful she gets some time alone after work. She constantly worries about you only having a 30-minute car ride home to be with yourself, and bugs you all the time about finding something to do in the hour after work to wind down from your high stakes position.

She dances around the kitchen, sliding across the hard wood floor in her fuzzy socks, and cradling her favorite bottle of cheap wine. This particular wine lives hidden in the back of the cupboards, as you would always lecture her on the importance of fine wine. She also likes to get a head start on the drinking; it isn’t her fault that school ended before corporate gooning did.

Steam rises from the large pot on the stove where nests of pasta boil, just begging to be immersed in Melissa’s famous sauce. The redheaded beauty acquires a colander from the cupboard, as well as a baking tray for the bread. She then picks up the large pot and scurries over to the sink. The pasta flops into the colander too fast sending the boiling water to bite Melissa’s knuckles.

“Shit!” She cursed, as the pot leaves her grip, sending half of the cooked pasta onto the floor. Her private party is over. “Of fucking course.” She kicks the pot aside and drops to her knees to clean the mess.

The front door flies open to reveal you, bag in hand, with tear-stained cheeks. You throw your bag down and slam the door shut, bee-lining for the kitchen. You pause, not seeing Melissa at first, but only hearing her loud disembodied curses. “Mel?” You call out through gritted teeth, trying to hold back the aftershock of your mini-car-breakdown.

“In here, sweetheart. On the floor.” Melissa yells back. “Fucking burnt myself.”

You rush over, kneel beside her, and immediately start picking up pasta. Her bright red knuckles catch your attention, “Mel, stop.”

Melissa only pauses when you collect her hands in yours. You rub your cold thumbs over the burns and she winces. When your eyes finally meet, she notices the dark makeup gathering under your eyes and your damp, raw cheeks. She pulls back immediately.

“Oh my god, Y/N…what happened?” Her tired eyes widen.

At her words, your eyes refill. You blink a few times to make the tears go away, but they only fall faster. “Nothing. I’m okay. You’re hurt.” You reach for her hands once more, but she pulls them away.

“Nuh uh. No. We’re not doing this tonight. You need to talk to me.” Her expression is concerned, but still firm. Her knuckles glow.

“Just a stupid work thing, Mel. Don’t worry, please.” You sink back to sit on your heels.

Melissa ponders her next words. Her expression does not soften. She stands up quickly with a handful of pasta and chucks it in the trash with force. “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I only care a lot.” She walks around you with her nose in the air and bellies up to the stove, where she quietly stirs her sauce.

You remain on the floor, dumbfounded. Your jaw muscles clench to prevent your mouth from dropping open. You try to respond, but Melissa beats you to it, “You can take all of that bullshit to our room. Dinner will be done soon.” She blows on her injuries.

You so badly want to retort, but have no idea how. You know Melissa was already pissed off from the minor culinary inconveniences, but you were still so confused by her ferocious response. You only wanted to make the night easier for her by not unloading your problems onto her as soon as you walked in the door. You quickly get to your feet and scamper to the bedroom before the dam breaks.

Melissa looks behind her as you run away and bites the inside of her cheek. She didn’t mean to snap at you. It was difficult for both of you to Tetris your daily struggles together after work. She really cares about what happened to you, but it frustrates her to no end when you refuse to address your own problems in favor of hers. She hated the constant struggle comparison. Melissa also knows that snapping at you was the wrong reaction, and she immediately feels guilty. She chooses to give you a little bit of space, and quickly finishes dinner.

You lay on your side facing the wall in your dark bedroom. The combined smell of you and Melissa woven into the sheets both tortures and comforts you. Light trickles into the room as Melissa slowly opens the door. “Hey, Hon? Dinner’s ready.” She speaks quietly, carefully. You don’t move.

She opens the door all the way to reveal a tray in her hands with two already-made plates on it and two glasses of wine. “I figured, since we’ve both had a stressful day, that we could eat in here. Watch a movie or something. Low social obligation.” Still no movement from you. She creeps in and sets the tray on her bedside table, then plops herself down at the edge of the bed by your feet.

“First and foremost,” she continues, “I’m sorry for the way I acted downstairs.”

“It’s okay.” You mumble, trying to get the uncomfortable part over with.

“It’s not okay. And this is what I’m talking about,” Melissa begins, “Why do you keep putting aside your feelings like they’re not important?”

“Because they’re not. I just get too emotional sometimes. Nothing that goes wrong with me is that big of a deal.” You still don’t look at her.

“That’s not true at all, sweetheart. Who told you that?” Melissa cautiously places a hand on your leg and squeezes.

“No one had to tell me,” you flip to face her, “I just know. All of the bullshit that happens at my job, it’s meaningless. I work a meaningless job. There’s actual real problems with our world and I’m getting threatened over forgetting the tiniest detail! It doesn’t matter! And I don’t know why it gets me so worked up, and I know I just have to stop being dramatic about it but…I don’t know.”

“I know, sweetie, and I get that,” Melissa scoots closer to you, “But things are allowed to make you upset, no matter how small. And that’s what I’m here for. We’re partners: in crime and in life. I just don’t understand why you don’t want to talk to me about these things. Do I scare you or something?” She crosses her arms, she realizes her thoughts as she says them aloud. A worried look clouds her face.

Those words make you immediately sit up and grab Melissa’s hands. “Absolutely not. You have ever once scared me. But take you, for example. Your job matters. You’re literally nurturing the minds of children, so when you have a stressful day, of course I’m gonna be more sensitive to you.”

“Y/N, I’ve been doing this job longer than you’ve been alive. A little bit of vomit on my shoes is going to stress me out a lot less than navigating an entirely new work setting and routine.” Melissa looks away from you for a moment, “Shit. Now I’m doing it.” She turns back to you, “Let’s just…let’s just stop comparing struggles. My daily struggles are no more important than yours and vice versa.”

“But sometimes they are…” you argue. Melissa squeezes your hands and plants a kiss on them.

“A true relationship is learning to make up for what the other person is lacking. No matter what percent one person is giving, the other should do their best to make the equal 100. I will let you know when I can contribute my full half. But if I ask you what’s wrong, it means I want to hear what’s wrong. Clear?”

“Clear,” you agree.

“When have I ever been a woman to hide what I’m feeling? I’ll serve it up to you on a silver platter. I’ll tell you when I can’t handle something.” Melissa smiles assuredly.

“No you won’t,” you giggle to break the tension.

Melissa rolls her eyes playfully, “Well, that’s just something for me to work on then. Jeez, I’m not perfect!”

You grab her face and squish her cheeks a bit. Her eyes beckon you, pull you closer to her face until your lips touch hers. You gift her with three small kisses before you pull away, “You are perfect. I will try to be more vulnerable, I promise.”

“And all we can do is try.” Melissa laughs through her exasperation. “Now turn something on to watch before this pasta gets cold. You know how I—“

“Hate cold dinner, yeah, yeah.” You laugh as you finish her sentence and grab the remote beside you. She lifts the tray and puts it in front of the two of you. Both of you have no problem with eating in bed, but you try to be civilized adults most of the time. As you quietly savor each bite of your girlfriend’s cooking, Melissa keeps a close watch on you from the corner of her eye, smirking at every chance. She wasn’t quite done with her apology just yet.

#melissa schemmenti #Melissa schemmenti x reader #wlw #fluff #Melissa schemmenti fluff #lisa ann walter #very nervous #am I doing this right

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