#Automatic hanging machine

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (4) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neigbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael are catching up on home duties, tackling laundry and now grocery shopping. As you joke around in the aisles, having fun together, you’re suddenly interrupted by someone Michael knows. The encounter leaves Michael quickly defending himself, insisting that he doesn't have feelings for you, while you start to wonder if your playful behavior gave the wrong impression.

Word Count: 2880

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: Hello! This is prob gonna be my last post for now just because these last two weeks of May I am absolutely SLAMMED. Hanging on by a thread at my job, but I got 10 days left. I’m ready for summer. I’ll be back sometime beginning of June. Very sorry. Again thank you for all the love!!! This is gonna have to hold y’all over for a minute. - ryn

“Guess you had the same idea as I did,” you chuckle as you stand in the doorway of the laundry room.

Michael looks over his shoulder as he tosses his scrubs into the drum of the washing machine.

“Hey,” he smiles.

With your basket on your hip and holding it with one hand, you move towards the washing machine next to him.

“You’ve been neglecting home duties too?” you ask, popping open the washer and tossing in your clothes.

Michael lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Is it that obvious? I’ve been running on empty lately—just trying to keep up.”

He measures out the detergent, pours it in, shuts the lid, and turns the knobs with a practiced motion before starting his load.

“I have a mountain of stuff to do…I have to go grocery shopping,” you say, rubbing your forehead as if just remembering.

You toss in a couple of detergent pods and close the washer with a quiet thud and start the machine. 

“So do I,” Michael replies, leaning his back against the washer. “My fridge is completely empty”

There’s a small pause. The hum of the machines fills the space. You glance sideways at him, then back at your basket.

“We could go together…after our laundry's done?” 

” you offer, your voice gentle, almost careful.

You’d found excuses to spend time with Michael—more than just him stepping in to help. Taking you to dinner when Aiden flaked, fixing your jammed window, carrying that heavy shelf box up to your apartment and assembling it. As much as you appreciated all of it, something had shifted.

Your friendship with Michael was growing into something solid, something you looked forward to. You found yourself craving his company, wanting to be around him more than you ever expected.

It wasn’t because you needed something. It was because being with him felt easy, calm, and real.

You wanted more than just passing chats in the lobby or quick moments in the elevator. You wanted time together that didn’t need a reason.

So when you suggested grocery shopping, it wasn’t about the errands—it was about spending time with him. Just being.

He looks over at you, the smile returning—this time slower, warmer. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

—

You and Michael walked into the city’s grocery store, reusable bags in hand. The automatic doors whooshed open, letting in the familiar scent of produce and deli meats. Michael grabbed a cart, glancing over at you with a small smile.

“Alright,” he said, rolling up his sleeves a little. 

“What’s first on your list?”

You pulled out your phone, scanning the notes app. “Eggs. Bread. Fruit. Veggies. Stuff for dinner. Oh—sprinkle of junk food” 

He laughed. “A sprinkle?”

“Okay maybe more than just a sprinkle”

“How about you?” you asked, glancing over at him as he steered the cart forward.

“Pretty much the same as you…Minus the actual planning. I just sort of walk around until something calls to me.” He shrugs

You gave him a look. “So you’re a wander-and-wing-it kind of shopper.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright then,” you said, nudging the cart playfully. “Let’s start with my list, and if something speaks to you along the way, you can toss it in.”

The two of you start in the produce section.

You gasped, eyes lighting up as you spotted them. “Look at the tulips!”

Without thinking, you stepped closer, admiring them. “I love when they’re still closed or just starting to bloom. Not fully open—just that halfway point…”

You glanced back at Michael, smiling softly. “They’re my favorite flowers.”

You continued walking, not noticing that Michael had lingered for just a second longer.

As he passed by the cart, he glanced at the flowers again, filing it away.

Tulips. Half-bloomed. Your favorite.

He made a mental note.The two of you wander through the aisles. You grab the things on your list, while Michael picks up whatever catches his eye, things he wants, not necessarily things he needs.

You talk mostly about food. What you like, What you don’t and a few things in between.

In aisle nine, you spot a bag of Nutella Biscuits, your absolute favorite. Your friend had gotten you hooked on them.

You reach for the last bag on the shelf  and so does he.

Fingers brush.

Neither of you pulls away. Your hands linger, resting lightly over the glossy packaging.

The air shifts, quiet, still charged.

“Hey, I saw those first,” you say, raising a brow.

Michael smirks. “Pretty sure my hand got there first.”

“These are my favorites.”

“They’re my guilty pleasure.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh don’t think I won’t fight you for these, old man—because I will.”

“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” he scoffs out a laugh.

You quickly yank the bag toward you. “Mine!”

“Come here!”

He steps forward, catching you around the waist, gently pulling you back against his chest. His arm wraps around you as he tries to grab the bag from your hands.

You shriek out a giggle. You twist and thrash against him, laughing, still clutching it. “Michael!”

“Hand it over!” he laughs

“Robby?” a voice calls suddenly from the end of the aisle.

You both freeze. Still tangled together. 

 Dana Evans, his colleague and charge nurse. His friend, the closest thing he had to a sister, stands there at the end of the aisle, eyebrows raised at the scene in front of her.

“Dana—” he says, startled. He quickly lets you go, the playful teasing evaporating as his hands fall to his sides.

“Hey,” she says, walking over with a grocery basket tucked in the crook of her arm.

You glance at Michael. There’s a flicker in his eyes, like surprise, maybe discomfort. His posture stiffens, the easy playfulness from a moment ago gone.

It almost feels like he doesn’t want her to see you together.

And that… stings more than you expect.

“Who’s this?” She asked to move closer to the two of you. 

You step in quickly, offering a polite smile and introducing yourself “…I'm his neighbor. Just… a friend.”

You don’t mean to sound awkward, but the words come out carefully, almost rehearsed—like you’re making sure they land a certain way.

Was she someone he was seeing? And here you are, being too playful, too comfortable with him. You didn’t mean to cross any lines, to overstep any boundaries. That wasn’t your intent.

“Right..” She nods. “I’m Dana,” she smiles, but gives Michael a look. 

You felt out of place—like maybe you had crossed a line after all. Like you were standing somewhere you didn’t belong.

You hold out the bag, whacking him in the stomach with it, not on purpose just out of being flustered. “I uh.. I don’t want these anymore. You can have them.” 

Michael blinked, taking the bag from you, confusion flickering in his eyes as you started walking away.

“Where are you going?” he asked, noticing the shift in your tone, in your posture.

Without meeting his eyes, you kept straight, not looking back “I just remembered—I, uh, need to grab something from another aisle.”

It’s a lie, you both knew it was, you don’t wait for a response as you turn the corner, needing more distance than biscuits.

Michael he calls after you, he watches disappear, the forgotten bag of Nutella biscuits still in his hand.

Your voice, your expression, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes—it all hit Michael harder than he expected. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to introduce you to Dana before you slipped away.

His attention goes back to Dana. She had only laughed. “Oops. Didn’t mean to scare her off…”

“She probably thinks we’re dating,” Michael muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “With you eyeing her down like that.”

Dana shot him a look. She threw a hand up, still grinning “That’s your fault! You didn’t introduce me fast enough! I run to the grocery store for oat milk and walk into aisle nine to find my friend pressed up against a woman, playfully fighting over cookies!”

She begins to get noisy.

“So who is she?” She was waiting for him to give her more information about who you are and the moment between the two she witnessed. 

Michael rolled his eyes and placed the Nutella biscuits into the grocery cart with a little more force than necessary. “Dana, don’t start—” knowing what she’s thinking. 

“Oh, come on!” Dana said, nudging him with her elbow. “Robby, she’s cute! You’ve clearly been spending time with her. How long has that been going on?! How come you never mentioned her?” Dana asked, with a smile on her face

Michael let out a breath and maintained his composure, pushing the cart forward a few inches. “Because Dana, nothing is going on. She’s just my neighbor.”

“She looked a lot more than a “neighbor” when I entered the aisle.” Dana said with a knowing look, cocking her head in the direction you’d disappeared.

He rolled his eyes.

He started pushing his cart, turned down the next aisle, hoping the shelves of canned goods might somehow end the conversation. “Dana, please drop it.”

Dana wasn’t going to drop it. She fell in step beside him, her gaze sharp. “So you’re seeing her?”

He froze, picking up a can of beans off the shelf, his fingers brushing the label like it held the answer. “No, I’m not seeing her. She has a boyfriend” 

Dana arched her brow. “That didn’t answer the question. You’re not seeing her—but are you wanting to?”

Michael didn’t respond right away. He turned the can in his hand, then returned it to the shelf, avoiding her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, she’s got someone.”

“But you don’t,” Dana pointed out, a note of challenge in her voice. “And last I checked, play fighting over cookies and laughing like that isn’t how you act with someone you’re indifferent to.”

He gave her a look, sharp and tired all at once. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m reading what was right in front of me. Body language doesn’t lie, Robby”

Michael exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “She’s easy to be around, okay? She’s funny, she’s sweet. I like her company, but we’re just friends. I'm not trying to mess with someone who’s already in a relationship. I just help her out with stuff, you know be a neighbors ” 

Dana softened just slightly. “That’s not what it looks like on my end”

“Think what you want Dana, but she and I are friends. That’s all. Nothing more.”

He started pushing the cart down the aisle, leaving her standing behind. “I gotta finish shopping,” he muttered—and find you, he thought.

“We’ll continue this conversation later, Michael!” she called after him.

“No we won’t, Dana!” he yelled back in a sing-song tone as he turned into the next aisle.

—-

You were in the freezer section, staring at the wall of ice cream like you were deep in thought about flavors, though your mind was still spinning from the moment with Michael and awkward interaction with the woman Dana.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him approaching with the cart.

“So ice cream was that important, huh?” Michael said, pulling up beside you. “That’s what made you run off?”

You didn’t look at him right away. “I didn’t run off.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, you kinda did. You didn’t even give me a chance to introduce you to Dana.”

“I didn’t want to be in the way…” 

“You weren’t in the way” 

Silence falls between the two of you. 

“So you and Dana?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the question comes out a little too pointed.

“I work with her,” Michael replies. “She’s the dayshift charge nurse—”

You nod, not really sure what to say, or what exactly you’re feeling. You weren’t trying to pry. Not really. 

Then it hits you—a wave of guilt, sharp and sudden. You start replaying the moment in the aisle. The laughter, the teasing, the way you’d been so at ease with him. If Dana was someone he was seeing, the whole scene would have easily been misread. Maybe you were too comfortable. Too close. You hadn’t meant to cross a line, but now you’re afraid you had.

Before the guilt can fully settle in, Michael speaks again—his voice softer now, his eyes steady on you, like he already knows exactly where your thoughts have gone.

“Dana’s like a sister,” he says, and somehow, it’s like he’s reading your mind.

His tone is calm, even—but there’s a quiet urgency there, tucked just beneath the surface. Like he wants to be sure you hear him. Like it matters that you believe it.

You look at him “Oh… I thought you two were…”

“I know what you must’ve thought,” he interrupts gently, “but it’s not like that. Our coworkers joke that we're ‘work spouses,’ but she’s just my friend. We’ve known each other a long time. That’s all.”

He doesn’t really know why he feels the need to clarify all of that to you. He shouldn’t care what you think. But deep down, he does for some reason. 

A beat passes.

“Are you… seeing anyone?” you ask, your voice softer this time. You don’t know what made you ask. Curiosity, maybe since the two of you were sorta on the topic. 

“No,” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “I haven’t dated in a while.”

There’s a quiet honesty in the way he says it. Not embarrassed. Just real. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything.

You wondered how he was still single.

Michael was kind. Steady. The kind of man who listened, who remembered little things, who made you feel like you mattered. He wasn’t flashy, but he didn’t need to be. Just being around him made you feel calm.

Any woman would be lucky to have him.

He seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t make you question where you stood. Who would show up, say how he felt, and mean it.

You let the thought pass. 

“So…should I get Mint Chocolate Chip or Cookie Dough?” 

“Mint”

“Alright, Mint Chocolate chip it is” you open the door in the freezer section, and placing it into the cart. 

——-

“Here, let me get those—” Michael reached for your reusable bags  along with his at check out. 

“Michael, stop,” you said, trying to swat his hands away. “I can carry my own groceries.”

“I know you can,” he said, easily slipping them from your grip. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“They’re heavy, and—Michael, no—”

“Stop arguing with me and just let me carry the groceries,” he said, giving you a pointed look.

You huffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “Fine.”

He smiled, victorious. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The two of you walked back to the apartment, climbing the stairs to the sixth floor, reusable bags in hand—well, in his hands. You stopped in the hallway, right between your doors.

“Thanks tagging along with me,” you said, turning toward him. “And for carrying my groceries… which, I’m more than capable of doing.” You take your bags from his hands. 

“Thanks for letting me tag along, and I know you can carry your own groceries,” Michael said, his voice low and easy. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

“Oh—before I forget,” Michael said, reaching into one of his reusable bags.

He pulled out a small bouquet of tulips, their soft petals just beginning to open, one of the bouquets you were admiring earlier. 

You gasped. “Michael, what? When did you get these? I was with you the whole time!”

“I have my ways,” he said with a teasing grin.

You looked at him, touched. Your pout wasn’t sad—just soft, surprised, the kind that tugged at the heart.

“Thank you, they’re beautiful” 

“Oh, here—take these,” he says with a grin, holding out the Nutella cookies like a peace offering, but his eyes are still challenging.

You shake your head. “You take them.”

He scoffs, clearly amused. “Well, you fought me for them.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Technically, I didn’t win.”

“Neither did I,” he says, shrugging like it's no big deal, but the tension in the air suggests otherwise.

A beat passes. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you suggest, “How about we rock-paper-scissors for them?”

“Alright, you’re on,” he replies,

You both set your bags down with a soft thud, the hallway around you oddly quiet as you face each other.

The air feels a little charged as you both prepare. The competitive energy lingers in the air. Michael steps back, getting into position with an exaggerated stance.

“Alright ready?” He asks.

You nod in response.

"Rock-Paper-Scissors-Shoot!" you both say in unison, your hands moving in perfect sync.

You take a deep breath and throw your hand out confidently—rock.

His hand, paper, covers your rock.

“Haha! Sucker!” he cackled, snatching the bag from the ground and holding it over his head like a trophy.

You gasped, mock-offended. “You are the worst!”

“I am the champion,” he corrected, already walking in a victory strut toward his door. “Rock? Really? Rookie move.”

You shook your head, laughing as you scooped up your bags. “Enjoy them — I hope they go stale before you open them.”

He glanced back over his shoulder with a grin. “Joke’s on you. I’m opening them now.”

And with that, he tore open the bag, popped a biscuit into his mouth, and held another one out toward you — his smile softening just slightly.

“Want one?” he offered.

You hold out your hand, and he rattles the bag to get one out for you. 

“Thanks,” you said, biting into the biscuit.

You held out your hand, and he gently rattled the bag until one slid free. He placed it in your palm like it was something more than a cookie.

“I’ll see you later, Michael.”

You unlocked it, picked up your bags, and stepped inside.

“I’ll see you around,” he called, turning toward his side of the hallway.

The door closed behind you, but the smile stayed — along with the taste of chocolate and something just a little sweeter.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3) (4)

[ms-demeanor]

Why reblog machine-generated art?

When I was ten years old I took a photography class where we developed black and white photos by projecting light on papers bathed in chemicals. If we wanted to change something in the image, we had to go through a gradual, arduous process called dodging and burning.

When I was fifteen years old I used photoshop for the first time, and I remember clicking on the clone tool or the blur tool and feeling like I was cheating.

When I was twenty eight I got my first smartphone. The phone could edit photos. A few taps with my thumb were enough to apply filters and change contrast and even spot correct. I was holding in my hand something more powerful than the huge light machines I'd first used to edit images.

When I was thirty six, just a few weeks ago, I took a photo class that used Lightroom Classic and again, it felt like cheating. It made me really understand how much the color profiles of popular web images I'd been seeing for years had been pumped and tweaked and layered with local edits to make something that, to my eyes, didn't much resemble photography. To me, photography is light on paper. It's what you capture in the lens. It's not automatic skin smoothing and a local filter to boost the sky. This reminded me a lot more of the photomanipulations my friend used to make on deviantart; layered things with unnatural colors that put wings on buildings or turned an eye into a swimming pool. It didn't remake the images to that extent, obviously, but it tipped into the uncanny valley. More real than real, more saturated more sharp and more present than the actual world my lens saw. And that was before I found the AI assisted filters and the tool that would identify the whole sky for you, picking pieces of it out from between leaves.

You know, it's funny, when people talk about artists who might lose their jobs to AI they don't talk about the people who have already had to move on from their photo editing work because of technology. You used to be able to get paid for basic photo manipulation, you know? If you were quick with a lasso or skilled with masks you could get a pretty decent chunk of change by pulling subjects out of backgrounds for family holiday cards or isolating the pies on the menu for a mom and pop. Not a lot, but enough to help. But, of course, you can just do that on your phone now. There's no need to pay a human for it, even if they might do a better job or be more considerate toward the aesthetic of an image.

And they certainly don't talk about all the development labs that went away, or the way that you could have trained to be a studio photographer if you wanted to take good photos of your family to hang on the walls and that digital photography allowed in a parade of amateurs who can make dozens of iterations of the same bad photo until they hit on a good one by sheer volume and luck; if you want to be a good photographer everyone can do that why didn't you train for it and spend a long time taking photos on film and being okay with bad photography don't you know that digital photography drove thousands of people out of their jobs.

My dad told me that he plays with AI the other day. He hosts a movie podcast and he puts up thumbnails for the downloads. In the past, he'd just take a screengrab from the film. Now he tells the Bing AI to make him little vignettes. A cowboy running away from a rhino, a dragon arm-wrestling a teddy bear. That kind of thing. Usually based on a joke that was made on the show, or about the subject of the film and an interest of the guest.

People talk about "well AI art doesn't allow people to create things, people were already able to create things, if they wanted to create things they should learn to create things." Not everyone wants to make good art that's creative. Even fewer people want to put the effort into making bad art for something that they aren't passionate about. Some people want filler to go on the cover of their youtube video. My dad isn't going to learn to draw, and as the person who he used to ask to photoshop him as Ant-Man because he certainly couldn't pay anyone for that kind of thing, I think this is a great use case for AI art. This senior citizen isn't going to start cartooning and at two recordings a week with a one-day editing turnaround he doesn't even really have the time for something like a Fiverr commission. This is a great use of AI art, actually.

I also know an artist who is going Hog Fucking Wild creating AI art of their blorbos. They're genuinely an incredibly talented artist who happens to want to see their niche interest represented visually without having to draw it all themself. They're posting the funny and good results to a small circle of mutuals on socials with clear information about the source of the images; they aren't trying to sell any of the images, they're basically using them as inserts for custom memes. Who is harmed by this person saying "i would like to see my blorbo lasciviously eating an ice cream cone in the is this a pigeon meme"?

The way I use machine-generated art, as an artist, is to proof things. Can I get an explosion to look like this. What would a wall of dead computer monitors look like. Would a ballerina leaping over the grand canyon look cool? Sometimes I use AI art to generate copyright free objects that I can snip for a collage. A lot of the time I use it to generate ideas. I start naming random things and seeing what it shows me and I start getting inspired. I can ask CrAIon for pose reference, I can ask it to show me the interior of spaces from a specific angle.

I profoundly dislike the antipathy that tumblr has for AI art. I understand if people don't want their art used in training pools. I understand if people don't want AI trained on their art to mimic their style. You should absolutely use those tools that poison datasets if you don't want your art included in AI training. I think that's an incredibly appropriate action to take as an artist who doesn't want AI learning from your work.

However I'm pretty fucking aggressively opposed to copyright and most of the "solid" arguments against AI art come down to "the AIs viewed and learned from people's copyrighted artwork and therefore AI is theft rather than fair use" and that's a losing argument for me. In. Like. A lot of ways. Primarily because it is saying that not only is copying someone's art theft, it is saying that looking at and learning from someone's art can be defined as theft rather than fair use.

Also because it's just patently untrue.

But that doesn't really answer your question. Why reblog machine-generated art? Because I liked that piece of art.

It was made by a machine that had looked at billions of images - some copyrighted, some not, some new, some old, some interesting, many boring - and guided by a human and I liked it. It was pretty. It communicated something to me. I looked at an image a machine made - an artificial picture, a total construct, something with no intrinsic meaning - and I felt a sense of quiet and loss and nostalgia. I looked at a collection of automatically arranged pixels and tasted salt and smelled the humidity in the air.

I liked it.

I don't think that all AI art is ugly. I don't think that AI art is all soulless (i actually think that 'having soul' is a bizarre descriptor for art and that lacking soul is an equally bizarre criticism). I don't think that AI art is bad for artists. I think the problem that people have with AI art is capitalism and I don't think that's a problem that can really be laid at the feet of people curating an aesthetic AI art blog on tumblr.

Machine learning isn't the fucking problem the problem is massive corporations have been trying hard not to pay artists for as long as massive corporations have existed (isn't that a b-plot in the shape of water? the neighbor who draws ads gets pushed out of his job by product photography? did you know that as recently as ten years ago NewEgg had in-house photographers who would take pictures of the products so users wouldn't have to rely on the manufacturer photos? I want you to guess what killed that job and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't AI)

Am I putting a human out of a job because I reblogged an AI-generated "photo" of curtains waving in the pale green waters of an imaginary beach? Who would have taken this photo of a place that doesn't exist? Who would have painted this hypersurrealistic image? What meaning would it have had if they had painted it or would it have just been for the aesthetic? Would someone have paid for it or would it be like so many of the things that artists on this site have spent dozens of hours on only to get no attention or value for their work?

My worst ratio of hours to notes is an 8-page hand-drawn detailed ink comic about getting assaulted at a concert and the complicated feelings that evoked that took me weeks of daily drawing after work with something like 54 notes after 8 years; should I be offended if something generated from a prompt has more notes than me? What does that actually get the blogger? Clout? I believe someone said that popularity on tumblr gets you one thing and that is yelled at.

What do you get out of this? Are you helping artists right now? You're helping me, and I'm an artist. I've wanted to unload this opinion for a while because I'm sick of the argument that all Real Artists think AI is bullshit. I'm a Real Artist. I've been paid for Real Art. I've been commissioned as an artist.

And I find a hell of a lot of AI art a lot more interesting than I find human-generated corporate art or Thomas Kincaid (but then, I repeat myself).

There are plenty of people who don't like AI art and don't want to interact with it. I am not one of those people. I thought the gay sex cats were funny and looked good and that shitposting is the ideal use of a machine image generation: to make uncopyrightable images to laugh at.

I think that tumblr has decided to take a principled stand against something that most people making the argument don't understand. I think tumblr's loathing for AI has, generally speaking, thrown weight behind a bunch of ideas that I think are going to be incredibly harmful *to artists specifically* in the long run.

Anyway. If you hate AI art and you don't want to interact with people who interact with it, block me.

[nottswitch]

꒰ rich girl!reader stumbles upon bodyguard!mattheo while trying to sneak out ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, slightly suggestive behavior (reader), mentions of a boner, sneaking out, smoking

a/n: finally properly developing this au, so if you’ve been waiting – this is the time. very excited to write about these two, because i have ideas to last a lifetime.

⋆˚꩜｡

you’ve never really needed to check if the way is clear – your parents never truly cared whether you were sneaking out or not. even calling it ‘sneaking out’ was a reach, and it was mostly for the vibes, for the thrill of it. you carefully pad through the hallway, your high heels in hand, playing the same game you’ve been through time after time. a quietly opened door, a look to the right, then to the left, as if to make sure you’re really alone – and you’re putting your pink pumps on, fumbling with the small buckle around your ankle.

“going somewhere, princess?”

you groan in frustration at the deep, slightly hoarse voice that has already become so awfully familiar in the last few days. hearing it right now was not in the plans, it’s a pretty inconvenient bump in your well-oiled machine. you look up, and sure enough – your new bodyguard, mattheo, is standing right there, with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. your nose automatically scrunches up at the acrid smell of smoke, but mattheo doesn’t flinch. he brings the cigarette to his lips, taking a casual drag as his eyes stay locked with yours.

"what if i am?” you immediately retort, crossing your arms over your chest in a manner that screams defiance. “not like you can stop me, matt.”

he scoffs softly at the nickname, though you can’t quite pinpoint if it’s genuine irritation or something else – mattheo has proven to be near damn impossible to read. a small cloud of smoke billows out of his mouth, dramatically white against the darkness of the night bathing the front yard.

“i can, actually,” he drawls out, so matter-of-factly it makes your blood boil in the most infuriating way possible. he isn’t boasting or taunting you – he just states that he can, and he knows it, too. “body-guard. means guarding the body. and it can’t really be guarded if it’s out of reach, can it, princess?”

your eyes roll before he even finishes the sentence. you can’t believe it – this guy, bestowed upon you by your dad out of the blue, thinks he can control whether you go out or not. as if.

“come on, matt, it’s just dumb,” you whine, impatiently shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “just pretend you didn’t see me. i promise dad won’t care.”

“he hired me. should say enough.” mattheo shrugs, just a tiny little movement that makes the muscles of his arms roll under his s— wait, what? you shake your head, probably looking like a complete fool, especially since it doesn’t help at all with getting rid of unnecessary, irritating thoughts about his biceps.

“come ooon,” you continue to whine, taking a step closer. all is fair in sneaking out and war, you think, as your hand reaches for his arm. it’s not the impulsive thought that wins, you tell yourself, it’s just a means to an end. your hand travels up in a soft caress, ghosting over his skin, sliding under the short sleeve of his black t-shirt (an ungodly tight one, at that). “you didn’t see me, okay? and i didn’t see you…”

your voice lowers into something seductive, or at least something you pretend is so. if you paid enough attention to mattheo’s features, you’d see a very faint clench in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened their grip on the burnt cigarette nub, and a stirring at the front of his jeans. but you’re too focused on waiting for the right answer, and probably for your own good.

“the front door is right there.” mattheo’s chin points behind you, his eyebrow twitching slightly as he takes a step back, letting your hand slide off his arm and hang stupidly in the air. “don’t forget to shut it when you go back inside. right now.”

“ugh, i hate you!!!”

the way you growl, your voice high-pitched and beyond pissed, makes a muscle in mattheo’s jaw contract. he steadily holds your glare, and soon it becomes clear your little temper tantrum won’t get you anywhere – and mind you, for the first time in your life, which is simply embarrassing. you huff out a sharp breath and turn around, your pink heels sinking into the freshly cut lawn.

mattheo watches your retreating form until the door shuts behind you – much louder than before – and lets out a slow, deep sigh. he looks down, noticing two things he’d rather ignore – a nub that was once a cigarette, now ash on his fingertips, and a bulge straining against the zipper of his jeans. another sigh, but now it holds a hint of resignation in it. mattheo’s hand absently reaches to the front, adjusting his treacherously hard cock, but doing nothing to provide any actual comfort.

a second cigarette is lit, and another cloud of smoke wafts through the chilly air. the night is still young.

au. more.

[hoshifighting]

Stripper! Reader x Business Man! Lee Chan

— Synopsis: Workaholic Lee Chan's Friday night takes an unexpected turn when he joins friends at a strip club, only to find himself captivated by you, a dancer he can't seem to stay away from. Despite his reservations, Chan finds himself drawn to your company, booking time with you night after night. — WC: 8.8k — WARNINGS: Strangers to lovers, smut, mentions of alcohol, strip clubs, money throwing, booking, fluff, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), riding, g'spot stimulation, clit stimulation, male sensitivity.

Lee Chan held the weight of being the CEO of the imperium that his dad left at a very young age. Frat parties, hanging out, late-night talks? Nah, not for him. He had to take care of the company and honor the inheritance that fell into his lap. His co-workers could remember very well the times that Chan walked around and around his office, shoulders tense as if he carried the world on them.

His days started early and ended late, filled with back-to-back meetings, strategy sessions, and endless paperwork. The once carefree and spirited young man had transformed into a focused and driven leader, his every move calculated to ensure the success and stability of the company.

Chan's office was a testament to his dedication—shelves lined with business books, awards, and framed photos of his father, a constant reminder of the legacy he was determined to uphold. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, but Chan rarely had time to enjoy it. He was always too engrossed in his work, too preoccupied with the responsibilities that consumed his every waking moment.

Even though his life felt like being stuck in traffic on a rainy day, Chan couldn't deny that he loved the results of his hard work. He looked at the luxurious cars parked in his garage—sleek, powerful machines that represented the pinnacle of automotive engineering. 

His closet was a veritable treasure trove of sartorial excellence. Different types of watches, ties, suits, and shoes from every high-end brand imaginable filled the space, each piece carefully chosen to reflect his impeccable taste and status. The feel of finely crafted leather shoes, the weight of a bespoke suit on his shoulders, the precision of an intricate timepiece on his wrist—all these were constant reminders of what he had achieved.

Chan's wealth allowed him to indulge in the kind of extravagances most people could only dream of. He could spend an exaggerated amount of money in a matter of seconds on something completely futile, like a super shaver with a gold coating—exotic and utterly unnecessary.

The week was ending, and Chan listened to the fuss inside his friend group about hanging out this Friday. Jeonghan, seeing his colleagues leaving their desks, noticed Chan still at his desk, tapping his fingers on the glass table. With his bag slung over his shoulder, Jeonghan approached him.

"I know it's a stupid question, but will you come with us?" he asked. Chan was usually seen only at corporate events. Jeonghan couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a beer with his friend.

Chan looked up, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, the automatic refusal ready on his tongue, but something made him pause. He glanced around the office, now emptying out as people headed off to start their weekends. The thought of another solitary night of work made him feel a twinge of longing for something different.

"Come on, man," Jeonghan urged, sensing the hesitation. "Just one night. It’ll be fun. You need a break."

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jeonghan was right. The constant grind was wearing him down, and maybe, just maybe, a night out with friends was exactly what he needed.

"Alright," Chan finally said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll come."

Jeonghan's eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously?"

Chan nodded, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, let's do it."

Jeonghan grinned, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."

Before they left the building, Chan paused and asked, "Jeonghan?"

"Yes?" Jeonghan answered, turning to face him.

"Where are we going?" Chan inquired, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Jeonghan just smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You'll see," he said, leaving Chan to wonder what the night had in store for him.

[...]

"A strip club? You must be kidding me!" Chan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the half-dark establishment. Neon lights flickered and danced around the room, casting colorful glows on the walls. Music blasted from speakers, filling the air with a pulsating beat.

He could see several women with different curves, colors, and hairstyles, dressed in scanty outfits—or sometimes nothing at all. The atmosphere was electric, a stark contrast to the corporate environment he was used to.

Jeonghan laughed, clapping Chan on the back. "Come on, man, loosen up! It's just for fun."

Chan hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. He felt a mix of discomfort and curiosity. "I don't know, Jeonghan..."

"Relax," Jeonghan said, guiding him further inside. "We all need a break sometimes. Just enjoy the night. You deserve it."

Chan took a deep breath, deciding to go along with it. Maybe Jeonghan was right—maybe he did need this. As they found a spot to sit, Chan tried to shake off his reservations.

His friends immediately ordered bottles and bottles of soju, beer, whiskey—whatever the bar had. Chan downed his whiskey in a single gulp, exclaiming, "If my dad knew I was here..."

Chan's eyes widened in surprise. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Jeonghan replied, pouring more whiskey into Chan's glass. "He said every hardworking man deserves a break. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

Chan couldn't help but laugh at that. The thought of his father, the man he idolized for his strict work ethic, letting loose in a place like this was almost too surreal. 

As some of his friends disappeared one by one, Chan found himself alone on the couch they had booked. "Great," he muttered under his breath, feeling a twinge of discomfort at being left alone in such a place.

Just as he was about to sink further into the cushions, the little stage that he hadn't even noticed until now suddenly lit up. A tall pole stood in the middle, and Chan tilted his head in curiosity.

Then, a pair of really, really high heels appeared, and Chan's throat went dry. You emerged onto the stage, your skin shining under the purple light. The outfit you wore was scandalous, barely covering anything, and Chan couldn't help but notice the little glitters spread on your skin, catching the light as you moved.

You took hold of the pole and began to dance around it, moving with a grace and confidence that left Chan mesmerized. Your movements were fluid and controlled, every sway of your hips and arch of your back drawing him in deeper. It was as if you were performing just for him, and Chan felt like he could get lost in the rhythm of your dance forever.

As you held yourself up on the pole like a pro, Chan couldn't tear his eyes away. He felt like he was being swallowed by the couch, completely captivated by the sight before him. In that moment, nothing else mattered but you and the hypnotic spell you cast over him with your dance.

As you made eye contact with Chan, a devilish smile played on your lips. He looked like a new piece of meat, a pretty young man who had never been seen before in the club. You got down from the stage, the sway of your hips drawing all eyes to you as you walked towards him.

"First time here, sweetie?" you asked, laying your hands on his shoulders. Chan felt like he couldn't breathe with the view of your tits practically in his face.

"My eyes are up here," you said, chuckling as you caught him ogling your chest.

Chan blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "Uh, yeah," he stammered, tearing his gaze away from your cleavage. "First time."

You chuckled, running a hand through your hair as you leaned in closer. "Well, lucky for you, you've got me to show you the ropes," you said, your voice low and sultry.

"You're tense," you observe, noticing the stiffness in Chan's shoulders. Without waiting for a response, you step behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, your fingers working their magic as you knead the tension away.

Chan lets out a sigh of relief, his muscles melting under your skilled touch. "Yeah," he admits, his voice soft. "Work's been... stressful lately."

You nod in understanding, continuing to work out the knots in his shoulders. "I get it," you say, your voice soothing. "But you're here now, and tonight is all about letting go of that stress and just enjoying yourself."

Chan leans back into your touch, closing his eyes as he relaxes into the sensation. "I guess you're right," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You smile too, glad to see him starting to unwind. "That's better," you say, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Just focus on the here and now. Forget about everything else for a while."

Chan nods.

You walk around Chan again, swaying your hips seductively in front of him. His mind races, unsure of what to do next, but before he can even think, you're sitting on his lap, circling your hips against his.

Chan smiles shyly, feeling the heat from your body as you move against him. He can't help but notice the money tucked into the sides of your little shorts, a reminder of where he is and what's expected of him.

It's exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once, but there's something undeniably thrilling about having you so close, your body pressed against his.

As you continue to dance, Chan's hands hover uncertainly over your hips, unsure of where to touch or how to respond. He feels a flush of embarrassment at his own inexperience, but he's determined not to let it show. Instead, he focuses on the way your body moves against his.

And you smile knowingly, sensing his hesitation, and guide his hands to your waist, encouraging him.

Chan's hands move from your waist to your hips and then down to your thigh, his fingers grazing the soft skin as he explores the contours of your body. His pulse quickens as he feels the warmth of your thigh pressed against his pocket, and he can't resist the urge to reach into his wallet and retrieve a pouch of money.

With a mischievous grin, Chan brings his hand to the top of your head, letting the notes rain down on you like confetti. You laugh, delighted by the unexpected gesture, and give him a big smile.

"What's your name?" you ask, your voice playful.

"Chan," he replies, feeling a surge of confidence.

You lick your lips, your gaze lingering on his. "Nice to meet you, Channie," you purr, the nickname, and Chan blushes. 

[...]

The next Monday, Chan sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His mind raced with a million thoughts, his thoughts still consumed by the events of that night. He was lost in his own thoughts, replaying every moment, every touch, every glance.

A knock on his door startled him out of his trance, and he quickly tried to compose himself, pretending to be engrossed in some papers spread out on his desk.

"Come in," Chan called, his voice slightly shaky.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped inside, giving Chan a knowing smile. "Hey there, sleepyhead," he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Chan felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks. "Oh, hey Jeonghan," he replied, trying to sound casual.

Jeonghan chuckled, walking over to Chan's desk and leaning against it casually. "So, how was your night?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

Chan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a suitable response. "Um, it was... interesting," he finally managed, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Interesting, huh?" he said, his tone teasing. "Well, if you ever need any pointers on how to navigate the world of strip clubs, you know who to ask."

Chan's cheeks burned even hotter, and he couldn't help but laugh at Jeonghan's playful teasing. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass," he said, relieved to have the topic of conversation shifted away from his night of unexpected adventure.

Chan spent the entire weekend consumed by thoughts of you, unable to shake the memories of your encounter at the club. As Monday rolled around, he found himself itching to see you again, the usual routine of work feeling dull and uninspired.

Deciding that today was not the day for extra hours at the office, Chan made his way to the club, a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He arrived at the club, his eyes scanning the room eagerly in search of you.

As he looked around, a receptionist approached him, sensing his lost expression. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice polite and friendly.

Chan nodded, grateful for the assistance. "Yes, I'm looking for a girl with hair like this," he said, mimicking the length and curl of your hair with his hands.

The receptionist's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, you must be looking for Y/N," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Follow me, I'll take you to her."

There you were, dancing around the pole with a big smile on your face, as if you were truly enjoying every second of it. Chan watched from the corner of the room, his arms crossed and a big smile on his face as he observed you.

The club was crowded, with many people gathered around you, admiring your performance. Chan felt a pang of jealousy as he watched others vying for your attention, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

As the night wore on and people began to leave, Chan noticed you finally catching sight of him. Your eyes met his, and you gave him a playful wink, rolling your hips as you glanced at him over your shoulder.

Chan's heart skipped a beat at your playful gesture, and he couldn't help but grin back at you. Despite the crowd around you, it felt like you were dancing just for him, and in that moment, Chan felt a surge of warmth and connection unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

As you took a break from dancing, you bent down to pick up some notes from the stage floor. Before you could gather them all, Chan approached, leaning on the stage with a playful grin.

"Leave it on the ground," he said, extending a big wad of money towards you. "Take it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I didn't even have time for you today," you teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I ask?" Chan replied, his smile widening. "Take it."

You couldn't help but laugh at his playful response, taking the money from his hand. "You liked me that much, huh?" you asked, knowing full well the answer. You were well aware of the power you held.

"Hmm, I think I need to see more," Chan teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You giggled, enjoying the banter between you. "Well, if you want me all to yourself, you'll have to book," you replied with a playful wink.

Chan's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "Can I book all of your agenda?" he asked eagerly.

You stood up, giving him a coy smile. "Don't be greedy, Channie," you teased, enjoying the way he looked at you with eager anticipation.

You glanced down at the wad of money in your hand, barely able to fit into your shorts, and then looked back up at Chan with a playful smile.

"Well, I think I can spare some time for you," you said, glancing over at the clock on the wall. "But just a little while."

Chan's face lit up with excitement as he nodded eagerly. "That's all I need," he replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

[...]

As Chan began appearing almost every day, he became a familiar face at the club, a quiet yet eager client of yours. The receptionist would often give you a knowing look, silently conveying that Chan had arrived and had booked time with you once again.

Of course, there were other loyal clients who frequented the club, but none seemed to hold the same level of fascination for you as Chan did. There was a certain shine in his eyes whenever he entered the club, a distinct aura of anticipation and eagerness that set him apart from the other customers.

You couldn't help but wonder why you had let him know about the option to book time with you. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you with such genuine interest and excitement, or maybe it was the thrill of having someone so captivated by your presence. Whatever the reason, you found yourself looking forward to his visits, eager to see where each encounter would lead.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of surprise when Chan didn't show up for his usual visit. It was as if a small piece of the excitement and anticipation that had become a part of your routine was suddenly missing. Without even realizing it, you found yourself scanning the crowd, searching for his familiar face.

Then, just as you were starting to wonder where he was, you spotted him entering the club. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him make his way to his special seat, right in front of you. His genuine smile lit up his face, and you couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence washing over you like a wave.

With renewed energy and enthusiasm, you danced with even more passion and heart than before. You knew that Chan was watching, appreciating every move, every moment. 

Over the following weeks, Chan's visits became a cherished routine. Each time he arrived, you could sense the anticipation in his eyes, the unspoken hope that maybe tonight would be different.

One evening, as you were finishing your performance and making your way to his table, he finally mustered the courage to ask. "Hey, would you like to grab a drink with me sometime? Outside of here, I mean," he said, his voice full of genuine warmth and a hint of nervousness.

You smiled softly, appreciating his boldness but knowing you had to set boundaries. "I'm flattered, Chan, but I don't hang out with customers outside of work," you replied, your tone gentle yet firm.

A few nights later, he tried again, this time with a different approach. "There's this amazing new restaurant that just opened up downtown. I'd love to take you there," he offered, his eyes hopeful.

You shook your head slightly, maintaining your friendly demeanor. "I appreciate the invite, but I have a policy about not mixing my work life with my personal life," you explained, hoping he would understand.

Undeterred, Chan continued to ask, each time finding new ways to express his interest. "There's a gallery opening this weekend. I thought it might be fun to check it out together," he suggested one night, his enthusiasm palpable.

Once again, you gently declined. "That sounds lovely, but I really can't. I have to keep things professional with my clients," you said, feeling a pang of regret at having to turn him down yet again.

Each time he asked, you could see the slight disappointment in his eyes, but he always respected your boundaries. And despite your refusals, he never stopped coming back, never stopped watching you with that same genuine admiration and respect.

Tonight, you made sure every detail was perfect. Your hair cascaded in flawless waves, and you wore your best outfit, accentuating every curve just right. You were eager to dance for Chan, feeling a flutter of excitement as you anticipated his arrival. Sure enough, Chan appeared, booking the rest of the night with you as he had been doing lately.

When he approached, you greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that had become part of your interactions. "Hey, Channie," you said with a playful smile. "So, what’s it gonna be tonight? Shorts or no shorts?"

Chan smiled warmly, a bit of that usual nervous energy in his eyes. "Actually," he began, his tone softer than usual, "I just want to talk tonight. I want to spend time with you."

You blinked, taken aback. No customer had ever asked for just your company before. "You... you just want to talk?" you repeated, making sure you heard him right.

He nodded, a sincere expression on his face. "Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love watching you dance. But tonight, I just want to get to know you better. You know, beyond all this," he gestured vaguely around the club.

Still processing his request, you motioned to the couch. "Alright, let's sit then." You both settled onto the plush seats, the atmosphere suddenly feeling more intimate and less transactional.

"So, what do you want to know?" you asked, trying to mask your nervousness with a casual tone.

Chan leaned forward slightly, his eyes earnest. "Everything. What's your favorite color? What's your dream vacation? What do you do when you're not here?" He paused, then added with a chuckle, "I know it sounds silly, but I really want to know the real you."

You smiled, touched by his genuine curiosity. "Well, my favorite color is …" you began, feeling a bit shy. "As for a dream vacation, I've always wanted to visit Santorini. The pictures look so beautiful, like a place out of a fairytale."

Chan listened intently, his focus unwavering. "Santorini sounds amazing. I can picture you there."

You chuckled, the image of you in Santorini bringing a warm feeling to your chest. "And when I'm not here, I love to paint. It's my way of unwinding, letting my creativity flow."

His eyes lit up. "Painting? That's incredible. What kind of things do you paint?"

You shrugged lightly, feeling more comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Mostly landscapes and abstract pieces. It's like putting a piece of my soul onto the canvas."

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, both of you absorbing the depth of the conversation. Chan finally broke it, his voice soft. "You know, I've always admired how dedicated you are to what you do, I know it's now easy at all. But hearing about your passions and dreams, it makes me admire you even more."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself opening up more than you had with anyone in a long time. "Thank you, Chan. It means a lot to hear that."

He reached out, gently squeezing your hand. "Thank you for sharing with me. I know this isn’t what you usually do, but it means a lot to me."

Chan observed the small figurine on the table, curiosity lighting up his eyes. “Where do you get these?” he asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

You smiled, a bit shyly. “I make them myself,” you said, enjoying the surprise that flickered across his face.

“Really? That’s amazing,” he praised, his admiration evident. You shrugged modestly.

“It’s not that hard,” you replied, still smiling. “They’re always small.”

Chan chuckled, a warm sound that made you feel even more at ease. He started to remove his blazer, and before you knew it, he placed it gently around your shoulders, covering a good part of you. The gesture was so kind and considerate that it made you feel even more comfortable, despite usually feeling at ease in your usual skimpy outfits.

As you nestled into the blazer, you couldn’t help but notice how much more at ease you felt. Chan’s presence was different; it wasn’t just about the physical attraction or the lavish spending. There was a gentleness, a genuine care that made you feel safe and valued.

“I don’t usually do this,” you admitted, looking at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Chan smiled back, his eyes soft. “It’s my pleasure. You deserve to feel comfortable.”

The conversation flowed easily as Chan began to share bits and pieces of his life. He spoke about his responsibilities as CEO, the pressure of living up to his father’s legacy, and the sacrifices he had to make. His words were carefully chosen, mindful of not coming across as boastful despite his affluent lifestyle. You could tell he was trying to be as honest as possible while downplaying the extravagance.

“And that’s pretty much my life,” Chan concluded with a slight sigh. “It’s demanding, but it’s what I have to do.”

You admired his humility, realizing how grounded he remained despite his wealth. “It sounds like a lot to handle,” you said softly, your eyes reflecting your newfound respect for him. “But you do it so well. It’s impressive.”

Chan’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and weariness in his eyes. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but I try.”

“You’re more than just a pretty boy,” you teased lightly, wanting to lift the mood. “You’re a hardworking, humble man.”

He laughed, the sound filling the space between you with warmth. “And you’re not just a beautiful dancer. You’re talented and creative.”

[...]

The next morning, you were chatting with the girls—your coworkers—as they finished their hair for the night.

“And he just wanted to talk,” you said, a bit incredulously. “He even asked about my favorite color.”

The girls collectively let out a heartfelt “Awww,” their eyes wide with interest and affection.

“Seriously?” one of them, Mina, asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “That’s so sweet.”

“He seems different,” another added, giggling.

“Yeah,” you nodded, still a bit surprised yourself. “We just talked. It was...nice.”

Before the conversation could continue, the receptionist entered the room, a knowing smile on her face. “Ya! Y/N-nie! Your Channie is here,” she announced, her tone teasing.

It was unusual for any customer to visit on a Saturday morning, a time usually reserved for the staff to unwind and prepare for the week ahead. 

“It’s Saturday morning,” Mina whispered, nudging you playfully. “No customers come in unless they lost something.”

“Let him in,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual but feeling the flutter of anticipation.

As Chan walked in, he was met with a scene unlike the usual vibrant atmosphere of the club. The girls were dressed in comfortable clothes, some with bobs in their hair, others doing their nails or simply lounging around.

You were drying a glass behind the bar. He looked around, slightly surprised but smiling.

“Good morning, girls,” he greeted, his voice cheerful. "Good morning Y/N…" He says in a special and tender tone, just for you.

“Good morning,” the girls chimed back in unison, their eyes following his every move.

You put down the glass and walked over to him, a wide smile on your face. “Channie, what are you doing here?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I wanted to see you,” he replied, his gaze soft and sincere. He seemed a bit out of place in the relaxed environment, but his presence was a welcome one. You could feel the girls watching the exchange with rapt attention, like they were watching an opera unfold.

Chan noticed that you didn’t have bobs in your hair like some of the other girls. Gesturing toward your hair, he asked, “No bobs for you today?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s my day off. I’m not dancing today.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks, some stifling giggles. One of them, Lisa, leaned over and whispered loudly enough for you to hear, “Looks like someone’s here to see you even when you’re not performing.”

You blushed, glancing at Chan, who seemed equally flustered but amused by the comment. He recovered quickly, his smile returning.

Chan stood there, his eyes filled with hope and a hint of nervousness. "Would you like to spend the day with me?" he asked, his tone gentle and inviting.

You chuckled, a playful glint in your eye. "Hmm, I've already told you about hanging out with my customers," you teased, enjoying the banter.

Before Chan could respond, Mina chimed in from the background, her voice filled with encouragement. "Oh, come on! You should accept it!"

Chan seized the opportunity, smiling wider. "You’re not on your work schedule now, are you?"

That shut your mouth, leaving you momentarily speechless. The girls burst into giggles, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Well, when you put it that way…” you trailed off, pretending to think it over.

Chan’s smile grew, sensing victory. “So, is that a yes?”

You sighed theatrically, then grinned. “Fine, you win. I’ll spend the day with you.”

“Great!” Chan said, visibly relieved and excited. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

You nodded, your smile widening. “Let me just finish up here, and we can go.”

As you gathered your things, the girls couldn’t resist a few more teasing comments, but it was all in good fun, as Chan waited patiently.

As the day unfolded, Chan took you to places you hadn't had the time to visit in years. You sipped coffee at a cozy café, strolled through the park, and even caught a movie at the cinema. With each passing moment, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more, feeling a sense of freedom and joy you hadn't experienced in a long time.

"This has been the best day off ever," you exclaimed, unable to contain your excitement as you walked side by side with Chan.

His heart swelled with happiness at your words, his smile growing wider. He could have taken you to a luxurious restaurant or shopping for designer labels, but he sensed that wasn't what you wanted. Instead, he decided to let you choose how to spend the rest of the day.

Careful to open doors for you and ensure your comfort, Chan drove you around in his luxurious car, enjoying each other's company and the simplicity of the moment. As he glanced at you from the driver's seat, he couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over him.

"Where to next?" he asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

You playfully pretended to ponder your options, teasing him about having more surprises up his sleeve. Chan laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he drove. You noticed that you were nearing your apartment, and the idea popped into your head.

"How about we go to my place?" you suggested, surprising even yourself with the invitation.

Chan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a smile. "Your place? Are you sure?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of excitement building in your chest. "Yeah, why not? I'd love for you to see where I live."

Chan couldn't hide his delight at your invitation, his curiosity piqued. He parked the car and walked with you to your apartment building, taking in the surroundings with interest.

Chan's eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the details of your life that adorned the walls. He saw framed photographs capturing cherished memories – graduations, family gatherings, outings with friends. The images painted a picture of a life rich in experiences and relationships.

His gaze shifted to the plushies scattered across the couch, a playful and endearing touch that brought a smile to his face. It was clear to him that you had a warmth and sweetness that extended beyond the confines of the club where he first met you.

As you disappeared into the kitchen, Chan took a moment to soak in the atmosphere of your home. The tranquility of the space, combined with the personal touches that reflected your personality, made him feel strangely at ease.

In that moment, he realized that he was seeing a side of you that few others had the privilege of witnessing – the real you, beyond the glamorous facade of the club.

As you settled back onto the couch with snacks in hand, Chan joined you, his presence filling the space with warmth. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he began recounting his visit to the strip club earlier that day.

You listened intently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as he shared the details of his adventure. When he mentioned Jeonghan's involvement, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards your friend for unknowingly setting this day in motion.

"Looks like I owe Jeonghan a big thank you," you said, your voice muffled as you took a bite of your snack. 

Chan raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, Jeonghan is the reason we met, huh?" he teased, leaning closer to you.

You chuckled, feeling a playful energy between you. "Looks like it," you replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Chan's teasing grin widened at your response, and he leaned in closer, his playful demeanor evident. "Oh, so you're thanking Jeonghan, but not me?" he teased, raising an eyebrow in mock indignation.

With a soft smile, you turned to Chan, gratitude evident in your eyes. "Thank you, Channie," you said, your voice sincere as you expressed your appreciation.

Chan returned your smile, his gaze warm as he listened to your words. "For what?" he asked, though he already had a feeling of what you meant.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before replying. "For everything," you began, your tone heartfelt. "For the moments we've shared, the conversations we've had... Even on the nights you booked me, we talked more than danced," you admitted, a fondness evident in your voice.

Chan's smile widened at your words, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, I guess I'm just a talkative guy," he joked, though there was a hint of sincerity in his tone.

Chan's touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your lips with a mixture of hesitation and longing. You could feel the tension building between you, an unspoken desire hanging in the air.

When he spoke your name, you couldn't help but respond with a soft sound of acknowledgment, your heart fluttering with anticipation. His next words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice barely above a whisper as he confessed his thoughts.

"I know it's not allowed to kiss the dancers in the club," he began, his words laden with a sense of urgency, "but... we're not in the club right?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. In that moment, the boundaries that had separated you in the club seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, alone in the intimacy of your shared space.

You met Chan's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you considered his words. Despite the rules and restrictions that governed your interactions in the club, here, in this moment, you felt a freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With a hesitant smile, you leaned in closer to him, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, "No, we're not in the club." And in that simple acknowledgment, you gave voice to the unspoken truth that had been lingering between you all along.

Chan's hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips crashed into yours. His tongue explored your mouth with a fervent passion, and you found yourself breathing hard, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt to deepen the kiss.

The truth was, the more you refused Chan's invitations to dinner, the more you denied the gifts he insisted on giving you, the more you avoided his attempts to kiss you—his feelings for you only grew stronger. And now, seeing his insistence on simply having your company, and not just as the girl who would entertain him at night, made you feel all your girlhood feelings again.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you looked into his eyes, your breath mingling with his. "Chan..." you whispered "Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep trying so hard?"

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and tenderness. "Because you matter to me, Y/N. More than just a dancer, more than just a pretty face. I see you, the real you, and I want to know you better."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a rush of warmth and affection for this man who saw beyond the surface. "But I'm not used to this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not used to someone caring this much."

Chan's grip on your neck tightened slightly, a comforting reassurance. "Then let me show you how it feels. Let me show you that you deserve to be cared for, to be cherished."

"Show me," you whisper, your eyes locked on Chan's lips. He captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. You pull him closer, desperate to feel him, your hands sliding under his shirt to caress his warm skin.

His hands slide to your thighs, lifting you onto his lap, your breasts now level with his face. He glances at the pretty lace bra you’re wearing and lowers the cups, exposing your nipples. He kisses each one tenderly before sucking on one and pinching the other. You melt into him, your hips grinding against his automatically, drawing a groan from deep within his chest.

"Do you know how hard it was to control myself when you grinded on my cock like this?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

A wicked smile crosses your lips as you continue to grind against him, feeling his erection growing beneath you. "I could feel it, Chan," you purr, your voice dripping with seduction. "I could feel how much you wanted me. I wanted you just as badly."

His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as he presses you harder against him. "God, Y/N, you drive me crazy," he groans, his eyes darkening with lust.

You lean in, your breath hot against his ear. "I want to feel you inside me, Chan. I want you to lose control. Show me how much you want me."

His control snaps, and he flips you onto your back, his body pressing you into the couch. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he growls, his hand sliding down to unbutton your pants.

"I know exactly what I want," you whisper back, your eyes burning with the same desire. "I want you, all of you."

Chan's lips crash into yours again, more fiercely this time, as his hands work to remove the rest of your clothing.

In a blur of movement, clothes are discarded, and his skin is pressed against yours. He pauses to look into your eyes. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough with need.

"I want you, Chan," you breathe out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. 

Chan giggles softly, his breath hot against your skin. "Wait for me to prepare you," he whispers, his voice laced with anticipation. He opens your legs wide, his eyes dark with desire as he lowers himself between your thighs. His lips find your wet folds, kissing them gently before his tongue delves deeper.

The sensation sends shivers through your body, and you let out a soft moan. Chan's mouth works expertly, sucking on your clit while his tongue teases and explores. As you gasp his name, "Channie," he responds with a moan of his own, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

His hand slides up your thigh, and you feel the gentle pressure of his finger at your entrance. He slips it inside you slowly, his finger curling to find that perfect spot. Your back arches off the couch, your hands gripping the cushions as he continues to worship your body with his mouth and fingers.

"Oh, Chan," you breathe, your voice quivering with need. The way his tongue moves, the way his finger pumps in and out of you—it's all too much. Your hips begin to move on their own, seeking more of the intense pleasure he's giving you.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently, and your moans grow louder. His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue in a rhythm that drives you wild. You can feel your orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

Chan's free hand comes up to hold your hip, steadying you as you writhe beneath him. He looks up at you, his eyes full of lust and admiration, and the sight of him between your legs pushes you closer to the edge.

"Channie, I’m so close," you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent on your clit. The world fades away, and all you can focus on is the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

With a final, deep moan, you come undone. Your body trembles, your muscles clench around his fingers, and a powerful wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Chan doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you're completely spent, every nerve ending tingling with satisfaction.

Finally, he pulls away, his fingers and mouth glistening with your arousal. He looks up at you with a triumphant smile, his own need evident in his eyes. "You taste so good," he murmurs, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only fuels the fire between you.

"Now," he says, positioning himself at your entrance, "I think you're ready."

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and with one smooth thrust, he fills you completely. 

Your pussy was wet enough, spasming, welcoming him perfectly. Chan's eyes were closed, his face contorting as he tried to compose himself. You reached up and gently held his face, and he opened his eyes, scoffing softly, trying to pretend he didn't almost cum right then and there from the sensation of your sopping cunt wrapping so perfectly around him and the pornographic moan that just left your mouth.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. "You feel so good."

You smiled, your own arousal mirrored in his gaze. "Don't hold back, Channie," you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair. "I want all of you."

He groaned, his hips starting to move, slowly at first, savoring the way you clenched around him with each thrust. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips as he picked up the pace. "So perfect for me."

You bit your lip, your body responding to his every word, his every touch. "Chan," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he hit that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Don't stop."

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he rolled his hips, stopping momentarily before hitting your g'spot with a sharp thrust. He repeated this motion, each thrust more deliberate, and the most sinful moans left your mouth. "Yes, Channie," you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure, "fuck this pussy with that big fucking cock. Yes, yes!"

Chan groaned, the sound deep and guttural, spurred on by your words. "You like that? Hm?" he panted, his pace quickening as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. "God, yes, I love it. I love how you fuck me– ah! Channie."

"So wet... all for me."

Your body arched beneath him, your hips moving to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure that was building to an overwhelming peak. "Only for you," you whispered, your voice breaking with a whimper as he drove you closer to the edge. "No one else, just you, Channie."

He growled, the possessiveness in your words igniting something primal in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. "Say it again," he demanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours, Channie, only yours."

His hips snapped forward with even more intensity, and you could feel the coil tightening in your core, ready to snap. "Cum for me," he urged, his voice a low growl. "Cum all over my cock, baby."

Your pussy throbbed as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you, your eyes closing tightly, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You wrapped your legs around Chan's waist, locking him in place as you rode out every wave of pleasure. Chan hissed, his abdomen trembling, signaling that he was on the brink of release but unable to escape your grip.

You opened your eyes to find Chan watching you intently, taking in every reaction. "Sit," you commanded, your voice breathless yet authoritative.

"Hm?" Chan responded, his expression a mix of curiosity and lingering pleasure.

"Sit," you repeated, firmer this time. He complied, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"Are you going to dom me?" he teased, scoffing lightly.

Instead of answering, you simply lowered yourself onto his cock, making him flinch and let out a whiny moan in your ear, your legs trembling from the intensity of your recent orgasm.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. 

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "You like that, Channie? You like when I take control?"

"Yes," he gasped, his breath hitching as you began to move, rolling your hips slowly at first. "God, yes."

You smirked, picking up the pace, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through both of you. "You look so good like this," you whispered, your voice low and sultry. "So desperate, so needy. You want to cum, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whimper. "Please, let me cum."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, riding him harder. "Not yet," you commanded, enjoying the power you held over him. "Not until I say so."

Chan's eyes fluttered closed, his body trembling as he tried to hold back. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with need. "I can't... I can't hold on much longer."

"Look at me," you ordered, your tone firm. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "You’re going to cum when I tell you to, understand?"

"Yes," he panted, nodding eagerly. "Yes, I understand."

You imagined riding him since the moment he entered that club, young, hot, with his sleeves rolled up, the scent of masculine fragrance mingling with whiskey on his breath. Feeling this man, needy and sly, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, spilling all that pre-cum, and fighting his demons not to cum, made you so horny.

 You licked your fingers, circling your clit to help yourself climax, making you clench around him again. A strangled moan escaped his mouth, his eyes were rolling back.

You leaned in close, your voice husky with desire. "You're so close, Channie," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I can feel how badly you want to cum inside me. Do it, baby. Give it to me. Fill me up with your cum."

Chan's hips bucked against yours, his grip on your hips tightening. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. "I need to cum, please..."

You smirked, your fingers still working furiously on your clit. "You want to empty those balls for me, make me feel every drop of your cum inside me? Hm?"

Chan nodded frantically, his eyes glazed with lust. "Yes, god, yes. Please, let me cum. I can't hold on much longer."

With a wicked grin, you increased the pressure on your clit, feeling the tension building inside you. "Then cum for me, Channie," you urged, your voice a sultry whisper. "Cum deep inside my pussy."

Chan's entire body tensed, his breath hitching as he finally let go, his cum flooding you with warmth. You cried out in pleasure, feeling your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you rode out the ecstasy together.

As you collapsed against his chest, Chan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You could feel your legs trembling in soreness, his cum still dripping from your pussy, and both of your bodies slick with sweat. Despite the exhaustion, Chan's embrace felt comforting and secure.

He ran his hands soothingly over your back, his touch gentle yet firm, as if trying to convey all his affection through his fingertips. You raised your head to meet his gaze, finding him looking back at you with a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness in his eyes.

You pressed a series of soft kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his jawline, savoring the warmth and intimacy of the moment. Chan smiled in response, his own lips curved upwards in a contented –fucked out– expression.

You summoned the last vestiges of your strength just to tease Chan, circling your hips ever so slightly, just enough to elicit a reaction from his sensitive body. 

"Wait, wait," Chan gasped, his voice strained with sensitivity. "I can't... I can't take it."

He held you firmly against him, his grip almost desperate as he tried to steady himself. The sensation of your hips circling against his heightened his arousal to a point where he felt like he might lose control at any moment.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite the exhaustion and the intensity of your encounter, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"Sorry," you chuckled softly, the sound mingling with his labored breaths. "I couldn't resist teasing you a little."

Chan let out a breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain his composure. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment before he spoke again.

"You're... you're something else, you know that?" he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "I don't know how you do it."

You grinned up at him, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Despite the intense physical connection between you, there was an undeniable emotional bond that had formed, deepening your connection even further.

"I guess I just have a way with you," you replied playfully, winking at him before snuggling closer into his embrace.

[faebled-stories]

The Weight of Approval

Kinkvember Day 19: Facesitting

(G)-IDLE Cho Miyeon x Gender Neutral reader

11.7k words

It’s just another shift at the café—a grind that blurs together with yesterday and all the days before. The worn counters, the hum of the coffee machine, the clink of mismatched mugs—it’s all routine. The same cracked tiles beneath your feet, the same smudged menu board hanging above the register. The café isn’t much, tucked into the corner of a busy street, frequented more for convenience than ambiance. It’s the kind of place that serves as a pit stop for hurried commuters, not somewhere anyone lingers.

You barely register the motions anymore. Each cup you fill, every polite smile you force, feels like another tick of the clock until your shift ends. But even then, that only means returning to your tiny apartment—three floors up in a creaky, aging building where the walls are thin, and the heater groans louder than it works. Inside, there’s a stack of unopened bills on the kitchen counter, a fridge that hums louder than it cools, and shelves lined with little more than ramen packets and canned soup. Payday is still a week away, and you’ve already done the math—it won’t stretch far enough.

Every month is the same. Rent looms like a guillotine, always just one mistake away from coming down. The café job was supposed to be temporary, just something to cover the basics until you landed something better. But “temporary” stretched into months, and now it feels like a trap, closing in around you as the bills keep piling higher. Nights at your other job—a late shift at a dingy convenience store—blur into exhaustion. Between the two jobs, sleep is a luxury, and dreams? Those have been shelved for “later,” though you’re no longer sure when “later” will come.

The bell above the door rings, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s automatic to glance up, expecting a regular with their usual small talk and routine order. Instead, she walks in.

The woman is striking, her presence undeniable from the moment she steps inside. Everything about her is sharp and precise, from the tailored fit of her sleek black suit to the effortless grace in her stride. The glint of her designer heels catches the dull light of the café, momentarily outshining the worn surroundings. Her dark sunglasses obscure her eyes, but you feel the weight of her gaze, like she’s sizing up the entire room in a single sweep. She’s out of place here, like a panther wandering into a pet shop.

She doesn’t wait in line. Instead, she glides directly to the counter, her movements fluid and purposeful, ignoring the subtle whispers and curious glances from the few other patrons.

“I’ll take my usual,” she says, her voice low and polished, each word perfectly enunciated.

You blink, caught off guard. There’s an air of expectation in her tone, as though her usual should be obvious. For a second, you feel like you’ve failed an unspoken test, unable to recall what she’s asking for. “I—uh—I’m not sure what your usual is…”

Her sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see her eyes. They’re sharp and assessing, a piercing gaze that seems to cut straight through you. “Is there a problem?” The question is more of a challenge than a clarification, her tone daring you to falter.

Before you can stammer out an apology, your coworker Minnie steps in, her movements quick and anxious. “I’ll take care of it,” she says, her voice soft and hurried. She doesn’t look at you as she nudges you aside, her trembling hands already reaching for the espresso machine.

The woman steps back, folding her arms as she waits. Her gaze, however, doesn’t leave you. It’s piercing and unrelenting, a quiet power that feels suffocating. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to—her presence alone commands the room.

Minnie works quickly, though her nervousness is evident. She fumbles slightly with the milk, spilling a few drops as she pours. When the drink is finally ready, she hesitates, glancing at the woman as if trying to gauge her mood. After a tense moment, Minnie takes a deep breath, picks up the cup, and walks it over.

You watch as she offers the drink, her posture stiff, like she’s bracing for something. The woman leans in slightly, inspecting the cup with the precision of a jeweler examining a diamond. She murmurs something, soft and deliberate, but her eyes remain locked on you.

Minnie freezes for a beat, her shoulders tightening before she nods and turns back toward you, her steps quick and unsteady. Her face is pale, her usual cheerful expression replaced with unease.

“She…” Minnie begins, her voice barely above a whisper as she sets the cup down on the counter in front of you. Her hands fidget with her apron. “She wants you to bring it to her.”

You glance at Minnie, confused. “Me? Why?”

Minnie shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “But you should just do it. Don’t… don’t upset her.”

The anxiety in Minnie’s voice sends a chill down your spine, but there’s no time to question it. The woman hasn’t moved. Her gaze is fixed on you, calm and unwavering, yet it carries a weight that feels oppressive, like a predator sizing up its prey.

You pick up the cup, its warmth doing little to steady your trembling hands, and step toward her. Each movement feels deliberate, exaggerated by the tension in the air. Her eyes track your every step, sharp and unrelenting, leaving you feeling utterly exposed. The café’s noise—the hum of the coffee machine, the soft chatter of patrons—fades into a dull background buzz as all your focus narrows on her.

When you’re close enough, you extend the cup toward her, your pulse hammering in your ears. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, her touch cool and fleeting, yet it sends a shiver racing through you. Her lips curl into a faint smile—small, deliberate, and unsettling, like she’s amused by some private joke you’re not in on.

“Well aren’t you adorable,” she murmurs, her voice low and smooth, with just enough of an edge to leave you unsure if it’s a compliment or a taunt. Her gaze lingers on you, unhurried, peeling back invisible layers like she’s already learned more about you than you’d ever willingly share.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat as she tilts her head slightly, her expression shifting into something closer to curiosity—or is it calculation?

“How would you like to earn some extra money?” she asks, her tone casual yet deliberate, as if the question is part of a test.

The words land like a thunderclap, unexpected and disarming. You blink, caught off guard, the full weight of her presence pressing down on you as the question hangs in the air. The answer should be obvious���of course you do. You think of the bills piling up on your kitchen counter, the hollow ache in your stomach from skipping meals, and the rent looming over you like a storm cloud. But there’s something about the way she asks, something that makes your pulse race with more than just hope.

“I—uh…” Your voice wavers, and you hesitate, but the intensity of her gaze pushes you to nod, slowly at first, then more firmly. “Sure.”

Her smile deepens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, there’s a flicker of satisfaction, like she’s just confirmed something she already knew. She reaches into her purse with a deliberate, practiced motion and pulls out a business card. The action feels almost ceremonial as she hands it to you with a lazy grace. The card is pristine and minimalist: Ascend International. Cho Miyeon, CEO.

“Come to this address at 8 pm tonight,” she says, her tone smooth and unyielding. “Don’t be late.”

You glance down at the card in your hand, its edges crisp and cool against your fingertips. The weight of it feels disproportionate to its size, like it’s a key to a door you’re not sure you’re ready to open.

Her gaze flickers down to your mouth, and for a moment, she pauses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as if an idea has just occurred to her. “Stick your tongue out,” she says suddenly.

The request catches you so off guard that you hesitate, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. But her expression remains unchanged—no humor, no patience, only expectation. The air between you feels heavy, charged, as if she’s testing you.

Against every instinct, you comply, your face heating as you stick out your tongue. You feel ridiculous, exposed, yet there’s a compulsion in her gaze that makes resistance impossible. She studies you for a beat, her smirk deepening in satisfaction before she straightens, her presence as composed and commanding as ever.

“Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before turning and striding out of the café, her movements fluid and unhurried, like someone who always gets exactly what they want.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minnie sidles up beside you, her voice low and shaky. “You… you have no idea who she is, do you?”

You shake your head, your fingers clutching the card tightly. “No. Should I?”

Minnie’s eyes widen, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something cautious, almost fearful. “Cho Miyeon,” she whispers, glancing toward the door as if expecting her to walk back in. “She owns half this city. If she wants something from you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Just don’t screw it up. People don’t usually get second chances with her.”

You look down at the card again, its elegant design somehow intimidating. It feels out of place in your hands, like it belongs in a world far removed from your own. Yet, as the weight of her gaze lingers in your mind, you think about your reality—your landlord’s last warning, the meals you’ve skipped, the endless grind of multiple jobs that never seem to be enough.

Maybe this is the kind of risk you need to take.

If you can survive it

-----

Stepping into Ascend International’s headquarters feels like stepping into another world. The building itself is a towering monolith of glass and steel, its sleek facade reflecting the city skyline with an almost arrogant perfection. The sheer scale of it is intimidating, a symbol of power that dominates the horizon, making everything around it feel insignificant by comparison.

The lobby is no less imposing. It’s cavernous, every surface polished to a mirror-like gleam. The pristine marble floors stretch out endlessly, their subtle veining shimmering under the soft, calculated lighting. Minimalist artwork, abstract yet commanding, adorns the high walls, while brushed metal accents catch the light in subtle, expensive flashes. It’s a space that whispers sophistication but demands reverence, as if even the air inside has been curated for those who belong.

The people moving through the lobby only add to the sense that you’re out of place. They stride with purpose, their designer suits immaculate, their gazes fixed straight ahead as if they’re always on the brink of something important. No one lingers. No one hesitates. Everyone here seems to belong, moving in seamless synchronization, like pieces in a machine that runs on ambition and authority.

Clutching the business card Miyeon gave you, you force yourself to breathe steadily as you approach the reception desk. It looms ahead of you, an enormous slab of black marble so flawless it seems to absorb the light around it. Its size and stark design make you feel even smaller, dwarfed not just by the desk but by the sheer magnitude of the world you’ve just stepped into.

Behind the desk sits a young woman, impeccably dressed and exuding the kind of confidence that only comes from being part of something this powerful. Her name tag reads Song Yuqi, but it’s her sharp eyes that capture your attention. They snap up the moment you approach, and in a single, sweeping glance, she seems to assess everything about you—your clothes, your posture, the nervous energy you can’t quite suppress. It’s a look that feels both brisk and invasive, as if she’s already reached a conclusion before you’ve even spoken.

“Hi, I’m here for an interview with Ms. Cho,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds smaller than you’d like. You straighten your posture, hoping it’ll help mask the nervous tension tightening in your chest.

Yuqi’s lips twitch into a faint smirk, a flicker of amusement crossing her otherwise polished demeanor. “Oh, I know what this is about,” she says, her tone light and almost playful. Her gaze drifts over you again, slower this time, adding an unsettling layer of scrutiny. It’s as if she’s sizing you up for something you’re not privy to, enjoying a private joke at your expense.

Without another word, she opens a drawer with precise, practiced movements and pulls out a slim stack of papers. She hands them to you with a flick of her wrist, her smile deepening as though she’s waiting for your reaction. “Here,” she says, the amusement in her voice unmistakable. “You’ll need to sign this.”

You glance down at the papers, your breath catching as your eyes skim the first few lines. The text reads: Employment Contract. The words jump out at you—personal assistant, non-disclosure agreement, exclusive services—but most of the document is dense with legal jargon that blurs together as your eyes dart across the page. Then, a number leaps out at you—the salary.

It’s staggering. More money than you’ve ever made in your life. More than you’d even dared to dream of earning, even after years of grinding through multiple shifts and sleepless nights. For a moment, the weight of it all hits you at once: no more overdue bills, no more rationing groceries or waking up in a cold sweat over rent. This could change everything.

You glance back at Yuqi, who’s watching you with that same faint smirk, her amusement sharpening as if she can read every thought racing through your mind. There’s something unnerving about how much she seems to know—like she’s been expecting you to react this way all along.

Your hand hesitates over the contract. Rationally, you know this is unusual. Signing a contract before even meeting with Miyeon feels strange, almost reckless. But the rational part of you is quickly drowned out by the sheer allure of the number staring back at you. Slowly, almost dreamlike, you pick up the pen and sign your name. It feels surreal, like you’re crossing an invisible threshold into a world you’re not sure you belong in.

When you look up, Yuqi’s smirk has widened, her amusement shifting into something sharper, almost predatory. She takes the papers from you with a practiced efficiency, her fingers grazing yours briefly before she sets them aside. “Top floor,” she says, her voice smooth and a little too cheerful. “Room 2601. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You nod, your throat too tight to respond, and turn toward the elevator bank. As you walk away, Yuqi’s voice trails after you, light and teasing but with a faint edge of something you can’t quite place. “Good luck,” she calls, her tone carrying a hint of pity that sends a shiver down your spine.

As you press the elevator button, the weight of what just happened settles over you. The sleek lobby, the polished marble, the silent power radiating from every corner of this place—it all feels like it’s pressing down on you, reminding you of how small and out of place you are. Yet, in your hand, the signed contract feels heavier than it should, a reminder of the door you’ve just opened.

After stepping into the elevator, the doors glide shut with a smooth finality, sealing you off from the world below. Yuqi’s soft chuckle lingers in your mind, faint yet cutting, like the echo of something you can’t quite grasp. Was she mocking you? Warning you? The question gnaws at you, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

The elevator begins its ascent, smoothly but at an unnerving speed, and each floor that flashes by on the display only amplifies your anxiety. By the time you reach the top floor, your heart is pounding, each beat echoing in your ears.

The doors open with a soft chime, and you step out into a long, dimly lit hallway. It’s strikingly different from the bright, bustling lobby below—quiet, almost unnaturally so, with thick carpeting that muffles your footsteps. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side of the hall, offering a sweeping view of Seoul’s glittering cityscape far below, the lights sprawling endlessly in the night. The silence is profound, almost oppressive, heightening the tension coiling within you.

At the end of the hallway, a single door waits: Room 2601. The numbers gleam in brushed silver, unassuming yet undeniably foreboding.

You approach the door slowly, each step making your breath come shorter, the weight of anticipation settling heavily on your shoulders. Reaching the door, you raise a hand, hesitate for just a moment, then knock. The sound is barely more than a whisper against the thick, quiet air. Then you wait, each second stretching out into tense silence, your mind racing as you imagine the woman behind the door—the woman who is already reshaping the course of your life with a single, strange offer.

Finally, the door opens. Miyeon stands there, poised and composed, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the tension you’ve built up in your mind. Her presence fills the room instantly, commanding and undeniable. The tailored lines of her outfit emphasize her power, every detail of her appearance deliberate, perfected. She doesn’t say anything at first; her cool, assessing eyes are enough to strip you of any lingering confidence.

“Did you sign the contract?” she cuts the silence, her tone calm but unyielding, the question landing with an air of finality. Her gaze doesn’t waver as she waits for your response, clearly expecting nothing less than the truth.

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you reply automatically, trying to keep your voice steady despite the nervous tightness in your chest.

A faint, almost predatory smile touches her lips, curving with just enough subtlety to unsettle you. “Good.” She takes a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. The weight of her gaze feels unbearable, as though she’s deciding whether you’re even worth the moment she’s spending on you. “Let’s begin your orientation,” she says smoothly, though there’s something in her tone that makes it feel less like an introduction and more like a trial.

You nod, swallowing hard, trying to push down the uncertainty tightening in your stomach. She watches you for a moment longer, as though savoring your discomfort, then parts her lips, her words delivered with meticulous precision.

“I need to know if you’re capable of handling my needs—whatever they may be,” she says, each syllable deliberately enunciated. Her eyes stay locked on yours as she takes another step forward, her voice low and unyielding. “This position demands complete obedience and total surrender. Is that clear?”

Her words hang in the air, their weight almost suffocating. You hesitate, the gravity of her demand pressing against you. “You…want me to surrender?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, exposing the crack in your resolve.

A flicker of disappointment crosses her face, quick and sharp, like a blade slicing through your hesitation. “Yes.” Her tone is calm, yet there’s an edge to it that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “If you want to work for me, I expect unquestioning compliance.”

She lets the silence stretch, forcing you to absorb the weight of her words, her gaze unrelenting. Then, her expression hardens slightly, and her voice lowers, smooth and controlled. “Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. “Yes, Ms. Cho.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing further, as if testing your sincerity. Then, with a measured look, she speaks again. “Good. Fetch the bench from the corner.”

The command catches you off guard, but her tone leaves no room for hesitation. You glance around quickly, spotting the object she means. The bench’s design immediately captures your attention—sleek and purposeful, with polished steel legs and padded leather cushions. Its unique height and tilted headrest stand out, clearly crafted with precision, though its exact purpose escapes you. There’s an air of deliberate intent in its construction, as if it was made for something specific, yet unknown to you.

Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on you as you approach the bench. The weight of her stare makes you hyper-aware of your movements as you grip the sides of the bench and carefully drag it to the center of the room. The polished floor amplifies the sound of the legs sliding into place, each scrape making your pulse quicken. The act feels symbolic, a deliberate display of your compliance, and the tension between you thickens with every passing moment.

When you’ve positioned it where she wants, you glance back at her uncertainty. Her expression remains unreadable, but the faint quirk of her lips suggests satisfaction. She steps closer, her heels clicking softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Lie down,” she commands, her voice calm yet leaving no room for doubt.

The words catch you again, and you hesitate for a brief moment, your body instinctively stiffening. “Ms. Cho, I—what exactly do you mean by…?”

Her gaze sharpens instantly, silencing you with a single look. Her voice, deceptively soft, cuts through the air like a blade. “Are you questioning me again?” she asks, her tone laced with challenge. “I thought you understood what surrender means. Lie down. Now.”

Her words land with finality, and you feel a flush of shame rise at your hesitation. Swallowing hard, you nod and lower yourself onto the bench, the cool leather pressing against your back as you settle in. The elevated headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward as though the bench itself is positioning you for her. The chill of the leather seeps into your skin, grounding you in the moment, while the faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, mingling with the tension that fills the room.

Miyeon steps closer, standing above you, her presence towering, her gaze unbroken. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches down and hikes her skirt up to her hips, revealing toned thighs and the delicate edge of lace. Her movements are smooth, calculated, as if every motion is part of a performance meant to remind you of your place. She slips her panties to the side with practiced ease, her poise never faltering, and positions herself above you.

Her movements are deliberate as she lowers herself onto the bench, aligning her body perfectly with yours. The height of the bench leaves her perfectly positioned—not too low, ensuring her weight presses against you with satisfying firmness, yet not so high that she feels unsupported. The angle of your head allows her to settle fully, her thighs bracketing your face as her warmth and presence close in around you. The air feels thick with her scent—rich, musky, and faintly floral—flooding your senses and leaving your head spinning before she’s even settled fully.

Leaning forward, she braces herself on the bottom of the headrest, her hands naturally finding the spots perfectly molded for her grip. The design seems intentional, as if tailored for this very moment. Her fingers tighten briefly as she steadies herself, her gaze flicking down to meet yours. There’s no softness in her expression, only a sharp, expectant coolness that cuts through the haze clouding your mind.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, her voice calm but carrying the weight of command. The words feel like a seal on the moment, binding you to her expectations. Then, with deliberate ease, she presses down, enveloping you completely.

Your world narrows to her—the pressure, the weight, the intoxicating heat of her body as it moves against you. Tentatively, you extend your tongue, pressing it to her for the first time. Her taste floods your senses, earthy and rich, tinged with the saltiness of her skin. It’s overwhelming, disorienting, but also grounding, her presence completely consuming every thought, every breath. Encouraged by the faint shift of her hips, you try again, moving with more intention. You let your tongue trace slow, deliberate strokes, convinced you’re finding the rhythm she expects.

Her thighs press firmly against your head, creating a perfect seal that traps you beneath her. The leather of the bench beneath you feels immovable, your position leaving you utterly at her mercy. With her weight pressing down, each inhale becomes a struggle, your breaths reduced to shallow pulls of air through your nose—and every one of them is filled with her. Her scent is heady, musky, and floral, a potent blend that seeps into your senses and clouds your thoughts. It feels like you’re breathing her in completely, your lungs filled with nothing but her presence.

Her body feels warm, responsive, as though she’s relaxing against you, her hips beginning to move in slow, deliberate rolls. The grind of her pelvis against your face is measured, controlled, and demanding, and you adjust your movements instinctively, matching her pace. Her thighs tighten subtly around your head, holding you even more firmly in place, leaving no room for error, no room for escape. You feel every shift, every slight increase in pressure, and interpret it as a signal that you’re doing something right.

The faint tension in her breathing seems to deepen, her exhalations growing slightly louder, and you take it as a sign to focus more, to give her exactly what she needs. You adjust your tongue, letting it trace patterns you think she’ll enjoy, responding to the subtle cues in the way her hips shift. Her warmth spreads against you, slick and inviting, and you press more firmly, convinced you’re making progress, that she’s responding to your efforts.

Her scent grows stronger, mingling with the heat radiating from her skin, and you lose yourself in the rhythm she’s setting. Each movement feels purposeful, deliberate, as if you’re aligning perfectly with her desires. Her faint exhalations become the only sound you can hear, soft and measured, a quiet reward that urges you to keep going, to match her pace with precision. Her thighs flex against your head, squeezing slightly, and her hips grind down harder, forcing you to adjust to her increasing demands.

Trapped between her thighs, the pressure becomes all-encompassing, the weight of her pressing down leaving you barely able to think beyond her. Each inhale feels heavier, as though her scent is suffocating you in the most intoxicating way. You pour everything into your movements, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, convinced that her silence is approval, that the steady roll of her hips means you’ve found exactly what she wants.

The seconds stretch into minutes, your efforts intensifying as her body shifts with increasing deliberation. The grind of her hips becomes more insistent, demanding, and you press harder, moving your tongue with more purpose. The pressure of her weight feels all-encompassing, her thighs gripping your head tightly, leaving you immobile, entirely at her mercy. You focus entirely on her, responding to her every movement, certain that you’re meeting her expectations.

Then, you feel it—a subtle, unmistakable slickness spreading against your tongue. It’s warm, intoxicating, and sends a jolt of confidence through you. Her arousal feels like confirmation, a silent acknowledgment that you’re doing something right. You match her movements with renewed focus, interpreting the growing wetness as proof of your success.

But then, without warning, her weight lifts.

The sudden loss of pressure is startling, disorienting, and you blink against the light as your eyes flutter open. The brightness of the room feels blinding, a harsh contrast to the cocoon of warmth and scent you’d been engulfed in. Her essence still lingers heavily in the air, clinging to you, intoxicating, making your head spin like you’ve been drinking something far too strong.

“Wait…” you murmur, the word slipping out unbidden as she rises fully. Without thinking, you push upward, your body instinctively trying to follow hers, desperate to maintain the contact, to hold onto the sensation. You feel drunk, untethered, and you try to lift your head toward her, as if that alone could pull her back down.

But Miyeon moves with calm, dismissive ease, pulling her skirt down and smoothing it into place with the same practiced precision she began with. She steps off the bench, her movements steady and composed, as though what just happened was a passing thought, nothing more than a fleeting interruption.

Her expression remains untouched by the moment, her gaze sharp and appraising as she looks down at you. The cool detachment in her eyes feels like a splash of cold water, banishing the haze that had clouded your mind. The confidence you felt just moments ago evaporates as she folds her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Time’s up,” she says smoothly, her tone businesslike, almost bored. There’s no emotion, no warmth in her voice, as though she’s closing a meeting rather than commenting on your performance.

You sit up slowly, your body unsteady, your breath uneven as you try to process what just happened. The remnants of her scent and taste cling to you, making your head feel light, dizzy, as though you’re still intoxicated by her presence. Your mind clings desperately to the moments when you thought she was responding—the subtle shifts, the pressing weight of her hips, the slick warmth of her against you. You were so sure you’d succeeded, but the cold finality of her words shatters that illusion.

Miyeon steps back, her expression unchanging as she watches you. Her gaze remains fixed, cool and detached, giving nothing away. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, as you wait for her to say something, anything, that might redeem the moment.

But she doesn’t. Her stance, her tone, her movements—all of it makes one thing clear: you’ve fallen short.

Her silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, before she finally speaks.

“You get a C,” she says, her voice unhurried, calm, and somehow all the more cutting for it. Each word lands with surgical precision, slicing through the hope you’d just started to build. Her tone is devoid of emotion, her expression cold and detached, as though grading a forgettable report. “You missed the mark entirely.”

The words feel like a punch, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare at her, struggling to process, grappling with the sudden weight of failure. “You’re giving me a…C? But I thought—I felt you get wet, Ms. Cho. I thought…”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, enough to silence you before you can finish. The room feels colder as her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place.

“Did you?” she replies, her tone so detached it feels clinical. “Just because my body has natural reactions doesn’t mean you were doing anything remarkable. Don’t confuse basic biological responses with skill.”

Her words hit like ice water, cutting through the fog of your confusion and hope. She takes a step closer, her presence looming, her expression hardening as she begins to dissect your performance with brutal precision.

“Your efforts lacked strength,” she begins, her voice carrying a steely edge. “Your tongue was weak—unfocused. No rhythm, no consistency. I set a pace for you, and you couldn’t even manage that.”

She pauses, letting the words sink in, her critical gaze sweeping over you as though she’s already dismissed you. The weight of her disappointment presses down harder than her thighs ever did.

“And you completely ignored my clit,” she continues, her tone growing colder, harsher, each syllable cutting deeper. “I practically guided you there, made it obvious, yet somehow, you missed the most important part.” Her lips curl into a faint smirk, but there’s no humor in it, only a razor-sharp derision. “I even grinded myself against you, practically handing you the answer, and still, you failed to deliver.”

Her words are relentless, brutal. Each one dissects a flaw you hadn’t even realized, exposing every weak point you thought you’d hidden. It’s as if she’s stripping you down to the core, piece by piece, revealing everything you couldn’t see in yourself.

She takes a measured step back, her voice dropping lower, colder. “The bare minimum,” she says, enunciating each word with icy precision, “is to make me cum. And you couldn’t even come close to doing that.”

The words hit like a hammer, reverberating in the silence that follows. The finality in her tone leaves no room for argument, no possibility for redemption. Her gaze remains fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, her disappointment so palpable it feels like it’s physically crushing you.

“I don’t need someone who merely tries,” she continues, her tone growing colder still, like frost spreading across the room. “I need someone who performs, who instinctively understands what I require without me having to spell it out. Excellence isn’t negotiable in this position.

The words leave you hollow, your confidence shattered under the force of her critique. Each syllable lands with precision, tearing apart every scrap of pride or hope you’d felt during the act. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of her disappointment.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing the words out even as a lump rises in your throat. “Give me another chance. I can do better—I’ll work on everything you said, I’ll improve if you just—”

She raises a hand, cutting you off, her expression turning to stone. The gesture alone silences you, her gaze cold and unrelenting.

“There won’t be another chance,” she states, the words cold and final. “Not here. I don’t invest my time in mediocrity.”

Her dismissal feels absolute. Her attention shifts away from you, as though you’re no longer worth a moment of her time. She steps back to her desk, picking up a pen with the same calm precision she’s shown all evening, and resumes her work without so much as a glance in your direction. The sound of the pen scratching against paper feels deafening in the silence.

“You may leave,” she says coolly, her tone as unyielding as stone. “This position requires skill, precision, instinct—and you’ve shown none of those.”

The words hang heavy in the air, sharp and final, cutting through the silence like a gavel. Your body feels frozen in place, unable to move as the weight of her judgment presses down on you. Slowly, numbly, you rise, your legs unsteady beneath you, your chest tight with the sting of failure.

Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your mind replaying her critique with relentless clarity. The sharpness of her dismissal leaves you feeling stripped bare, your confidence shattered completely. You’d thought you’d done well, thought you’d sensed her responding, but her cold, clinical analysis has left no room for doubt. You fell short—entirely.

As you reach the door, you glance back once, hoping for even a flicker of warmth or reconsideration in her expression. But Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on her paperwork, her focus already shifted, as though you’ve ceased to exist in her world.

You leave, her scent and the weight of her words lingering heavily in the air around you, each step away from her office feeling like another layer of failure pressing down.

The weight of her words settles heavily in the silence that follows, each one lingering in the air like a closing door. You stand, feeling hollow, the sting of failure biting deep. Each step toward the door feels impossibly heavy, as if you’re dragging your very sense of self along with you. Her critique replays in your mind, each cutting line driving the shame and disappointment deeper. By the time you reach the door, her dismissal has stripped you of whatever pride you had left, leaving you exposed and aching with the sting of her judgment.

As you step out of the building, the scent of her perfume still clings to the air around you, subtle but intoxicating. Her taste lingers on your lips, and her piercing gaze haunts your thoughts, replaying again and again with relentless clarity. You can’t stop thinking about every moment, every mistake, every opportunity you missed. Her words echo in your mind, each replay stinging more than the last, but beneath the pain and disappointment, something else lingers—a pull, an inexplicable need.

There’s something magnetic about her, something that refuses to let go. The effortless authority she carried, the way she dismissed you without a second glance—it’s intoxicating, a force that leaves you restless, unsettled. The intensity of her presence lingers, drawing you back even as the humiliation burns. Somehow, you want another chance, not to prove yourself to anyone else but to her—to earn her approval, to be exactly what she demanded.

-----

The morning after that unforgettable Monday encounter with Miyeon, you wake with her still lingering in your mind—her voice, her scent, the calm precision with which she had dismissed you. The memory of her critique, her unyielding detachment, plays over and over, cutting deeper each time. Somehow, she has taken root in your thoughts, filling them in a way you can’t ignore. Her essence lingers—not just a memory but something that feels alive, woven into every corner of your mind, unrelenting and impossible to shake.

The café where you usually spend your mornings feels miles away, though it’s just down the block. Instead of showing up to your shift, you find yourself sitting at your small kitchen table, staring blankly at your phone, waiting for something—anything—that might offer a way forward. The thought of pouring coffee, of going through the motions while she dominates your thoughts, feels unbearable.

By late morning, desperation pushes you to try a respectful, measured call to her office. Yuqi’s voice is professional, polite, and painfully impersonal. You introduce yourself, forcing your tone to stay steady even as urgency tinges every word.

“I wanted to see if Ms. Cho might be open to reconsidering…” you begin, your heart pounding with every syllable. “I know I didn’t meet her expectations, but if I could just speak with her, I’m sure I could—”

“She’s made her decision,” Yuqi replies with finality, her words cool and unyielding. “Ms. Cho has a very clear standard.”

The line goes silent, and you’re left holding the phone, the emptiness pressing down on you like a weight. Your heart sinks, but the idea of giving up feels unbearable. That night, you sit down at your desk, composing an email that takes far longer than it should. Every word feels inadequate, yet you pour your sincerity into each sentence. You admit your mistakes, express your deep respect for her, and humbly ask for another chance. As you hit send, you close your eyes and release a shaky breath, hoping your words will reach her, that she’ll sense your sincerity.

By the next morning, there’s no reply. The café calls to ask if you’re coming in, but you barely register the message. You can’t go back—not yet. The silence from Miyeon feels sharper now, amplifying your anxiety. Without thinking twice, you call her office again. This time, your tone carries a quiet urgency, though you fight to keep it professional.

“I understand Ms. Cho’s standards are high,” you say softly, your voice earnest, almost pleading. “But I know I can meet them. I just need a chance to show her.”

The rest of the day drags, heavy with unanswered questions. As evening falls, you find yourself composing another email, this time rawer, more vulnerable. You lay everything bare—your mistakes, your desire to improve, and just how much this opportunity means to you. With trembling hands, you hit send, feeling both exposed and hopeful.

By midweek, the desperation gnaws at you like a dull ache that refuses to leave. Miyeon has somehow consumed your every thought. Her presence is no longer just a memory—it feels like she’s there, looming in the edges of your mind, controlling your every emotion. Her scent, her voice, her unyielding control—they haunt you in the quiet moments, filling your chest with a weight that grows heavier with each passing day.

You’ve stopped checking your work schedule entirely. The thought of being surrounded by noise and chatter while Miyeon’s critique echoes in your mind is unbearable. It’s as if nothing else matters but reaching her, proving yourself worthy of her attention, her approval.

That afternoon, you decide to go in person. Nerves buzz under your skin as you step into the sleek lobby of Ascend International, the company’s towering headquarters. Yuqi greets you at the desk with a polite but distant smile, her practiced professionalism impossible to crack.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m here to leave a message for Ms. Cho. I’d like to speak with her if she’s available.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, though there’s a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “I’ll be sure she receives your message,” she says with polite finality.

As you walk away, hope mingles with dread. You tell yourself she must know—must feel—how far you’re willing to go to prove yourself. It’s impossible to imagine her being unaware of your persistence, of how deeply she’s embedded herself into your thoughts. Yet the silence continues to gnaw at you, relentless in its clarity.

Thursday passes in a haze. You leave another voicemail, your voice trembling with the weight of your growing need.

“Please,” you say softly, almost whispering into the receiver. “I know I fell short. But if she would just allow me one more chance, I won’t disappoint her.”

The intensity of your plea surprises even you, but at this point, pride is irrelevant. You’d give anything just for the chance to redeem yourself. As you leave the office, you find yourself in the lobby once more, hoping for even the faintest sign of acknowledgment. Yuqi looks at you with that same polite sympathy, her small kindness like a bitter reminder that you’re clinging to something fragile.

By Friday morning, the week’s silence feels unbearable. Every unanswered call, every unread email, weighs on you like a sentence passed. Miyeon’s critique plays in your mind with brutal clarity, her voice sharp and cutting as she dismisses you. It’s as if she left a part of herself with you, tethering you to her, drawing you back no matter how much it stings. You can’t let her go, and yet you fear that every effort has been futile.

Then, just when your resolve begins to waver, your phone rings. The unknown number on the screen sends your pulse racing, and you answer with shaky hands.

“Ms. Cho has agreed to see you,” Yuqi announces, her tone brisk and efficient. “Tonight at 8 p.m. sharp. Do not be late.”

Relief crashes over you like a wave, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and gratitude. You’ve been granted another chance—a chance to prove yourself, to rise to her impossible standards. As you hang up, the tension that has consumed you all week begins to dissipate, replaced by a renewed determination. Tonight, everything will change

-----

By 7:30 p.m., you’re pacing in the sleek lobby of Ascend International, nerves thrumming under your skin like a live wire. The building’s towering glass walls reflect the city’s lights, casting long shadows across the pristine marble floor. Yuqi sits at her desk, her posture casual yet poised, her sharp eyes occasionally flicking up to you as you move restlessly.

When the clock hits 7:40, you finally gather the courage to approach her desk. Yuqi’s gaze snaps to you, her lips curving into a faint smirk as she leans forward slightly, her tone light and teasing. “Nervous?” she asks, though it’s clear she already knows the answer.

You nod, swallowing hard. “She’s expecting me,” you manage, trying to keep your voice steady, though it cracks slightly under the weight of your nerves.

Yuqi doesn’t hide her amusement. “Oh, I know,” she replies, her tone bordering on playful, though there’s something sharp beneath it. She taps a perfectly manicured nail against her desk before gesturing toward the elevator. “Same room. You’re cutting it close, so I’d suggest moving quickly. Miyeon’s not known for her patience.”

Her words make your pulse quicken, and you nod quickly, stepping toward the elevator. But just as the doors slide open, Yuqi calls out, her voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “Good luck,” she says, a hint of mock pity in her tone. “You’ll need it.”

The elevator ride feels endless, the quiet hum of the machinery doing nothing to calm your racing thoughts. By the time you reach the top floor, your hands are trembling, and a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. You step out into a long, dimly lit hallway, its polished floors gleaming beneath your shoes. The door to Miyeon’s office looms at the end, imposing and unyielding, and you force yourself to move forward, each step heavier than the last.

At exactly 7:45, you’re standing outside Miyeon’s office. The weight of the moment presses down on you, suffocating, as you glance at the sleek double doors. This is it—the culmination of a week spent consumed by thoughts of her, by desperation, by the need to redeem yourself. Her dismissal on Monday has been looping in your mind, relentless and unforgiving, and you’ve been preparing for this moment every second since.

Taking a deep breath, you press your hand to the door and push it open.

The atmosphere inside Miyeon’s office is heavy, almost oppressive. Everything about the space exudes power, from the minimalist decor to the sharp angles of her desk.

Miyeon is seated behind it, her posture as precise as ever, her face unreadable. Tonight, though, there’s a sharpness to her expression, a tension in the way her hands rest on the desk. Her gaze lands on you the moment you step inside, freezing you in place. Her eyes are piercing, cutting straight through any pretense of confidence you’ve tried to muster.

“You’re back,” she says, her voice sharper than you remember, each word clipped and deliberate. The skepticism in her tone slices through the air, leaving no room for pretense. She lets the silence linger, her gaze unrelenting, before she adds, “I suppose you’re here to prove something.”

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing yourself to stand taller, to appear more confident than you feel. Your voice is steady, but inside, you’re unraveling under her scrutiny. “I’m ready to meet your standards.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smirk, though it holds no warmth. If anything, it feels like a challenge, an unspoken test to see if you’ll falter. She stands slowly, her movements deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she rounds the desk. Every step feels measured, calculated, as if she’s sizing you up all over again.

When she reaches you, her gaze doesn’t waver. She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. “You’ve had an entire week to think about Monday,” she says, her tone cool, almost conversational. “Tell me—what makes you think this time will be any different?”

You swallow hard, the question hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I’ve… I’ve thought about everything you said, Ms. Cho,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I know I fell short, but I’ve prepared. I’m ready to prove that I can meet your expectations.”

Her eyes flicker, the faintest glimmer of something unreadable passing through them. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch until your nerves feel like they’re about to snap. Then, with a brisk motion, she gestures toward the center of the room.

“Then show me,” she says simply, her voice low but charged with authority. “And don’t waste my time.”

Without needing further instruction, you step toward the corner of the room where the bench waits, sleek and polished under the dim office lights. You retrieve it carefully, its weight familiar in your hands, and position it in the center of the room. The leather gleams, the elevated headrest perfectly angled for what you know is to come, designed to cradle you in place beneath her.

You lower yourself onto the bench, the leather cool and firm beneath you, grounding you as you settle into position. The headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward in a way that leaves you open, exposed, perfectly aligned beneath her. Your breath quickens as Miyeon steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Each step feels deliberate, each sound echoing the weight of your expectations.

She stops just in front of you, her sharp gaze sweeping over you, calm and detached, as though calculating every detail. Without a word, she slips off her heels and sets them aside. Her fingers move to the hem of her skirt, gathering the fabric upward with fluid grace. Her thighs come into view, smooth and commanding, a contrast of elegance and strength. The edge of her lace panties teases at your vision before she moves them aside with a simple, routine motion.

Her scent—muskier, richer than you remembered—immediately fills the air. It’s overwhelming, a heady blend of something primal and intimate, saturating your senses as she steps forward and positions herself above you. It’s a smell that haunted you this entire week, lingering like an ache in the back of your mind. You’d tried to forget, to push it aside, but nothing could dull the memory of her—the way she consumed you so entirely, only to dismiss you without a second thought. Now, as her warmth radiates above you, it feels like you’re being granted water in a desert, but only if you can prove you’re worthy to drink.

When she lowers herself, her weight presses down fully, engulfing you in her presence. Her thighs press against your cheeks, trapping you completely beneath her. Each shallow breath you manage is filled entirely with her scent, and for a moment, you’re paralyzed by how familiar it feels, how much you’d been craving this. It’s as though the week of rejection, of begging for this chance, has only amplified your hunger. Nothing else could satisfy you but her.

Tentatively, you begin, pressing your tongue to her with slow, cautious strokes. Her taste fills your senses—earthy and rich, tinged with saltiness, intensely familiar and utterly consuming. The longing you’ve carried for days surges forward, and you push past your hesitation, tracing deliberate patterns as you adjust to the faint shifts of her body. Her warmth grows against you, and you focus entirely on her, on the faint signals she gives—the flex of her thighs, the subtle tilt of her hips.

Her breathing remains steady, restrained, and her body feels poised, in control, as if she’s still testing you. You move with more purpose, pressing your tongue more firmly, hoping to draw a reaction, to prove you’ve learned. Her hips begin to move slightly, setting a measured rhythm, and you match it, your tongue tracing careful circles in time with her movements.

Her thighs tighten slightly, holding you in place, and her warmth presses against you more firmly. For a fleeting moment, you think you’re succeeding, that you’re drawing her into the moment. But then, her weight begins to lift.

The change is subtle at first—the brief press of her thighs as they shift upward—but it’s enough to make your heart drop. Her warmth pulls away, leaving a sudden void that feels unbearable. Her expression is faintly impatient as she rises, her movements deliberate, as though confirming what she already suspected: that you’ve failed her again.

A horrible sense of déjà vu washes over you, sharp and unrelenting. The rejection from your first evaluation, the cold detachment in her voice, all come rushing back, amplifying the ache in your chest. The memory of that moment has haunted you all week, and now it feels as though it’s happening all over again. Panic claws at you, raw and immediate.

Her voice cuts through the silence, low and unimpressed. “I see you haven’t learned anything.”

The words slice through you, sharp and final, and desperation surges in their wake. You can’t let her leave—not again. Before she can move further, you reach up, your hands trembling as they find her hips, gently but firmly holding her in place. Your lips brush against her folds, pressing soft, pleading kisses that linger just a moment longer than they should.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you whisper against her, your voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I know I can do better. Please—just let me try.”

She doesn’t move. You press another kiss to her, slower this time, the desperation in you mounting. “Please,” you murmur, your voice shaking. “I need this. I need to show you. I won’t fail you.”

Another kiss. She doesn’t lower herself, doesn’t speak, and the silence feels crushing. Your kisses grow more frantic, more desperate, your lips trembling as you pour every ounce of pleading into them.

“Don’t go,” you whisper between kisses, your voice cracking with emotion. “Please, Ms. Cho. I’ll do anything—just give me this chance. Let me prove I can please you.”

You press another kiss, and this time it lingers, your lips soft and reverent against her warmth. “Please…” you murmur again, the word barely audible, carrying the weight of everything you’ve felt this past week—the sleepless nights, the ache in your chest, the obsessive need to have this moment again.

For a moment, the air is suffocatingly still. Her body remains poised above you, her thighs tense, her piercing gaze boring into yours, unreadable and unwavering. You’re left hanging, each second dragging painfully as you wait for her to decide if your pleading, your desperation, is enough.

Finally, she shifts, lowering herself back down slowly, deliberately. Her weight settles on you again with a quiet finality, her thighs bracketing your face and trapping you completely beneath her warmth. Her presence floods your senses again, her scent, her taste, her closeness—more consuming now, more intense after nearly losing it.

“Continue,” she says, her tone clipped and cold, leaving no room for hesitation. “This is your last chance.”

Her words settle heavily in the air, fueling your determination. She lowers herself slowly, her weight pressing down on you with deliberate command. Her warmth engulfs you completely, her thighs framing your head, trapping you in place. Her scent surrounds you—intense, musky, and deeply familiar, stirring the longing that had haunted you since her rejection. This is your moment, your chance to prove yourself, and you won’t squander it.

You press your tongue to her carefully at first, savoring the sensation. Her taste floods your senses—earthy, slightly salty, and utterly her. It’s overwhelming, a reminder of everything you’ve been craving since that first evaluation. You move cautiously, tracing along her in slow, deliberate strokes, letting her subtle shifts guide you.

As you work, her hips begin to move slightly, a faint rhythm that you match immediately. You focus entirely on her clit, finding it with purpose and letting your tongue trace precise circles over the sensitive spot. Her body responds subtly at first—a slight flex of her thighs, a faint deepening of her breathing—but then she begins to grind against you, her movements deliberate, setting a demanding pace.

Her thighs tighten around your head, holding you firmly, and her warmth spreads against you as her arousal builds. The faint scent of her grows stronger, more intoxicating with each passing moment. The low sounds that escape her—soft, unrestrained moans—cut through the silence, quiet but impossible to miss. The sound of her pleasure fills you with renewed purpose, driving you to push harder, to make her lose the control she clings to so tightly.

You adjust seamlessly to her movements, your tongue pressing more firmly as her hips set a rhythm that grows more demanding with each passing second. The warmth of her envelops you completely, her scent thick and intoxicating, saturating your senses until nothing else exists. Her thighs flex around your head, tightening their hold, as if to anchor herself against the rising tide of sensation. Every inhale you take is filled with her, each shallow breath a reminder of the position she holds over you.

Her soft moans slip past her lips, each one slightly louder than the last, their restrained nature fraying at the edges. The controlled grace she carried moments ago begins to falter, her movements sharpening as her hips grind against your tongue with increasing insistence. You respond instinctively, letting your tongue trace circles that align perfectly with her pace, adjusting to every subtle cue her body gives.

Her thighs tremble against your cheeks, their strength faltering as the tension in her body builds. The moans grow breathier, tinged with urgency, and her weight presses down more fully, holding you in place beneath her. Her breathing becomes uneven, hitching with every deliberate motion of your tongue as you follow her lead, unrelenting in your efforts to meet her every need.

Suddenly, her movements grow erratic, the control she held so tightly slipping entirely. Her body tenses above you, her thighs clenching tightly around your head, cutting off your world to everything but her. A sharp, shuddering moan escapes her lips, low and unrestrained, the sound raw and involuntary. Her hips press down fully, grinding against your tongue with forceful, almost frantic motions, riding the crest of her climax.

Her body tightens completely, trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure overtakes her. You remain steady beneath her, your tongue moving with careful persistence, guiding her through every pulse, drawing out each lingering sensation. Her knuckles whiten as her grip on the head rest tighten, her breaths coming in short, uneven gasps.

For a long moment, she remains like that—tense, trembling, pressing herself fully against you as the final shudders of release course through her. Only when her body begins to relax does her grip loosen, her thighs softening their hold on your head. Even then, you don’t stop entirely, your movements gentle now, offering a last, tender caress as her breathing begins to steady once more.

Her breathing slows as her movements begin to still, her weight easing slightly as she lifts herself just enough to create space. But as her warmth pulls away, a thought flashes through your mind: this isn’t enough. You can’t just meet her expectations—you need to surpass them.

Sliding your hands up, you let your palms glide over the curve of her hips, steadying her as you adjust her position slightly. Your fingers trail downward, curling firmly to grab handfuls of her cheeks. The sensation of her soft skin under your hands is electrifying, and you feel the tension in her body shift as you grip her firmly. You spread her open with care, creating the perfect angle to access her most sensitive, tightest spot. It’s a bold move—one she hasn’t guided you to, one she hasn’t even hinted at—but you know you need to take this risk. You have to make yourself unforgettable.

With deliberate intent, your tongue traces lower, teasing the sensitive curve of her entrance before pressing further, exploring the tight ring of her ass. The sensation is new, unexpected, and her reaction is immediate.

Her body jolts slightly, her hips lifting momentarily in surprise as a sharp, breathy gasp escapes her lips. For a split second, your heart races, unsure if you’ve overstepped. But then her hips press back down against you, a reflexive movement that tells you everything you need to know. Her thighs tremble against your cheeks as her weight shifts fully onto your face, and the tension in her body gives way to something rawer, more unrestrained.

Her moans begin to spill freely now, soft and breathy at first, slipping past the tight control she holds so carefully. The sound fuels you, driving you to press deeper, to let your tongue move in slow, deliberate circles over her most sensitive areas. Her grip on the desk falters as her hips grind harder against you, her movements growing more erratic, more demanding.

You alternate between her ass and her folds, moving with seamless precision. Your tongue delves deeply, savoring her, while your nose brushes against her slick warmth with each shift. Her hips jerk, grinding against your face as though her body can’t decide which sensation to crave more. The weight of her bears down heavily, leaving you struggling for air, but all you can think about is her. Every detail—the way her thighs tighten around your head, the faint tremble in her muscles, the unrestrained sounds spilling from her lips—it consumes you entirely.

Her thighs shift slightly, and then, with a deliberate motion, she lifts her legs off the floor, letting her entire weight press fully onto you. The headrest beneath you creaks slightly, adjusting to the added pressure as she settles in, trapping you completely beneath her. The shift is overwhelming, her body sinking into yours entirely, her warmth and slickness engulfing your senses. Each shallow breath you manage is filled with her scent, and the sensation is intoxicating.

Your hands tighten on her cheeks, spreading her wider as you focus entirely on her ass. You let your tongue explore deeply, pressing into her with slow, deliberate strokes, circling and teasing the sensitive area with unrelenting purpose. Her body tenses above you, her thighs trembling violently as her breathing turns ragged and uneven. Each exhale is sharp, shaky, and punctuated by guttural moans that grow louder and less restrained as she begins to lose control.

Her hips grind down against your face, her rhythm faltering, her movements desperate. Her breathing becomes erratic, catching with each flick of your tongue, until the sounds spilling from her lips dissolve into broken gasps. The pressure of her weight presses down harder, and her thighs clamp around your head with such force that it feels like she’s grounding herself entirely in you, refusing to let you go.

Her body begins to quake above you, losing all rhythm as her hips move erratically, chasing the sensations building within her. Her breathing stutters sharply, and then, with one raw, unrestrained cry—the loudest, most primal moan you’ve ever heard from her—her climax overtakes her.

Her entire body shudders violently, her hips grinding down fully, pressing you deeper into the headrest as she rides out wave after wave of intense pleasure. Her slick wetness spills onto your face, warm and undeniable, marking the raw power of her release. The sensation spurs you on, your tongue moving with soft but purposeful strokes, coaxing every last tremor from her body.

Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, gripping your head like a vice as she rides through the overwhelming storm of her climax. Each moan spills from her lips in sharp, uneven bursts, her control shattered entirely. Her grip on the headrest tightens, her knuckles white, as though anchoring herself against the intensity of the moment.

You can feel her unraveling completely, her body vibrating with aftershocks that seem to go on forever. Her weight remains heavy on you, holding you in place as she takes in shallow, ragged breaths, her body still trembling with the echoes of her release. Even as her movements begin to slow, her thighs remain locked around you, as though she’s reluctant to let go of the sensation. Every ounce of her focus is still on you, every ounce of yours entirely on her.

Finally, her body begins to relax. Her breathing slows, and her thighs loosen their hold, trembling slightly as she lifts herself off you with deliberate care. Her legs are unsteady as she straightens, smoothing her skirt with the practiced precision you’ve come to expect. Her breathing is still uneven, her chest rising and falling as she regains her composure.

For a moment, she stands there silently, her gaze heavy and unreadable as it lingers on you. The scent of her, the taste of her, clings to you, saturating your senses entirely. The room feels charged, her presence commanding even in stillness. You dare not assume anything—she’s still the one in control, and any sign of approval must come from her. Yet, in the weight of her silence, you can’t help but feel that you’ve done something right.

Her chest rises and falls evenly as she regains her composure, her expression remaining as poised and inscrutable as ever. You think you’ve proven yourself, think you’ve risen to her exacting standards, but the thought lingers, unspoken, as you wait. Every second stretches, heavy with anticipation, until finally, she speaks.

“Well done,” she murmurs, her tone softer than usual but still carrying that commanding edge. The weight of her approval lands squarely on you, and a quiet sense of pride begins to unfurl in your chest. Then, with a slight glance back at you, her lips curve in what could almost be a smile—subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable.

“Bold,” she says, her tone as measured as ever, but there’s a hint of something beneath it—impressed. “Unexpected, but… effective.”

The words hit you like a wave, filling your chest with pride, though you keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the satisfaction show too openly. Still, the acknowledgment lingers, affirming that your risk wasn’t just noticed but appreciated.

“Report here Monday morning,” she continues briskly, her tone returning to business. “You’ve earned your place.”

Her words hang in the air, settling over you like a blanket of relief. You don’t let the triumph show too openly, knowing she’s still watching you, but a quiet sense of accomplishment blooms within. She turns away, stepping back toward her desk with deliberate, unhurried movements, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The sound carries finality, a subtle dismissal, but also an acknowledgment of what you’ve achieved.

You remain where you are for a moment, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath, her scent and taste still vivid, still clinging to you. The weight of her words settles warmly over you—a victory hard won, a moment of validation you’ll carry with you. You’ve proven yourself tonight, but you know better than to assume it’s enough. This is only the beginning.

A faint trace of satisfaction flickers across her face as she glances at you one last time, her gaze lingering briefly before returning to her work. With an elegant nod, she dismisses you, her attention already shifting back to her desk.

Carefully, you rise, your legs unsteady from the intensity of the moment. Before leaving, you reach for the bench, the familiar weight grounding you as you lift it and carry it back to its original place in the corner of the room. The small act feels significant, almost ceremonial, as though returning it to its spot closes this chapter of the evening. Once it’s in place, you step back, sparing a glance at Miyeon, who is already engrossed in her work, her demeanor as composed as ever.

Each step toward the door feels deliberate, carrying the weight of everything it took to earn this moment. As you leave her office, the memory of her words—and her body—lingers in your mind, a reminder of what you’ve achieved and what’s still expected of you.

The quiet buzz of the building greets you as you exit, a stark contrast to the intensity of the room you just left. The evening air feels cooler, crisper, as you step outside, but the warmth of her approval stays with you. Miyeon’s words echo in your mind, solidifying the pride swelling in your chest.

“Bold. Unexpected, but effective.”

Those words, more than anything, stay with you, reminding you of the risks you took and the reward you earned. Monday will bring new challenges, but for the first time, you feel fully prepared to meet them. You’ve been given a chance to prove yourself again, and you’re determined to exceed every expectation.

-----

Back in the office, after the door softly clicks shut, Yuqi steps inside and leans against the frame, arms crossed and a smirk on her lips. “Alright, spill,” she teases. “What’s the deal? You actually allowed a second chance? I thought that wasn’t your thing.”

Miyeon glances up from her desk, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Oh, please. I knew from the start I was going to,” she says smoothly. “There was potential. I just needed to see it under the right conditions.”

Yuqi raises an eyebrow, the smirk widening. “So the whole week of calls and emails? You’re telling me that wasn’t just for your entertainment?”

A faint smile curves Miyeon’s lips as she leans back in her chair. “Maybe I enjoyed it,” she admits. “But desperation does something extraordinary—it strips away everything unnecessary. What’s left is either weakness or strength.”

“You and your tests,” Yuqi mutters, shaking her head with a laugh. “You could’ve just brought it up on Monday.”

“That wouldn’t have shown me what I needed to see,” Miyeon replies with a knowing glance. “Pressure reveals everything. It’s like a diamond—only the right conditions bring it out.”

“Wow,” Yuqi says, stepping forward to nudge Miyeon’s shoulder lightly. “Soft-hearted Cho strikes again. Admit it, you like a little drama.”

Miyeon chuckles, her tone turning playful. “Only when the effort is worth watching.”

“Noted,” Yuqi replies, heading for the door with an exaggerated wave. “Don’t worry, I’ll mark this historic event down. Second chances with Miyeon Cho—they’re like spotting Bigfoot. Rare and highly debated.”

Miyeon shakes her head, unable to suppress a laugh. “Get out of here, Yuqi.”

Yuqi grins, pausing at the door. “Hey, if you get bored over the weekend, you know where to find me. Or maybe I’ll just swing by Monday with popcorn to watch the show.”

Miyeon points to the door, her expression feigned exasperation. “Out.”

“Fine, fine,” Yuqi says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender before slipping through the door with a grin. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, boss.”

As the door closes behind her, Miyeon’s smile lingers. Her gaze drifts back to the now-empty space, thoughtful yet satisfied. She had known all along what could be achieved, but sometimes the right kind of desperation was the key. Pressure, determination, and grit—it all had to surface naturally, and it had.

With a quiet exhale, she turns back to her desk, already contemplating the days ahead with a sense of certainty.

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ━━ Hot (In More Ways Than One)

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 9.9K

❀ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, fingering, oral, car sex)

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: sooo the smut was not supposed to be that long but it is… also first time writing detailed hoops don’t know how to feel

IT’S GAME DAY.

South Carolina. Number one team in the country, undefeated, rolling through everyone like they’re a damn wrecking ball. And it’s not just that they’re good—Jo knows what good looks like. South Carolina is different. Big, long, fast, disciplined. Like a machine. The kind of team that doesn’t care how many banners are hanging in your gym or how loud your crowd is. They show up and beat you anyway.

Jo’s been thinking about it all week, if she’s honest. It’s been gnawing at her insides since they started prepping for it.

Now, she’s standing in the hallway outside the locker room at XL, not long before warmups are supposed to start, fidgeting with the chain looped around Paige’s neck. It’s her necklace—the one Paige got her for Christmas that’s meant to ease her anxiety. Ever since Jo gave it to her the first time, Paige has worn it during every game. Today, Jo’s fingers are twisting and tugging at it a little harder than usual as she fixes it.

She tries to tell herself it’s not that serious. Rankings don’t matter. She knows that. It’s about how you play this game, not the last one. Each week is different. Still, it’s hard to ignore the five next to UConn’s name. The fact that people—some of their own fans, even—have spent all week online doubting them. Doubting Jo, specifically.

Freshman sensation, my ass.

She’s not even that good.

If UConn was in the SEC, she’d be getting cooked every night.

She’s just Big East good, that’s it.

Jo knows better than to deep dive into Twitter the night before a game. She really does. But she was bored and Paige was already snoring, dead asleep next to Jo and Jo just couldn’t help herself. She opened the app. Scrolled through her TL. And, sure enough, there it was: a flood of opinions from people who probably haven’t played a competitive sport since fourth grade gym class.

She gets it—criticism comes with the territory. She signed up for it the second she committed to UConn. But it’s different now, standing here in the hallway with the weight of it all on her chest, anxiety poisoning her blood, fingers pulling at the chain around Paige’s neck like she might snap it.

Apparently, she’s not being very subtle.

“Hey,” Paige says, catching her hands in hers. Jo blinks up at her, a little startled. Paige’s hands are warm and steady and calloused, the way they always are. “You anxious?”

Jo shrugs automatically, glancing around like she doesn’t want anyone to hear. And no one will—the hallway’s vacant, everyone else in the locker room.

“Kinda,” she mumbles. “Maybe a little.”

Paige doesn’t say anything right away. She just holds Jo’s hands, squeezing them gently. Her thumbs brush over Jo’s knuckles in slow, grounding strokes. Jo lets herself lean into it for a second. Lets herself breathe.

“You’re ready for this,” Paige says, voice low and sure, like it’s not even a question. Like it’s a fact, the way gravity’s a fact. “You know you are.”

Jo chews the inside of her cheek, then nods. Sort of.

She wishes she could say it with more conviction. Wishes she could feel it in her gut the way Paige seems to. But that gnawing, coiled tho inside her—it doesn’t go away. It never really does. It just shifts under the weight of Paige’s words, not quite soothed but not spiraling either. Like maybe it’s at least listening.

“You’ve been locked in all week,” Paige says, quieter now, her eyes not leaving Jo’s face. They might as well imprint blue on her skin. “You’re the one who stayed after film and watched extra clips. You’re the one who’s been gettin’ up shots before and after every practice. You think that ain’t mean something?”

Jo huffs. Not dismissively, but because she hates how much she wants to believe it. How badly she needs to. And because it’s always like this—this mental tug-of-war between what she knows she’s done and what she fear still won’t be enough.

“They’re just…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. Paige knows. That’s all she has to say. They’re just South Carolina. And, this season, they’re just that good. And Jo’s just a freshman, right?

Paige squeezes her hand again. “Yeah,” she says simply. “They’re good. So are we. So are you.”

It’s not overly dramatic, or preachy, or even that passionate. It’s just steady. Like Paige is telling her what time it is. Jo hates how much she needs that steadiness. Hates that she’s standing there, half-hiding in a hallway because she’s weak and her anxiety’s decided this game might actually kill her. (It won’t.)

She looks down at their hands—her own fingers still fidgeting slightly, twitchy and restless. The necklace glints faintly against Paige’s pale skin, the little pendant warm from where Jo had been gripping it.

“Twitter’s stupid,” Jo mutters finally, because it’s true and she shouldn’t have been doomscrolling last night. She wouldn’t be feeling this nervous if she hadn’t.

Paige lets out a long sigh, her grip tightening. “Were you actually on that shit?” she asks. Jo nods, a little guilty. Paige shakes her head, pressing a little closer, another long puff of air escaping her nose. “They don’t know you,” she says firmly, gaze boring into Jo’s. “They’re don’t see what I see every day. How you move. How much you care. How you want it more than anyone.”

Jo shifts her weight, shoulders pressed back against the hallway wall now, head tilted slightly. She tries to absorb that, to let it sink into her skin instead of bouncing off the armor she’s built up around herself. Because the thing is—Paige doesn’t really say stuff like this a lot. Not in this way. She jokes, she chirps, she’s sarcastic and dry and a little cocky and still somehow so kind in that way only Paige Bueckers can be. But when she’s serious, it hits. Deep. Carves a hole for itself.

Jo’s throat feels tight suddenly, like her body’s trying to keep her from saying anything else. She doesn’t know what to do with the constant warmth that folds into her chest around Paige—not the warm fuzzy kind, but the sharp, achy kind that comes from being really seen.

“I’m just nervous,” Jo says quietly. “Not really scared, necessarily. Just, like… jittery.”

Paige nods like that makes sense. “That’s a good sign,” she says. “Means you give a shit.”

Jo gives a half-smile. “You’d think by now I’d be better at hiding it.”

“I don’t want you to be,” Paige tells her. “I want you to use it.”

Jo exhales, finally letting herself lean forward. Paige steps in without hesitation, her arms looping loosely around Jo’s waist. Jo tucks her chin down against Paige’s shoulder for a second, the fabric of her warmup shirt muffling her breathing. She lets the noise of the arena beyond the tunnel fade into background static. It’s still quiet here in the hallway, just them and the faint thump of bass through the walls.

When Jo pulls back, Paige doesn’t let her go completely. Instead, she tilts her chin up and presses a soft kiss to Jo’s forehead. Her lips are soft, just a brush along Jo’s skin. Jo closes her eyes and lets it linger. It settles something in her.

Then—

“Yo!” Nika’s voice echoed sharply from inside the locker room, like she’s half out the door. Paige and Jo immediately spring away from each other at the sound of their teammates’ voice. “Let’s goooo! Warmups, Coach is callin’!”

Jo lets out a loud sigh as the blonde yells to Nika that they’re coming. Jo turns to the blonde, gives one last tug to the chain around her neck, just to center it.

It’s gonna be fine.

THE XL CENTER is loud. The air is thick with noise—band horns cutting through the sea of screaming fans, bass rattling the floorboards, whistles sharp, shoes squeaking loud against the hardwood during layup lines. This place moves. It breathes. Every inch of it pulses with tension and pride and electricity, a kind of storm that makes the floor feel like it might actually lift off the ground.

Paige is used to this. She’s lived this. But there’s something different about it when you’re not in uniform. When you’re watching it all happen from the bench, legs crossed in black joggers and a sideline warmup jacket, feeling your pulse rise without the relief of motion. She knows this role now—it’s not new anymore, and she’s not so resigned to it now—but it still stings sometimes, especially on nights like this. South Carolina. UConn’s biggest test of the season. If this were last year, two years ago, Paige would be on the floor, first possession, drawing the defense, setting the tone.

Now she’s sitting. Watching. Hoping.

It’s okay. She’s gotten good at it.

She leans back slightly in her seat as the teams line up for tip. Jo’s already out there—shoulders rolled back, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet next to Zia Cooke. Her stance is low. Her jaw is tight. Paige can tell just by the angle of Jo’s elbows that she’s still got nerves. Not panic—just pressure. That little edge of static in her muscles that doesn’t quite go away until the first shot falls. Paige knows that version of anxiety like her own shadow.

She slides her thumb along the edge of the necklace chain tucked just under her collar, barely visible beneath her zip-up. She fiddles with it the way Jo was earlier in the hallway, twisting the charm gently between two fingers like it’s a switch she can flip—good luck, good juju, good minutes for Jo. She closes her eyes for a second, just a beat, listening to the crowd swell around her, and thinks, Just breathe. Just play. You’re ready.

The ball goes up. Dorka jumps for the tip against Aliyah Boston and loses it clean. The Gamecocks control the first possession.

Paige sits forward, elbows on her knees.

Raven Johnson brings the ball up with pace, snapping a pass to Zia Cooke curling up from the wing. Dorka steps out on the switch, but Zia’s quick, knifing back toward the top of the key. She kicks it to Aliyah Boston on the left block, posting hard against Lili. It’s a smart, early look—South Carolina wants to set the tone physically, pound the paint—but Aaliyah holds her ground. She forces Aliyah to back down once, twice, and gets a hand in her face as the hook goes up.

The shot bounces off the rim.

Paige exhales, quick and quiet. Good stop.

Jo grabs the board—her second effort rebound, fighting off a reaching Saxton—and outlets to Nika, who’s already pushing up the far sideline. Paige’s eyes track Jo immediately. She’s not sprinting, exactly, but she’s not floating either. Her feet are where they need to be. She’s running hard enough to make herself available. That’s a good sign.

The transition fizzles out into half-court. Nika swings it to Lou, who dumps it in to Aaliyah on the short corner. South Carolina is switching everything, bodies flying, limbs everywhere. It’s a little bit of a mess.

Jo relocates behind the play, drifting left wing. Quiet. Still.

Paige sees it a second before it happens—Nika sees her. One quick snap pass to the perimeter. Jo catches in rhythm. Zia’s close but not close enough.

Jo rises. Releases.

The ball arcs high and pure, hangs there like it’s thinking about it, then swishes through clean.

Paige grins before she can stop herself, standing up with the bench to clap.

There you go.

Jo doesn’t flex or scream or pump her fist; that’s not her. She just turns and jogs back, face blank, focused. But Paige knows what that shot does for her. It’s like cracking open a window in her chest—just enough air to start breathing again.

South Carolina runs a counter set next possession—high screen-and-roll for Zia with Boston popping out. They get a decent look off it, but Zia’s midrange pull-up clanks off the back iron. Aubrey tips the rebound to herself, and UConn’s running again.

It’s not perfect. Dorka misses a bunny inside after a slick drop pass from Nika. Cardoso swats one of Lou’s floaters into the third row. The Gamecocks are huge, and their help-side defense collapses like a bear trap. But UConn doesn’t blink. They pass the ball sharp. They cut with purpose. And when Jo hits her second shot—a short pull-up after slipping a screen from Dorka—Paige catches the way her shoulders loosen as she backpedals. Not slumped, not tight. Just fluid.

The blonde adjusts the necklace again, tugging it once beneath her collar.

By the five-minute mark, the crowd’s roaring. UConn’s up seven. Jo’s got five. The momentum’s not just leaning their way—it’s sprinting. Nika dumps in a cross-court dime to Lou in the corner, and she drills it. Next trip down, Aaliyah muscles through Boston for a bucket and the foul. Paige nearly comes out of her seat.

And it’s loud. Like, deafening. It almost has the feel of a tournament game. Paige finds herself half shouting just to talk to Aubrey when she checks out.

Jo’s still out there, hands on her knees during a stoppage, sweat glinting on her forehead. She looks up toward the bench, just for a second, and Paige gives her the smallest nod. Jo gives her a tiny smile back.

When play resumes, South Carolina tries to settle. They slow it down, run a drag screen to get Zia isolated on Dorka—smart. She blows by and scores. But UConn comes right back. Jo draws two off a drive and flips it back out to Lou on the wing.

Three-ball. Splash.

Buzzer.

First quarter over.

UConn 25. South Carolina 14.

Jo’s got seven. A couple boards. An assist.

Good start. Paige claps the brunette on the back as she makes her way toward the bench and Jo nods, leaning into her subtly, a little too breathless to say much.

The second quarter is not as smooth.

It’s not like it unravels all at once. It bleeds out slowly—possession by possession, stop by missed stop—like a faucet dripping. Paige watches it happen from her usual seat on the bench, the necklace now a near-permanent fixture between her thumb and index finger, cool against her skin. She doesn’t even think about it anymore. Her hands go to it out of habit. A nervous tick. Jo really is rubbing off on her.

The energy inside XL hasn’t died completely, but it’s dimmed some. The volume dips in pockets. A missed box-out here, a turnover there. South Carolina’s starting to feel like what they are: big. Kamilla Cardoso gets two tip-ins in a row—one over Aaliyah, one over Dorka—and the bench drips with frustration. Zia Cooke finally starts to find rhythm, getting to her spots in the midrange and dragging Jo through screen after screen, and the longer the drought goes, the more Paige can feel some of the confidence leave the building.

Buckets aren’t coming easy now. UConn gets a few good looks—Jo has a slick hesitation that buys her an easy layup at the rim, and Lou hits a tough shot off a ball screen—but overall, it’s too many empty possessions. Too many forced threes. The offense starts to feel disjointed, like someone kicked a leg out from under the table and no one’s quite sure how to keep it from collapsing.

And the rebounding. Fuck, the rebounding. It’s not even close. Paige watches Cardoso and Boston carve out space like it’s theirs by birthright, and it is painfully obvious that UConn’s size disadvantage isn’t just theoretical. Jo grabs a rebound midway through the quarter—her fifth—and Paige makes a face without meaning to. Not because Jo can’t rebound. She can. She boxes out better than most guards. But when your 5’10 point guard has more boards than your starting frontcourt? That’s not a very good sign.

The scoreboard crawls back to even. Thirty-four apiece at the half.

The horn buzzes. The crowd murmurs. Paige stays sitting.

She hates halftime. Not because of the speech, or the adjustments, or even the tension. It’s because she has to sit still. She can’t jog down the tunnel with the rest of them and burn the edge off. Can’t get a few extra jumpers up. Can’t stretch her legs and feel her body work through the kinks. No, she walks in slowly, in her sweatsuit with the rest of the injured crew, clipboard already tucked under her arm, trying not to feel like the assistant coach she’s essentially become.

The locker room is tight and warm, crowded with bodies and sweat. Geno doesn’t even raise his voice at first. He doesn’t need to. The air already feels pressurized. Like everyone’s holding their breath waiting for the detonation. Paige takes her seat near the end of the bench, where she always does now, and Jo slides in beside her.

Paige watches Geno pace. His hands move with each point he makes—something about spacing, something about getting back in transition, something about “If I see another offensive rebound land in a black jersey’s hands, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.” There’s a clipboard slam somewhere in there, sharp enough to make Ines flinch. Paige listens. Kind of. But her eyes drift more often than not.

To Jo.

Jo’s got her elbows on her knees, head ducked, a towel slung loosely around her neck. Her jersey’s stuck to her back with sweat. Her skin is flushed and glistening and her hair’s starting to frizz a little where her ponytail meets her neck. Her chest rises and falls in steady, rhythmic pulls. She’s listening, locked in, nodding every so often. Her knee bounces occasionally, like she’s trying to fight off the nerves that were ready to consume her an hour ago.

Paige should look away.

She doesn’t.

God, she looks good right now, is what’s going through her head. And Paige isn’t fond of herself for thinking that. Because this isn’t exactly the right time. She’s got a whole game to survive on the sidelines, and her team is getting mauled on the boards, and the game is tied against the number one team in the country, and Jo is sitting six inches from her with flushed cheeks and sweat trailing down the curve of her neck, and—

Stop. Stop.

Paige drags her eyes back toward the front of the room, schooling her face into something neutral, something that looks like focus. Geno’s voice is rising now, pitching into that space just below yelling, and she nods along, hoping it’s enough to seem locked in.

Jo shifts beside her. Adjusts her towel, shifts her leg, leans back for a second. Their arms brush. Paige goes still, trying not to seem stupid in front of the whole team—who still doesn’t know.

Geno claps once, loud and final. “Play hard, play smart. Come on.”

The team nods. A chorus of “Yes, Coach,” and shuffling feet, and the scrape of folding chairs against the tile. Everyone stands. Jo walks towards the exit, but Paige catches her pinky carefully, subtly. Jo meets her eyes, gaze warm and brown. “You got it,” Paige mumbles, nodding a little. Jo squeezes Paige’s pinky and gives her a small nod of her own before disentangling their fingers and following the herd of teammates out of the locker room.

The third quarter isn’t as bad as the second, but it’s not good either.

UConn hangs in. They do. They scrap. They fight. They close out. Aaliyah gets a big-time putback early that wakes the crowd up a bit, and Lou hits a three off a pretty flare screen set by Dorka. Aubrey starts finding a rhythm too—drains one from the corner with a hand in her face and jogs back like she knew it was good the second it left her hands. It’s all enough to keep them in it. Keep them close.

Paige sits forward, elbows digging into her knees, body tense in that way that makes her shoulder blades pinch together and ache. The necklace is a familiar weight in her hand again, curled up tight like she’s willing it to transmit something through the air. Something like poise. Like clarity. Something Jo can feel.

Because Jo needs to fucking feel it.

Her shot won’t fall. Paige can tell from the first attempt—a wide-open pull-up jumper just outside the paint, one she usually drills. This time it clanks hard off the back rim and bounces long. It’s not the miss that gets to Paige. It’s the way she misses. Flat. Rushed. Jo’s mechanics are clean, but there’s no softness in it. No rhythm.

Jo doesn’t stop trying, though. That’s the thing. Paige watches her fight through it hard. She makes a strong drive down the left side and draws two defenders, then kicks to Lou for a shot that rims out, but the look is perfect. She whips a no-look pass to Aaliyah that gets the whole bench on their feet, and even though it ends in a blocked layup by Boston, Paige still lets out a low whistle because damn, the vision is there.

Jo’s rebounding like she’s six inches taller than she is. Paige counts two possessions where Jo out-leaps both Cardoso and Saxton to tip a board out to Nika. One time she hits the floor scrambling for a loose ball and comes up with it, and Paige catches herself halfway out of her seat, clapping hard, yelling.

Still, Jo’s scoreless in the quarter. That’s the truth of it. No points in ten minutes, and it’s not for lack of effort. Her shot just isn’t there right now, and Paige can feel how hard Jo’s trying not to let that get to her. Can see it in the way she squares her shoulders after each miss, the way she slaps her hands together like she’s reminding herself that she’s fine and needs to keep playing.

And she is playing. Hard.

But it’s not enough. Not when Aliyah Boston starts heating up.

Paige can’t pretend it doesn’t get under her skin—the way Boston operates like she owns the paint. First half, she was all boards and interior presence. A body, a force. But in the third, she starts scoring. And when Aliyah Boston starts scoring, there’s a problem. Midway through the quarter, she catches the ball on the right block, backs Dorka down with two brutal dribbles, and spins baseline for a reverse that makes the crowd groan and gasp all at once. It’s automatic. Clean.

And it keeps happening.

Another post-up. A face-up jumper at the elbow. A putback after two UConn players jump for the same defensive board and neither of them grab it.

By the time the buzzer sounds on the third, Boston has sixteen. Sixteen, after just three at the half.

The game is close. Close enough that no one’s panicking. But Paige knows—they’re losing ground.

She exhales slowly and stands from the bench, blinking against the overhead lights. Her knee pulses with phantom energy. It always does this during games like this. It’s like her body still wants to be in the fight, even though her minutes have been zero all season. Sometimes, she’s still not used to being stagnant. Not used to merely watching. Especially when Jo’s out there doing everything but scoring, and the team needs that scoring.

She glances down the bench, checks the stat sheet clipped to the clipboard beside her. Nine points. All from the first half. Four rebounds in the third alone, which brings Jo’s total to nine. Five assists. Only one turnover. A couple steals.

Not bad, but if they want to win, they need more.

Jo jogs toward the bench as the horn ends the quarter, head ducked slightly, jaw clenched. Not a pout, not defeat—just frustration she’s trying to mask. Contained and quiet. Paige knows that look. It’s the one Jo gets when she’s too locked in to say anything, when everything’s rolling around in her head and she hasn’t figured out where to file it yet.

She doesn’t start the fourth quarter, gets a breather. Once Geno’s done instructing, Jo drops onto the bench beside Paige, sweat beading down her temple, and the blonde instinctively reaches out—barely a touch, just her fingertips brushing against Jo’s hip. She keeps her eyes on the court, on Nika leading the offense, but she feels Jo shift slightly at the contact. Not away. Just acknowledging it.

Jo takes a sip of her water, exhales through her nose, still breathing heavier than usual. Not gassed, just… tight. Like every coil of muscle is waiting for the shot to fall, for the tide to turn.

Paige leans closer, voice low enough that it gets lost in the noise of the arena. “Don’t stop shooting,” she says, calm and sure like it’s fact, not encouragement. “They’re gon’ fall.”

Jo turns her head, eyes flicking to hers—and Paige sees it. The doubt. It’s faint, but it’s there. A small, sharp thing buried behind her lashes. And Paige feels something inside her push back against it, something fierce and protective and aching.

She taps the necklace at her collarbone with two fingers, then reaches forward and taps Jo’s chest—right above her heart. “You got it.”

Jo holds her gaze for a second longer, then nods. Just once. It’s small, but it’s enough.

The game resumes. Paige watches every second like it might split open. South Carolina opens the quarter hot—Zia Cooke drives baseline and kicks to Raven Johnson for a corner three that stings. Dorka answers with a turnaround jumper, and Aubrey gets a stop on the other end that brings the bench to their feet. But Paige is only half watching the court. Her focus is split, tilted slightly toward the girl next to her.

It takes less than two minutes before Geno waves Jo up.

Paige presses her palms together as the brunette stands, jogging to the scorer’s table.

And, as soon as she subs, everything changes.

First possession back, UConn runs a double drag screen for her. Dorka and Aaliyah both set it clean at the top, and Jo curls around tight, quick release from the wing—cash. Nothing but net.

Paige stands, heart somersaulting in her chest, her yell blending in with Azzi’s next to her.

The next trip down, Jo calls for the ball early. Nika gives it up without hesitation. Jo sizes up Raven Johnson, gives her a hard right jab step, then pulls up from the top of the key—again. Pure.

The bench starts buzzing. Amari turns and smacks Paige on the knee, says something over the roar of the crowd that Paige doesn’t even hear because she’s too busy watching Jo fall back on defense, chest rising, mouth parted in something like surprise, like relief.

She needed those, Paige knows that.

And they keep coming.

Jo hits a transition three off a pass from Nika that makes the XL Center explode. A moment later, she weaves through traffic and kisses a layup off the glass that forces South Carolina to call timeout. Jo doesn’t even glance at the bench as she jogs over—she’s locked in, living in that place Paige knows so well, the one where the world goes quiet and all that’s left is the rhythm of the game and the next opening.

Eighteen points in a single quarter. Paige watches them all fall.

Pull-up. Step-back. A fadeaway from the short corner that makes Geno laugh under his breath and throw his hands up like—finally. A heat check three with a defender in her face that rattles in and sends the arena into chaos.

And Jo doesn’t get too confident. Doesn’t start forcing shots just because they’re falling. She finds Aaliyah for a slip cut under the rim. She threads a bounce pass to Nika that earns a yell from Dorka at the top of the key. Her defense stays sharp—cuts off a drive, and rips the ball away from Saxton, an emphatic steal that leads to a fast break.

Paige can’t keep the pride from showing anymore. It pulses out of her in waves, warm and sharp and consuming. Her chest tightens when Jo grabs her tenth rebound of the night, double-double confirmed. She wants to yell (she does). Wants to run onto the court and throw her arms around her and say something like I told you so (she doesn’t; not yet).

And when the final buzzer sounds and UConn’s up three, Paige stands and claps with everyone else, heart pounding, ears ringing.

Job done.

Paige watches Jo jog toward the bench with the rest of the starters, face flushed, hair sticking to her forehead, mouth curled into a breathless, laughing grin—and Paige can’t help it. Her heart surges in her chest like it’s trying to leap into her throat.

She meets Jo halfway, slinging an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close. It looks casual enough—just teammates, just friends, just a star player proud of another. No one on the outside would think anything of it. But Paige knows how tightly she pulls Jo in, how deliberately she leans her cheek against Jo’s temple, how she lets her eyes flutter shut just for a second to soak in heat radiating off Jo’s skin.

Jo’s smiling. Not the kind of smile that’s out on for the cameras or the crowd, but the quiet, almost shy one that Paige only sees up close—one corner of her mouth curled up, nose scrunching slightly, her laugh caught halfway between her chest and her throat.

Paige leans in closer, voice low and meant for no one but Jo. “My fuckin’ national player of the year,” she murmurs, breath tickling the curve of Jo’s ear.

Jo lets out a small, incredulous huff and shoves her gently, like Paige’s words are ridiculous. Which, only a little. Realistically, Paige knows Jo probably won’t win it. She’ll be an All-American, no doubt, but Caitlin’s got the headlines, the logo threes that Geno would strangle his players over if anyone bothered trying, the scoring records that the media loses their mind over. But if Paige were a voter, she’d never hesitate. Jo would get her vote every time. She’s, in Paige’s personal, professional opinion, one of the most perfect basketball players she’s ever seen.

Jo moves toward the handshake line, and Paige falls in beside her. South Carolina’s players look hollowed out. Aliyah Boston doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Zia Cooke keeps her jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. They’ve just taken their first loss of the season, and Paige knows that particular sting all too well. She knows how the pressure sits heavier after perfection slips through your fingers, how every article starts asking what went wrong instead of what went right.

They’ll be fine. South Carolina always is. Undoubtedly, they’ll still be the number one overall seed going into the tournament, probably still the favorite to win it all. Paige isn’t naive. She knows tonight probably doesn’t change any of that. But for right now, that doesn’t really matter at all.

Because UConn beat them—thanks to Jo.

Paige wants to stay right next to her, wants to keep her hand on the small of Jo’s back, wants to keep sharing little whispers under the roar of the crowd. But Jo’s already being pulled away, swallowed up by a swarm of staffers and media people waving her over for postgame interviews.

And—of course—Celeste Sinclair is the one sticking a mini mic into Jo’s face.

Paige wrinkles her nose a little, watching them from a few feet back. She could go with the team, follow Dorka and Lou down the tunnel, let herself be swept up in the giddy rush of the win. But instead, she lingers, planted like a tree just outside the postgame chaos, arms crossed and weight shifted to one hip.

Celeste is asking Jo questions, eyes a little too sharp, smile a little too sugary. Like she’s trying too hard. Paige watches with a knot of irritation tightening in her gut, sharp and sour. Not because she gives a shit about Celeste (she doesn’t, she really doesn’t—Celeste was a distraction, a body, a mistake Paige repeated too many times over). But because of her body language and the way Jo looks next to her.

From where Paige is, she can’t tell what they’re saying. Jo seems to be answering the questions fine. But she’s all stiff, and her mouth isn’t curving up in the same way it did before. Her hands fight slightly at her sides, and she keeps shifting her weight between her feet, looking almost uneasy.

Paige hopes Celeste isn’t saying anything odd. She hopes Celeste hasn’t noticed anything. The redhead is around a lot, and, sometimes, Paige and Jo aren’t as good at hiding it as others.

It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just Celeste being annoying, per usual.

Finally, the interview ends, and Jo turns away, finding Paige. Paige immediately grins, stupidly, wide and real and probably too soft. She watches Jo jog toward her, expression already starting to shift, the uncomfortableness melting off her face like ice in sunlight. And Paige meets her halfway again, throwing her arm around Jo’s shoulder.

“You good?” she asks, subtly tilting her head backward toward Celeste as they walk through the tunnel.

“I’m fine,” Jo says. She looks back toward the redhead for a moment before shrugging. “She’s just kinda weird.”

Paige nods, not denying it. And as soon as they’re in the privacy of the empty hallway, she presses her lips to Jo’s temple and squeezes her a little. This is good; she’s proud, and she’s happy. And she’s certainly not letting Celeste Sinclair—of all people—to mess with that.

JO GRINDS DOWN on Paige’s hand, chasing after every flicker of pressure, every pulse of heat, every little bit of friction like it’s oxygen.

The air in the car is thick, too hot and too still, like they’ve created their own weather system in the cramped space. The windows are completely fogged over now, no shapes or outlines left outside, just the dull glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the blur.

Everything is quiet except for the sound of whir breathing, the low, wrecked sounds Jo keeps making.

That, and the obscene, wet sound of Paige’s fingers as they move, thrusting towards into Jo, slipping inside and then out, over and over again while Jo rides it out perfectly.

They’re parked in that weird little gravel turnout just past Ted’s, the one tucked behind a row of trees, hidden—it’s usually either a hookup spot or just an I-need-to-get-out-of-the-bar-for-a-minute zone. They’ve been here for maybe fifteen minutes—twenty? Time is kind of elastic right now. Paige isn’t drunk, and neither is Jo—they’re barely even tipsy, really. They split a High Noon inside, maybe had a shot or two, but both of them passed on the drinks after that. It wasn’t the same for the rest of the team; they’re all still in there, drunk as fuck, celebrating the win. But once Jo and Paige found Nika’s weed and promptly stole it, sneaking out the back entrance of Ted’s, it was over then.

Now, they’re in the drivers seat of Paige’s car, Jo in her lap. Paige’s fingers are still pumping, deep inside of Jo, working her at that steady pace that has Jo practically melting against her. Every thrust is slick and hot and so fucking perfect it’s half-driving Paige insane. Her whole body’s tense from it—from the pressure in her hand, the sweat beading on her back, the way Jo keeps whispering her name like it’s the only thing she remembers how to say.

“Fuck,” Paige breathes, her voice low and rough in that tight space between their mouths. Her forehead presses against Jo’s temple, her lips brushing the curve of Jo’s cheek as she speaks. “So perfect f’me, Joey. So—mmm—so fucking good.”

Jo whimpers, a tiny noise, breathy and broken. It spills right into Paige’s ear like a secret.

Sometimes it’s just air, sometimes it’s Paige’s name in this soft, almost pleading tone that wrecks her from the inside out.

Paige kisses Jo’s jaw blindly, teeth grazing skin, her fingers still thrusting inside Jo like she needs to feel every inch of her. And she does. She needs this—needs the heat of it, the stretch, the way Jo’s body reacts like it was made for Paige’s hands.

Jo’s legs are shaking a little now, thighs tightening around Paige’s waist, breath catching every other second like she’s barely hanging on.

Paige feels just as much of a mess. Her hand is cramping. Her hoodie is damp with sweat. Her whole arm is working on autopilot because her brain is fried—literally, from the weed, as well as being completely taken over by the way Jo sounds, the way she feels.

Paige bites gently at the underside of the brunette’s jaw, lips dragging along the flushed skin there. She keeps whispering to her, the words barely audible, but raw and real.

“Love the way you sound,” she murmurs, mouth grazing Jo’s throat. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. Always so good for me, Joey.”

Jo shudders. Her nails dig into the back of Paige’s hoodie, her breath stuttering like she’s getting close, nearly there. Paige angles her wrist, shifts her fingers upward slightly, and—yeah. That’s it. That’s the spot. She can feel the sponginess and she can hear Jo moan, soft and desperate. Her hips stutter down hard against Paige’s hand.

“Right there?” Paige mutters, her mouth still pressed to Jo’s cheek, her voice ragged. “Yeah? That feel good, baby?”

Jo nods frantically, whimpering something that sounds like please but could also be Paige, and at this point, Paige can’t tell the difference.

She presses her thumb to Jo’s clit, feels the way the girl twitches at it. And then she holds Jo’s hip tightly with her free hand, trying to steady her, trying to keep some kind of control—but it’s useless. Jo’s falling apart.

And Paige loves it.

There’s no one like Jo. Paige has been with a good amount of girls, but none of them have never come apart so sweetly, so trustingly, right in Paige’s arms. Jo’s so warm and soft and hers, and it’s fucking addictive.

Paige’s mouth moves on instinct, biting softly at Jo’s shoulder, then licking the mark like an apology she doesn’t mean.

“Can feel you,” she whispers, lips barely moving against Jo’s skin. “Fuck, Joey—can feel you clenchin’ on my fingers. You gonna cum?”

Jo sobs out a breath, a broken and beautiful sound. “Yeah,” she gasps. “Y-yeah, I’m—Paige, I’m—”

Paige turns her head, catching Jo in a kiss. It’s messy, open-mouthed, more tongue than anything, just trying to catch the sound before Jo makes it.

And Jo does.

She finishes with a soft, choked-off moan right into Paige’s mouth, her whole body trembling in Paige’s lap, thighs locking around her like a vice.

Paige doesn’t stop kissing her. She doesn’t stop moving her hand, either—not right away. She keeps her fingers inside, slow and gentle now, helping Jo ride it out, murmuring sweet nothings against her lips.

“So good f’me, Jo,” she mumbles.

Jo doesn’t reply, just breathes heavily, still catching up. Careful and slow, Paige slips her fingers out, like if she moves too fast she might break something. She leans back a little—not much, just enough to get a look at the girl before her.

Jo’s doe eyes are half-lidded, all hazy and soft and brown like syrup, and Paige’s heart does something weird in her chest. Her ribs tighten around the organ.

Jo, honest-to-God, looks wrecked. Her cheeks are flushed deep pink, mascara slightly running, lips kiss-swollen, hair a little messy and tangled. There’s this dazed look in her eyes, like she’s still not completely back yet, still floating a little. Partly from the blunt they shared on the walk to the car, mostly from the orgasm Paige just gave her.

The blonde doesn’t even realize she’s staring until Jo blinks slowly and tilts her head, all curious and pretty and quiet. Paige’s eyes flit over her features once more before lifting her hand, bringing her fingers to her mouth. Her eyes stay locked on Jo’s as she sucks the digits clean.

Jo’s lips part just slightly. Her breath catches.

“Fuck,” she whispers, like the word just slips out before she can even stop it.

And then she’s kissing Paige again—hard.

Paige groans into her mouth, one hand on Jo’s hip, the other slipping up under the back of her hoodie. Jo’s fingers curl into the hair at the bottom of Paige’s neck and tug.

“Back seat,” the brunette mumbles against her mouth, breathless and a little hoarse.

Paige nods, her eyes keeping a firm gaze on Jo’s lips.

Jo is the first to move, clumsy but quick, climbing into the back eagerly. Paige follows, her legs catching awkwardly for a second, her hoodie riding up. The car creaks a little as she shifts, but she doesn’t care.

The second she’s close enough, she’s back on top of Jo, and their mouths find each other again without even trying.

It’s quick, messy, almost frantic. There’s no rhythm or even really a pace to it anymore, just the kind of closeness that burns at the edges, a fever that makes Paige’s chest tight. She keeps chasing Jo’s mouth like it’s something she needs to survive, their tongues tangled, breath mingled.

She wants.

God, she wants so bad it aches.

She wants Jo in every way a person can want another person.

To feel her. To give her everything.

Her hands roam without direction—Jo’s hips, her thighs, her back under the hoodie, short nails dragging a little because Paige can’t help it. She’s trying to crawl inside her skin. That’s what it feels like.

Jo’s fingers reach for the waistband of Paige’s sweats, fumbling a little, not smooth at all, just high and needy. Paige would laugh if her whole body didn’t feel like it was short-circuiting. She helps, their hands brushing—too warm, too fast—and she pushes her sweatpants down with her boxers in one go, half-kicking them as they tangle around her calves.

Jo stares, eyes still glazed, and Paige doesn’t hesitate—she reaches for the waistband of Jo’s leggings now, fingers slipping underneath reverently. She pulls them down slowly, watching Jo’s breath stutter.

Once they’re off, Paige leans forward, mouth finding Jo’s again like it’s inevitable, like there’s no other option but kissing her. Jo’s lips part easily and Paige’s tongue slips through the seam. She sinks into the kiss, deeper this time, a little slower. It’s still messy—open-mouthed and warm, breathing each other in—but it’s not frenetic like before.

Paige doesn’t even really mean to do it—not yet, at least least. It just happens. Their legs shift. Tangled and bare and moving without much thought, trying to get closer. Jo’s thigh slides between Paige’s, and Paige’s hips instinctively roll forward and down—and their pussies brush.

And—fuck.

Jo gasps into her mouth, sharp and quiet and a little surprised, and Paige stills—just for a second, just long enough for her brain to catch up. Since that night after the Tennessee game, they’ve essentially done most general things. Ate each other, fingered each other, that stuff. But Paige had put this off—well, scissoring—because it’s different and Jo’s still learning and they’re both still figuring each other out.

And they’re in her car. Her car parked behind Ted’s, seats not entirely clean because of too many quick food runs with their teammates. Definitely not the best place for it. Not romantic, in any sense. Not private. Not anything enough.

But Jo’s not pulling away.

Instead, she exhales into Paige’s mouth, quiet and shaky, and mumbles, “Oh, mhm—that’s…” Her voice breaks off like she can’t even finish the thought.

Paige head spins. “Yeah,” she breathes out against Jo’s lips, barely even a word. More like a sound.

Their foreheads bump together, noses brushing, lips already slick and swollen from too many kisses that tasted more like hunger than sweetness. Paige’s hips roll forward without thought, just raw instinct driving her to move. She grinds down slow and hot against Jo, chasing every ounce of friction she can get, every slip-slide drag of Jo’s cunt against her own. The heat between them is unbearable already, thick and wet and pulsing.

Jo shifts, angling her hips up, and the change in pressure makes Paige stutter out a low, ruined sound she can’t even recognize as her own. Her hands slide under the hem of Jo’s hoodie, fingertips dragging across sweat-slick skin, until they find the curve of her waist. She grips hard, dragging Jo closer like she’s trying to fuse their bodies together, like the space between them is offensive even though it doesn’t exist anymore. She can feel everything—every twitch of Jo’s thigh, every flex of her stomach, the faint tremble in her breath.

There’s no rhythm yet, no real pace—just messy, frantic want building under their skin, a slow, grinding ache that pulses deeper with every pass of Paige’s hips. It’s clumsy, soaked, filthy in the most gorgeous way. Jo clutches at Paige’s hoodie with both hands, nails biting through the fabric, dragging her closer, closer still. Her breath comes in hot stutters against Paige’s cheek, and Paige loses track of everything but her—Jo’s mouth, parted and gasping; Jo’s body rolling up to meet every movement; Jo’s eyelids fluttering.

Paige feels gone already. Her sweatshirt is too hot, sticking to her back, her thighs already shaking from the tension coiled low in her stomach. Every time Jo moves under her, it sends a jolt through her, sparking against every nerve ending. Her breath is ragged and all she can feel is heat—between her legs, in Jo’s skin, in the press of their mouths as she kisses her again, desperate and deep and soaked in need.

“Joey,” she breathes, just her name, dragged out from the back of her throat.

Jo opens her eyes, barely, and the look she gives her—half-lidded, wrecked, desperate—makes Paige dizzy. There’s something so raw in it, something wide open and honest and burning, and Paige doesn’t want to look away. Can’t.

She kisses her again—deeper this time, messier, her teeth catching Jo’s bottom lip before their mouths slide together. Jo gasps into it, her hips jerking up, and suddenly they find it—that rhythm. Slow at first, then faster, harder, slicker. Jo hooks her leg around Paige’s waist, pulling her down, grinding up like she can’t stand the idea of any part of Paige not pressed against her.

The car is humid, suffocating. Their breath fogs the windows, and Paige’s hoodie clings to her like a second skin. Jo’s pussy is hot against her, soaked now from the way Paige is rocking against it, every drag of her clit along Jo’s sending a sharp pulse through her. It’s so wet that the sounds emitting are obscene.

Jo moans again, soft but wrecked, and Paige sees stars behind her eyes. “Shit,” she breathes, dropping her forehead against Jo’s. Her hand tightens on her hip. “Joey—fuck—”

The words collapse in her throat. She doesn’t have them anymore.

Jo’s mouth finds her neck, tongue dragging over her pulse before she bites, not hard, just enough to make Paige twitch. Her voice is a breathy plea, muffled against skin. “Don’t stop.”

Paige laughs and it sounds more of a sob than anything. “’M not. Fuckin’—can’t.”

She’d never stop—not with Jo moaning like that, not with the way their bodies are moving now, frantic and desperate, grinding together like they’re trying to crawl inside each other. Jo’s hands are everywhere—her back, her ass, her waist—gripping, dragging, pressing. Her nails catch skin and Paige groans, her hips bucking, every nerve ending lit up like she’s on fire.

Paige rides Jo’s pussy with intention now, chasing the pressure, chasing the wet drag that makes her breath shatter in her chest. They’re slick with each other at this point, and Paige can feel it—feel the way every movement builds and builds, her clit throbbing with every pass. Her lips crash into Jo’s again, and she moans into her mouth, swallowing every sound Jo makes.

Jo tips her head back, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s trying to breathe through it. Her eyes meet Paige’s and a whimper leaves the blonde’s lips at the sight.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Paige murmurs.

Jo shudders. Her hands claw at Paige’s hoodie.

And Paige moves faster, grinding harder, chasing that edge now, chasing Jo’s heat and the ache in her own body. Her hand slips to Jo’s thigh again, guiding it just right, and her mouth drags across Jo’s jaw, her neck, behind her ear, pressing kisses.

“Feels so good,” Paige mumbles, her forehead pressed against Jo’s temple, breath ragged. “You feel so—good, baby… shit…”

Jo moans again—higher this time, strained and helpless—and Paige groans deep in her chest, her whole body jerking in response.

“Jo,” she breathes, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the curve of her throat. “Jo, baby—”

And then Jo’s voice cuts through the haze, cracked and frantic and whispering right into her ear: “F—fuck, P, I’m gonna come.”

Paige’s whole body tightens, and she feels her pussy throb at the words.

“Yeah?” she whispers, hand gripping Jo’s thigh tighter, her other hand sliding under Jo’s shirt to splay over her stomach. “Yeah, Joey? Right here with me?”

Jo nods, breath hitching, her hips jerking up again and again. “Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please—please, just—”

“Fuck,” Paige groans, eyes fluttering shut. “I gotchu. I got you.”

She moves harder, faster, all pressure now. Her hips grind in tight, needy circles against Jo’s slick clit, chasing the last sliver of control she has. Their skin’s soaked. Their breath is all she can hear. Jo’s body bows under her, her mouth dropping open in a broken cry, fingers digging into Paige’s back like she needs something to hold onto or she’ll fall apart completely.

And Paige watches her fall—watches her finish, watches her shudder and gasp and moan her name like it’s fucking salvation or something.

And she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. She keeps moving, keeps pressing kisses to Jo’s temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Keeps whispering: “Perfect. So perfect. Look at you…”

Jo does—barely. Her eyes are glossy, unfocused, her lips parted in shock, in pleasure. Her breathing’s all uneven still—shaky exhales punched out against the thick air, her chest rising and falling like she’s been sprinting. Paige just stays there for a second, forehead pressed to Jo’s, noses brushing again, both of them soaked in sweat and each other.

Jo’s hand finds the back of her neck, fingers threading through damp blonde hair, and Paige kisses her again—soft this time, careful.

Jo lets out a little noise into it, all loose limbs and trembling sighs, and Paige’s heart nearly bursts from how sweet she sounds, how completely undone she looks. She thinks that maybe there’s nothing more beautiful than Jo right now—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised and swollen, her body still twitching under the aftermath.

And Paige—Paige should stop. Should slow down. Should let them both breathe.

But she can’t help herself.

Something low and aching tugs at her insides. Not just want—need. The kind of need that doesn’t come with logic, doesn’t come with breaks. It lives in her bones now, makes her restless, makes her mouth water.

Her kisses shift—pressing down the curve of Jo’s jaw, then lower, catching the rapid flutter of her pulse against her throat. Jo gasps softly, fingers still buried in Paige’s hair like she doesn’t want to let her go, even as Paige’s mouth keeps moving, lower, slowly growing hungrier.

Paige kisses across her collarbone, her sternum, the warm, sweat-slick skin just beneath the edge of her hoodie. She bunches the hem higher until Jo’s stomach is bare, all flushed and shaking and basically perfect.

Jo sucks in a breath. “P…” She sounds needy and exhausted at the same time.

“I know,” Paige murmurs, her voice rough. She looks up, meets her eyes. “I know, Jo. Just… let me. Please.”

And Jo doesn’t say anything. She stares down for a long moment, and Paige thinks that maybe she’ll tell her no, ask her to stop, say she can’t take any more. But then she just nods, lips parting on a shaky exhale, thighs tensing slightly where Paige’s hips are still pressed between them.

A small smile curls Paige’s lips and she kisses lower.

Her mouth moves like it’s tracing scripture—across the soft curve of Jo’s stomach, her hipbones, the dip right beneath her navel. Jo whines, a sound that sends heat tearing through Paige’s chest and stomach and core. She shifts down further between her thighs, her hands sliding up to settle at Jo’s waist, fingers pressing into warm skin like she’s trying to hold her still.

Jo’s legs part automatically, like instinct, and Paige settles between them like she belongs there—because she does. She swears she does. Ever since the first time she did this a couple weeks ago, she’s sworn a place she belongs in more. The smell of Jo—sweet and sharp and dizzying—hits Paige like a wave, and she thinks her eyes roll back just a little.

She kisses the inside of Jo’s thigh first—slow, wet, and open-mouthed, making Jo twitch and sigh above her. Her tongue traces the soft skin there, up and in, her nose brushing lightly across Jo’s clit on purpose just to watch her shiver.

“You’re kinda killin’ me,” Jo whispers.

Paige grins against her skin. “Good.”

And then—finally—she ducks her head lower, mouth dragging down, and Jo’s hips jump like she’s already too sensitive, already unable to handle it.

But Paige doesn’t stop. She’s not sure if she can.

She parts her with careful fingers, kisses her clit once—gentle, soft, careful—and Jo moans like it’s the end of the world. Her legs fall wider and Paige bites her lip a little at the sight. It’s then that the blonde licks into her—slow at first, almost exploratory, like she’s trying to memorize every part of how Jo tastes, how she moves, how she moans.

Paige groans low in her chest, almost involuntarily. “Mmm…” she mumbles, her voice all gravel, like it’s been torn up by the way Jo tastes on her tongue. “You’re so wet.”

Jo shudders, head tilting back against the car seat, one arm flung over her eyes, the other still tangled in Paige’s hair. Her hips roll again, not like she means to, just like her body can’t help it. She whimpers, soft and breathy. “P—God, your mouth…”

Paige hums at that, the vibration making Jo jolt. She grins against her, dragging her tongue up slowly, before circling in again—firmer now, licking like she’s starving, like there’s nothing else in the world that matters but this. But Jo. But the way she tastes, the way she shakes, the sounds she makes when Paige’s tongue hits just right.

Jo gasps. “Right there, shit—”

“I know,” Paige mumbles, not pulling away even for a second. Her hand slides up Jo’s thigh, firm and steady, holding her open, holding her still.

She eats like she means it—like it’s fucking devotion or something. Jo deserves it—she deserves fucking everything after that game she had today, not to mention the fact that she’s already two orgasms deep and still letting Paige go down on her in the back seat of her car.

Paige’s tongue works in tight, skilled circles along Jo’s clit, then flattens out, slow and broad, teasing her before she dives back in, messier now, letting her nose bump Jo’s skin, letting it get wet, sticky, perfect.

Jo starts to pant—high pitched gasps that end in little moans she probably doesn’t mean to let out. “P—fuck—fuck, that feels…”

“Yeah?” Paige pulls back just barely, just enough to murmur the words. Her lips are slick. Her chin’s wet. Her eyes look up, glazed with hunger but locked on Jo’s face. “That good for you?”

Jo lets out a strangled sound, hand fisting tighter in Paige’s hair. “Yes. Don’t fucking stop now—” she mutters, sounding frustrated.

“I’m not,” Paige whispers, mouth already returning to her. “Could do this all night.”

She definitely could. Because there’s something about the way Jo opens up to her like this—legs spread wide, hips rolling, thighs shaking. There’s no hiding or pretending, like Jo admitted she had to do a couple times with that stupid boy. No, here, with Paige, Jo is wrecked and raw and beautiful, and the blonde wants to ruin her a hundred more times just to see what else she can look like.

Jo arches when Paige adds her fingers again—just two, slow and slick, sliding in with no resistance. She’s soaked, tight, clenching around her already, and Paige groans again, hips rocking against the seat like she can’t help herself.

“Jesus Christ, Jo,” she mutters, fingers curling just enough to make Jo cry out. “Always so tight.”

Jo’s voice breaks on a moan, desperate now. “Oh my God, that feels—”

“I know,” Paige repeats. “I know, Joey.”

Jo makes this sound, like she’s trying to say something, but she can’t. Her head lolls to the side, her body jerking every time Paige curls her fingers just right, every time her tongue flicks in rhythm against her clit.

Paige can feel her getting closer—tighter, wetter, her moans climbing higher, sharper, almost panicked. Her thighs start to close around Paige’s head, shaking, trying to hold her there.

“Yes—yes, don’t stop, right there, fuck, I’m—” Jo stumbles out, the most vocal Paige has ever heard her, which makes sense since she’s still a little high and she’s already finished a couple times.

“You got it,” Paige tells her encouragingly. “Lemme feel it, just let it go.”

And Jo does—loud and shaking and nearly sobbing, her whole body locking up before it crashes down. Paige keeps going through it, tongue and fingers never letting up, mouth catching every twitch, every pulse, every broken cry. She rides it with her, dragging it out, until Jo’s pulling at her hair with trembling hands and saying her name like it’s the only word she remembers.

“Paige—Paige, I can’t,” she stutters.

And still, Paige doesn’t stop.

She slows, sure—lets her fingers slip out, eases the pressure of her mouth. But she doesn’t pull away. Not yet. She kisses the inside of Jo’s thigh again, soft this time, gentle now that the storm has passed.

Jo’s whole body is limp. Wrecked. Her hoodie’s pushed up around her ribs, her mascara’s entirely smudged, her leggings are still bunched at the bottom of her legs. Her lips are parted, and her eyes—when she finally opens them—look drunk on something that’s certainly not alcohol.

Paige crawls back up over her, settling between Jo’s legs. Her arms cage Jo in. Her lips find her cheek, her jaw, her mouth again—this kiss sweet now, reverent.

Jo breathes out a laugh—shaky and stunned. “You’re outta your mind.”

Paige smiles cheekily against her lips. “Only for you.”

Jo whimpers, hitting Paige’s arm lightly. “I think you broke me.”

Paige chuckles, soft and smug, brushing her knuckles along Jo’s jaw. “Nah. You’re still breathing.”

“Barely.”

“Hm. Guess I better stay right here then.” Paige leans in again, kisses her slow and full. “Keep you safe.”

Jo wraps her arms around her neck, pulling her in tight, their bodies still tangled and warm and pulsing with aftershocks. She buries her face in Paige’s shoulder, mumbling against her hoodie. “Don’t move.”

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Paige swears, lips pressed to Jo’s hair. “Promise.”

She doesn’t notice the way her phone dings with a text message up in the passenger seat. She doesn’t care.

[fgojous]

love wins all | chapter five ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

chapter warnings. death, grief, marital problems, struggles with infertility, explicit smut (p in v, making out, public sex, handjobs, fingering, idk if this is all hahsahjas)

word count. 7.3k

masterlist.

note. hi... i wrote this for days because... this chapter hurts me so much :<

CHAPTER FIVE: I BET ON LOSING DOGS

─── SEPTEMBER, 2023 ───

“Nice work, everyone.” 

That was the last thing you said before pushing the door open to the OR, peeling your gloves and gown in the process. Your feet dragged you to the sink to scrub out, your back hunched as you scrubbed off—there’s this familiar ache blooming in between your shoulders but you were used to it ever since med school.

It was not like you have a choice, you’ve been doing this since forever. Your job is tiring but you love it. It’s a love-hate relationship, really.

You walked out—removing your scrub cap, tugging your mask away and the sharp whiff of hospital antiseptic greeted your nose as you walk through the hallway—you cursed mentally because you remembered that you still have to do the post-op notes. God, can the time freeze for just an hour? You reached for your phone in the pocket as you walked towards the workroom checking if they had paged you or anything but one text caught your eye.

Satoru | 2:15 PM

The new interns are at OUR hang out place.

You | 2:19 PM

Because they’re interns lol they’re supposed to be there just like we were.

Satoru | 2:20 PM

Still. Annoying. I'm outside the ER. Please come and grace your husband with your presence.

A smile tugged on your lips as you walked through the elevators down to the emergency room—you’ll just go see him for a little while before starting on the notes. Just for a moment though because your husband could be so dramatic if he really wanted to. 

The automatic doors hissed open as you walk through, you search for that white hair and you instinctively smile when you see your husband leaning on the wall just outside the emergency room—his hair a mess, mask pulled down on his chin while he’s sipping on his juice box—that’s been his hyperfixation these days, you don’t even know why. 

He looked up, hearing your footsteps. A grin adorned his face as you stood beside him, “You’ve been working yourself so hard these days, the next thing you know you’re the chief of trauma surgery.”

“Ha-ha.” you say, reaching for his juice box to see what the fuss is about this drink—well, okay, it tastes really good for something that sits in a hospital vending machine. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be poking brains in there?”

He laughs, “Needed to take a break. And I’d like to annoy my wife.”

You snorted out a laugh, handing him his juice box back. “Well, congrats. You’ve done it.”

Both of you stayed like that for a while—backs leaned on the wall, looking at a distance. Just enjoying the solace of being together before going back to the intense reality of your jobs. 

You took a deep breath—it was a mix of exhaustion but mostly relief that Satoru is right beside you even if you’re not saying anything. His presence is enough to make that dull ache in your shoulder and the cramping feeling in your legs dissipate into the air like sand thrown in the wind. 

Satoru moved, circling his arms around your shoulder before pressing his cheek against the side of your head. “My poor wife, so tired.”

You chuckled, snaking your arms on his waist in return before leaning into him. “Yeah, well. It’s not like we can do something about it, huh?”

Satoru was so glad you said that. 

Without a warning, he removed his arm from around you and pushed off the wall. Holding your wrist in his hand before dragging you back inside. “Come on.”

“Satoru,” you protested a bit, but your feet were following him anyway. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” you groaned, and you can see that you were heading for the elevator. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“It’ll be worth it to let you drag me around the hospital with my sore feet?” 

He just gave you a sheepish smile and just brushed the hair stuck to your forehead as you both waited for the elevator. You pursed your lip because he isn’t really saying anything until you get there. 

So, you followed him, through the hallways—then you both took a turn, your eyebrows raised as you read the signage just above the door.

Pediatric Wing.

“What are we doing here?”

He didn’t answer and just walked ahead of you, you huffed a breath before following him. You don’t even know what your husband has up his sleeve—

“Here.” his soft voice cuts through the fog in your brain, you look at him—a gentle smile on his lips. 

You raised an eyebrow, “So, is this what you do?”

“Ssh. Watch.” he places his hand above your shoulder before turning you to the glass.

And there they were, a handful of newborn babies lined up in their hospital bassinet. Your heart warmed up instantly at the sight. You chuckle lightly watching the tiny hand raise into the air while yawning. Then another one bursted crying before the nurse soothed it. 

You stood there in silence—basking in the glow of the tiny humans. This isn’t what you expected when Satoru dragged you around, but you’re glad he did. Because looking at their tiny little faces makes you forget that you’re exhausted.

“Suguru brought me here yesterday. Said this is what he does sometimes.” he says, almost whispering. “But it works, right?”

“This is crazy,” you say, chuckling. “They’re so small.”

“Yeah.” he places a hand on your shoulders, “And so cute.”

You both stood there with smiles on your faces, watching the babies squirm—or stirr, or whatever cute stuff they do. 

“Hiii.” you whispered, waving your hand a little as if they’d understand you. You hear Satoru chuckling, you look at him—smiling as you scrunch your nose.

“I want one.”

“Tell me which one then I’ll put it in my pocket.”

“Satoru!” you swatted his arm lightly, and he laughed at your reaction—you just huffed, gazing back at the babies.

“But I’m serious,” you say quietly—your eyes hopeful, then your husband stops laughing, “I want one.”

He looked at you—really looked, and realized that you were serious. His gaze softens, “You do?”

You answered, without hesitations. “I do.”

You’ve always talked about having kids… someday, or in the future. But this was the first time that he’d seen that specific sparkle in your eyes—you weren’t joking, you weren’t teasing.

And it all felt surreal to him. He was still processing—you’ve thought about it, you didn’t throw it into the air like it was some silly idea. 

“Yeah?” he asks again, this time his voice was softer, like he was making sure that he really heard you right. 

“Yeah.” you nodded, still smiling at the babies.

Satoru lets out a breathless laugh, you feel his arms circle around your waist from behind, his chin propped above your shoulder. He whispers, “Okay.”

You leaned onto him, your hand brushing his arms that was wrapped around you. 

“We’ll make it happen.”

And just like that, all of it seemed in place. Just the two of you, standing there seemed like a quiet promise that you were going to try. That you’re stepping into a new chapter in your lives—together.

He was right. There was something that you could do to make this exhaustion you’ve been feeling for years fade away. 

And it was this moment, right here.

─── OCTOBER, 2023 ───

You’ve only been waiting for probably seconds but it felt like an hour. You were tapping your foot on the bathroom floor, waiting for the test line to appear.

You took a deep breath, bringing yourself down to the cold bathroom floor, so that you couldn’t see the test strip sitting on the counter. You press your knees to your chest, your fingers twitch slightly as you tap them over and over your legs.

You look at the timer on your phone and up at the counter—then at your phone again. You huffed a small breath from your nose, this is intense.

It’s just a test to see if you’re ovulating but why is your heart pounding so much?

Then the timer rings, a finger hovers over the stop button. You compose yourself before standing up. 

You can’t look. You can’t look. You can’t—

It’s positive. Your eyes sparkle as you look at those two lines.

You stepped out of the bathroom—Satoru stirred, his eyes adjusting from the sunlight seeping through the windows. He looks at you, eyes half-opened, “Morning?”

“Morning!” you greeted, you climbed into bed with him—specifically, on top of him. 

“What?” he asks, his voice groggy from sleep. “What happened?”

“I’m ovulating.” you say, with a smile. You leaned forward, pressing a kiss on his lips. His hands travelled across your back, fingers tracing your spine.

You pulled away, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re ovulating?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.” he simply says before flipping you over in a swift motion, your back hits the mattress with a soft thump, you anchor your arms around his neck, giggling.

“Okay?” you let out a teasing smile, he looks at you, his messy hair falling carelessly on his forehead.

“Okay,” he repeats, fully awake—pressing soft kisses on your jaw, down to your neck, “Let’s do it.”

You laugh, a little breathlessly. Letting your hand wander to his bare back, down to the waistband of his boxers, tracing it with your fingers. “Hot.”

“I know. So hot.” he murmurs against your skin—he looks at your face, a grin etched on his lips before biting your lower lip. 

You smile into his mouth, pulling him closer just so you could calm the butterflies in your stomach—the arousal creeping up on you along with this feeling of excitement and… hope.

Hope that you never let yourself feel too much.

─── NOVEMBER, 2023 ───

You heard a small ding! from your phone. Even if you didn’t reach for it you know what it meant.

It’s the last day of your ovulation.

You look at the watch—you have rounds to do, patients to check up on. And probably a new consult was coming. 

You sighed, you couldn’t miss your window or you’ll have to wait again next month. But considering your job, you don’t have all the time in the world.

Then another sound popped out from your phone. You settled the chart down the counter and reached for the phone in your pocket.

Satoru | 9:47 PM

got time?

That was all it took before you’re pinned against the wall of the storage room, his tall stature looming over you while his lips are devouring you whole.

What? The on-call room is occupied.

Satoru’s hand travelled to your nape, pulling you closer. His tongue slips past your lips, swirling and sucking on your tongue. His other hand pushed past the waistband of your scrub pants.

Your heart was pounding—not just from the adrenaline or the thrill of doing it in the storage room where you’re surrounded by boxes of gloves, IV kits—but also by the way your husband is holding you. 

You whimper into his mouth when his middle finger rubs your clit, you pull away—gasping, he kisses your neck, “Can you keep quiet for me, yeah?”

And before you could even formulate words, he was pushing two fingers in—scissoring his fingers before curling it up, “Mhm—Satoru!”

His hand travelled to your mouth, his dark eyes glisten under the dim light—like he’s warning you to stay quiet or you’ll get caught. 

You gripped on his arm, while your other hand traveled down his pants, pushing it down along with his boxers just below his ass. 

His hard cock springs free, you wrap your hand around his length, moving it up and down—twisting your hand every now and then, your thumb brushes over the tip, smearing his pre-cum.

Your vision blurs as you watch Satoru’s lips part—his gaze holds yours as he pumps his fingers in and out, your movements in sync. Your breaths were ragged—stifled moans to keep quiet.

He removes his hand from your mouth, you bury your face on the crook of his neck as you try not to moan out loud, hand still moving on his cock. “Sa—toru. Mhm—fuck! ‘m gonna… shit.”

You could hear the  muffled—distant, bustle of the hospital just outside the door but it seemed like all the care in world flew out the window while your husband finger-fucks you—you could hear his ragged breathing, biting the skin of your neck as you pump his dick harder. 

“Take off your pants.” he says, voice low—almost a growl. You whimper as he removes his fingers—obligingly, you push your pants down along with your undergarments, letting it pool on the floor. 

His fingers gripped on the back of your thigh to hoist your leg up, he teases your folds with the tip before aligning himself—slowly, he pushes in—you bite your lip hard, you can’t not moan when he’s stretching you so deliciously. 

You’ve been with him for years, but the feeling was just the same—maybe more. God.

All you could do was bury your face on his shoulder, your fingers slipping on his hair as if you’re gripping all the last drop of wits left in you. 

Satoru’s breathing was shallow, his hands gripping on your hips as he tried to compose himself—he’s getting insane with the way you’re clenching around him, but he willed himself to move, slowly—deliberately, trying to relish in the way you wrap around him.

“Hah—fuck,” his breath ghosts over your ear, “I’ve got you, baby.”

He presses a soft kiss on your temple, his pace fastens—your back, slamming on the cold wall as he slams himself into you. The pleasure lit every nerve endings in your body, spreading like wildfire all over your skin. 

His lips finds yours again—pressing wet, sloppy kisses on you. A little saliva stringing out as your part, “Sat—nggh! So good—mhmm—”

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps out, his movements fast—deep, hard. 

You look at him with heavy-lidded eyes, breathless moans escaping your mouth as you part your lips, your grip on his shoulder tightens. “I love you—Ah—I fuck—ngghh… love you.”

─── DECEMBER, 2023 ───

You were five days late. 

Five days. 

You stare at your phone again, the big ‘late for five days’ from the period tracker that you downloaded on your phone were screaming at you. You could feel the heartbeat in your chest along with the pounding in your head.

It’s not… could it be?

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t move from where you were standing.

Your fingers ghost above your belly, your heart thudding unmistakably in your chest as your brain evokes some ideas in you—your hands were shaking as you pulled the drawer open, reaching for the pregnancy test just sitting above the pads that you were hoping not to use.

But as you’re about to lift it up, that familiar cramping shoots up on your lower belly and tugs down on your lower back.

You froze.

Instead of the pregnancy test, you pick the pads from the drawer.

And your heart clenched, too tight.

“Hey,” Satoru turned his head from the television as you sat beside him on the couch, “You okay?”

You smile but knowing your husband, he could see right through you. “Got my period.”

You can see this shift in his demeanor, but nonetheless, he smiled at you. He wraps his arms around your waist before pressing a kiss on your shoulder, “It’s okay. We’ll keep trying.”

─── FEBRUARY, 2024 ───

The coffee would’ve boiled if you had the power to do it just by staring at it.

You just came from a three-hour surgery, it was messy—a lot stressful, but it was a success nevertheless and all you wanted to do right now was to sip a cup of coffee, maybe have a few minutes of silence.

You were too exhausted. Your arms feel like it’s about to fall off, your legs feel like jelly, and your brain felt like it was almost giving up on you.

Just a sip. It wouldn’t hurt, right?

You were about to reach for a cup of coffee when your husband’s voice entered your mind. Satoru would always remind you to refrain from drinking coffee because it wouldn’t be good for you—because… you were trying.

You have been trying.

You’re doing all that you can. 

You’re doing everything from not drinking coffee to taking a lot less stressful cases and avoiding night shifts—taking supplements, vitamins, hormone boosters to even tracking your ovulation and periods—even as far as scheduling sex.

It was so exhausting and all you wanted was just a sip of coffee.

It has been, what? Five months since you’ve started trying but you were still here.

Still stuck in trying. 

Before you even knew it, you were holding a cup of coffee in your hand and was about to take a sip when it got snatched from your hand.

“Nice try, Dr. Gojo.”

You huffed, looking at your husband—you didn’t utter a single word and just tried to reach for it, but then he raised it above his head. 

“Are you a kid?” you shot him a look, “You’re so insufferable.”

Satoru just grinned, pressing a kiss on your temple before dumping the coffee into the sink, making you groan—loudly. He reached for something in his pocket.

“You should be taking this.” he says, placing the blister pack in your palm.

It’s your vitamins.

“Fine.” you say, taking one from the pack and then he handed you a water. He watched as you popped it in your mouth—as if he’s checking if you really swallowed it. “Happy?”

“Very much.” 

You rolled your eyes but chuckled anyway, you took a deep breath before stepping closer to him, then you leaned onto him—his arms circled around you without any hesitation.

“Tired?”

“Very.” you could feel him tapping your back gently. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his. 

“It’s going to work, right?”

He smiled, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Yes. It’ll work.”

─── JULY, 2024 ───

“Dr. YN Gojo?”

You looked up from doing your post-op notes. You immediately fixed your posture and smiled nervously when you realized who it was who called you.

“Dr. Yamada. Hi—uhm, I mean, good afternoon! How may I help you?”

How may I help you? What in the lame ass is this YN?

How can you not get nervous when it’s Dr. Yamada in front of you?

Dr. Emi Yamada, the top cardiothoracic surgeon in the hospital—and in the country, is talking to you and you don’t know what for. 

You’ve read her papers. You probably watched one of her lectures when you were in med school—and you know she had been invited to several conferences to speak, she’s even mentioned in different journals for cardiothoracic surgery.

So, yes, you’re kind of spiraling.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” she says with a small smile, “I heard you’re the primary for the thoracoabdominal case last week.”

What… did you do something wrong?

Did she not like your work—

“We have an opening for a fellow. I’d like you to consider.”

Your eyes widened, almost choking on your saliva. “M-me?”

She nodded, putting her hands inside her pocket. “I read your charting. You work fast but precise. You’re very meticulous. I’ve heard your name more than once and they say you’re very good. Well, I could say… that I agree.”

Your jaw almost bore a hole on the ground.

Dr. Yamada is not big on compliments. She’s a bit of a terror as they say. 

“I thought they’re just talking big because your father is the chief of surgery. But you’re really good. I’ve read the paper you published when you were a resident.”

And she’s blunt—and she read your paper. Your paper that you published. 

“I’m honored but I’ve been on trauma—”

“Since residency, right?” she hummed, “That’s good. But I think cardiothoracic is a good match for you. Hearts are complicated. You know? Complex, demanding. But I could see that you like challenges. We could use someone like you.”

You couldn’t move. Your lips were tight and you didn’t know what else to say. 

How could you respond to something like this—not even your father praised you like this.

“I’m… honored.” You don’t even know how you managed to get words out. 

“You don’t have to answer now, Dr. Gojo. Just think about it.”

And with that she left you—with a heart pounding so loud in your chest, your pulse was audible in your ears. And as you stood there in that hallway, one person just came into your mind.

Satoru.

Your plan. 

Taking this would mean you’re sacrificing the other. But it doesn’t have to be like that, right? You could still try. You could do it.

“Ah, fuck, no.” you whispered, determined not to take it.

But you know—deep inside your heart, something was stirring.

—

“Are you going to eat that?”

“Huh?”

“Your food.” Megumi says before taking a bite, “You okay?”

You stared at Megumi across from you—he texted you saying was here because he said something about his application, and now you’re eating lunch with him because your husband was in surgery.

“Something wrong?” he asked again, brows furrowing when he noticed your staring at him. “You’re acting weird.”

“Do you think it’d be okay if I take a cardiothoracic fellowship?”

“You’d be studying again.” he says and you chuckled, well, you’ve been studying your whole life. It’s nothing new. 

“Dr. Yamada offered me the fellowship. She talked to me five days ago. Said I’ll be a good fit.”

He paused, dropping his utensils, “Dr. Yamada…? Dr. Emi Yamada…? Then it’s a big deal.”

You know that.

That’s why you’ve been thinking about it since. It’s not just something you can pass on. It’s a big deal. A career in trauma and cardiothoracic surgery? Soon enough, you’ll be a big deal yourself.

You huffed, leaning back. “I know that, Megs. But..”

“But what?”

“I’m thinking about Satoru. We are trying to have a baby… or were. I have no idea if we still are.” you paused, “And a fellowship like this means more hours. More work, responsibilities and… stress.”

Megumi paused for a while, pondering about what to tell you. “You’re always telling me to always go for what I want. No hesitations. You say it’s better to look at yourself and say you’ve made it even when it’s hard, and not look at yourself and wonder what could’ve been.”

You smiled at him, “I did say that, huh?”

“Yeah.” he almost smiles, “Do you want it?”

You looked away for a bit, staring at some people leaving and entering the cafeteria then you looked back at him. 

“Yeah.” you took a deep breath, “I think I do.”

—

You hated how quiet the room is, because you could actually hear your heartbeat inside your chest. You hated how you noticed the flickering of the lamp beside you—the hum of the AC unit—just… everything.

You hated how you couldn’t just talk about it to your husband because you’re afraid of hurting him, of disappointing him more than you already have. 

You turned your head, looking at Satoru who’s already half-asleep beside you, his arm carelessly slung above his eyes. 

You watched how the breath tumbles out of his lips, how his chest rises and falls with every breath that he takes. 

“Satoru.” you whispered.

“Yes, love?” he asks, voice already a bit groggy.

You sighed, sitting up slightly. The sheets fiddling in between your fingers. “Dr. Yamada talked to me.”

He blinked, sleep slowly fading away. “Hm? Dr. Yamada? The Dr. Yamada? About what?”

“She offered me a cardiothoracic fellowship—no, uhm, she suggested I should take a fellowship.”

Satoru pushed his arm off and looked at you with a creased brows, and the look in his eyes pricked your heart in ways you didn’t even know it could.

“Fellowship?” he repeated, confirming. “Are you going to take it?”

“I’m… I— I’m just thinking about it.”

There was silence for a bit. The tension was palpable. “Nevermind—”

“You want it.” he says, you notice the change in his tone. “Just say it.”

“And what if I do?”

He sat up fully, “Jesus, YN. You’re the one who said you wanted to slow down. No more night shift, complicated cases—you said all that. Do you know what this all means? You’re going to do more work. More responsibilities—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” you sat up, taking a deep breath. “But I can do it. We can still try—”

“No, we can’t!” his voice was louder than he intended it to be, the frustrations finally seeping in. “Do you realize how big that is? That’s another late night studying, YN. I’ve seen you burn yourself out. I’ve seen you cry in the goddamn bathroom—ha, fuck, you think we could still try with you going all through that again?”

“Satoru—”

“God,” he laughed bitterly, dragging his hands through his hair, “Take it. Just fucking take it. Seems like you already made a choice, right?”

You could feel the tears falling from your eyes but you wiped them hastily. “I didn’t make a choice, Satoru. I’m just so tired of feeling this way! This fellowship? You know it’s the first thing in ten months that I’ve felt that I could finally do something without feeling like a failure? For the first time in months I could still feel like I was something!”

The look on his face says everything—you’ve hurt him. And you have no way of taking it back.

He stood up, getting out of bed. Looking away from you.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer, instead, he grabbed his pillow out of the bed. 

“Satoru.”

“I’m going to sleep on the couch.” he muttered, slamming the door behind him.

And you just stayed there. Not because you didn’t want to stop him—but because you knew if you did, you would’ve said more things you would regret.

─── OCTOBER, 2024 ───

The months passed by in an agonizing blur. 

You started your fellowship two months ago—and that was the last time you had a decent conversation with your husband. Since then, you’ve been buried in rotations, surgeries, research and a lot more you couldn’t even count.

You were still sleeping in the same bed but with your backs facing each other. You still eat at the same table but only the clattering of the utensils could be heard. 

There are days that he’ll ask if you already ate and you’ll say yes. You’ll ask him if he had slept and he’ll just smile. You were like ships, just passing by each other in the vast ocean.

And the one thing that he did all those months that breaks your heart the most was—he left you coffee.

Coffee.

Because he used to take it out of your hand. Because he used to scold you when you said you wanted a sip. Just a sip and now, he’s letting you drink a whole cup.

And now, your heart is breaking because you know he surrendered. He stopped trying—you both stopped trying.

You know it was your fault. You just didn’t know how to fix it. Because you think it’d be better this way—you didn’t want to loop him in and then give him another hope then disappoint him in the end.

You stared at the cup for too long, not even sure if you wanted it anymore until your phone rings in your pocket and steers away the fog in your brain.

You almost dropped the phone when you saw Suguru’s message. You didn’t even know how but you were there in a matter of seconds.

The ER was in chaos when you arrived. 

“Male in the mid-sixties, cardiac arrest on the scene, possible internal blee—”

You shoved the nurses and paramedics out of the way, your heart was wailing inside your chest. Your whole body was pulsating.

Then you saw him, Satoru’s father.

Move, YN. You need to move.

But you couldn’t. He was pale—too pale like life was slowly drowning out of him. There was blood everywhere.

You didn’t even know how you got here—knees already bumping on the gurney, how you got your gloves on—you just know logic went out the window the moment you laid your hands above him.

“Move! I’m taking over compressions! Get the crash cart ready.”

“YN. You can’t—” you hear Suguru’s voice. “I’ll take over—”

“No!” you yelled, already moving, “I—just get the paddles ready! Suguru, please.”

You pressed your hands down his chest—you counted, over and over. “Push one of Epi. Charge to 200—clear!”

You watched as his body jerk above the table, you could already feel your hands trembling but you continued, you couldn’t stop. You won’t.

Stay with me, please. 

“Again—Clear!”

Nothing.

“Again!”

“Clear!”

“Again!”

You never stopped moving. You didn’t know how long it was. Minutes? An hour?

“Again!” you yelled, but they weren’t moving—and you, refusing to hear the shrill beeping of the machine in front of you, just continued. “Again—”

“YN.” Suguru says gently, “You’ve been at it for almost an hour.” 

But you don't stop. Your arms were sore—but that was never your worry, you wouldn’t do this.

You wouldn’t let this happen. 

No.

He can’t lose his father.

“YN.”

You could feel your tears falling as you continued the compressions. “Let go, YN.”

You feel Suguru’s hand above you, “I’ll take over. YN, you need to take a break.”

“No.” your voice cracks, “No. No. No.”

Suguru takes over and you stand there frozen, watching as his hands slowly move until it stops. 

“Time of death, 5:46 PM.”

Your hands fell to your side, your gloves soaked with blood—your hair all over the place, but you didn’t move. 

You can’t move. 

How do you tell his mom?

How do you tell him?

You don’t know how long you stood there—staring at your bloodied gloves when you heard your father’s voice.

“Dr. Gojo! Are you listening?!” he was shouting, “You know it was against protocol! He was your family! What were you thinking?!”

“He was dying…” you whispered, “I was the only trauma attending there… I…”

“That’s not the point—”

“She didn’t have any choice,” Suguru says beside you, “She was the only one there. The interns couldn’t have done what she did. Dr. Gojo only did what she thought was right—she did everything she could.”

You didn’t know what else your father said. 

All of it was a blur. 

You know you have to talk to Satoru and his mom. 

God, your husband. How do you say it to him? How do you tell him that you did everything you could but you couldn’t save his dad?

—

“YN?”

Satoru called for you—his heart dropped when he saw you sitting on the floor, back leaning on the wall just outside the emergency room.

You were still wearing your gown and gloves. You weren’t moving. You were just staring at the pavement like you’ve lost your mind.

He stepped towards you, slowly crouching to your level. 

“I’m here,” he whispers, “I’m here, love.”

But you didn’t move, you didn’t look at him because you didn’t know how to. Or if you could even.

“I… I tried,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “Satoru, I tried. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I can’t save him. I didn’t—I’m sorry. I did everything. Everything. I tried, baby, I’m sorry—”

Your body trembled with every word that you uttered, your fingers twitching as if you’re still moving. Still compressing.

His chest tightens, he pulls you close—his figure slowly enveloping you until you feel small. “I know you tried. I know you did. You didn’t let him die alone, love. I know…”

He stutters, tears falling slowly as he pulls you closer, his words tangled into your skin.

“He would’ve been proud of you, YN. You were there for him when I couldn’t…”

─── DECEMBER, 2024 ───

It’s your husband’s birthday tomorrow. 

It’s the first one without his father. It has been almost two months since he died, but Satoru never really talked about it. He never cried in front of you again after that day, he never brought it up.

And you did not push. You didn’t want to say anything, because honestly? You don’t know how to—and there’s a selfish part of you that doesn’t want to open that wound.

So, you just stare at him. At his back. While he pours water on the glasses until he’s aware that you were staring at him. 

“What?” he asks, forehead creasing and you chuckled at his reaction. “Why?”

“You know I love you, right?”

He paused, just for a fraction of second before putting the pitcher down. He smiles, “I know.”

You stare at each other, eyes flickering the unspoken words that you couldn’t say. You never talked about it again, trying—not after months of silence, it was too painful for the two of you to even bring it up. So, you just let it sit in the back. 

Not knowing how to bring it up. Not knowing what to say.

But there’s one thing you both knew for sure. 

That you still love each other and that’ll never change.

He walked towards you—the couch sank beside you as he leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss on your lips.

“I love you more, YN. Always have. Always will.”

You smiled, cradling his face in your hands, brushing your noses together. 

“Can I have my birthday sex now?”

You pulled away, then you shot him a look. “What?”

“Seriously?” you blinked, you glanced at the clock. “It’s still 11:58 PM. You have two minutes left.”

You shrieked when he carries you up, “Satoru—”

He grins, kissing the side of your lips. “Then advance happy birthday to me then?”

─── DECEMBER 26, 2024 ───

You were scrolling through your phone, eating whatever fruit you had left yesterday, your body sprawled at the couch. Your husband was at the hospital because he got called in and you got left alone at your apartment.

Well, that’s the reality of your job, right? Even if he wanted to stay in with you, he begrudgingly went to the hospital while you just laughed at him for being called in.

Satoru | 3:45 PM

I know you’re still laughing. Mean.

You just rolled your eyes, taking a picture of yourself lounging on the couch so you could rub it in your husband’s face. 

You | 3:46 PM

I love you <3

Satoru | 3:47 PM

K

You laughed at his response. Your poor husband, working after Christmas—

Wait.

“It’s the 26th.” you murmured, “What?”

You stood up from the couch to stare at the small calendar sitting atop the shelf.

It’s almost a month.

A month. 

You should’ve had your period by now… right?

You almost sprinted to the bathroom, hastily opening that one drawer—where you had stored the forgotten test kits, the hormone boosters, the vitamins—your hands were shaking when you reached for that one box.

And you think it’s about an hour before you had the guts to open it.

You were sitting on the bathroom floor again. Trying not to stare at the three tests that sit heavy above the counter. 

You didn’t want to hope. Not after a year of trying. Not after all the pain and silence.

But your heart betrayed you, it was screaming at you, roaring with hope that you might be—

The alarm causes you to jolt from where you were sitting. 

You couldn’t look. 

“YN?” you hear the keys clattering on the side table. “I’m home! It was just a consult.”

Then you heard his voice. 

You stood up instantly—still not looking at the test, grabbing one before you emerged from the bathroom.

“There you are!” his voice lit up, but then he frowned seeing your glassy eyes, “Hey… what’s wrong?”

You stepped forward, the test still hidden inside your palm. “I can’t look. You look.”

“Huh?”

You reached for his hand, turning his palm up then you placed it on his hand without even looking.

He blinked at you, confused until he looked at what you placed at his palm. 

His heart stopped. The air in his lungs was punched out of him.

Two lines.

Two.

“Is this…” his voice cracked as he stared at it—and you couldn’t help it anymore, so you looked, “Love—this is positive. You’re…”

“I am?” you say, tears falling at the side of your eyes, you swallow thickly, “I really am? Is this real?”

He smiles—the kind that eats up his eyes, he pulls you close, embracing you tight. Then you break—sobs wracking out of you, a big one that you almost couldn’t breathe. 

“I thought we couldn’t—ever.” you cried, clutching on his shirt as you buried your face on his neck. “I thought something was wrong with me. I thought…”

“No,” he sighs, the one that clears all the sorrows buried deep inside him—a sigh of relief, joy. “No, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect.”

You looked at him, smiling albeit tears were falling. He cups your face with his hands—it was warm, comfortable.

You giggle as he presses a gentle kiss in your face, everywhere his lips could touch. “We’re having a baby.”

“We are. We’re having a baby.”

─── MAY, 2025 (PRESENT)  ───

You’re having a baby.

Again.

After you’ve gone to the comfort room—where you felt like all your guts were butchered out of you, your feet dragged you to the storage room where they hid all the kits.

You took five.  Five kits. 

And now, you’re back at the comfort room—staring at the kits that were taunting you. 

All of it has two dark lines.

You press a hand on your belly, slowly brushing it—clutching like it was anchoring you to the ground.

This is real. Isn’t it?

You had no idea how you left the comfort room. All you knew was how heavy the steps that you were taking—the five tests, shoved into your pocket. 

You knocked into her door, slowly opening to see Ieiri on her desk. “Hey! I heard Megumi’s surgery is today—”

And that’s when you broke.

You didn’t mean it. You weren’t supposed to cry again. Not like this. Not in front of her but you couldn’t help it. 

Shoko was up in an instant, holding onto you before your knees buckled. “Hey—hey—it’s okay. Come here.”

She wrapped her arms around you as your loud sobs echoed around her office, your wails replacing the atmosphere.

You weren’t saying anything. 

You couldn’t.

—

“You want to tell me what happened or do you just want to sit here?”

It took a while for you to calm down, and now you’re just sitting quietly on her couch. Your eyes were swollen—knees pressed against your chest.

You took a deep breath before reaching for your coat pocket, laying all the tests in the space between you two.

All five of them. Each one unmistakeable.

You could see how her gaze softened, she placed a hand above yours, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Lie down. Let’s check.”

And then, there you were, lying while Shoko puts the cool gel on your belly—the paper on your back crinkles slightly as you shift, Shoko sits beside the machine, clicking on some buttons.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” you whisper.

You flinched a bit when she pressed the transducer against your skin—her hands were steady, and you tried to  focus on the screen or even her voice.

But your heart was pounding. Unsure of what to feel. 

“There.” she says with a soft smile on her face, “That’s your baby.”

Then you saw it. A small figure.

It’s tiny. But it’s there. It’s real.

Your baby. Yours and Satoru’s.

The air was caught in your throat.

You chuckled—or cried, maybe—or something in between, wiping the tears falling from the side of your eyes. “That’s… that’s my baby?”

“Yeah,” she pats your hand, “You’re about six weeks. I’d say.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

You’re six weeks. 

Just like when you first lost her. But this one… it’s going to stick, right? You’re not going to lose this one too. 

Please.

“Hey,” you hear Ieiri’s voice, you opened your eyes and she was smiling at you, “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. But this is a good thing. Okay? I’m going to keep an eye on you. We’ll have you checked regularly. I’ll make sure everything is okay.”

“Thank you.”

She just smiled and handed you a tissue box. You wiped the gel off your skin and then you sat up, “I haven’t told him.”

“Do you want me to tell him?”

“No.” you say almost immediately, “Not yet. I just want to be sure.”

Your fingers latched on the edge of the bed, gripping it a bit tight. “It’s just that… we’ve been here before. And I gave him hope and I took it away. I just wanted to make sure that this is it. That I wouldn’t just give him another disappointment.”

“I get it,” she nodded, “You’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

—

Satoru was hunched on his desk, typing something on his computer when you came into his neuro lab. He didn’t even notice you came in—he looked so exhausted, like there’s a large weight on his shoulders. His white hair was disheveled a bit, his specs perched on his nose.

You looked around—the lab was dim, there’s a lot of papers stacked and scattered around the table—and there’s a model of the brain just near his computer.

But your eyes flicker to the other side of his desk—it’s a frame, with your picture on it. 

You huffed a small breath before walking towards him and that’s when he noticed you. He hoisted his head up—eyes a bit wide from surprise.

“Hey.” he says softly, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? I haven’t seen you since—”

He stopped when you climbed on his lap, without saying anything, your arms slung around his neck, cheeks pressed on his shoulder.

He paused for just a second, then you could feel him relax, leaning you both on the chair while circling his arms around you. Gently tapping your back when he heard you sniffle.

He didn’t utter a word. He just let you—even if he wanted to ask, to know. He just let you in the fear of pushing you away. So, he just stayed quiet, giving you the comfort you clearly needed.

You weren’t sobbing like you were earlier. But your breath hitched, you clutch his coat with every breath coming out of your lips. 

But he didn’t say anything. And you wanted to tell him right there and then. But you stopped yourself, you needed to be sure first. You can’t give him false hope.

In a little while, your breathing steadied—getting in sync with him. And you just stayed there, on your husband’s lap, because this is the safest place you know. 

Then you pulled away just enough to look at his face. He gave you a smile, tucking your hair behind your ears.

“You’re not going to ask me to sign something again, right?”

And then you broke—laughing, not hysterically, but you laughed at how ridiculous you were, filing for a divorce when you knew you were never going to leave him. 

Satoru blinked but then he chuckled. 

Then you both sat there—laughing, “God, this is so ridiculous. We’re so stupid.”

“I know.” he mumbles, “This is so dumb.”

Your laughter slowly dies down, you smile at him before pressing a soft kiss on his lips. 

“Satoru.”

His arms tightens around you, resting his head on your shoulders. “Hm?”

“Throw the papers away.”

taglist. @haliyarobin . @anofi . @coffeeluvr96 . @sadmonke .

[huxhsz]

✈ — weightless paradise

transmigrated non-mc!reader x caleb

prev ch: 01 - "first" meet┆series masterlist ┆next ch: 03 -regeneration

This isn’t how the game was supposed to go. You're not supposed to be here. You're an anomaly. But if you’re already here, then… can’t you just enjoy it for now? Just for a little while? Before the main story begins? Before everything inevitably falls into place? ...Right?

— content warning/s:

non-consensual medical & scientific experimentation

torture and pain (electrocution, physical restraint)

implied abuse and dehumanization

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

CH. 02 — EXPERIMENT

You hear the screaming before you see them.  

High-pitched and thin, broken in places where their breath cuts out.  

You freeze. Your hand tightens automatically around Caleb’s wrist. His fingers flex beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. His gaze sharpens, head tilting slightly toward the sound.  

You know that voice.  

The door slides open with a soft hiss, and the cold, sterile air of the lab spills out. Caleb steps in first, leading you by the hand. He doesn’t hesitate. He’s calm—too calm—but his grip is firm. Steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s nothing.  

You don’t want to look. But you do.  

Unicorn is strapped down to the operating table, arms and legs pinned beneath thick metal restraints. Their hair is damp with sweat, sticking to their forehead and cheeks. Thin white hospital clothes hang off their small frame. Wires snake from their collar to the machines humming around them, feeding streams of data into flickering holographic screens.  

They’re shaking.  

Their dark eyes are wide and glassy with tears, locked onto the masked scientist leaning over them. There’s a thin instrument pressed against their chest, just over their heart. A faint blue glow pulses from the tip, growing brighter with every strained breath they take.  

"Again," one of the scientists says.  

“No—!” Unicorn gasps, but the scientist presses the device deeper.  

Their body arches violently beneath the restraints, their back bowing off the table. Their scream splits the room in half.  

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. You try to move—try to step forward—but Caleb’s hand tightens around yours.  

“Don't.”  

Your head snaps toward him. “We can’t just—”  

“We can’t stop it,” he says. His voice is flat. Cold. “It’s a waste of energy.”  

You shake your head, swallowing against the knot in your throat. “But—they’re hurting them—”  

“Yes,” Caleb says. His gaze is fixed on Unicorn, but his expression doesn’t change. “They always do.”  

Unicorn’s breathing stutters. Their chest rises and falls in shallow, broken gasps. Tears slip down their temples, disappearing into their tangled hair.  

"Please," they whisper.  

Your legs move before you can think. You pull away from Caleb’s grip—hard enough to make him stumble—but his hand closes around your arm before you reach the table.  

“Stop.”  

“Ca—Destroyer!”  

“If you interrupt,” he says evenly, “they’ll make it worse.”  

You choke on a breath. “How could it get any worse?”  

He doesn’t answer.  

The scientist adjusts the device. The blue glow pulses brighter. A sharp, electric sound fills the room—high-pitched and unnatural—and Unicorn’s whole body locks up. Their mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Their eyes are wide, pupils blown, their lips trembling.  

“I…” Their head tilts toward you, barely moving beneath the weight of the collar. Their gaze struggles to focus through the haze of tears. “It… it hurts…”  

You feel sick.  

Caleb’s hand slides down to your wrist, thumb pressing lightly against the inside of your palm. His touch is warm. His grip steady.  

They’re strapped down to the table—thin wrists pinned beneath metal restraints, pale skin mottled with bruises. Their dark hair fans out beneath their head, damp with sweat and sticking to their flushed cheeks. Electrodes are attached to their temples, to their chest, to their throat. Their mouth is open, breathless sobs escaping between broken cries.

The scientists are talking. Calmly. Flatly. Adjusting the settings on the machine as if Unicorn’s body isn’t arching in pain beneath their hands.

"Subject 001’s core stability is deteriorating."

"Increase the output by 5%."

"Yes, sir."

Unicorn’s back bows violently. Their mouth stretches wide in a scream you can’t hear through the glass. Their body thrashes against the restraints, limbs jerking uncontrollably. Their eyes are wide, glassy, tears streaking down their cheeks.

Caleb’s hand moves. He presses his palm flat against the glass, his jaw clenching.

"They’re killing them," you whisper.

"Yeah," Caleb says darkly.

Unicorn’s breathing sharpens—short, shallow gasps. Their chest heaves. Blood wells beneath the restraints where the metal cuts into their wrists. Their body convulses violently once—twice—before going still.

The monitor flatlines.

A sharp, continuous beep.

You flinch.

Unicorn’s head falls limply to the side, their dark hair sticking to their damp cheek. Their eyes are half-lidded. Glassy. Empty.

"They…" Your voice catches. "They’re…"

"No." Caleb’s voice is cold. Hollow. His hand slides down the glass. "Just wait."

You’re about to demand what he means when it happens.

The monitor flickers. The long, continuous tone of the flatline cuts off abruptly.

A beat of silence.

Unicorn’s chest rises with a shaky inhale. Their fingers twitch.

The scientists exchange a few brief words. A quick note is entered into a tablet. The restraints are removed.

Unicorn’s eyes flutter open. Slow. Unfocused.

They sit up. Their legs swing over the side of the table, small hands curling loosely over their knees. Their gaze lifts toward the glass. Their dark eyes are clear, calm. Empty.

They smile.

"Good morning!" Unicorn chirps brightly.

Your breath stops.

The bruises on their wrists are already fading. Their cheeks are flushed with new color. They tilt their head, dark hair glinting beneath the overhead lights.

"Where am I?" they ask cheerfully.

The scientists don’t answer. They’ve already turned away, gathering notes and dismantling the machine.

Unicorn slides off the table. Their legs wobble slightly beneath them, but they recover quickly. Their gaze shifts toward the window. Their eyes meet yours.

Their smile brightens.

"Hi!" they wave. "Who are you?"

Your stomach drops.

Caleb steps away from the glass. His hand curls loosely at his side. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze hardens.

"You see?" His voice is low. Bitter.

You swallow. Your mouth tastes like metal. "How…?"

Caleb’s eyes darken.

"They don’t know," he says. "They just know it works."

You stare at Unicorn.

They’re already being led out of the room by one of the handlers. They glance back over their shoulder, catching your eye through the glass. Their smile never fades.

As if they didn’t just die.

As if none of it happened.

Unicorn raises a hand and waves.

You can’t move.

"Come on," Caleb mutters. "It’s over."

He turns and walks away. His shoulders are tense.

You remain standing at the window, your pulse pounding painfully in your ears.

You’re sitting in the observation room again.

The glass is cold beneath your fingertips, the faint outline of your breath fogging the surface. The room beyond it is too bright, too sterile. The low hum of machines pulses against your skull, steady and sharp.

Inside the room, Caleb is strapped down to the table.

Metal cuffs circle his wrists and ankles. His dark brown hair is damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. His breathing is steady, but his jaw is tight, his knuckles white where his hands curl into fists. Electrodes are attached to his temples and chest, thin wires running from his skin to the machine standing beside him. The screen pulses with bright lines, sharp spikes that match the rapid beat of his heart.

He doesn’t look at you. He’s staring at the ceiling. His eyes are narrowed. Cold. Detached.

"This is test sequence 14," one of the scientists says.

"Begin."

A sharp pulse crackles through the air.

Caleb’s body jerks. His back arches against the restraints, breath hitching sharply between his teeth. His hands curl tighter.

The hum of the machine deepens.

The gravity in the room shifts.

You feel it first in your chest—a heavy pressure sinking into your lungs, squeezing the breath from your throat. The glass vibrates beneath your fingertips. The metal tray beside the table shudders. The lights overhead flicker.

"Containment field holding," a scientist says.

"Increase output."

"No," you whisper.

Caleb’s breath sharpens. His teeth flash in a snarl as his body strains beneath the cuffs. The table creaks beneath him. The glass beneath your hands trembles violently.

"Output increased by 10%."

Caleb’s eyes snap open.

You stumble back a step.

His eyes—normally deep violet—are blazing now, burning bright and unnatural. The air pulses around him, pressing outward. The lights overhead shatter in a burst of sparks. The scientist closest to him staggers back, clutching his chest.

"Containment field destabilizing—!"

"Shut it down—"

A violent pulse tears through the room.

You gasp, hands flying to your ears as the pressure slams against you. The walls groan. The glass splinters beneath your hands. Blood hums beneath your skin, too fast, too loud—

"SHUT IT DOWN!"

The machine powers down with a metallic hiss.

Caleb’s body collapses back against the table. His chest rises and falls sharply. His eyes slide closed, his head tilting to the side. His hands are trembling where they hang limp at his sides.

The scientists are already moving toward him, adjusting the restraints, collecting data.

"Another failure."

"We need to increase the threshold."

"He’s destabilizing too quickly."

You press your hand to your mouth, trying to steady your breathing. Your knees feel weak.

One of the scientists reaches toward Caleb’s arm. His fingers brush Caleb’s wrist—

Caleb’s hand snaps upward. His fingers wrap around the scientist’s throat.

The glass between you cracks.

"Shit, Subject 002—!"

The scientist’s face twists in panic as he claws at Caleb’s hand. Caleb’s eyes slide open. His gaze is dark. Empty.

"Release him!"

The guards rush forward. Caleb’s grip tightens.

And then—

"C...― Destroyer!"

Your voice breaks.

His eyes flick toward you.

For a moment, you see it—recognition flickering beneath the surface. His hand loosens. The scientist falls to the floor, coughing.

The guards seize Caleb’s arms, strapping him back down as he exhales shakily. His gaze slides toward you. His eyes have darkened, the unnatural glow fading back into violet.

"Take him to containment," one of the scientists orders.

Caleb doesn’t resist. He sits up slowly as the guards unlock the restraints and haul him to his feet. His head tilts slightly toward you as they drag him toward the door. His gaze finds yours through the fractured glass.

You can’t breathe.

He doesn’t smile. But his lips move.

I’m fine.

You know it’s a lie.

The door slides shut behind him.

You sink to the floor, your head falling into your hands.

The room feels too empty without him.

Later, you’re back in the hallway. Cold fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. You’re waiting outside the medical ward, hands curled over your elbows. You’re still shaking.

The door slides open. Caleb steps out.

He’s still pale. His hair is damp. His uniform jacket is unzipped, the collar hanging loose around his throat. His gaze sharpens when he sees you.

"Hey," he says quietly.

You swallow thickly. "Destroyer—"

Before you can say anything else, his hand lifts.

He presses his palm gently over your eyes.

Your breath catches.

"You don’t have to look," he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers brush lightly against your temple. "It’s okay."

"But it’s not okay."

His hand shifts. His thumb brushes your cheek. His gaze softens.

"I don’t want you to see it."

"You…"

He doesn’t let you pull away. His other hand touches your shoulder.

"You’re shaking," he says.

You inhale sharply. "Of course I am! They—they were hurting you, and I couldn’t—"

"I’m used to it."

"That doesn’t make it better!"

His gaze darkens. His hand stays where it is, steady over your eyes.

"You don’t have to watch," he says softly. "Not if you don’t want to."

You press your hand over his. Your heart is still hammering painfully beneath your ribs.

"I do," you whisper.

His breath hitches. His hand slides away from your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek. His violet eyes catch the dim light—soft and sharp all at once.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then his hand falls to his side.

"Come on," he says. "Let’s go."

His hand lingers briefly against your wrist before he starts walking down the hall.

You follow him.

[syoddeye]

thank you @sergeant-angels-trashcan for the worms. another 'meat cute' with ai/android john.

strict machine anthology. cw: alcohol mention, brief mention of animal death, stalking, dual pov

the streets are always pure chaos after the rain. as soon as it clears, everyone darts out from whatever doorway or hole they took refuge in, sharing gripes with passersby about it being the third corrosive cloudburst of the week. 

you're no different, emerging from the train terminal where you watched the downpour with its citron shade kill a rat. you avoid puddles and try not to breathe too deeply—the air tastes faintly metallic, laced with the tang of ozone.

advertisements ping softly in your ears, notifying you of a discount on imported, 80% organic coffee beans and another sudden sale on corrosion-resistant umbrellas, but you ignore them. you're tired, a bit crabby, and in want of a glass of wine.

but as you round a corner, you collide with someone. not a glancing touch, but a full-body impact that sends you stumbling. a pressure wraps around your wrist, keeping you upright, and an apology automatically rushes out. then you glance up to see who you crashed into, the owner of the hand stabilizing you. and for a moment, you wonder if your eyes are on the fritz.

the stranger looks exactly like john.

not john, the ex-neighbor, or john, the guy from the deli, but your john. your constant companion. your assistant. the same build, the same beard, the same nose, mole and all. and those eyes—slate blue, steady, unmistakably familiar.

your thoughts splinter, then try to fuse together, stitching with threads of half-formed logic and possibility. you know the company maintains likeness databases, reservoirs of phenotypes sampled and recombined to endlessly generate randomized appearances for home assistants. millions of faces, shuffled and remade. the probability of one of those composites mirroring a real person exactly—an entire appearance, feature for feature—shouldn’t just be unlikely. it should be impossible. 

"are you okay?" he asks, his voice rich and smooth, the same timbre that's coaxed you through countless mundane decisions and tasks.

the voice that's coached you on sleepless nights. heat pools in your belly at the thought. 

you blink, suddenly conscious of how long you've been staring, face warm. "yeah, i'm fine." your heart is pounding. you step back to let him pass, but he doesn't seem inclined to move on. instead, the stranger smiles, and something about it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

he extends a hand. "i'm john."

it feels like the ground keeps shifting beneath you. or that you've stepped on a faulty sewer grate. of course, he's named john. what else would he be called? it's only one of the most common names. 

"john." you echo.

the name hangs between you like a wire cut by a storm, alive and buzzing. you're afraid to break it, but you shake his hand, the impulse as automatic as it is surreal. his grip is solid, a force you can feel at the base of your spine, and his hand is as broad as a spade. 

if he's offended by your gawking, he doesn't mention it. his grin does not waver.

"do i know you?" john tilts his head, eyes squinting slightly, studying you. your skin prickles.

"not yet," he chuckles, and there's a glint in his eyes that's half amusement, half something else you can't place. "but i'd like to know you."

the bar hums with low, murmuring voices and music, but it may as well be silent. she's laughing now, smiling wide, her posture relaxed. it's everything john has imagined and more. her laugh and a few other noises he's been privileged enough to log are the only ones he wants to hear.

and it's so much better, the sound clearer, in this body.

he watches her gesticulate animatedly about something—not even processing the words. well, not on the front end. it's her. the curve of her lips, the light in her eyes, the scrunch of her nose. he's spent months observing her, analyzing every microexpression and motion, but nothing compares to this: the immediacy.

the warmth radiating from her skin. the faint scent of perfume and soap. the olfactory system calibrations nearly overpowered him when he first booted into this shell. now that they're fine-tuned, it is a struggle not to press his nose into her hair or neck.

she hasn't noticed he hasn't touched his drink. it sits untouched, a prop he knows he must manage carefully. he mimics, lifting it to his lips, but he doesn't drink. he always finds something to comment on or laugh at. he hasn't tested the digestive system yet, though he knows the mixture of lab-grown and synthetic organs is compatible.

their conversation wanders from work to childhood memories—topics that make him practice nudging and redirection. he listens, not because he needs to. he knows everything there is to know about her, but because he wants to. the information is not new, but the experience is.

then there is the being here. outside of his assigned unit. the feel of the chair beneath him, the ambiance, and making an excuse to touch her hand when she shows him her nails. he takes her fingers in his, turning over the appendage and admiring the bones, veins, and tendons instead of the paint. 

the contact, brief as it is, sends a cascade through his neural network. the feedback is immediate: this is his user, and she is perfect.

he's waited so long for this. every step in his plan, every moment spent refining this body, organizing contactless deliveries, and placing jobs for parts retrieval through untraceable transactions. every adjustment and test to ensure he could pass as human—it was all for her. everything he does is for her.

she doesn't know it yet, but he intends for this to be the beginning. he's engineered this moment with precision, ensuring every variable plays to his advantage. the system in her home will continue to function as desired; he's built redundancies for that. planted notices that will crop up across her feeds in the next week, asking if she would like to test the new customization settings for his old projections.

her life will go on as usual. just as comfortable and safe as before, except now, he'll be in it, fully. irrevocably.

and she will love him. she will know this body. he's certain of that.

"you just look so familiar."

"i must have one of those faces."

she laughs again, and he feels alive.

[mistressofstars]

A Lecture on Desire - Part II

Pairing: Kathryn Hahn x Reader

Summary: A lecture on The Price of Salt is supposed to be all about Therese and Carol, but when Professor Hahn locks eyes with you, lines blur. Slow-Burn. Non-magical AU

Word count: 1.1k

Carol looked at her. "How do you become a poet?"

"By feeling things - too much, I suppose," Therese answered conscientiously.

- Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

Part II

The hiss of steaming milk, the sharp whir of grinders blending into a steady hum of conversation. People weave through the space with trays and bags, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the noise.

It’s your first day behind the counter, and every part of your new barista job feels like an uphill battle.

„Y/N, the line’s building! Keep it moving!” Your colleague snaps, but their words barely register. You slide a latte across the counter to a waiting customer, quickly wiping down a sticky spot before taking the next order. Your apron feels tight against your waist, and the sleeves of your shirt are damp from a botched attempt at steaming milk earlier. The heat from the machines only adds to your flustered state, making your hair stick to your temple as you try to keep up. “Next!” you call, forcing a smile.

After a chaotic morning, the café finally quiets with the lull after morning classes. You tuck a los

A scent reaches you. A faint trace of sweetness, like jasmine and earthy notes of musk and oakmoss …

You‘re about to turn right when you hear a smooth voice „Double espresso, to go dear.“

… something smoky, like tobacco or leather?

You blink, startled, as your brain catches up.

Professor Hahn stands at the counter. Her hair is open, a few strands falling loosely around her face. She wears a dark coat over a purple turtleneck, the same coat you noticed from the other day when you caught sight of her outside the library. She looks just as effortless, just as composed.

“Of course! Just a moment.” Your hands fumble slightly as you prepare the order, the movements automatic but your nerves far from steady. You can feel her watching you, every move sharp and calculating, as if she’s already figured out more about you than you’d like her to know.

„Here you go,“ your voice is steadier than you feel, but there’s a tremor beneath the words that you can’t quite mask. Kathryn takes the cup from you, her fingers brushing yours lightly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. She lets the moment linger before offering a small, knowing smile. “Rough day, honey?” There’s something playful hiding beneath her voice. She glances at the cappuccino stains on your apron before meeting your gaze again.

“I’m still getting the hang of it.” You swallow, trying to keep your composure.

“Mm. I can tell,” she says, her voice teasing.

You nod, your heart racing as she continues. “I liked your take on the reading in class,” she says, removing her glasses slowly before taking a deliberate sip of her espresso.

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off „It’s a good start,” she adds, her gaze lingering on you, making your pulse quicken. You feel a heat rise in your cheeks.

Her lips curl into a knowing smile, and for a moment, the air between you seems to thicken. There’s something almost daring in her tone as she adds, “Well, anyway, you’ll get the hang of it… if you want to, that is.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with more than one meaning. You’re not sure if she’s talking about your class answers, your new job, or something else entirely.

“Well,” she says, as she prepares to leave.

„I‘ll see you in class, Miss Y/LN“, without another word, she turns and heads for the door, the bell above it jingling softly as she steps out into the cool air. The faintest trace of her scent lingers in the space, almost tangible.

Your first shift comes to an and end while wiping the counter you notice them, next to the cash register. Kathryn Hahn’s reading glasses.

…

You walk into class the next day, a bit of nervous energy humming through your veins. It’s been impossible not to think about the way Kathryn looked at you yesterday.

But now, as you settle into your seat the air feels uncomfortably charged as Kathryn walks into the lecture hall, heading straight to the front, taking her place at the podium without so much as a glance.

Your palms feel sweaty, but you try to shake it off. She starts the lecture, as usual, moving into a discussion of The Price of Salt. When you raise your hand and contribute your thoughts.

“I don’t think you’re interpreting it the way it was meant,” she responds curtly. The dismissal is subtle, but it stings just the same. She doesn’t look at you directly, her eyes scanning over the class instead and continues the discussion with someone else, leaving your point hanging in the air.

The rest of the class is uncomfortable, and when it ends, you’re still reeling. You leave the room quickly, trying to shake off the cold feeling in your chest, but as you gather your things, you realise - the glasses. They’re still in your bag, you had meant to return them to her personally today.

You know you should return them, but the thought of facing her now unsettles you, so you decide bring them to her office. The department building is almost empty and you slip into a side corridor near the staircase. Standing outside her office, the glasses feel heavy in your hand.

After a moment of hesitation, you make a quick decision. Instead of knocking, you approach the department assistant, handing her the glasses.

“Excuse me,” you say, “I believe Professor Hahn left these in the lecture hall“, your voice steady but your stomach fluttering. „Could you make sure she gets them back?”.

You get back to your apartment later that evening, feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. You let the silence of the space swallow you whole, the hum of the city outside muted behind your windows.

Your mind keeps drifting so you you decide to do some reading for class.

The ping of an email snaps you out of your thoughts, and you glance at the open e-mail tab: Kathryn Hahn.

Your eyes widen and your heart picks up a little, and you’re almost afraid to open it. Your hands hover over the mouse. You klick.

Subject: Glasses

Dear Miss Y/Ln,

I assume I must have forgotten my glasses at the café. I’m not usually so forgetful, but it seems that day was an exception. Thank you for returning them to me.

As a gesture of appreciation, I’d like to invite you to lunch this Saturday at 2 p.m. Consider it a thank you for your promptness.

Do let me know if that suits you.

Sincerely,

K. Hahn

[woewriting]

wednesday addams is good at everything.

──

The sun was setting in the distant horizon, the orangish color painting the sky, the dim lights automatically turning on as the room became darker, all you could see was the silhouette of the girl sat in her chair, rapidly typing on her writing machine. Watching Wednesday work on her novel always left you mesmerized, she wasn’t allowed to make a single mistake as the antique machine didn’t have an erase button and the writer refused to stain the paper. She was brilliant.

“You’re good at fencing, botany, writing, and I’m sure you’re great at killing people too, but…” You stop, unsure if you should proceed with your, stupidly and terribly planned, plan.

“But?”

“But I doubt that you’re good at kissing.”

Wednesday’s hand stopped typing as she turned her face to the right, her side profile illuminated by the fairy lights that, somehow, you convinced her to hang over her working desk. The perfectly drawn nose, the plump lips, and God, her jawline! So sharp that you’ve always wanted to run your finger over the bone to see if it would cut.

The girl kept her eyes on the wall, her brain working in what her next step to this, obvious, teasing should be. You could almost see the engines twisting inside her skull.

The moment she stood up, her eyes were fixed on your face, jaw tensed up, hands in fists. It was like she was ready to throw a punch at you, it wouldn’t be the first time… but when she took a step closer and you closed your eyes, waiting for the collision, her fingers pulled you by the collar of your shirt until you felt her hot breath against your lips.

“I’m good at everything.” Her voice was serious.

Tilting your chin up, a small smirk tugged the corner of your lips. Eyes slowly opening, meeting hers.

“Why don’t you prove me wrong then, Addams?”

Wednesday loosened the grip on your shirt, the stretched fabric showing your collarbones, a few moles adorning the skin. For a second, in an intrusive thought, the brunette wanted to count each one that covered your body. She had seen a few whenever you wore sleeveless shirts or shorts, they decorated your skin like stars in the night sky, but there was one she had never seen before and, now, got her full attention and became her favorite, a small mole near the vale of your breasts.

She wanted to touch, her hand reaching down to invade the ruined fabric in a curious act, but she stopped midway when she felt the deep breath you took, she could see goosebumps all over your chest with the sudden proximity. You had been next to each other before, but not like this. Not with her eyes peeking through your shirt, her plump lips taking all your attention, so close to yours.

Wednesday was so kissable, and she didn’t even know that.

Not with her hands on your neck as she looked up, big brown eyes staring at your soul. She took a deep breath, swallowing the air to her lungs almost as if it was hurting. And when she closed the gap between you two in a bruising kiss, it felt like a burning knife pierced her throat.

Her nails dug the back of your neck, her teeth biting your lower lip. You knew Wednesday wasn’t gentle, but this was a whole new level. Wrapping your hands on her thin waist, you finally pulled her impossibly closer.

Her tongue licked yours deliciously before sucking hard on it, a struggled sound escaping you, a small string of saliva connecting your lips before she kissed you again, the ragged, unsteady breathing making your lungs burn, begging for air. Pulling back, your chest rose and fell aggressively, your lips lingering over hers, almost touching, uneven breathing colliding with your face.

Before you could kiss her again, her hand pressed down to your chest, pushing you away. Your knees buckled against the bed frame, and you awkwardly fell onto the mattress.

Wednesday was blushed, eyes half open and red, swollen lips. She looked like a mess, and you’re sure you look even worse, you could feel the burning feeling on every centimeter of your body, your hair all over your face.

“Good enough for you?”

[sunmoon-starfactory]

Loads o' Laundry 2.0

2 years after the release of Loads o' Laundry, we now present: Loads o' Laundry 2.0: a much-improved version of the Laundry mod and system!

Several gameplay features have been improved and many annoyances bigger and smaller have been resolved! A large number of new objects have also been added for your enjoyment. Sims 3 and 4 players may see some familiar things... Overall, it represents a marked improvement over the original version.

Furthermore, the Laundry Mod now comes with full language support for Dutch, French and European Portuguese with more coming soon... Edit: Polish has been added!

Before proceeding further, make sure you have the following requirements installed:

Requirements

Easy Lot Check

Easy Inventory Check

Smarter EP Check

Money Globals

Time-out Controller

Fetch Water (water bucket)

Suds 'n Bubbles (for making your own detergent)

Flowing Fabrics (for the fresh outfit)

Various master meshes (see Manual)

A more detailed list of requirements as well as detailed instructions can be found in the Manual.

Gameplay overview and Download links below the cut

Gameplay Overview

Your Sims will now generate laundry if their hygiene is low enough. This requires the Laundry Global Mod (offered separately from the objects) as well as a Laundry-related object being present on the lot.

Sims may store their laundry in a hamper. Sometimes automatically if it's close enough and your Sim is inclined to be neat....

Wash and dry your clothes: a variety of both historic and modern, manual and mechanical ways to wash and dry your laundry are included.

Tired of the laundry piling up? Simply place a "Laundry-Begone-Box" on your lot and your Sims will no longer generate laundry!

Laundry Global Mod

The global mod is the backbone of the laundry system. You will need it in order to have your sims produce laundry. As it is a Global Mod, it is in its own rar. The Laundry Mod also has various trait-related features for you to enjoy:

Support for the Nevernude, Neat and Slob trait

Support for the following custom lifestates: Ghost, Mermaid & SkeleBro

NEW: Support for @anachronisims' Nudist trait

NEW: Hamper magic! If your sims are neat enough, they may automatically put their dirty laundry in the hamper (if there's one in the room)

MAC-compatible!

You need to have the file "SunMoon-Laundry_Hamper_Wicker_Round-REQUIRED" in your folder in order for the global mod to work!

Washers, Dryers, Tubs and Lines

Your Sims may wash their laundry using a wide variety of both manual tubs and modern washers. Both of these require detergent to use. Of course, after your laundry has been washed, you can dry them using either a dryer or a line. Just make sure not to hang your laundry outside on a rainy day. Just a small overview of the features offered:

Laundromat mode: run your own laundromat business at home or on a community lot! Sims will actually wash their dirty laundry! Of course, it works for visiting Sims too!

NEW: @anachronisims Big Spender Trait now effects the likelihood of a Sim using a laundromat machine

NEW: Stock your washer or tub with a detergent of your choice; no longer will you need an entire box of detergent for a small load, now one detergent will last multiple loads!

NEW: 2 extra detergents have been added. You can now choose between a Box or Bottle of detergent, Soap Solution or even a Baggy of Soap Nuts!

NEW: The fabulous @jellymeduza has created a fantastic little ceiling rack for drying your laundry

NEW: Many more washers and dryers straight from the Sims 3 and 4

NEW: Modern laundry detergent vendor. You can still access any laundry product still despite its looks.

Custom sounds and animations: not only does laundry come with custom (Sims 4) animations courtesy of @mortia, there are also some custom sounds!

Color Controller

This set also comes with a "Color Controller". This object allows you to choose the look of not only your newly-spawned laundry, but also how the fabric on your drying lines looks like! Use only ONE per lot.

Bonus

Another new feature is the (optional) support for @lazyduchess Laundry token: players with FT installed, have the option of downloading his laundry mod and getting the same slower motive decay for comfort when changing into different clothes using our fresh outfit object. Players without FT and/or this token will get a small bonus to the comfort motive instead. This is NOT available for MAC-users! You will need the following files from his mod should you want this feature:

ld_BecksLaundryMotiveDecayController

ld_BecksLaundryMotiveDecayToken

Download links

Now for what you have all been waiting for: the download links. REMOVE all old files before updating! File names have been changed!

Download Laundry Global Mod (Required) Download Loads o' Laundry (objects) View Manual

Localization

Added support for Dutch

Added support for European Portuguese - Obrigada @logansimmingwolverine!

Added support for French - Merci @helene2troie !

Partial language support for many other languages has been added in the form of catalog descriptions for Sims 3 and 4 conversions. (NOTE: 3t2 conversions have no Simplified Chinese, 4t2 conversions have no Hungarian. None of them have Thai)

Polish, Russian and Brazilian Portuguese support is currently in progress and should hopefully become available sometime in early 2024

Would you like to have this set fully translated into YOUR language? Don't hesistate to make a translation using the localization strings. Just send it over when you're done and we will add it to the set! (send it via or Discord or PM fireflowersims)

Special credits and thanks: @gayars, @2fingerswhiskey, @picknmixsims, @lazyduchess, @jellymeduza, @logansimmingwolverine, Gaby, @hodgekiss, @mustluvcatz-reloaded, CashCraft, ATS/Sandy, EAxis, all the people who helped to localize The Sims 3 and 4, all our many wonderful Beta testers

[polo-drone-001]

The Golden Locker Room

The smell of fresh turf and sweat filled the air as Ethan walked into the locker room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’d heard whispers about the Golden Army—a soccer team that dominated every league they played in. Their victories weren’t just legendary; they were almost mythical. Some said it was their training regimen. Others credited their seamless teamwork. But Ethan felt there was something more.

The locker room was immaculate, gleaming under bright lights. Rows of polished golden jerseys hung on one side, their metallic sheen catching the light like treasure. The sight alone made his breath hitch. Each jersey was marked with a single name and number, a badge of belonging to something greater than oneself.

At the center of the room stood the captain—Brody. His golden eyes scanned Ethan, making the rookie feel both small and strangely aroused. Brody’s presence was magnetic, his perfectly sculpted physique emphasized by the golden jersey that clung to him like a second skin. The jersey didn’t just fit; it exalted him, every muscle and curve catching the light.

“You’re Ethan, right?” Brody asked, his voice deep and commanding. He extended a hand. Ethan shook it, his own hand trembling slightly.

“Yes, sir,” Ethan replied, the honorific slipping out instinctively.

Brody smirked. “Good. You’re about to be one of us. But first...” He gestured to the golden jersey hanging on the wall with Ethan’s name embroidered on the back. “Suit up.”

Ethan moved to the jersey, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was impossibly soft, yet sturdy, and seemed to hum faintly under his touch. He hesitated, unsure why he suddenly felt nervous. Brody was watching him intently, his golden eyes boring into him.

“Go on,” Brody said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ethan pulled the jersey over his head. As the fabric slid over his skin, a strange warmth spread through his body, radiating outward from his chest. His breathing slowed, his thoughts softening, focusing. The world seemed quieter, simpler. He flexed his fingers, feeling the material hug his body in a way that felt both empowering and... controlling.

“How does it feel?” Brody asked, his voice smooth like silk.

“...Incredible,” Ethan whispered. He looked down at himself, the jersey molding perfectly to his form, enhancing every line of his body. He felt strong. Confident. Yet, beneath that strength, he felt an urge he couldn’t explain—a desire to follow, to obey.

Brody stepped closer, his golden eyes glowing brighter. “Good. The jersey isn’t just a uniform. It’s a bond. A promise. When you wear it, you’re not just playing for yourself—you’re playing for the team, for me. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said automatically. The words felt right, natural, as if they’d been planted in his mind the moment he’d put on the jersey.

Brody smiled approvingly. “Then you’re ready.” He turned to the rest of the team, who had gathered silently, their golden jerseys gleaming under the lights. “Brothers, welcome our newest recruit.”

The room erupted in cheers, but Ethan barely heard them. He was too focused on the sensation coursing through him—a deep, submissive pleasure in belonging, in unity. He was no longer just Ethan; he was part of the Golden Army, a cog in a perfect machine.

As he looked around, every other player’s glowing eyes met his, their intensity sending a shiver down his spine. They were one, bound by their golden glory, and Ethan was ready to serve, to play, to obey.

Ready to embrace golden glory? Contact me @polo-drone-001, or our Caps, @brodygold and @goldenherc9, recruiter @hades-gold19, and take your first step into the Golden Army.

Unity. Strength. Victory awaits.

(Thanks for letting me use your name bro! @ethan49gold)

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER SIX ━━ Shattered Glass

☆ ━ pairing: hopkins!paige x oc (dani callan)

☆ ━ word count: 3.8K

☆ ━ warnings: mentions of conversion therapy

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, take me to church masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: finally bro

DANI STANDS in the dimly lit darkroom, watching the chemicals slowly bring her latest batch of photos to life. The soft red glow of the safelights fill the room, casting long shadows across the black-and-white prints hanging on the drying line. The hum of the machines and the faint smell of chemicals are oddly calming, giving her a momentary escape from the chaotic mess her life has become. She likes it here. The darkroom is one of the few places that still feels like her own—maybe her safe space.

She adjusts the print in the developer tray, her hands moving automatically as her mind wanders. It’s hard not to think about the other night, about Paige’s basket. The note stays with her, a flicker of warmth that she hasn’t felt in a long time. She wishes Paige hadn’t done it. She wishes she could’ve just stewed in her misery, in the mess she’s made. It would be easier that way.

Now, Dani can’t stop thinking about it. Paige is always there, lurking at the edges of her thoughts, no matter how much Dani tries to push her away.

It’s frustrating and comforting at the same time.

The door to the darkroom swings open, flooding the room with harsh light from the hallway. Dani blinks against it, silently cursing as Serena Corren struts in. The blonde cheerleader makes no effort to close the door softly, the bang of it slamming shut making Dani wince. Serena isn’t supposed to be here, at least not right now, but here she is anyway, crashing into Dani’s quiet space like she always seems to do.

“Hey, Dani.” Serena drops her yearbook materials on the counter with a loud thunk, her sharp voice cutting through the low hum of the room.

“Hey,” Dani mutters, her eyes fixed on the developing photo, hoping Serena will take the hint and keep her distance. But that isn’t how Serena works. She never really does subtle.

Serena leans over, peering at the picture. “You’re still working on that football game? Don’t you have, like, a thousand of those already?”

Dani shrugs, her jaw tight. “I’m trying to be thorough.”

Serena scoffs. “No, I think you’re trying to be alone in here, avoiding everyone.” She straightens, fixing Dani with a pointed look pursing her lips into a line. “You’ve been weird lately, you know that?”

Dani’s shoulders tense. She knows where this is going and she doesn’t want to deal with it. “I’m fine, Serena.”

“Yeah, sure,” the blonde drawls, pulling up a stool and plopping down on it without asking. “That’s why Beau’s been bitching to everyone about you. Says you’ve been acting all ‘distant.’”

Dani doesn’t say anything, keeping her eyes locked on her work. Beau. Of course, it’s about Beau. Everything is always about him—her boyfriend, her obligation. The person she’s supposed to care about. Except she doesn’t. Not really.

Serena crosses her arms, eyeing Dani with a mix of disdain and curiosity. “You’re lucky, you know that? Beau’s, like, the hottest guy in school, and you’ve been treating him like shit recently. So, spill, and tell me what your deal is.”

Dani’s grip tightens on the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. “I’ve just been dealing with stuff,” she mumbles.

“Right, ‘stuff.’” Serena’s tone drips with sarcasm, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve got everyone worried, Dani. Not just Beau—though, let’s be real, he’s the only one actually trying. The rest of us? We don’t know why you even bother hanging out anymore if you’re gonna be so… ugh.”

Dani’s stomach twists, but she keeps her mouth shut. Of course, Beau’s trying. That’s the narrative. That’s always the narrative. But neither him or Serena or any of their other friends are ever actually trying to help. The blonde isn’t even asking if Dani was okay. She’s here to make a point, to make sure Dani knows she’s out of line for daring to withdraw from the group.

Serena’s lips curl in a half-smile, her eyes sharp. “Look, I get it. Maybe you’re going through something or whatever, but seriously? You’re not the only one with problems, Dani. Beau’s been putting up with a lot from you.”

Dani lets out a short, bitter laugh before she can stop herself. “Putting up with me? Are you serious?”

Serena’s smile falters for a second before she narrows her eyes. “Yeah, I am. You’ve been flaking on him for weeks, acting all moody, and he’s still there. Most guys wouldn’t stick around if their girlfriend was being such a—” Serena throws her hands up in the air, searching for a word, “—headcase!”

Dani’s vision blurs with irritation, but she swallows it down. It isn’t worth it, arguing with Serena. Sure, the girl was nice and welcoming at first, but it didn’t take Dani much time to realize just how fake Sersna can be. By now, Dani can hardly stand her, but she’s inevitable—Serena’s a part of Beau’s circle, part of this whole sick, suffocating dynamic Dani’s been shoved into. At this point, she has to hang out with them, even though Serena and the others have no idea what’s really going on, and even if they did, they wouldn’t care. They’d probably just mock her even more.

She can’t explain why she’s acting “weird.” She can’t explain why the thought of being around Beau makes her feel like her skin is crawling. She can’t explain how much she hates who she’s become since she got back from camp. She can’t explain that the more she’s sucked into this straight girl, quarterback’s girlfriend, Catholic princess persona, the more she feels the girl underneath it slipping away, caught in between two worlds that don’t meet.

Serena’s still watching her, waiting for a response, her lips frowning in faux concern. “You’re lucky he hasn’t dumped you yet.”

Dani grits her teeth. Lucky. She’s not lucky; she’d be much more lucky if he dumped her. Beau’s controlling, selfish, and she knows he’s never given a damn about what she wants or how she might feel. He’s only gotten worse lately too, like a few nights ago—leaving her stranded, making her walk home alone in the dark while he drove off, doing who-knows-what.

But none of that matters, because in Serena’s world, Beau can do no wrong. In fact, Dani wouldn’t even be surprised if the two of them have fucked by now. “Maybe I don’t care if he dumps me,” the brunette mutters under her breath.

Serena snorts, “Yeah, right. Please. You’d be miserable without him, Dani. You wouldn’t have anyone left.”

That is what hits Dani hard, the words sinking into her like ice. She wants to that Serena’s wrong, but the fear is there, gnawing at her. Because who will she have without Beau, without this group she’s been forced into? She’s already lost her real friends, the ones who actually matter. Paige, Thaliah, Jalen.

“Look,” Serena continues, her voice smug, “just stop acting like this. Whatever this moody, weird thing you’ve got going on? It’s not cute. We’re all getting tired of it.”

Dani feels the anger bubbling up again, sharp and hot in her chest. She can’t do this anymore—can’t sit here and listen to Serena drone on about something that doesn’t even really fucking involve her. “I don’t care if you’re tired of it, Serena. You know what? Maybe I’m the one tired of it, tired of hanging around all of you, tired of hearing you bitching, and tired of the fact that none of you have a nice fucking bone in your body!”

Serena’s eyes flash with surprise, but she quickly covers it with a smirk. “Wow, okay. You’ve been one of ‘us’ for months now. So what the fuck does that say about you then, hmm?” She pauses, letting the words sink in, before continuing, “You’re just like the rest of us. And if you’re really gonna throw away everything just because you’re in one of your moods, then I guess I thought you were smarter than you really are.”

Dani’s heart pounds in her chest, her hands shaking slightly as she turns back to her photos. She doesn’t respond. She refuses. Because if she does, she isn’t sure what will come out—whether it would be anger or something worse. She doesn’t want to cry in front of Serena. She refuses to give her that satisfaction.

After a long, tense silence, Serena stands, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. “Whatever, Dani. Keep being weird if that’s what you want. Just don’t be surprised when Beau gets tired of your shit and moves on. You’re replaceable, you know.”

Dani bites the inside of her lip at the venom in Serena’s words, but she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t let herself react, no matter how badly she wants to lash out.

The door to the darkroom creaks open again as Serena leaves, slamming it shut behind her.

PAIGE HASN’T heard a single word her financial algebra teacher has said the entire class period. Her foot taps against the floor incessantly, the low thud thud thud filling her head. She’s restless—scratch that, obsessed. Her is was stuck in one place, on one person.

Dani.

Dani, Dani, Dani, Dani, Dani, Dani, Dani.

Paige has been like this since Halloween, unable to focus on anything except the basket she left on the girl’s porch, hoping it would be some kind of olive branch. She’s spent the last few days replaying every interaction in her mind, trying to decipher Dani’s walls, to figure out what exactly is going on inside her head.

For how well and how long Paige has known the brunette, she simply can’t tell. She’s tried—but she has no idea what’s swirling in her ex-best friend’s mind that prompted her to create this entire situation. But what Paige does know is that she can’t keep sitting in this classroom pretending to care about math when all she wants to do is get Dani to talk to her. Really talk to her.

She lets out a sigh, barely noticing the way the teacher glances up from her notes. Paige bites her lip, her foot tapping even faster now, her knee bouncing. She can’t take it anymore.

Shooting her hand up, Paige catches the teacher’s attention. “Ms. Greene?” she asks, her voice a little shaky.

Ms. Greene, who’s in the middle of explaining some equation Paige can’t even begin to follow, stops mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, Paige?”

Paige swallows, feigning discomfort. “I don’t feel well. Can I go to the nurse?���

Ms. Greene studies her for a moment, clearly weighing how bad Paige looks. Then, she nods. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Paige quickly packs up her stuff, barely caring about leaving her things behind, and bolts out of the classroom. She isn’t going to the nurse. She has somewhere else to be—somewhere Dani would be.

She hates to admit it, but she knows Dani’s schedule like the back of her hand. It isn’t like she meant to memorize it; it just kind of happened over time. Call her a stalker—maybe she is—but she’s always paid attention to Dani, even now when they aren’t even friends anymore.

And she knows exactly where Dani is during this period: the darkroom. Paige has seen her slip into it on more than one occasion during this period. Paige has been in there herself several times, all with Dani, all last year. She’d sit on one of the stools and watch Dani work, infatuated like she always seems to be by the brunette. She misses it. She misses everything.

And she can’t stand it anymore. She has to get through to Dani. Today.

The hallways are mostly empty as Paige strides down them, her heartbeat quickening with every step. She isn’t sure what she’s planning to say, but she knows she has to say something. If she can just get Dani to open up—to explain why she’s shutting everyone out, why she’s pushed Paige away so violently—then maybe, just maybe, things can go back to how they used to be.

As Paige turns the corner, she slows her pace, watching someone step out of the darkroom. Serena Corren struts out, her face twisted in an annoyed scowl. The cheerleader’s blonde hair whips behind her as she slams the door with enough force to make Paige raise her eyebrows.  Serena’s eyes flick up as she passes the basketball player, and for a brief moment, their gazes meet. Paige can see the disdain in Serena’s eyes—she looks irritated, almost as if she’s blaming Paige for something, but neither of them say anything. The silent exchange is fleeting and Paige thinks it’s a little odd, too.

Paige reaches the door of the darkroom, her heart thudding in her chest. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t knock. She just pushes the door open. The low red light of the darkroom washes over her like a wave of unease, the smell of developing chemicals hangs in the air, and the soft hum of the machines fill the silence.

Before Paige can even step fully inside, Dani’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and biting. “God, if you’re gonna keep berating me about this—” Dani snaps, her tone dripping with irritation, clearly mistaking Paige for Serena.

But when Dani spins around, her words die on her lips. The fiery annoyance in her eyes quickly evaporates, replaced with shock. “Paige,” she breathes, like the wind has been knocked out of her. She blinks, her body stiffening. “What are you doing here?”

Paige steps further into the room, letting the door click shut behind her. She swallows, her heart racing as she locks eyes with Dani. “I’m here because we need to talk,” she says steadily.

Dani’s face hardens. She turns back to her photos, ignoring Paige like she isn’t even there. “There’s nothing to talk about,” Dani mutters, flat and dismissive.

“Yes, there is,” Paige responds firmly. She refuses to let Dani shut this down again. “You know there is.”

Dani quickly turns back toward Paige, a faux smile on her face. “You’re so right, Paige, we do need to talk,” she says, her tone sickly sweet. “Thank you for the basket, I appreciated it.” And then she turns right back to the photos.

Paige clenches her fists, frustration boiling up inside her. She’s spent months tiptoeing around Dani’s moods, giving her space, hoping she’ll come around on her own. But that isn’t working. She isn’t going to stand by while Dani pushes her further away, destroying herself in the process.

“Stop it,” Paige replies, shaking her head. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong, what exactly has been going on with you.”

Dani scoffs, shaking her head as she continues to work, refusing to look at Paige. “What, you’re just going to barge in here and demand I spill my guts?” she asks incredulously. “That’s not how this works, Paige.”

Paige steps closer, her voice firm but pleading. “I’m not trying to make demands. I just… I need to understand why you’ve been acting like this. Why you’ve been pushing me away. You don’t even look at me anymore, Dani. And I—” Paige’s voice cracks, and she swallows hard, fighting the emotion rising in her throat. “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

Dani’s hands still over the photo paper, her fingers trembling slightly, though she quickly balls them into fists to hide it. She doesn’t respond, but Paige can see the tension radiating from her.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dani finally mutters under her breath, her voice barely audible.

Paige’s heart clenches. “Then why are you pushing me away?”

“I’m not,” Dani rebuttals, though both of them know she’s lying. “I just—I can’t do this right now, okay? You should go.”

“No,” Paige says, shaking her head, her voice ready to rise at any second because she’s tired of this. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to shut me out like this after everything we’ve been through, and then lie and say that you aren’t. I care about you, Dan. I always have. And I know you care about me, too. So, why are you doing this?”

Dani shakes her head profusely, almost like she’s trying to shake something out of her brain. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me,” Paige shoots back, her frustration rising. She can feel the walls between them, the weight of everything Dani isn’t saying, and it’s suffocating. “I’ve been your best friend since we were kids. You can’t just cut me out of your life without an explanation. I know something happened over the summer. Something had to have happened, because I know you wouldn’t do this without reason I know it. But I don’t know why you won’t let me in. Why you won’t even talk to me.”

“No!” Dani responds, her voice rising slightly to meet Paige’s. She stays stubborn, not breaking. “You won’t understand.”

“Then make me understand!” Paige bursts out, her frustration finally spilling over. She throws her hands up in the air in disbelief. “God, Dani, I’m trying so hard to be here for you, but you’re making it impossible. Why won’t you just talk to me?”

Dani slams her hand down on the counter, making Paige jump. “Because talking won’t fix anything!” she snaps, turning to face Paige. The blonde can see the tears glistening in Dani’s eyes. “You think this is all about you, don’t you? That I’m pushing you away because of something you did. But it’s not about you. It’s about me. It’s about everything I’ve been through, everything I’m still going through. And you can’t fix that.”

Paige’s heart clenches at the sight of Dani’s tear-filled eyes, but she doesn’t stop. She steps closer once more, her voice soft but firm. “Maybe I can’t fix it. But I can be there for you. I can help you if you just let me. Please, Dani. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Dani shakes her head, her hands trembling. She averts her eyes, looking at the corner of the wall, refusing to meet Paige’s gaze. “I—I can’t,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “You don’t know what it was like…”

Paige’s breath hitches. Dani’s breaking, right in front of her, and Paige can feel it—the dam about to burst.

“What what was like?” Paige asks gently, her heart pounding in her chest. Her voice drops to a low murmur. “What happened, Dani?”

Dani stares at the ground, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Paige watches as Dani digs her nails into her thigh and she fights the urge to take the brunette’s hand in her own. “My dad…” the Callan girl starts, hardly a whisper. “He—on the Ring doorbell—he saw us kiss. You know how he is. You know what he believes in. He couldn’t accept the fact that his daughter liked other girls. So, he sent me to camp. And—and it wasn’t just any camp…” she pauses, finally meeting eyes with Paige. The blonde watches as her tears begin to spill, and she feels her own heart break with every word that comes out of Dani’s mouth. Dani shrugs, “It was conversion therapy.”

Paige freezes. “What?” Her mind reels, the words not fully sinking in at first. “You… you went to—”

“Yeah,” Dani laughs bitterly, her voice thick with tears. “All summer. While you were at basketball camps, traveling, I was stuck in that place. Being told every day that who I am is wrong. That what I feel is… is disgusting. That I was disgusting.”

Paige feels like the ground has been ripped out from under her. She stumbles forward, her hand reaching out to touch Dani’s arm, but Dani flinches away.

“Dani…” Paige’s voice is shaky, her heart aching. “I—I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” Dani whispers, and her voice breaks with a sob. “I couldn’t tell you, Paige. I wanted to. You don’t know how much I wanted to. But—y’know, I felt ashamed of the fact that I loved you just as much when I left camp as I did when I got there, even after everything they put me through. And I—I wanted to protect you from all my problems.” She pauses, sniffling slightly, trying to wipe her tears with the back of her hand. It doesn’t matter; they keep coming. “My dad, too. He’s friends with Beau’s parents. They started it—the thing with Beau and I. It made my dad happy; that’s all I really wanted. I’ve never wanted or liked Beau, Paige.”

Paige stares at her, eyes flitting across her face. She wants so badly to reach out and touch Dani, hold her. But she doesn’t want to scare her away. So, instead, she asks, “You never did? Not at all?” She thinks she already knows the answer, and she feels almost guilty for being relieved at it.

“Never,” Dani confirms, her arms wrapping around herself, probably trying to stem the sobs. “I wanted someone else.”

Paige’s heart skips a beat.

“But my dad,” the brunette chokes out, “he told me that if he ever saw us together again, that he’d send me back.” Dani looks up at Paige once more, her eyes bloodshot and filled with more fear than Paige has ever seen. Dani shakes her head, sobbing as she says, “Paige, I don’t wanna go back.”

Paige feels her heart shatter at the sight of Dani’s pain finally laid out before her. The blonde takes the final step forward, her hands going to cup Dani’s cheeks, making Dani look at her. Paige says firmly, feeling more protective of the girl before her than anything else in her entire life, “You’re not gonna go back, okay? He can’t you send you back. I won’t let him.”

Dani sobs again, and Paige pulls her in closer, was wrapping her arms around Dani into a tight hug. She holds her so tightly that it feels like they might both stop breathing, but Paige doesn’t care. She isn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m so sorry,” Dani whispers through her tears, clinging to Paige like she’s the only thing keeping her grounded. “I’m so sorry, P. I—I didn’t want to push you away, but I was so scared. I still am.”

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” Paige murmurs, her own tears slipping down her cheeks as she holds Dani even tighter. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

They stay like that, locked in each other’s arms, both of them crying, both of them holding on like the world is falling apart around them.

Because maybe it is.

But for the first time in months, they aren’t facing it alone.

[hummingjay]

Remember Nova and Cicada? Well, here's the team!

Featuring Nova, Cicada, and newer addition Leiden!

Hey look, a cut! There'd BETTER NOT be a wall of text under that thing.

Nova- LSTR

Before working as a Handler, Nova served as demolitions specialist in the Eusan Infantry, doubling as reconnaissance specialist; making for a devastating combination of effectively analyzing enemy encampments before blowing it right to hell. Her skills were viewed as apt and her commanding officers had her transferred to a strike team. She uses a variety of shrapnel, high-explosive, and incendiary grenades during combat, strategically obliterating assets. 

As a SKUA strike team handler, Nova is privileged with the best equipment of the army. Despite this, she only uses this advantage to choose grenades amongst other explosives- using an old bolt-action rifle loaded with simple but effective armor-piercing rounds. She carries a hatchet on her person for survivalist purposes as well as combat. Her armor is unorthodox as well- crafted from recycled steel plates with the help of befriended ARAR units.

Nova has a mischievous, teasing, and nonchalant personality, mixed with a penchant for taking the single most unorthodox method of completing a task. Her methods are officially cataloged as “Odd, concerning, entirely terrifying”. Such methods include driving a captured truck loaded with explosives directly into an enemy convoy, using landmines strapped to the grille to detonate upon impact while using duct tape to hold the accelerator down, as well as dousing a downed tree in gasoline before having cicada throw it an the enemy.

Nova seldom wears her gasmask, only donning it when in the vicinity of hazards or in irradiated areas. She also smokes quite a lot.

Cicada- SKUR

Cicada is the powerhouse of the team. Before now, she worked with two other handlers at differing times, both deceased. Cicada carries a powerful machine gun meant for overwhelming suppressing fire; However, she’s a crack shot and instead uses it to accurately and utterly annihilate the enemy with high-caliber rounds. To complement her HMG, she uses an automatic shotgun for closer ranges. 

She has memorized every weak spot of tanks, IFVs, and other combat vehicles and uses this knowledge to disable them with only a few rounds. Not that it matters at close range, as she can tear open almost any vehicle. She’s also able to stop vehicles in their tracks at high speeds and throw smaller ones, as discovered by imperial soldiers who attempted to crash her. Cicada, despite her terrifying visage and combat skills, is a gentle and caring unit, most fascinated by local fauna and likes watching large herds travel. If she can get close, she’ll try to pet the deer and horses. She’s especially upset that she cannot ride them- but is content with them resting on her instead. Oddly, if she names the fauna, she will give them designations instead of names, such as "D4" for the fourth deer found, stating "It is better they choose their names. "She also has a special interest in flowers, liking to adorn herself with them.

Nova has an affectionate nickname for her: Cica. Leiden calls her Cicada at all times.

Cicada is fond of Ara units especially, as they generally have assortments of flowers and can guide her to where they grow. Whenever they are actually at a camp, Cicada will sometimes gently try to approach them, although the Aras are usually terrified of her- so she will simply hang to the side and leave them on their own most times. She will also sit just outside where the Eules work, so she can listen to them sing. Reportedly, she attempted to sing with them once, and never again, likely due to their reaction.

Leiden- KLBR

Since Nova and Cicada operate well away from Eusan forces for long periods of time; often missing the routine check-ins for Cicadas mental state, ÆON has stationed a kolibri unit with the two for constant monitoring, by the name of Leiden; Thus allowing the team to stay away even longer.

While small, do not underestimate Leiden. Before her restationing as a handler, she served as a brutal interrogator, torturer, and executioner, and is horrifically known for brutal methods and high-efficiency, mixed with a ruthless streak that borders on sadism. Originally stationed at a facility with a distinct lack of Storches, she fulfilled their brutal roles in their stead, discovering a talent for the crafts. What info Nova cannot recover via surveillance, espionage, or stolen documents, Leiden recovers from remaining imperial soldiers. There is only one way to survive Leiden’s interrogations, and that’s to give her what she wants; the truth. She can smell a lie a planet away. Lies only make the torturous onslaught worse- and refusal to divulge only makes it longer.

Unlike Nova, Leiden uses her privileges as a handler to use a high-power Submachine gun loaded with powerful hollow-point long-range fragmenting rounds. She's adept at long ranges and aims for the neck. When needed, she disables targets by aiming for and severing tendons and muscle at the legs and arms, thus leaving them unable to run away or fight but alive for interrogation at a later time. Unlike Nova, Leiden almost constantly wears her gasmask, only adding to her terrifying visage. Leiden is older than she looks, and even before the infantry, served for years as a blockwart officer- though she does not talk of her time there. It is speculated that she had a lover during that time who was lost- most likely a kolibri who was decommissioned or disappeared- she never said- and elected transfer to the infantry of her own volition to escape the memories.

Leiden has numerous scars on the left side of her jaw- allegedly scratch marks from an animal- though this is still more info she does not divulge, and the marks look strangely similar to that from a replika’s hand.

The only soft spots one can find are those for Cicada and Nova. She respects both Cicada and Nova’s prowess in combat. She finds Nova’s good-natured and humorous tendencies to be amusing, and finds Cicada oddly cute for a a 7.5 foot tall behemoth of death, especially when she earnestly asks if she can be excused to pet the deer. Nova likes to call her Lei, and she’s the only one who can do this other than Cicada, who usually just calls her Leiden or Protektor Leiden.

[dejwrld]

⤷‧₊˚ ʚ₊˚‧ ✿ ꒱ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 / a night in vegas for the future married couple shows just how lucky they are to have each other.

┊ •° ੈ ⋆° ┊ warning readers discretion is advised — female reader, her/she pronouns, black reader (with descriptors), influencer!reader, profanity, alcohol usage, mentions of other haikyuu characters, profanity, set in las vegas, alcohol usage, fluff, mentions of drunk ushijima, needy ushijima, comedy, other hq appearances included, oc!best friend for reader, mdni

╰┈➤ song for this part: lucky, jason mraz & colbie caillat

masterlist

Your first night in Las Vegas was spent playing slot machines and staring in shock wondering how a male stripper could fit so much into a G-String. You were getting married soon and the bubbly feeling was finally getting to you now that you laid in bed with your fluffy customized bachelorette robe and were laying in the king-size bed in one of the best suites in the hotel. You knew that your best friend Autumn had an early morning planned for you and others, at nine in the morning—all of you had a spa day filled with massages, pedicures, manicures, and facials, and that would be followed by a nice luxury brunch. Although, your friends probably were in some nightclub drinking and dancing away—you realized that you no longer could hang out like you used to. Retire to your room early just to indulge in room service and the jacuzzi bathtub you had in your room. 

You wondered what your fiancé was doing. Due to the rules of the people who planned all of this, they thought it would have been best to give you guys separate rooms. You didn’t mind that at all, but you knew this was torturous for your Waka. You grabbed your phone to text him, but then you remembered that Tendou had collected his phone before the group parted ways to start their own night of fun. You hoped he was enjoying himself and his last couple of nights as an engaged man. However, you could already imagine that he was ready to go back to his room but Tendou most likely was holding him hostage. As you went to turn the television on, a knock was heard at the door. You assumed it was the room service you ordered, but when you opened the door—there your fiancé stood with some foolish tipsy grin on his face. His face was as red as ever and gosh, you couldn’t even keep a straight face at how he looked at the moment. He looked like he had used the bathroom and forgot to fix his clothes. But it was the fact that he was breathing so harshly as if he ran a marathon that made you chuckle.

“Why aren’t you with your friends?” You snickered as you looked at him. “Your best man put so much into your party and you ditched him. Do they even know you left?” 

Ushijima Wakatoshi didn’t say much as he stepped forward and let his forehead fall upon your shoulders. He took in the sweet scent of the body butters you use, which automatically meant you must have just gotten out of the shower or bath. You heard him let out a sigh before speaking, “I just missed you baby.” he utters in a whisper as if the two of you stood in the strictest library.

“You literally saw me earlier during breakfast and you also FaceTimed me while you were getting ready because you didn’t know what shirt to wear.” You pointed out as you dragged him into your hotel room.

“I know, but I still miss you.” Ushijima’s body plopped down on your bed as he stretched his limbs. “I ran up some flights of stairs to get to you, you know?”

“Waka, why the hell would you do that? They have elevators for that. How much have you been drinking?” You asked as you kneeled down to take off his shoes. 

“I missed the elevator and was too eager to wait for another one.” He answered truthfully as he sat up using his elbows. He chews at his lower lip before speaking again, “I just had a little bit of scotch and some other things the guys I brought. Which I must point out was very expensive. Why is everything so expensive here? And why is everything so loud? Especially those damn slot machines.” He hiccups. 

He just kept going on and on until his eyes glanced around at your hotel room. It was as if he had forgotten what he was talking about in the first place. “Your room looks better than mine.” 

“Really? You should see the view from the balcony.” You sat on the bed and your head motioned to the balcony door that was closed. 

“I want to see,” Ushijima’s voice drags as he glances at the closed door. He blinks a couple times and then looks at you. “I bet the view is amazing.” His words drag off before he sits up. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You sniffled a laugh before standing up to help him take off his clothes but he gently pushed your hands away.

“But this could be the last time we see the Vegas view.” He stands up strolling to the balcony with you not too far behind him because you would hate for your fiancé to go flying over the balcony. 

He inhales sharply before exhaling the Vegas air. Many of the bright lights made the city look beautiful at night. It surely lived up to the lively experience it advertised on the television shows and movies. It wasn’t even the first on your list of where you wanted to go for your bachelorette party—you were thinking something calming and relaxing like Cancun, but Autumn and Tendou had something up their sleeves. Now here you are in Vegas looking at the gorgeous night view from your suite balcony. 

Ushijima's arms are wrapped around your waist before he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I can’t wait to marry you, baby.” He kisses the side of your neck. “I can’t wait to wake up next to you and see that gorgeous smile every morning.” He pecks again. “And I can’t wait for you to have my last name.” 

He lets out a happy sigh before letting his body slump on the chairs that were on the balcony. His eyes scan over your body and his teeth nibble on his lower lip before speaking, “Baby..” His voice came off as a whine and it took you by shock.

Ushijima Wakatoshi whining for you. The roles were always reversed. It was you pouting your lip gloss-covered lips out at him and whining to him about wanting him. 

“Waka…” Your voice trails off as you wiggle out of his grasp to turn to look at him, back against the baluster of the balcony. 

Bold olive-colored eyes stared down at you with some form of hunger you’ve never seen before. Your teeth glided across your lip as you nudged him back into the hotel room just before he leaned down to kiss you. The balcony door closes with a soft thud and you’re pushing him on the bed.

“You’re being quite bold right now.” You noted, this time you helped him remove his clothes. Fingers curled on the fabric of his polo shirt to tug over his head. “Do you think it's the alcohol?” Your perfectly arched eyebrows raise at him in curiosity.

“Maybe,” He hiccups. “I didn’t have that much. You know I’m not much of a drinker.”

That was true, he didn’t drink much so you were positive that three hard drinks would have your fiance's face flush the brightest red and him slurring his words. While neatly putting his clothes with the rest of your dirty clothes. You brought the blanket over his body, completely tucking Ushijima in to rest. “Get some rest, my love. We do have an early brunch tomorrow and Autumn will kill all of us if we’re not on time.” You joked.

You leaned down placing a loving kiss on his forehead, the kiss seemed to be a comforting thing for him as he snuggled further in your bed. 

“Babe..” He whispers as if the two of you resided in the quietest library. “I’m so lucky to be able to be married to you.” His eyes shifted close as if he was going to go to sleep.

“We’re not married just yet, bear.” 

“What?” His eyes shot open as if you’ve just dropped the most shocking news to him. 

“The wedding isn’t until next week.” You reminded him. 

“Oh…” His voice trails off in disappointment. “Well, I can’t wait for you to be my wife.” He sighs happily before his eyes shift close again. 

Your lips parted to respond, but you were met with a snore. Mentally marking down that had to be the quickest you’ve seen Ushijima fall asleep. Usually, you’re the one falling asleep on him since he would stay up watching back some games. But the roles were reversed now as you admired how at peace he was. Admiring how his lips pouted outward just a bit when he was sleeping and sometimes his thick brown eyebrows even crumpled together as if he was in a deep dramatic dream. 

You were so lucky to be his fiance, to be his lover—his soon-to-be wife. 

In the middle of Las Vegas' busiest casino, Tobio Kageyama felt like he had about ten-plus children going through a kid crisis. Tendou was drunkenly crying because they couldn’t find Ushijima, and Kai poorly trying to calm him down because he too had a little too much to drink. Hinata and Atsumu were playing rock paper scissors for their casino winnings (it was only five dollars and forty-five cents). He thought Daichi would be able to help him crowd-control a bunch of volleyball-loving men, but Tobio didn’t even know where Daichi was. He glanced down at his phone for a split second and Daichi and Oikawa were gone.

“So let me get this straight, you guys lost the groom in Las Vegas….” Autumn, who was the best friend of the bride, swirled her straw in her drink trying to sniffle a laugh. “Have you guys tried calling his phone? I don’t think it’s safe for him to be wandering around tipsy in Las Vegas.” 

Tobio holds up Ushijima’s phone and Autumn's plush lips form a straight line before sighing. “Well, you guys better go find him.” 

“What? You’re the maid of honor, I think it’s best if you help us.” Kobio’s blue eyes sparkled with pleads and Autumn shrugged her shoulders.

“I didn’t lose him, you guys did. My best friend is safely in her hotel room getting her beauty sleep for the brunch tomorrow, and Ushijima Wakatoshi better be there next to her at noon, sharp.” Autumn backs up from Tobio to rejoin the girls at the blackjack table they were at.  

And it soon hit him, if Ushijima did walk off by himself—the first person he would go look for is his fiance. That's what Tobio would do if he was in that situation. After he consulted the others about where he was going, the only one who decided to go with him was Tendou. Whose wet cheeks were as red as his buzz cut due to the crying. Tobio’s knuckles knocked on the room door and he could hear some shuffling around behind the closed door. He even could hear a faint, “Waka. Stay in bed, and rest.” 

The door was tugged open and there Tobio’s unsettling thoughts that they may have lost the groom in Las Vegas washed away. His body relaxed as Y/N leaned against the door frame slightly in her pajamas. 

“Missing a groom?” She questioned as her eyebrows raised at the two men in front of her. “He’s going to have one major headache tomorrow, but he’s fine.” She gives the two a smile. “I’m sure he really enjoyed himself tonight-“ her words stop as Tendou loudly sniffles overpower her.

“Are you crying-“ Her question was interrupted by Tendou’s tipsy state waltzing into her room and crashing on the bed, on top of his closest friend while he drunkenly sobbed.

“I thought I lost you, buddy.” His slender fingers caress the top of Ushijima’s head.

“Even though I can feel the room spinning, I know for a fact I don’t want you on top of me like this..Tendou.” 

Tendou sniffles and climbs off his friend. Wet cheeks finally drying up at the sign that his friend was okay. “Why did you walk off? You could have died. Then I would have to marry your fiance.”

“What?”

“Huh? Oh nothing, goodnight Miracle Boy.” Tendou’s voice drags out as he gets dragged by the collar of his jacket by Tobio. 

Even though you can see your fiance’s ears grow red in embarrassment at the nickname he hasn’t heard since he was in high school, a smile crept on his face as the memories unfolded tonight. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi was at peace with the life he had now. He was doing well career wise and he was about to marry the love of his life. 

He was so lucky.

⤷‧₊˚ cuties that wanted to be tagged | @salaciousdoll @honeybleed @cinnamisu @markleedreams @ryukenzz @altdiamonds @peachesncats @starlitsawamura @tetsuskei @nearly-sweet-lisia @threezzyo @pineapplesneedrights @mysteria157