#are (some?) of these from openings and endings?

[jubileemon]

Carrying on from their brief conversation in the previous episode, there are multiple instances where Pomni and Jax genuinely get along with each other, with Jax being more open and vulnerable than he usually is around her and Pomni making a genuine attempt to understand him in "Untitled".

During the bartending segment of the adventure, while Jax pokes fun at Zooble, he legitimately asks Pomni about what she did prior to ending up in the Digital Circus. Beyond some friendly snark, he doesn't mock her for being an accountant or for the urban exploration (and recording of said exploration) that she did on her off-time.

Also during softball, the group voted to put Jax in a maid uniform, much to his displeasure. However, Pomni is notably the only one besides Jax to vote against doing it. Throughout the softball game, Jax and Pomni can be seen casually talking, and at the end Pomni even smiles and laughs at his antics. As much of a jerk as Jax can be, it's still nice to know that he may now have a friend that can see him as more than just that.

When Jax's original self reemerges and starts devouring the Evil Jax, Ragatha and Pomni are left bewildered. But Pomni's reaction changes to laughter at Jax's behavior, which catches Ragatha's attention, leading to an awkward moment as Pomni averts her gaze while Ragatha stares at the jester in disbelief.

At the end of episode, Jax, rather casually, offers to show Pomni something in the hallway that he suggested earlier, which she actually takes him up on.

[mooningningg]

★ Roommate!Sukuna calls you baby.

You walk out of your room in that stupid tank top — the thin one with the strap that always slips off your shoulder — and immediately regret not checking if he was home.

Because there he is, Sukuna, slouched on the couch, legs spread, remote in one hand, a cold beer in the other. Shirtless, as usual. Covered in sweat from whatever underground gym he’s dragged himself out of. Hair still damp. Eyes heavy-lidded, already on you like you walked in here for him.

“Doin’ a little show today, or is that just the laundry talking?” he mutters, licking his lower lip.

You scoff, brushing past.

“You're disgusting.”

He hums lazily, eyes still on you. “Yeah? C’mere, baby.”

You freeze in the kitchen doorway.

He never says it often. Not when you’re expecting it. Not like that.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just watches. Knuckles flex around the neck of the bottle, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to decide how much he wants to push you today.

You roll your eyes and keep walking, but your skin's buzzing now.

You hear the quiet clink of the bottle hitting the coffee table.

Later, you're on the phone in the kitchen, voice a little too soft, a little too sweet — some guy from class. The second you hang up, he appears in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, sweatpants slung low like a fucking test.

“Who was that?” he asks, casual as ever, leaning one arm against the frame.

“Group project.”

He narrows his eyes. “Sounded like a date.”

You don’t look at him. “Wouldn’t be your business.”

He lets out a low laugh. One that has teeth.

“You really think you can go out dressed like that and not end up in someone’s lap, huh?”

You turn, annoyed now. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he steps in close, voice dropping, “if you’re gonna walk around like that, baby, don’t act surprised when someone wants to fuckin’ touch.”

Your mouth opens — then shuts. You hate that it makes your stomach flip.

You hate more that you don’t slap him for it.

You hate most that he knows.

Another day, you're cleaning — music on, shorts riding high on your thighs. You’re bent halfway into the cabinet when he brushes behind you to grab a drink, hand grazing your lower back.

“Move, baby,” he murmurs, right in your ear.

You jerk upright, blushing furiously. “Jesus—say excuse me!”

He just chuckles, brushing past with the bottle in hand.

“Not my fault you’re always in the fuckin’ way.”

When you turn, he’s still watching. Smirking.

And you can feel that stupid word echoing down your spine like a brand.

He’s not sweet about it. He doesn’t coo or croon. He spits it out like a dare, like a promise he hasn’t decided if he’s gonna keep. It only comes out when you’re pissing him off, turning him on, or somewhere dead center between the two.

But the thing is, every time he says it — baby — it sounds less like a nickname and more like a habit.

A bad one.

One that’s going to get both of you in trouble.

And still, you let him say it.

Because the minute he calls you that with a voice like gravel and heat?

You're not just his roommate anymore.

You’re his problem.

And Sukuna?

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t mind solving things with his hands.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Heyy same anon from the kpop demon hunters question! Gonna try and not spoil the movie for my request lol, I loved the movie and its message and Ik Jinu wanted to be free but GOD I want him back so I NEED to have him and reader having first time + emotional yearning sex after he comes back in some way plzplzplzplz (Whether reader is a huntrix member or not is up to you haha)

A/n: still fuming about what happened to him, annny who. I hope you like it!

The blood on your hands isn’t yours.

It’s slick and warm and staining your shirt as you clutch Jinu to your chest, half-dragging, half-guiding him into your apartment. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be alive.

But here he is.

Breathing—barely.

“Shit,” you choke out, lowering him gently onto your couch. “Jinu—how—?”

“I missed you,” he says instead of answering. His voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges, like something burnt and broken and still clinging to the memory of being whole.

You press trembling fingers to his cheek, daring to believe what you’re seeing. His skin is pale, his side is bleeding through his shirt, but it’s him. The boy who had sacrificed himself to save you. The boy who vanished in a flash of demonic light while you screamed his name.

“You died, Jinu.”

“I came back.” He shudders, reaching for you with blood-streaked fingers. “For you.”

You break. Collapsing into his chest, you cry against his collarbone, barely noticing the way he winces in pain, arms wrapping tightly around you anyway. You feel like you’re breathing underwater—like you’re drowning in disbelief, relief, and aching joy all at once.

He’s here. He’s here.

“I thought I’d never feel you again,” you whisper into his neck.

His voice is ragged. “Then feel me.”

Your eyes meet his—soft golden, wet with unshed tears. There’s no teasing in them now. No idol’s smirk. Just raw, exposed want… and grief and yearning and need.

You kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Frantic. A crash of mouths and teeth and breathless gasps as you straddle his lap. His blood seeps into your clothes, but you don’t care. You cup his face, fingers trembling as you kiss him like it’ll tether him to the world again. Like you can kiss him into staying.

“Tell me this is real,” you whisper against his lips. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I only feel real when I’m touching you.”

You tug off your shirt, stripping off the remnants of battle-stained clothing. He watches you like you’re something divine, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin as if memorizing you is the only thing keeping him alive.

“Lie back,” you breathe, guiding him down carefully, mindful of his injury. You straddle him again, skin pressed to skin, and he groans as your lips trace his throat.

His cock is already hard beneath you—hot, twitching, and aching with the same hunger you feel in every nerve ending. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, both of you gasping when the tip nudges your pussy.

You sink down slowly.

His hands clutch your hips, trembling. You feel every inch of him stretch you open, fill you, claim you like he was meant to be inside you all along. Like his body remembers yours.

“Oh, fuck—Jinu,” you moan, grounding yourself with your hands on his chest.

His voice is wrecked. “I dreamed of this. Every second I was gone, I dreamed of being inside you.”

You ride him slow, bodies molded together like you’re trying to erase the days, weeks, months of loss. Every roll of your hips is a promise. Every breath is a prayer. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as they flutter with each tight clench of your pussy around his cock.

You’re crying again—you don’t know when the tears started—but they fall silently down your cheeks as you move above him. Jinu reaches up, thumbing them away with infinite tenderness.

“I didn’t die for the world,” he says softly, “I died for you. And I came back because… I couldn’t stay gone. Not from you.”

Your body trembles, your climax cresting like a wave of holy fire—raw, sacred, blissful. You gasp his name as you come, pussy clenching tight around him. He cries out beneath you, hips bucking as he spills deep inside you, arms crushing you to his chest.

You lay there for a long while, tangled in each other. Breathing each other in. Hearts pounding in sync, his fingers weaving in your hair keeping you close.

“Don’t leave me again,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his.

“I won’t,” he vows. “Even if I die again, I’ll find a way back. I’ll always find you.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clung to him as you slowly nodded your head. You believed him and like Jinu, you would find any way to bring him back.

Because he was your soulmate and you'd never leave him behind.

[rosemaryhoney27]

MisDialed Hearts

inspired by this Prompt

Link

Tim Drake was cornered—again.

It had been one of those evenings, the kind that made Tim question every life decision that led him to being a CEO and a vigilante. Another gala. Another crowd of sharks in designer suits. Another round of well-meaning Gotham socialites asking about his dating life with a glint in their eyes like they were just waiting to pounce.

He needed out.

That’s when it happened. His phone buzzed with an unknown number. An escape hatch from the universe. A gift from the chaotic gods of Gotham.

Without hesitating, Tim pressed Answer and raised the phone to his ear like it was a lifeline.

“Hey, babe,” he said smoothly, walking briskly toward the exit, waving apologetically to the board members mid-sentence. “You’re calling now? I told you I was gonna be late—don't be mad. I'm on my way.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then a confused voice said, “Uh. I think I called the wrong number...?”

Tim’s eyes lit up. Jackpot.

“I’ll be there in just a moment to pick you up,” he replied warmly, as if this was a normal thing, as if he hadn’t just started weaving a lie that would need more patching than a Gotham street after Scarecrow blew up half the block.

“Wha–?! Wait—what do you mea—”

Click. Tim hung up with a satisfied smile. He could already feel Babs and Dick squinting suspiciously at him from across the ballroom, probably comparing this situation to “that time Tim faked an uncle for six months.”

He needed someone real to make this lie work. Even if it started with a wrong number.

And he had the number.

— Meanwhile…

Danny Fenton blinked at his phone. He was sitting cross-legged on his twin bed in his Gotham University dorm, textbooks open in front of him, a microwaved quesadilla cooling by his side.

He'd been trying to call his physics lab partner, but either she changed her number or—

Or some random dude just answered way too comfortably and now might be on his way to pick him up. For a date.

“…Gotham,” Danny muttered, flopping backwards and groaning into his pillow. “I’m too tired for this.”

He considered texting the guy back, but he’d barely locked his phone when a black car pulled up in front of his dorm building.

A tall figure stepped out. a sinfully attractive man in a sleek black suit, tossing his keys to a valet who wasn’t even there five seconds ago, like Gotham just conjured them from the shadows.

Tim Drake.

“Are you Danny?” he asked, walking toward him with a smile that said, just go with it, please, but in the most polite, billionaire way possible.

Danny blinked. “Yeah…?”

Tim opened the car door. “Perfect. Sorry I’m late.”

“…okay.” Danny got in. He was too tired to fight this. Also? Tim smelled like expensive cologne and decisions that made bad ideas sound good.

���Just so you know,” Danny said as they pulled into traffic, “I have no idea what’s going on.”

Tim gave him a sideways glance, smirk playing on his lips. “You called me. I just answered.”

“You said you were picking me up for a date.”

“And I’m a man of my word.”

Danny stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you always like this?”

“Only when I’m being watched.”

Danny glanced behind them. Yep. That was definitely Nightwing in a very poorly concealed civilian outfit tailing their car. Robin was flying overhead. Batgirl’s silhouette was just visible on a rooftop.

“Oh my god,” Danny muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You dragged me into a Bat thing, didn’t you?”

Tim gave him an innocent look. “Do you want dinner? I know a place.”

Danny stared at him for another beat, then leaned back in the seat with a sigh.

“You know what? Fine. You’re hot, I’m tired, and I skipped lunch. Let’s go.”

Tim smirked again. “Excellent. Just don’t be surprised if someone tries to kill us. It’s Gotham, after all.”

Danny groaned. “That’s fine. I’m half-dead anyway.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Wait—what?”

Danny smirked this time. “You faked a boyfriend. I fake being alive sometimes. Let’s call it even.”

Tim laughed. “Oh, I like you.”

“I’m still charging you for gas money,” Danny deadpanned.

"But I'm the one driving"

"So."

They were a disaster already. Gotham might never recover.

[thescarletfang]

SPINNING OUT [part two]

Here it is! Part two!

Read part one here.

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~8k

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, time jumps and flashbacks, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, SMUT, nipple worship (lol), death of a child mentioned, vaginal pain mentioned, p in v sex, oral sex, eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49 in present day). If I missed anything, let me know!

taglist (I only tagged you if you have your age in your bio!!! Sorry but I'm a stickler about it, especially when my work contains smut. If you wanna be tagged, add that age in your bio!).

@espressheauxs, @imherefordeanandbones, @ emma8895eb, 

@bitters-n-sweets @absinthe-over-tea, @wowitsafemale, @sophreakingfunny, @abbotjack, @thatcorporategirlie, @grimpowrrs, @telepathay

PART 2 

BEFORE

When you arrive to Jack’s place three evenings after your first date, your entire body is buzzing. 

You’ve texted each other every day. Jack’s called you after all of his shifts, as the sun is cresting over the city skyline and you’re just waking up, loose-limbed and heavy-eyed. It’s been 72 hours since you kissed under the moonlight in front of your home and you itch to be back in his presence. You feel delirious and wild, and you cannot stop thinking about the feeling of his lips on yours, the heat of his body pressed against you. 

You remind yourself there’s no expectation for tonight. You want to sleep with Jack, obviously, but you don’t want to rush him. You don’t even know if he wants that. You feel close to him but the reality is it’s only been three days, so you need to calm the fuck down. 

Now you find yourself standing in Jack’s home, a glass of wine in your hand, taking in this man’s space while he fusses with dinner in the kitchen with a dish towel over his right shoulder. You glance at him as he throws garlic into the pan, lowering the heat as it sizzles in the oil. You thought you’d be nervous when he opened the door, but his crooked grin, his dimples, his entire energy calmed your fluttering heart. 

His condo is simple and clean. There’s not much in the way of personality, but you figure that’s because he practically lives at the hospital. You wander over to the bookshelf in the living room and grin at his collection of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.  You also see a few photos. Jack with his sisters and nieces and nephews; this makes you grin. There’s one in particular that you like; it’s Jack with a young (maybe nine or ten), curly-haired girl on his shoulders at what appears to be some sort of backyard birthday. It’s precious. There’s one of Jack from when he was in the army with a few military buddies, leaning against a combat vehicle in the desert. He looks skinny and haunted, and you have a hard time looking at it. Jack and Robby, from a fishing trip you remember vaguely hearing about a few years ago, though it’s funny now to think that the “buddy” Robby was heading to the cabin with was, in fact, this Jack Abbot. 

And then there is a framed photo of Jack and his wife on their wedding day. They can’t be more than 25-years-old in the picture. Jack’s hair is auburn, and his freckles stand out even more with his youthful, round, clean-shaven face. They’re smiling at one another and they look so sweet it makes your heart clench. You’re shocked to find your eyes prickle as you gaze at this photo, but you cannot help it. It is so unfair that she isn’t here anymore and that Jack had to go through that. 

You’re so grateful that this man has invited you into his space, that he hasn’t hid any parts of himself from you. 

You turn to said man now and find him watching you from the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed (ridiculously sexy in his plain, blue t-shirt), and he has this little grin on his scruffy face. You feel yourself warm under his gaze and make your way to him, sipping your wine as you do so. 

“You caught me snooping,” you say lightly, and his eyes light up. 

“I explicitly told you to snoop while I finish this,” he says, uncrossing his arms and taking the dish towel from his shoulder. “Find anything interesting?”

You stop just a few feet from him in his kitchen and smile. “I like your pictures and book collection.”

He studies you and you feel like he’s trying to decipher whether or not you’re teasing him. 

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Also, it is hilarious to me that you and Robby go on fishing trips. Very sweet…and geriatric of you both.”

Jack’s eyes light up at the teasing, scoffing in mock-offense. “Hey now. Fishing trips are cool.”

You laugh. “I didn’t say they weren’t!” A beat. “Just a coupla peepaws catching trout. It’s cute.” 

He grins, dimples showing through, and turns to the stove. “Maybe I won’t feed you after all.”

“Now that’s just rude. I’m famished.”

He shrugs, shoots you a mischievous glance over his shoulder, and it’s so fun and sweet that you can only smile like an idiot in return. 

Jack does, in fact, feed you. And Jack Abbot, MD., is an amazing cook. It’s some sort of risotto with creamy mushrooms and lemon chicken and a ton of herbs and you’re so impressed you have to try and school your features into a poker-face lest you come off as desperate as you feel. Dinner is a relaxed affair, at his little table, and as you both eat you chat about your days, and work. By the time both of your plates are clean, your body is buzzing. 

You sip your half-full glass of wine and Jack sips his and you both kinda just stare at each other for a moment. It’s loaded and you wonder how crazy it would be to crawl into his lap right now, to bracket his hips with both of your thighs, grind yourself on him—

Jesus, you need to get a hold of yourself. A string of bad dates and you’re ready to jump the bones of the first man you meet who’s competent, and handsome, and has a great job, and is in therapy, and can cook—

Jack clears his throat. “Wanna watch a movie or something?” he asks, rubbing a hand along his scruff and breaking through your mile-a-minute thoughts. 

You nod. Jack nods back, and your heart pounds.

You pick something mindless — an old 90s thriller, because those comfort you, and you sit on Jack’s couch which is shockingly cozy and comfortable (you make a mental note to ask him where he got it when your mind isn’t on a loop of Jack Jack Jack). 

Jack sits next to you but not right against you, though you can feel his body heat. You both crack jokes about the movie, and about 30 minutes in you feel his arm go across the back of the couch behind you. Your heart thuds and you move a little closer to him, and then a few minutes later you feel his fingers graze your shoulder and you are now, finally, pressed against his side. You can smell his soap and his detergent and it smells clean and divine and Jesus, are you about to sniff him?

You really, really try to keep your breathing even but when his thumb grazes back and forth on your shoulder, you can’t help it. You both haven’t said anything in a while, and you can hear Jack’s breathing, can feel the heat of him. Your breath picks up just a little bit because you might explode from how badly you just want to touch him. 

Your hand finds his thigh. 

Jack’s sharp intake of breath spurs you on and you look up at him through your lashes and he’s already looking down at you, his jaw clenched and tight like he’s—like he’s holding himself back. 

You bite your lip and Jack actually fucking groans and your hand moves just the slightest bit higher on his leg and Jack swallows. 

“Hi,” you breathe. 

“Hi,” he croaks, voice broken and sacred between you. 

“Movie’s not over,” you whisper. 

Jack’s eyes rove over your face. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s taking in every single feature and rather than make you feel exposed, it makes you feel fucking beautiful. 

“I couldn’t care less about the movie,” Jack tells you and that’s all you need. Your chest rises and expands and Jack’s eyes flicker for a moment down to your chest and then quickly back to lock on your gaze. 

His eyes make you feel bold. 

You sit up, throw a leg over his lap and then you’re straddling him, your hands on his shoulders and Jack’s hands find your waist and you’re so close to him and it feels so fucking good. 

“Kiss me,” you tell him. Jack bites his lip and you think I am going to fuck this man tonight. 

“Yes ma’am,” he breathes before a hand finds the back of your head and he dips you down as he surges up and your lips meet. 

It takes approximately two seconds before you’re licking into each other’s mouths, and it’s messy and so much hotter than the peck you shared when you arrived at his place. You can’t help your hips—they grind down into his lap and you can feel how hard he is, you think he must’ve been hard for the last few minutes at least and the thought drives you insane. 

You’re a little shocked there’s no awkwardness here. It’s all so easy and it makes you feel grateful you met this man at this exact point in your life, when you feel fully formed and clear about what you are looking for, what you want. 

One of his hands dips to get a palmful of your ass and you gasp into the kiss because it feels so good, everything about him feels so perfect. 

He pulls back slightly, breathing heavy, lips spit-slick and red. 

“This okay?” he husks, voice serrated and low. He goes to move his hand off your ass but you grab his wrist and keep it there. You lean forward and bite his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth and Jack groans, the sound rumbling out of his chest. He looks wonderfully devastated. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and suddenly both of Jack’s hands are gripping your ass through your jeans and your lips find his again. You break apart for air and he sucks the pulse point below your jaw. Your right hand finds his curls, your left grips his shoulder, and you grind against his hard, clothed cock and you think you might actually come from dry-humping Jack on his couch. You cannot remember the last time you dry-humped anyone, let anyone have been brought to orgasm from such a thing. You feel like a teenager, hormones raging and lighting you up from within. 

“Jack,” you moan, your hips grinding faster. “I—I might—I think I’m gonna—fuck—”

Jack pulls away from where he’s sucking your neck and looks up at you, his eyes bright and dark at the same time, a look of wonder on his face. 

“Shit, really?” He looks down between you, where you’re moving and he lets out a strangled groan. “You think you can come like this? Yeah?” 

“Yes, yes,” you chant, moving faster, the rough fabric of his jeans against your own creating delicious friction. “It’s so good, Jack, you feel so good—”

Your hand grips his curls a little tighter, the couch begins to smack against the wall from the movement, and Jack moans, his eyes locking onto yours. He looks amazed and it makes you feel powerful. 

“Jesus.” His voice practically breaks on the word. “You can’t be real. You were fuckin’ made from my dreams.”

You’re babbling now because the seam of your jeans against your clit and the feel of his hard cock have you so close. 

“I’m there, I’m there, oh my fucking god—Jack—” You know you’re being loud but you can’t help it because all you can do is focus on coming on this man’s lap. “I’m coming—I’m coming—”

“Fuck, just like that, you look so pretty comin’ on me, take what you fuckin’ need.” Jack’s voice spurs you on and then you’re coming so hard you actually fucking squeal. 

Jack leans his head against the back of the couch and watches you break apart and you can actually feel his cock twitch from under you. You come down from the high of your orgasm, practically melting into his lap, your arms looping around his neck. You lean your forehead against his and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Christ,” Jack croaks. He looks absolutely debauched. 

You’re so warm, all over, but an insecurity rushes up inside of you as your breathing begins to slowly even out. You move your forehead away from his, look him in the eyes. 

“Is it insane I want you to fuck me and this is only the second time we’ve hung out?”

Jack’s eyes flash for a moment, his jaw clenching, and then he places a tender hand around your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. 

“I’m followin’ your lead here. I don’t need anything, I—” He swallows. “I’m just really glad you’re here.” 

You smile because you can’t help it. “I’m really glad I’m here, too.” You lick your lips. “And I really, really need you to be inside me.” 

“Fuck.” The word is torn from Jack’s lips, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “Hold on to me.”

Your arms around his neck tighten, and his hands move to hold you just under your ass and he—he picks you up from the couch, stands with you—and you cannot believe he is carrying you right now. 

“M’too heavy,” you say shyly, burying your face in his neck. Jack barks out a laugh as he walks you down the hall and shoulders his way through what you assume is his bedroom door. You wish you had the brain power to look around but you can’t because this sexy motherfucker just carried you into his bedroom. 

“No fuckin’ way,” he tells you lowly, and when he reaches his bed he gently sets you onto it. You fall back, breathing heavy as he leans over you, hands planted on either side of your head. Your hands skate up the thick, corded muscles of his arms and you look into his hazel eyes. You smile at him because you simply cannot help it. 

Jack stares at you, seemingly cataloguing everything he sees. 

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you these last few days,” he rasps, a hand coming up to cradle our jaw. You bite your lip and his eyes grow dark as he watches the movement. 

“Me too,” you whisper, and it’s tender between you. He leans down, presses his lips to yours and the kiss goes from sweet to fucking hot in seconds. You bite his bottom lip, pulling on it and Jack moans into your mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you.

“Need you to take your fuckin’ clothes off,” he croaks and you whimper. You nod, sitting up and he kneels on the bed and you both quickly—frantically—undress. Jack reaches behind his head with one hand, pulling off his t-shirt in a swift movement that you internally catalogue as very fucking sexy. You pull your own top over your head, toss it to god-knows-where, and quickly unclasp your bra. Before you can undo your jeans, Jack stills your hand, moving it away from the button. He crowds slowly into you, his eyes flicking up to yours before his lips find the nipple of your left breast. He massages your right one with a large hand and it has you leaning back on your elbows and arching your back so your tit is in his palm and you’re keening. 

“You’re so sexy,” he groans out of the side of his mouth that is still around your nipple and your toes curl, your hands going into his gray curls and holding him to you, fucking latching him onto you—

You might come like this, and the realization has you huffing, “I need us to be naked. Now.”

Jeans are clumsily, messily shed, and then you are in your simple cotton panties and Jack is in his briefs and you look down—

The leg Jack has bent on the edge of the bed is prosthetic. You look up at Jack, who’s watching you closely.

“Uh, another thing I never know how to bring up,” he says and you’re taken aback when you notice he’s blushing. “Lost it overseas during my second tour.”

You feel insane because you are topless and in your underwear and this feels like an important moment. You sit up, cradle his face in your hands. 

“You wanna take it off?” You ask, your thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks. “Do whatever makes you more comfortable. I want you.”

Jack’s eyes go a little glassy before he kisses you roughly, pushing you back down onto your back. He pulls back enough to mutter, “After,” before he descends on you again. 

The mattress and bedding is cool beneath you as Jack kisses and licks his way down your sternum. He pauses at your breasts, suckling at your nipples for a moment before licking his way down your stomach. He situates himself between your legs.  His hands find the waistband of your underwear and he glances up at you, a question in his eyes. 

“Please,” you answer, and Jack grins crookedly as he peels your underwear down your thighs. He gently drops them over the side of the bed and then Jack is pushing on your knees to open you up to him and your heart is beating so fast you’re pretty sure you can see it beneath your skin. His large hands grip your thighs as he maneuvers your legs over his freckled, broad shoulders and then he breathes you in, his entire face a breath away from your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he croaks. “Jesus.” His eyes flick up to you. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes, yes—” your words break off when his tongue licks into you and oh, fuck. Fuck. When was the last time you even felt this good? You bizarrely think of the last time you slept with someone — some idiotic man a few months ago, who didn’t even go down on you — and you think this is so good, it’s so good—

“Jack,” you cry, your hands finding his hair and pulling him even closer into your pussy. He moans and you can feel the sound, can feel it down into your very core and you think you want him eating your pussy every single day for the rest of your life. 

He pulls back and licks his lips, looking up at you. “Tell me what you need, I wanna get you there.”

You put a hand to your forehead and your thighs squeeze against his ears, caging him in. 

“This—this, Jack, it’s so good—”

Suddenly Jack’s hands are under your ass and he’s pulling you even closer into his awaiting mouth and you can’t help it — you cry out so loudly you’re worried about Jack’s neighbors, but he doesn’t seem to care because he’s grinding into the mattress as he eats you. His head bobs up and down with how fervently he’s licking your pussy and you feel it but it’s — it’s not enough —

You lean up on your elbows. “Can—can you put a finger in me?”

Jack’s eyes flutter and he pulls back and you almost die when you see how wet his stubble is. He’s drenched in you. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost reverently. “I can do that, baby.”

He takes the middle finger of his right hand and gently slides it into you, bites his lip as he watches it go in with little resistance. 

You collapse onto your back again and the glide of his finger in and out of your pussy feels heavenly. Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. 

“Yes, yes,” you babble. 

Jack kisses the inside of your thigh as he moves his finger in and out. He looks at you, eyes dark. 

“Need another?”

You nod, your hands gripping into the top cover of Jack’s bed because it’s so good when Jack gently slides in his ring finger. It’s tighter than just one but you feel yourself relaxing into the feeling, feel yourself grow even wetter with a mix of Jack’s spit from his mouth and your juices. 

“I’ve—fuck, yes like that—I’ve had some issues with pain in the past—so you—you need to get me—-fuck, Jack—get me ready—-to take you—”

You know you’re babbling but you need Jack to know this; you’ve had too many awful partners in the past who didn’t take their time, who just rammed their dick into you. That kind of pain doesn’t leave your body easily, and you’ve learned how to enjoy sex but you need to communicate this. 

His fingers keep working you but he pats your knee with his free hand. 

“Hey, look at me.”

Jack’s rasp catches your attention and you open your eyes and you look down at him. Your thighs frame his head, his gray curls are a wreck, he’s got two fingers buried deep in your pussy and you try and take a mental snapshot of the image because it’s…it’s lovely. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and the hand that’s not between your legs holds onto your thigh, his thumb caressing the skin. “All I wanna do is make you feel good, okay? Don’t care if that means we take our time, or what. Yeah?”

You nod, feel your eyes prickle despite yourself. Jack kisses your knee. 

“I’m here with you and you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous. You taste so good and if this is all we do, I’ll be a very fuckin’ happy man. You got that?”

You nod, your entire body trembling. Jack crooks his fingers and you gasp.

“Jack,” you whisper. Jack’s eyes crinkle at the edges, softening, and then his thumb starts strumming your clit in a way that sets you on literal fire and you cry out.

“Want you to come all over my fingers,” Jack grouses, and his tongue licks into you again, as his two fingers hook into you and his thumb hits just right. 

“Oh my god,” you moan. You’re sweating properly now, feel it gather on the back of your neck and your hairline and you start to grind into Jack’s face, riding his hand and his tongue at the same damn time. Your tits jiggle with the movement and you feel worshipped in a way you’ve never felt with another man. 

You break when Jack sucks onto your clit, your second orgasm of the night cresting over you with wave after wave of pleasure. You let out a sound that is downright animalistic, and you feel Jack’s own moan all the way to your toes. 

You’re trembling, a sheen of sweat glistens on your skin, and Jack continues to lick and kiss you through it until you put a gentle hand in his curls and pull him off. He looks pussy drunk between your legs, panting and sweating himself. You stare at him. 

“Holy fucking shit,” you articulate like the linguistic genius that you are. Jack’s eyes brighten, a crooked smile dimpling his cheeks as he keeps eye contact with you as he presses a few more kisses into your thighs. 

“Yeah?” he croaks, lips hot on your skin.

You huff a laugh, light and breathy. You’re tingling. 

“Yeah,” you reply, tugging on Jack’s hair. He makes his way up your body, lying next to you. You face each other, and you hook a leg around his waist, cupping his jaw with your hand. 

“How do you make me feel so good?” You ask him because you’re genuinely curious. “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack’s hand finds your naked waist and he gently drags his fingers up and down the curve of your side. “I wanna make you feel good all the time,” he tells you and you believe him. 

You push on his shoulder, getting him flat on his back and you sit up on your knees. He’s still in his briefs and that absolutely needs to change. Your hands find the waistband and you look at Jack, who’s watching you with his chest rising and falling. 

“Can I?” you ask. He lets out a breath. 

“Fuck yes.”

You peel his briefs off of his—his very muscular thighs—and his cock springs free, red and standing proud, already weeping from the tip. Without thinking you wrap a hand around the base of him, your tongue sliding up the side of his cock to lick the precrum that’s dribbled out.

“Fuck!” Jack punches the word out, harsh and from his chest. You hum around him, wanting to keep going, but he gently puts a hand on the back of your neck, gently urging you off. 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ last if you do that,” he says, voice cracked and ruined. You lift off with a final lick over his tip. You really want to suck this man dry, but Jack’s breath is so shallow you think you need to go a little easy on him. 

“Next time?” you ask, hopeful, and Jack barks out a surprised laugh, more of a huff of a breath, and nods. 

“Yeah, next time. Right now I need to be inside you.”

You quickly sit up, hovering over him. You put your hands on his chest but hesitate. 

“You don’t have any lube, do you?” 

You know you’re wet but still, penetrative sex for you without lube is not that fun. You curse yourself for not bringing your mini bottle in your purse, but you didn’t want to be presumptuous —

“Of course,” Jack says and nods toward his nightstand. “In there. It’s water-based, if that’s okay.”

You stare down at Jack Abbot and you think where the fuck did you come from?

“I really shouldn’t find the sentence, ‘it’s water based, if that’s okay,’ as sexy as I do, but Jesus, who are you?” You ask, leaning over to his nightstand and taking out the bottle. Jack’s hands land on your waist, tightening and he laughs, his ears reddening. 

“I’m 45-years-old,” he tells you, watching as you squirt some into your hand. He gasps when you spread it onto his cock, groans when you give him a squeeze. “And a doctor. I—I know to have lube—fuck, honey, you gotta stop doing that if you don’t want me to embarrass myself.”

You smirk, ceasing your stroking as you line him up at your entrance. “There’s no way you could embarrass yourself after the way you ate me out.”

Jack actually blushes, which is hilarious seeing as you’re both naked and your bare cunt is against his stomach and your hand is wrapped around his length. 

Jack’s hands squeeze your waist once. “You feel good? Ready for me?”

“Yes,” you tell him, before you begin to sink down on his cock. You both gasp, your breaths coming quickly as you take him inch by inch. The stretch hurts a tiny bit at first but you go slowly.

Jack’s head flies back against his pillow and his jaw clenches. His hands make their way to palm your ass as he bottoms out inside you. 

“Jesus, god,” he groans, and you place your hands on his chest, adjusting to the feel of him. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—fuck.”

“Gonna start slow,” you gasp, beginning to grind your hips and Jack’s eyes flick down to where you’re taking him.

“Do whatever you want, you feel so fuckin’ good—”

Your voice is breathy when you ask, “Yeah?”

Jack’s hands dimple the flesh of your ass, and he bites his lip, his eyes seemingly glued to the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. Your hips begin to move in earnest now.

“Yeah,” he croaks. 

You begin to fuck each other like you mean it. 

And you do. You mean it so much because you know this thing with Jack is special. You grind on his cock and he anchors his hands to your hips and his bedroom is a cacophony of the bed squeaking, and breathy moans, and grunts and yes, yes like that and oh fuck, fuck you feel like heaven. 

Just as your legs start to cramp up, Jack tells you for the second time this evening to hold on, and he flips you so you’re underneath him. You let out a breath as he holds himself above you. 

“Still good?” he asks. 

“Yes, so good,” you moan. Jack grabs your right leg, hitches it around his waist and begins to fuck you like it’s what he was put on this earth to do. The angle hits so good, the headboard starts to slam against the wall, your tits bounce and you claw at his shoulders and his back. 

“Fuck!” you cry when his thrusts begin to hit that sacred spot inside of you.

Jack’s lips find your shoulder, sucking on the flesh there before moving onto your neck. He turns his head where it rests against your collarbone, breathes breath onto your skin as his hips pound into you. 

“You take me so well, baby,” he groans and your hand goes to the back of his head, fisting his gray curls. “You feel unreal—come on—fuck, look at you—”

“Give it to me, Jack,” you reply, and you wrap your other leg around his waist. Your arms grip his shoulders and one of Jack’s hands slams against the headboard, allowing himself to hover above you as he pounds into you. 

“Fucking give it to me,” you moan, delirious with pleasure as his cock—slick with your wetness and the lube—hits deep inside of you over and over. 

You snake a hand between you to play with your clit and Jack groans, watches your finger, mesmerized. 

“God, that’s so hot,” he says, his voice breaking on the last word. “You’re so sexy.” 

You strum your clit and feel yourself grow close. “M’gonna come,” you babble and Jack grits his teeth. 

“Yeah? Jesus, me too baby, I’m so close.” His voice is broken. When he begins to falter in his rhythm, he rasps, “Tell me where you want it.”  

You lock eyes with him as he fucks you to the near brink of delirium. “Inside.”

“Fuck, fuck—fuck.” The mantra falls from his lips as you strum your clit at the exact right moment and you come with a scream. Jack follows a second later with a moan of his own, his head buried in your neck as you feel him coat the inside of your pussy with his come. You keep your legs wrapped around him, both of you gasping for air. Your skin is sticky and wet and you feel on fire. 

Jack gently raises himself up on his arms, looking down at you, and you both burst into laughter. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, and his face is bright red. 

“Wow,” you say back. 

You breathe into each other’s mouths for a moment, letting the comedown wash over you both.

Your eyes grow a little wide at a realization. 

“I’m on birth control. I—I’m sorry, I guess telling you to come inside of me in the heat of the moment wasn't the most responsible. No STIs either.”

Jack leans down, kisses you tenderly before slipping out of you. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. I’m—I also recently got tested. Before our date, so—”

You sit up, still short on breath. You grin at him and he stares back at you like he cannot believe you’re here. 

You wipe some sweat off of your brow. “Gonna pee.” Before you slip out of bed, Jack snakes a hand into your hair and pulls you to his mouth. He kisses you soft, and slow, and it feels like honey. 

“You’re amazing,” Jack mutters against your mouth and you melt into him. 

You are thoroughly fucked, both metaphorically and physcially. 

And you truly believe you have never been happier. 

*** 

Jack moves into your place six months later.

After your first night together, you both decide to be exclusive quickly. You become Jack’s girlfriend, and you fit and mold into each other’s lives in a surprisingly seamless way. Robby is thrilled, of course, and despite Jack’s horrific schedule, you make it work. Sometimes (the rare and blissful times), he will get a few days off in a row, so you make the most of that time together; farmer’s market strolls, going to see a movie, trying out a new recipe together, or simply existing next one another on the couch; you, deep in your latest novel, Jack reading an old medical journal from the ‘90s (“because there’s still good stuff in here!”).

You can’t help but feel taken aback at the easiness of it all, but you refuse to let it scare you. You have spent your entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and you do not allow yourself to think that way now. 

So when Jack’s lease is up on his condo, you both mutually come to the decision that it makes sense to meld your lives in this way. He’s practically living at your place anyway — much more than a toothbrush on your counter and a single drawer. He is everywhere in your home; his favorite mug sits on your kitchen shelf, his books have made their way onto your bookcase, and his toiletries are permanently in the shower. You even had a bench installed in there, so he could shower without his prosthetic and be comfortable.

It just makes sense. 

That first night that Jack moves in, you find him in the kitchen, unpacking a few of his beloved stainless steel pots and pans. He looks up at you, hair disheveled, in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and your heart literally stutters in your chest. He grins, cheeks dimpling, and you walk over to him. 

“We’re not rushing this, right?” You ask it before you can think about it too much; it’s an insecurity of yours that you’re trying to bat away. Six months and living together doesn’t feel rushed for you, but you know it’s different for Jack. 

Jack, who had a marriage before you. Who had his person.

And he didn’t just lose that person. She was brutally ripped away from him in this life and it will never, ever be fair. And you just…you want to make sure that you aren’t overstepping. You would never fucking try to replace her and you love hearing about every single part of his life when he offers it to you, but you just…

You know there is baggage there. No matter how great Jack’s therapist is (and he’s fucking fantastic, you looked him up because duh), no matter how well his SSRI works, no matter how much healing he’s done, no matter how easy his smiles come to him, you can see it. Not just because you yourself are a therapist, but any human being with eyes can see it; when his nightmares wake you up at 3am; when he comes back from a harrowing shift and his eyes are dulled and he’s quiet. 

He’s still haunted. Maybe he always will be.

You know Jack (like everyone) has got his shit. 

But you just want to be…sure.

That Jack is choosing this.

This life. With you.

Jack sets the pan on the stove and turns to you, his expression calm and warm. 

“I don’t think so,” he says softly. He cocks his head slightly, beckoning you over to him. You go easily into his arms, yours snaking around his waist. He kisses your forehead, pushes some of your hair back from your face. 

“Do you?” 

You shake your head. “No. I just wanted to…check.”

Jack grins his crooked grin. “I’m grown. And I know what I want.”

You huff a laugh, feeling some of the doubt and worry slip away. “Yeah? What’dya want, Abbot?”

Jack slides his hands to cradle your jaw, brings his lips to just hover above yours. A hot coil springs loose, low in your belly.

An ember catching fire. 

You look up at him just before he says, “You.”

***

The reservation time has come and gone. 

You walk back home in the quiet evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and you’re not mad. You’re just…sad.

You miss Jack and you know it’s not his fault. And you told him you didn’t need a big deal made out of a one year anniversary, that just being home with him would’ve been enough after two straight weeks of him working every single night. 

You miss your boyfriend.

But Jack insisted on a nice dinner and he made the reservation. He switched shifts with Robby so he’d be out by 7pm (ha). He’d told you to be at the place by 7:30, that he couldn’t wait to see you, etc. etc. 

The plan was to meet at the restaurant; he’d shower and change at PTMC and you’d walk home together. 

You knew the night wasn’t going to go according to plan when a text came in at 6:55, but you were still hopeful. 

Jack Abbot: May be 5 late. 

You: no rush. ☺️

Jack Abbot: Love you. 

You: Love you. 

You didn’t expect to hear from Jack again, and at 7:15 you walked the short walk to the restaurant. They sat you down quickly and you decided to order a wine while you waited, looking over the menu. At 7:35, another text came in. 

Jack Abbot: I’m so sorry, held up. Fucking brutal here. 20 mins, tops. 

You valiantly kept your heart from sinking (seriously, you deserved an award), and took a hefty sip of your wine. You took a breath. Not his fault, you reminded yourself. 

You: Want me to order you a drink to be ready when you get here?

You (foolishly) expected him to text you back immediately, but when the 20 minutes came and went without any text from Jack, you started to feel antsy. You could feel the waiter eying you from the corner but you ignored the stare, determined to just Be Chill. 

You finished your wine at 8. You looked at your phone. 

At 8:15, you asked the waiter for the check. 

At 8:30, you left. 

Not his fault, not his fault plays like a mantra over and over in your head. You chose Jack, and his horrible schedule, and his good fucking heart. You are in love with this man because of who he is at his core, which is a man who doesn’t half-ass things. Who sees things through. Who doesn’t let someone bleed out on his watch because he has something as trivial as a dinner date to get to.

It’s just that—

It hurts, sometimes. 

To feel like the thing that he might not follow through with is you. 

Your phone buzzes as you let yourself in the front door. 

Jack Abbot: Leaving in 15. You order yet?

You scoff, toeing off your heels and hanging up your purse on the hook by the door. It is now 8:40pm. You stare at his text for a moment as you walk over to the kitchen, taking out your favorite wine glass and deciding you’re going to have your second drink in your PJs and on the couch. 

You: I’m home now, so don’t rush or anything. 

You see the three dots appear and then disappear quickly. You watch this happen a few times and you feel a ping of guilt; you’re not angry with Jack. You can’t be. You just wish he could be a little more realistic sometimes; if he hadn’t insisted on this dinner in the first place, you wouldn’t find yourself disappointed. 

Jack Abbot: Baby, I’m so fucking sorry. 

You steady your breath.

You: It’s okay! I completely understand. I’ll see you at home. 

The three dots do their disappearing act again but he doesn’t respond. You sigh, have another drink, and settle in.

Jack does not, in fact, leave PTMC 15 minutes after he sent that text. 

In fact, he doesn’t arrive home until after midnight, when you are curled up in bed, in that liminal space between conscious and unconscious. You feel the bed dip beside you, feel a hand graze your forehead. You smell the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat and your eyes flutter open. 

Jack…

Jack looks awful. 

You blink sleepily at him and notice the dark circles under his eyes. Notice his pale, waxy complexion. The fatigue is deep in his bones and you hate it so much it feels like a physical ache. 

“Hey,” he croaks. 

“Hi,” you say as you sit up. Jack scoots over but he doesn’t break eye contact with you. This man will be at the absolute end of his rope but one thing about him? He’ll always look you square on and he won’t back down. He dips his head until he knows he’s got your gaze locked onto his.

“I’m so sorry.” It spills out of his mouth in the dark and lies on the bed between you. You shake your head, rub a hand down his back. You feel a little of the tension leave his shoulders but he’s still holding himself so tightly. 

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fuckin’ not. I ruined your night, I ruined our anniversary. It ain’t okay.”

You don’t say anything. The silence stretches between you and Jack looks down at his hands, finally breaking some eye contact and taking a shaky breath.

You keep rubbing his back. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

Jack clenches his jaw and after a moment, he speaks. “Ten-year-old girl. Hit on her bike. Dad was too drunk to realize what happened. A neighbor brought her in. She—” his voice breaks and he rubs his eyes. “She um, she had this wild, curly hair. Like my niece.”

Your heart shatters and you scoot closer to Jack. You lie your head on his back, curling around him. He doesn't have to say that she didn’t make it. You see it and feel it in everything about him now. 

You don’t say I’m sorry. 

You say, “It’s so goddamn unfair. Hope that dad rots in fuckin’ hell.” 

Jack looks up at you, his eyes glassy. You lift your head, run a hand through his curls. “Me too.”

You sit there in shared anger about a stranger. The night hums around you, quietly and softly and it’s a sacred, tender moment. 

You’re no longer tired, so you stand up and offer your hand to Jack. He takes it like he’ll follow you anywhere. You lead him to the bathroom and turn the knobs for the shower.  As steam curls around you, you quietly undress Jack and he quietly undresses you. You help him take off the prosthetic, allow him to lean on you as you both get into the shower. 

He sits down with a groan on the bench under the spray and you don’t say anything for awhile. You simply wash each other in this small, warm place where the two of you are the only two people to exist. When you’ve both rinsed the bubbles from your hair, you go to turn off the water but Jack catches your hand. He pulls you over to where he sits on the bench, and he wraps his arms around your middle. 

Your heart aches and you run your hands through his wet curls. Jack presses his lips to your stomach, makes his way gently to your breasts. Your breath hitches when he wraps his lips around your right nipple, sucking the pebbled flesh there. You feel your core throb and you let out a gasp as he sucks on your tit, like it’s soothing him.

He lets the nipple go with a scrape of his teeth and your fingers tighten in his hair. He moves to your other breast, kissing the flesh before sucking on that one too. You feel his hand gently trail to your core. When his fingers slip through your folds, you tug on his head. 

“Jack,” you say, because you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

His mouth is still sucking on your nipple when he croaks the word, “please” like it’s ripped from his very soul. 

You bite your lip and nod and Jack keeps sucking, keeps fucking self-soothing around your nipple (and it’s so hot, he’s so perfect like this) as he slides a finger into your pussy. You cry out, the sound drowned out from the spray of the shower and Jack gently slides a second finger in and fucks you there under the spray of the water. 

You lose your breath as his thumb strums your clit and he groans against your nipple and when you break, the orgasm rising slow and steady until you’re trembling, Jack finally lifts his mouth from your breast. 

You stare down at him and reach for his aching cock but he shakes his head. 

You understand.

Your pleasure is his penance. You allow him this for tonight. 

When you’re both clean and cozy, back under the sheets, Jack draws you into his arms. You face each other and he cups your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth in a way that makes your eyes flutter. You’re drifting off, finally calm and relaxed and sated. 

“Marry me.”

Your eyes fly open and Jack is staring at you, clear as if it’s a new day. You frown, your mouth falling open.

“What?”

Jack’s eyes flit back and forth between both of yours and at one in the morning after standing you up (albeit, not his fault!), he says it again.

“Marry me.”

You freeze and you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. “Jack, you’ve—it’s been a long night—”

Jack turns over, opens the nightstand, and when he comes back to you he’s holding a simple gold ring with a sparkling solitaire diamond. You gape and bolt up.

“What!”

Jack slowly sits up, still holding the ring between you. “Was gonna do it at dinner. Had a whole—a whole fuckin’ speech planned.”

Your hands go to your face and your heart won’t stop beating as fast as a damn hummingbird, and you cannot believe this is happening right now, right in this moment. 

You look up at him and he’s staring at you. You feel your eyes prick. 

“You sure?” You ask him. 

Jack nods, lets out a breath. “Never been more sure about anything.”

You swallow. “It’s not—you don’t think?--we’re not—”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is raspy when he says, “It’s not too fast. I love you. Want you to be my wife.” 

You slowly take your hands away from your cheeks, which are now wet, because you are crying. “Jack.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Can’t believe I met you. Never…never thought I’d have this again. Can’t believe you’re…mine.” He pauses. “If—if you’ll have me. Forever.”

“Yes.”

Jack lets out a breath that sounds more like a groan. His eyes shine. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling and crying and it’s one in the morning and Jack is asking you to marry him. 

“Yeah, Abbot. I’ll have you. Forever.”

The smile Jack gives you puts the fuckin’ moon to shame. 

***

NOW

You aren’t awake and they cut your engagement ring and wedding band off of your finger when you went in for surgery. 

Both sit broken in a little plastic bag on a table beside your unconscious form. 

Jack sits in a chair beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at you with bloodshot eyes and praying to a God he long stopped believing in. 

He is trying to process the fact that you still wear your wedding rings, that you had them on when you were hit by that fucking drunk driver who he hopes didn’t make it and is flatlining somewhere in PTMC. He never takes his own wedding band off but he was sure you kept yours in a drawer somewhere and he doesn’t fucking know what to do if you don’t wake up.

You don’t look like yourself and he can’t equate the vibrant woman you are with this body in the bed before him. 

Robby came in earlier, tried to get Jack to leave and take a shower, eat something, drink water instead of coffee. But Jack refused. 

“I’ll watch over her, brother. You need a break.”

Jack had stared at Robby hard. “This is all my fuckin’ fault, man. I—”

Robby had stepped right up to Jack at that moment, putting a large hand on his friend’s shoulder and looking into his eyes, big brown meeting hazel. “You can’t fuckin’ think that way, Jack. It’s not true and it’s not your fault—”

“I let her go, man,” Jack croaks, eyes wet. “I pushed her away because I don’t deserve her, never did, and this—she shouldn’t—I should’ve been with her or, fuck, I don’t know—-”

Jack’s words had broken off and he’d buried his face in his hands. 

“We’re not gonna let her go this time,” Robby said, his voice cracked with pain. “She’s like my fuckin’ sister and I’m not — we’re not letting her go. We protect the hive, remember?”

When Jack didn’t answer, Robby remained silent but there, a hand on his shoulder. A steady, constant weight in this fucking nightmare Jack found himself in.

Jack now sits alone. Robby had needed to close out his cases, promising he’d be up again as soon as he was done. 

Jack doesn’t know what time it is. Can’t even remember the day of the week.

Jack aches and hurts and he deserves this pain and he just wants you to wake up. 

“Please,” he croaks into the quiet room. “Please come back to me, baby. Please.”

The steady beeping in your cold hospital room is the only answer he gets. 

It’s the only one he deserves. 

[papayainsectorone]

Is It Casual Now?

summary: i have nothing to summarize other then .... spiraling

content: unrequited feelings, emotional neglect, jealousy, emotional intimacy withdrawal, romantic displacement, passive heartbreak, "i’m fine" when they’re clearly not, The Couch™ as emotional purgatory

word count: 4,3k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a thought: thank you endlessly for all the love on the last part, your comments truly mean the world to me and i’m so so grateful 🫶

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

The afternoon sun slants across the apartment like it’s trying too hard to be gentle. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket still draped around your shoulders even though you aren’t cold anymore, just… thin. Like your skin’s been worn down by too many hours of pretending.

You don’t remember what’s playing on the TV. You’ve been staring at it hours without really seeing it.

Your stomach is mostly settled now. The sickness has faded, leaving just the ghost of it behind, hovering low and sour. But the ache in your chest—the one that started when her laugh had filtered through your bedroom wall—is louder now in the quiet.

You end up on the ocuch all day, curtains drawn just enough to keep the light soft. You lie on your stomach, scrolling. Meaningless stuff, nothing worth remembering.

And then you type her name into the search bar.

Charlotte.

You don’t even know her last name. But somehow you land on someone who might be her. Blonde. Tall. An unmistakable glint of Lando’s jacket in the background of one photo on her story.

Your stomach clenches, betrayal and shame tangled up like wet wires.

You wonder if he kissed her the same way he kissed you. If he tucked her hair behind her ear the way he used to. If he whispered stupid, soft things to her while his hand was on her waist, if she got the good parts of him too.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You don’t want him. That was the whole deal. Casual. Friendly. Disposable.

Except maybe you do. And maybe it isn’t.

You let your phone slip from your fingers to the cushions, the weight of it suddenly too much again.

The door clicks open late that afternoon.

You don’t move. Just stare blankly at the paused Netflix screen, the lingering image of a scene you didn’t absorb.

Lando walks into view, dropping his keys in the dish by the door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand. He looks freshly showered again, cheeks flushed from the wind outside.

“Hey,” he says, voice light. “How you feeling?”

You turn your head, smile a little too tightly. “Better.”

“Color’s back in your face,” he offers, walking into the kitchen. “Figured I’d make you something. You kept anything down?”

You nod. Lie. “Some toast.”

He pokes his head out from behind the fridge door. “Okay, toast and… crisps it is.”

You huff out a dry laugh as he tosses you a bag.

He drops onto the couch beside you, a little too close, thigh brushing yours. Your body tenses before you can hide it.

Lando glances over at you, the crease between his brows twitching just slightly. “Still nauseous?”

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”

But it isn’t.

He seems like he knows that too, his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s trying to read between your words. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything. He just nods, barely, and turns his attention back to the muted TV screen.

You don’t curl up against him like you usually do. Don’t toss your legs over his lap or lean into his side the way your body aches to do now. You stay where you are, arms crossed, folded in on yourself like that could protect you from whatever it is you’re not saying out loud.

And Lando… Lando doesn’t push for that either.

That’s what makes it worse, somehow.

He’s being kind. Attentive. Gentle.

And it’s unbearable.

Because now, with all that sudden distance stretched between you, you remember how soft he talked to her in that hallway, how his eyes propably crinkled when she whispered something close to his ear. How his laugh rumbled warm and easy with her body pressed against his. Like it wasn’t just fun. Like she meant something.

He’s being careful with you now. But he was tender with her, too.

And that… that hurts in a way you weren’t ready for.

THREE DAYS LATER

You’re both in the kitchen.

Technically.

In practice, it feels like you’re on separate orbits—same space, different gravity. There’s nothing overtly wrong. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just a stillness that hums under everything. A quiet unfamiliarity in a room that used to be full of rhythm.

Lando’s leaned back against the counter, his phone in one hand, thumb dragging absently across the screen. He’s talking in that fast, half-distracted way he does when he’s running on autopilot. Something about the next race—weather forecasts, new car tweaks, a funny thing one of the engineers texted him.

His voice fills the space, light and easy, like it always does. You smile at the right moments. Nod when he pauses long enough to pretend he’s expecting a response.

You’re at the stove, watching the water in the kettle start to tremble. Your arms are crossed, knotted across your chest like they’re holding something in. The steam curls up in slow spirals. You focus on that. It’s easier than watching him.

This used to be your favorite version of him. Excited, moving from topic to topic without breath, like everything that mattered was right there in his head and he wanted to share it all with you. You used to love how chaotic he got before a trip, how he’d try to pack the morning of and forget half his chargers. You’d steal his hoodie just to slow him down. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be mad, and then chase you around the living room until you were laughing too hard to breathe.

Now he’s wearing that same hoodie.

The one you used to sleep in.

You think about how you used to wake up in it. How it smelled like him even after the wash. You think, vaguely, that maybe you hate it now.

You pour hot water over a waiting tea bag. Let it steep. But you don’t drink it. Just hold the mug close, letting the heat pool in your palms, like maybe that’s enough to keep you grounded.

Lando’s still talking. You hear the sound of his voice, but not the words. They don’t quite land.

He doesn’t notice you’ve gone quiet.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t ask.

The thing is, you’re not angry. Not really. You just don’t have the energy to reach for something that feels like it’s already slipping away. Something that maybe was never yours to begin with.

He finally checks the time, stretches like he always does before leaving, and grabs his keys from the bowl by the door.

“I’m meeting Charlotte for lunch,” he says casually, like it’s just another item on the to-do list. Like it’s nothing.

You nod. “Have fun.”

He hesitates, just for a beat. Like maybe he senses it, the shift between you. But whatever he might’ve said gets swallowed down. He flashes a brief, familiar smile, and then he’s walking down the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And the quiet rushes in like a wave, swallowing everything whole.

You’re on the couch together.

The room is dim, cast in soft flickers from the TV, some action comedy Lando picked. Something loud and ridiculous. He said it’d be a good distraction. You didn’t argue.

You sit curled into the far corner, legs tucked beneath you, blanket wrapped tight across your lap like it’s shielding you from something neither of you have named. Your side of the couch is colder than it used to be. That space in the middle, the one you used to fill without thinking, now stretches longer than it should.

Lando’s sprawled comfortably on the other end, socked feet propped on the coffee table, fingers resting loosely on a half-finished bottle of water. He laughs—short and easy—at a dumb joke on screen. You try to echo it with a breathy sound. It doesn’t land.

“You’re not even watching,” he says, without looking away from the movie.

You hum. “I am.”

He glances over, catches your profile in the low light. “What’s the main guy’s name then?”

You pause. “Guy McYells?”

Lando snorts. “Okay, maybe you are watching.”

You smile. It's weak, but it's real enough to fool the room.

Then his phone buzzes between you.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He reaches for it without missing a beat, fingers moving fast. The screen lights up and out of the corner of your eye, you catch the name.

Charlotte.

No emojis. No nickname. Just her name. Clean. Definitive.

Still, the smile that breaks across Lando’s face is soft and wide and utterly effortless. It hits like a punch to the chest.

“What’s she saying?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t look up, still typing. “Just something about her trip. She might come up next week.”

You nod slowly. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” He glances at you now, expression unreadable. “You two should hang out. Properly, I mean.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right, because I’m dying to have girl talk.”

He laughs again, but it’s more of a breath. “Come on, it’s not like that, she´s not like that, I reckon you´d like her just as much as I do”

You turn back to the screen. “Sure.”

A beat.

“Okay, maybe a little less,” he admits, his voice quiet, almost sheepish.

You force a chuckle. “Wow. Big revelation.”

Lando nudges your leg with his foot. “You used to be less mean.”

You glance down at where he touched you, like it matters. “You used to be less predictable.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop.

It hangs in the air—something between you that neither of you dares to name. The familiar rhythm of banter, still there, but thinner. Fragile. Like one wrong word might snap it in half.

He shifts again, settling deeper into the cushions, eyes back on his phone.

The silence between you swells.

“Hey,” Lando says suddenly, voice softer now. “We’re still good, right?”

You look at him. Really look.

His expression is open, brows tilted just enough to show he’s not as sure as he wants to sound. The question hits harder than it should. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s not even close to the one you’ve been asking yourself.

You nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

But something in your chest doesn’t believe it. And maybe he doesn’t either, because he just nods back, like that’s enough to close the subject.

And then he’s gone again, into his phone, into whatever Charlotte’s saying, into a world that no longer includes you in quite the same way.

You stare at the television. Still pretending.

THREE WEEKS LATER

You come home later than usual. Not on purpose, but you didn’t rush either.

The apartment’s quiet when you step inside. Not empty, just quiet in that specific way that tells you someone else is already here. Lights are low. A jacket slung over the arm of the couch. A faint scent of perfume you don’t recognize hangs in the air, something floral and expensive, the kind that comes from a department store tester bottle or a date that went well.

Then you see them.

Her shoes.

They sit just inside the door, neatly side by side like she plans to slip them back on any minute, but you know better.

You freeze for half a second, keys still in hand, breath caught mid-inhale. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag before you force yourself to move again, softer now. Calmer. Like if you go still enough, quiet enough, the ache won’t rise up and drown you again.

You don’t go to your room.

You don’t even look down the hallway.

Because you know.

You know her laughter by now, how it sounds too close to his. You know the creak of his bed when someone rolls too far to the edge. You know the muffled shape of a kiss through drywall, even when it’s gentle. Even when it’s real.

You’re not strong enough for that tonight.

You set your keys on the coffee table as quietly as you can, afraid even the sound of metal might crack the illusion you’re building for yourself.

Then you lie down on the couch.

Curled up small, spine pressing into the cushions, one arm wedged between your cheek and the fabric like that might hold your head still. The blanket’s out of reach, but you don’t grab it. Too far. Too much.

You stare at the ceiling.

You close your eyes.

And you pretend.

Pretend sleep comes easy. Pretend you’re just tired. Pretend your chest doesn’t feel like it’s been hollowed out and left to echo with every laugh, every whisper from the next room. Pretend you don’t feel displaced in your own home. Like you’re the ghost now. The quiet in someone else’s love story.

You tell yourself she’ll leave soon.

But her shoes stay by the door.

And you don’t move.

FOUR WEEKS LATER

You didn’t even want to come.

But staying home felt worse. Like admitting something final.

The bar is too loud, too dark, too full of people you used to feel tethered to. Friends you still technically have, but who feel more like polite acquaintances now. You sit at the edge of the booth, shoulders brushing the wall, knees knocking gently into someone else’s under the table, maybe Grace, maybe Will. You haven’t looked up in a while.

Charlotte is across from you. Right beside Lando, close enough that it matters. She’s laughing at something he said, head tilted just enough to show she’s listening. Really listening. Her smile is soft and bright and infuriatingly genuine.

You want to hate her.

God, you want to hate her so badly.

But she’s… nice.

Too nice.

She’s clever and warm and thoughtful in all the right ways. She compliments your necklace. Orders your favorite food before you even finish glancing at the menu when she stays over. Laughs at your jokes, actually laughs, not the strained kind people give when they’re pretending to like someone for someone else’s sake.

She’s the kind of woman you would’ve wanted your best friend to fall for. If it weren’t your best friend.

If it weren’t him.

Now, she’s just another reminder of how things used to be. How easily you’ve been replaced by someone who never even tried to replace you. Charlotte isn’t taking your place maliciously, she’s just stepping into it naturally, without needing to push. Like the door was always half-open.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was never even near to being closed.

Lando is halfway through another story. Something about last weekend, a dinner you weren’t invited to—of course. You already know who was there. He hasn’t said her name, but she’s in every sentence, tucked into the “we,” ghosting through his memories like she belongs there now.

“She thought it was chicken,” he says, his grin lopsided and familiar. “But it was actually—”

You miss the punchline. You sip your drink, too sweet, too sticky, too something. Vodka cranberry. A drink from a different version of you. One who didn’t feel like a bystander in her own story.

You laugh when everyone else does. Not too late, not too soon. You’ve mastered the timing. Enough to pass.

Someone turns to you and says your name.

You blink. “Hm?”

He repeats the question. Travel plans. Work. Something light.

You nod. Offer a thin smile. “Busy, but good.”

That’s your answer for everything lately.

Busy. But good.

You let the conversation move on without you, words passing over your head like wind through a cracked window. You nod when it seems right, smile faintly when someone laughs, all muscle memory. But your eyes keep drifting. Back to him. Back to Lando.

He’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your chest feel full. That laugh used to be yours, a sound you could pull from him like it belonged to you.

Now, he doesn’t look at you once. Not even by accident.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts.

You remember when he used to. All the time. Across rooms. Mid-conversation. Little glances like secrets. The corner of his mouth twitching when you rolled your eyes. That smirk when someone said something dumb and he knew you were thinking it too. The soft look when he caught you looking at him and didn’t look away.

It used to feel like the two of you spoke a language only you knew. A shared, unspoken thread pulled taut between glances.

Now? Now you couldn’t feel further from him if there were an ocean between you.

You press your thumb into the side of your glass, watching the condensation pool around it, gather into droplets that slide down like they’re trying to escape.

There’s a lump rising in your throat, slow and sharp, pressing against your windpipe like it wants out. You swallow hard. Once. Twice. It doesn’t move.

You’re here. In the same room. At the same table. Breathing the same air.

And you’ve never felt more alone. Not even when you were cities apart. Not even when he left you unread. Not even onve in the many years you knew him.

You wonder if he even notices. That you're slipping. That you already have.

And somehow, he still feels miles away.

You smile again when someone cracks another joke. You don’t remember the setup. You don’t care about the punchline.

You're getting really good at pretending.

You excuse yourself with a smile that doesn’t quite stick.

Something about needing another drink. Even though your glass is still half full. Even though no one really noticed you slipping away, not even Lando. Especially not Lando.

You weave through the crowd, past a cluster of people singing along to something too loud, past two girls laughing at the edge of the bar, already flushed with wine. The room is warmer here. Closer. Easier to breathe in, even if only for a moment.

You lean against the bar, shoulder grazing the cold brass rail, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

"Long night?"

The voice is low. Familiar. Smooth in that signature way that always seems half on the edge of teasing.

You glance to your right and find Charles.

His hair is messy, button-down half undone, sleeves rolled, drink in hand. He looks... at ease. In a way most people don’t at these kinds of things. In a way you definitely aren’t.

You offer a tired smile. “Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something involving Lando?”

Your expression doesn’t change, but your grip on your glass does. He notices. Of course he does.

“You looked uncomfortable back there,” he says gently. Not pushing, just observing. “Not like you.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Charles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Or maybe you're just stuck sitting across from a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.”

That makes you pause.

You glance sideways.

He’s smirking now, the corner of his mouth tugged upward with a quiet kind of mischief. But it’s the look in his eyes that stills you. Calm. Observant. Too knowing for comfort. Like he’s already unraveled everything you’ve tried so carefully to keep wrapped up.

You blink once, sharply, trying to push back the sudden burn behind your eyes.

Charles doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a breath, then sips his drink.

“I mean,” he starts, voice casual but not careless, “I didn’t want to assume... but it kind of seems like whatever this is”, he gestures loosely back toward the crowded booth, where laughter rises again, louder now, “has been going on for a while.”

You look at him. Don’t answer. Just meet his gaze, even though it feels like something in your chest is pulling tight.

Charles leans back slightly, resting his elbow on the bar. “And I haven’t seen you at races,” he adds, quieter now. “Not really. Not the way you used to be there.”

Still, you don’t say anything. But you don’t look away either.

He watches you a moment longer, then shrugs lightly and takes another sip. And then, because he’s Charles, he smirks even more, a different kind this time, nudging your shoulder with his.

“I kinda missed your moans from his driver room,” he says, tone full of teasing, mouth curving around it like he knows exactly how to pull you back from the edge of whatever you were about to feel.

It works.

You huff out a laugh. “You’re such an ass.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe. But I’m right.”

It shouldn’t be comforting. But somehow, it is. That someone knows. That someone sees you, what you were, what you are now, and doesn’t make it more dramatic than it already feels in your chest. He just lets it sit there, in the space between drinks and half-smiles.

You exhale, leaning a little heavier against the bar.

“Can we not talk about him right now?”

Charles tilts his head. “Sure. No Lando talk.”

There’s a pause. The good kind. The easy kind.

Then, like a peace offering, he flags the bartender with two fingers. “Let me get you something better than that sugar-water,” he says, nodding at your half-drunk cranberry vodka. “You always drink that when you’re pretending you’re fine.”

You glance at him, surprised. “God, do I have any secrets left?”

He gives you a look, amused and soft all at once. “Not from me.”

And when the new drink arrives, you take it in your hands and let the sharpness of citrus chase away the ache. Even if just for a moment.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, it’s real. Loose and stupid and full of that fizzy kind of joy that only hits after too many drinks and just enough distraction. The music’s thumping, spilling out over the crowd, all bass and beat and sweat-slicked bodies. And you—pressed up against Charles on the dancefloor—are floating somewhere between tipsy and gone, but it feels good. Easy.

His hands rest light on your hips. You’re not even sure who started the dancing. One second you were at the bar still trading lazy banter, the next—this. Heat. Movement. His smile low and crooked as he leaned in to say something you didn’t quite hear but smiled at anyway.

And that’s when you see him.

Lando. Back at the booth. Standing slightly apart now, Charlotte beside him. His hand wrapped loosely in hers. His eyes, though, locked on you.

You freeze for half a second. Just enough to feel the pulse of something cold run beneath your skin.

He’s staring. Face unreadable, but his jaw tight. Eyebrows drawn the way they get when he’s confused. Or pissed. Or both.

Charles just leans in again, mouth near your ear, breath warm as he says, “Keep dancing.”

And you do.

You move again, slower now, but still with that reckless, weightless ease. You let yourself laugh again. Let Charles spin you slightly, his fingers brushing yours. Lando’s still there. Still watching. But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you.

So you dance.

And when the music gets too loud, and your head starts to spin in that pleasant, end-of-the-night kind of way, the crowd starts to thin.

The booth, you’re no longer part of it, starts breaking apart. Hugs, handshakes, half-shouted goodbyes.

Charlotte finds you just as you’re tipping your head back to finish what’s left in your glass.

“Hey,” she says, her voice warm. “We’re heading out. You coming?”

Her smile is kind. Sincere. Damn her. She’s funny and beautiful and smart and never once made you feel small. And that’s the worst part. Because you want to blame her. You want it to be her fault. But it’s not. It never was.

You open your mouth. Pause.

You are tired. Your feet ache. The room’s spinning just a little.

But you also know exactly what it would feel like to follow them out of this bar. To walk three steps behind as they hold hands to the car. To sit silently beside them on the ride home, pretending not to notice Lando’s arm thrown across the back of her seat, pretending not to feel like a third wheel in your own friendship.

You hesitate.

And then, like he heard the entire conversation in your head, Charles appears beside you.

“Oh, actually—I think we’re fine,” he says casually, slipping an arm lightly around your waist. Not possessive. Just sure.

You glance up at him.

Then, instinctively, you look at Lando.

He’s right there. Just a few feet away. Still holding Charlotte’s hand, but his brow furrowed, like he hasn’t quite figured out what this feeling in his chest is supposed to be called. Like maybe he doesn’t like it.

Your eyes meet. You wait for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there.

Charles turns his head slightly toward you, voice quieter now. “You’re coming home with me, right?”

His eyes are steady. No pressure. Just an offer. A way out.

You glance once more between them—Charled, Charlotte, then Lando the night closing in like a held breath.

Then you nod still looking into his eyes.

“Uhm, yeah. I’m actually good,” you say lightly, tugging your phone out of your pocket, pretending to check something. “Don’t wait for me.”

Charlotte smiles, maybe a little surprised, but not unkind. “Okay. Get home safe, yeah?”

And Lando? He doesn’t say anything at all.

He just watches as you turn away.

As Charles takes your hand.

As the music swells and the night swallows you whole.

SURPRISE Charles revivial hehe

tag list:

@lifesass @mara1999 @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs @isar8tsyyy @wetrainclouds @seonaw @msimpala--67 @isar8tsyyy @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv9 @sparklepiastri @sailorinthesie @bell1a @spikershoyo @fer23022003 @vinylphwoar @wherethezoes-at @mbioooo0000 @v3nd3ttal3on @4-ln4

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ NOW I'VE READ ALL THE BOOKS BESIDE YOUR BED | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x bookworm!reader

synopsis. you post book recommendations on instagram, you're also dating charles leclerc

warnings. some swearing

note. have this while i work on a longer lando fic <33

MASTERLIST ; requests open

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari and 249,604 others

yn this week's book recommendation is the old man and the sea. the novel is about our protagonist's–santiago's–struggle to catch a giant marlin. it is kind of like "moby dick", but without the whale encyclopaedia. i think lando would enjoy this book immensely

view all comments

lando it's a book about fish i do not like nor do i read about fish

oscarpiastri thanks for this astute observation, lando

yn i think you would really enjoy it, maybe it'll help you get over whatever weird thing you have about fish

lando it's not a weird thing??

carlossainz55 it is a weird thing

lando you're supposed to be on MY side? you're MY friend?

lando is it just because charles is your most recent teammate, huh?

carlossainz55 my most recent teammate is alex

alex_albon is this forget that alex albon exists day

yn mclaren and williamsracing please collect your drivers

user1 THIS IS SUCH A GOOD BOOK

user2 yn has TASTE in books

user3 she has taste in men too

charles_leclerc this is a very good recommendation, mon amour

lando do you read?

yn mclaren

mclaren We apologise on behalf of our driver

user4 why did she come for lando, that was so uncalled for 😭

f1wags

liked by user2, user3 and 57,493 others

f1wags the paddock's resident reader was spotted in the paddock today!! suspiciously enough she was not spotted walking in with charles leclerc, can this mean trouble in paradise for the two lovebirds?

view all comments

user5 do we think they're breaking up?

user6 not this again

user7 please stop

user8 i wonder why she was late, they always show up together

user9 she was gorgeous at this race

user10 did anyone see what book she was reading? i saw that she was carrying one but i couldn't see what book it was

user11 she's probably going to post about it on her instagram when she's done with it

user12 it looked like emily henry, maybe?

user13 yn would never read emily henry, girlie reads the odyssey for fun do u really think she'd be caught dead with an emily henry book?

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, scuderiaferrari and 643, 684 others

charles_leclerc the photographer; the pictures

view all comments

user14 leoooooo

user15 the highlight of this post actually

user16 yn AND leo are the highlights of this post

user17 who cares about that man with the camera

user18 i'm pretty sure yn cares about him

carlossainz55 rare sighting of yn without a book

charles_leclerc trust me, she had a book with her

yn i never go anywhere without a book

yn you should know this, carlos!!

user19 lmao, charles really said let me disprove the rumours real quick

user20 noooo, you were supposed to end it with yn so that i had a shot

user21 girl, this is embarrassing

oscarpiastri give leo pets from me 😃

yn this feels so passive aggressive

charles_leclerc but we will!!

oscarpiastri thanks dad

yn leooo my baby 🥰

charles_leclerc what am i then?

yn … also my baby?

lando can you take this domestic in private?

yn don't you have a book about fish to read?

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 125,642 others

yn to everyone who says you can't read (and enjoy) contemporary romance books while also reading and enjoying classics, you're wrong. i've enjoyed this book immensely despite the fact that i also like books like the odyssey. ft. MY happy place

view all comments

user22 oh, you guys really pissed her off this time

user23 she saw that post by f1wags and said fuck any and all media training ferrari ever gave her

yn jokes on you cause ferrari never gave me any pr training

scuderiaferrari maybe we should

yn this wasn't even bad?? i didn't cuss out anyone??

user24 cuss out anyone?

user25 there was a time when yn publicly cussed out vasseur and horner

user26 those were good times

user27 she was so real for cussing out horner

charles_leclerc you're my happy place too, mon chérie (did i do it right?)

yn yes, my love, you did

charles_leclerc 🙌

lilymhe send me your goodreads, rn!!

yn sent!

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 215,412 others

yn happy anniversary, my love <3 you make me the happiest, here's to many many more years with you

view all comments

arthur_leclerc we should definitely make charles take public transportation in france again!!

yn if i remember correctly, it was me making both you and charles take the train

charles_leclerc as nice as it was, please not again

user28 love that 2/3 pictures include leo

user29 CUTE CUTE CUTE

user30 HAPPY ANNIVERSARY !!

charles_leclerc bon anniversaire, mon amour ❤️ je t'aime

yn je t'aime, charlie ❤️

charles_leclerc now come back ⁉️ leo misses his maman

yn is leo the only reason you want me back

charles_leclerc non, i also made breakfast, you turn gremlin-y when you don't eat

yn you're supposed to be nice to me especially on this day of all days

carlossainz55 happy anniversary you two 💙

lando idk if i can tell the girl who recommended me a book about fish happy anniversary

yn 🐟

oscarpiastri 🐠

carlossainz55 🐡

charles_leclerc 🐋

maxverstappen1 🦈

lando i hate all of you

user31 MAX???!!!!!!V???111!!

user32 ariana what are you doing here

user33 what is your current read!!

yn the vegetarian by han kang!! i've been really enjoying it

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, oscarpiastri and 754,483 others

charles_leclerc bon anniversaire, mon ange ❤️ i love you more than words can express. i cannot begin to put into words how much your constant, unwavering support means to me. i'll stand by your side forever if you'll let me

view all comments

arthur_leclerc picture credits for the second picture: arthur_leclerc

oscarpiastri happy anniversary dad

charles_leclerc thanks son

user34 stop, they're making me cry

user35 if my love isn't like yn's and charles' i don't want it

user36 PREACH

yn i love you i love you i love you

charles_leclerc i love you too, mon ange ❤️ so much

georgerussell63 happy anniversary from carmen and me 🩵

scuderiaferrari our favourite couple

lando really? there are so many other options

yn i swear to god lando

lando you started this with the fish book

yn can someone deal with this muppet

user37 i'll gladly take him off your hands!!

carlossainz55 weird

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari and 125,523 others

yn non-paddock sundays. my current read (because people care about that for some reason) is a thousand splendid suns by khaled hosseini

view all comments

user38 leoooooo my baby ❤️

yn he's my baby actually

charles_leclerc and mine

scuderiaferrari the paddock is not the same without you

charles_leclerc i miss you

yn we miss you too ❤️ leo kept looking at the screen when they said your name

charles_leclerc tell leo that i miss him very much and give him lots of kisses from me

user39 i loveeee yn's book recommendations

user40 simba, leo, roscoe meet-up when

user41 second this

pierregasly third this

yn when you get back to monaco we'll have a puppy play date!!

lewis hamilton only if roscoe gets to join

yn of course!! roscoe is always welcome

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, scuderiaferrari and 574,954 others

charles_leclerc another race weekend over 🏎️ thank you so much for the support this weekend, tifosi! i'm excited to spend some time with leo and yn, and i will see you again in two weeks ❤️

view all comments

scuderiaferrari amazing drive this weekend!

user42 P2 BABYYYY

yn i'm so so proud of you ❤️

charles_leclerc this drive was dedicated to you

yn stoppp, you're making me miss you even more

charles_leclerc that was the point, mon amour

yn come home soon :(

charles_leclerc i'll be home in a few hours

user43 i want this kind of love to violently attack me

user44 FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE!!

lewishamilton great drive today!

scuderiaferrari from both of you!!

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 143,236 others

yn charlie is back for two whole weeks!! AND this week's book recommendation is sula by toni morrison. toni morrison has such great books, and i've loved every book of hers i've read, but sula holds a special place in my heart

view all comments

arthur_leclerc yay, so excited to see you two be grossly in love for two whole weeks

yn didn't you take the picture of me and charles because "you two look so cute"

arthur_leclerc no comment

yn hah!

user45 another banging book recommendation

user46 yn never goes wrong with her book recommendations

lando i finished the book about fish 😃

yn did you like it?

lando more than i thought i would

oscarpiastri congrats, lando 👍

maxverstappen1 i didn't know you could read

lando you're supposed to be my friend??

carlossainz55 is little lando norris pouting

lando i hate all of you

charles_leclerc i'm so happy to be back with you and leo, the race is never quite the same without you in the garage

yn i'm happy you're back ❤️

user47 if my love isn't like yn's and charles' then i don't want it

[sooniebby]

ఌ 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐊

w.c › 7.4k

warnings › bottom male reader.

plot › A loanshark is terrorizing your community, so you try “scaring” him off. He thinks you’re a dumb fool who will make the perfect plaything after his last toy… unfortunately broke beyond repair.

kinks › manhandling, degradation, semi-pet play, dacryphilia

words to know › P/Phi (พี่) — title used for someone older, can also be a sibling. Nong (น้อง) — title used for someone younger, also for siblings. Khun (คุณ) — Mr/Ms/You. Hia (เฮีย) — “an older brother”, used mostly for an older male with Chinese ancestry. Sawatdee khrap/kha (สวัสดีครับ/สวัสดีค่ะ) — “hello”, khrap ending is for men, kha ending is for women.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

「จะทำทุกๆอย่าง จะทำทุกๆทาง」

“Where’s the rest of the money, you little bitch?”

“What, are you waiting for that savior of yours?”

「ให้เธอได้รู้สึกอบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับฉัน」

“How deep should I cut, Boss?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Everyone’s eyes focused on the man sitting on the makeshift bed in the apartment. Every item of any significant value trashed or pocketed in their pockets.

A pained gasp left the withering body in the middle of the room, his eye swelling black. Despite himself, his one good eye stared defiantly at the man sitting in the center of the room. Portraying a last ditch effort of strength.

The boss slowly rose up. Eyes followed him as his loafers stepped across broken class. The crunch filling the room as he stared down at his victim.

「แต่เราเพึ่งรู้จัก แค่มองด้วยสายตา」

He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a short blade. It shined underneath the blinking light from the ceiling. His gaze watched as the victim began to struggle against the lackey’s grip.

“Stop struggling. You’ll only make me enjoy this more,” the lackey whispered in the victim’s ears.

The victim could only watch as the boss handed over the short blade.

“Leave a mark.” Was all the boss said. He walked out to the open door. A group of residents stood nearby—the crowd quickly cowering at the sight of him. His head was held high as they bowed theirs, not even daring to catch a glimpse into his eyes.

A sharp piercing scream filled the apartment complex located in the slums of Chiang Mai, Thailand.

And the residents could only offer a prayer to his screams.

「มันทำให้ฉันนั้นรู้คีว่า จะเป็นเช่นไร」

A round of applause set off just as you finished your song. A wide grin spread on your lips. The applause was the best part of being a singer. To hear the appreciation for your artwork. You slide your guitar to rest on your back as you got off your stool.

“Thank you, Thank you. The last song was Everything by Scrubb. Enjoy the rest of your night everyone!”

You immediately got off stage and went to the bar’s owner. She was speaking to one of her employees before catching sight of you. A wide grin appeared on her lips as she began to shoo away the bartender to handle some customers.

“Nong~!” She cheered, engulfing you into a hug as soon as you were near. You eagerly returned the hug, giggling when she pressed a kiss on your cheeks—red lipstick now staining it. “You were great, as always. Let me get your pay for this week.”

“Thank you, P’Janine.” You bowed your head slightly, pressing your hands together. Janine handed over some money that she pulled out of her bra. You blinked but took the money away—used to her quirks by now.

Janine offered you a wide grin and only nodded, “of course, of course. Oh? Nong, I’ve heard you’ve been working extra shifts.” She said, a sudden seriousness to her expression. “You haven’t…” her voice trailed off, letting you connect the dots.

The people here were even scared to utter her name, as if she would appear behind them.

You frowned, “Phi” you said with an exasperated sigh, “why would I be dumb enough to borrow from her? I’m fine, I don’t need anything.”

“Is it for Plawan then? He hasn’t come visited me in a while, is he bored of me?” She whined, obviously trying to left the mood.

“Yea. Wan… His dad,” you shook your head. “He wouldn’t want me to blabber about his business.” You muttered.

Janine nodded. “Of course. Tell him to visit me soon. I always have a spot open for him to work here. I’ll pay him double!”

You grinned and nodded, “Okay, I’ll tell him. I better go now, it’s getting late.”

“Right, right. Go! Make sure to eat dinner! Stop skipping your meals!” Janine yelled just as you left the bar.

Your feet barely touched the ground as you sprinted over to your moped, immediately mounting it with ease. You hastily fastened your helmet and rolled the handles, blasting off to return home.

You made a sharp left and slide into your usual parking spot, killing the engine. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach.

And unfortunately, it was never wrong.

“Wan,” you called out before you even reached the fourth floor, frowning at the sight of his apartment door wide open. Inside, everything was trashed. Valuables all gone. You stepped inside, pausing when glass crunched underneath your sneakers.

“Plawan! Where are you?” You rushed to the only room of the apartment, pushing the door open to see it empty. “Wan..? Plawan?!”

“P’(Name)!”

A hushed voice suddenly called out. You walked out of the bedroom to see Star, a little girl that lived next door to Plawan. She was dressed in her elementary uniform still. Her hair messy from the neat pigtails you saw her with this morning.

“Star,” you sighed in relief, rushing over to her.

Star shushed you, motioning for you to lower your voice. “Come, P’Wan is with my mommy.” She grabbed your hand and began leading you to the apartment right next door. The apartment was bare with only old and fraying furniture.

Star’s drawings were plastered all over the walls, the one thing that breathed life into the decaying room. “Mommy!” Star called out, pulling you to the bedroom.

She pushed open the door and your sight was immediately set on Plawan lying down on the bed. He was badly beaten, a bandaged over his eye. Star’s mother, Pearl, glanced back at you with a glare, her body covering Plawan as if she was protecting him until she noticed it was just you.

“(Name),” she sighed, pulling away. Her hands were covered in blood, her blue nurse scrub darkened in certain areas. “I was able to stop the bleeding but he should visit a real hospital in case of internal bleeding. I heard from the neighbors that they were beating him for at least an hour.”

You frowned, pulling off your guitar as you placed it against the wall. Pearl moved away—giving you space.

“I would’ve left him in his room but… they broke the locks. I didn’t want him to stay in there.” She said, giving you a comforting smile. You tried your best to return it.

“I’ll take him to my room tomorrow.”

She nodded and walked away, guiding Star with her. As the door closed, you couldn’t help but sigh once more. Of course those loan sharks wouldn’t honor the deal they made. They were supposed to come tomorrow morning—not tonight.

“Hia…”

You gazed down at Plawan, sighing in relief to see him staring up at you. “Wan, are you okay? I didn’t think they’d come tonight, if I’d—”

“It’s okay.” Plawan muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s not your fault. They’re loan sharks.”

“Yea.” You let out a bitter laugh. “True. What did they do? What did they take?”

“Everything. I was only able to keep my phone… so they can keep contacting me.” Plawan sighed. “They even took our photos, what are they gonna do with that?”

“Anything to torture you…”

“Hm.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “He came this time. Told them to mark me.”

“He?”

“The boss.”

You frowned. “He came? Your debt is hardly anything extravagant, you’re always on time.”

Plawan attempted to shrug only for him to curse, “ow… I don’t know, it felt like… it was to show the others just how scary he is. He hasn’t visited our complex in two years.”

“Wait, he told them to mark you?”

“Mhm. It’s on my chest.” He whispered, looking away from your stare.

Your eyes flickered to the bandage on the left side of his chest. All you could really do was just stare and possibly hope he would heal without a scar.

“And…” Plawan suddenly added, catching your attention.

“And?”

“My face. He… he ruined half of my face.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

1 year later

“Wan, what should we do with the ashes?” You asked, staring at the urn resting on the ground in front of you.

Plawan signed, pushing back his bangs. His left side of his face that had a jagged line running from his hairline down to his chin had finally healed after a full year. He frowned at the urn of his deceased father and glanced back over at you.

“Shouldn’t I just flush it down the toilet?”

“Hm, wouldn’t that clog the toilet? That thing can hardly handle your poop. You’re gonna give it a bigger shit to handle?” You joked, grinning at the slight laugh you earned from Plawan.

It was rare from him these days.

“Maybeeee,” you hummed, closing your eyes as you thought long and hard. “You can pour it over some of the loan sharks?”

Plawan frowned. “You can do that. I don’t talk to those bastards unless I have no choice.”

“Hm. I’ll do it for you, in honor of your dad being on his knees for those suits since he was a drunk.” You nodded, already having a plan of when to do it.

It wasn’t a shock that Plawan had developed a phobia over loan sharks. He practically froze up whenever they walked into the complex. Everyone living at the complex in someway owed debt to the same woman. After the incident a year ago, the big ‘boss’ that left a mark on Plawan hadn’t come back.

You wondered why he even came. The lackeys were already terrifying to most of the residents. It got to a point where they even flinched at the sight of any man in a suit. Plawan now being one of those unfortunate people.

He couldn’t even wear a suit for his father’s funeral. Though it wasn’t like the bastard deserved it. After his death, he managed to rack up a debt of 1,299,700 baht, an added 120,000 balance.

Just to think you and Plawan were almost out of those scumbags clutches. If only his father didn’t make his debt default to Plawan.

Plawan yawned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think I’m going to go to bed, Hia. I’m tired.”

“Course. Want me to stay the night or go to my room?”

“You can go. I wanna be alone.”

You hummed, comfortingly patting his shoulder. As you got up, you grabbed the urn from the floor and walked out, closing the door behind you. The urn was heavy in your arm as you walked downstairs to the third floor.

Your free hand reached into your back pocket, fishing for your keys when a yell caught your attention. You looked behind yourself only to get slammed into as a man pushed past you. The urn’s lid popped open and fell to the ground, remains beginning to coat the concrete.

“Khun!” You called after the man, snarling. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Move!”

A deep voice yelled. You were harshly pushed onto the ground as three loan sharks chased after the man. The urn shattered beneath you, the shards cutting into your skin. You hissed at the pain and immediately pulled away, blood and human remains now coating you.

“Seriously…” you whispered to yourself, dusting off the ashes. Your left hand’s palm was cut open, dripping blood onto the ground. You quickly tried to wipe the ashes off the hand so the wound wouldn’t get infected. “Those suits.. no respect.. should’ve thrown this stupid asshole at them.”

As you continued cursing out Plawan’s father’s ashes, footsteps echoed behind you. You glanced behind yourself to see a man dressed in a white button up and black slacks. Another man stood behind him, dressed oddly casual in comparison.

The casual man, dressed in a black wife beater and jean pants, stared you down, “who are you?” He asked, his eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. “Did you just move in?”

You glared at the man, shocked at his audacity to use casual speech in reference to you, “Hey, it’s ‘Khun’ not ‘mung.’ Why should I tell you anyway? You’re not the landlord.”

“What did you just say?” The man growled, looking ready to cross over to you when the other man held his hand up. Like a dog, the man stopped in his tracks.

“Huh? Are you his mutt?” You couldn’t help but whisper, moving to stand up.

“Hope,” the other man said, ignoring what you said, “make sure they catch him.”

“But—” Hope muttered, his glare focused solely on you. He didn’t want to let you disrespect him without any consequences.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

That shut Hope up immediately. He slightly bowed his head and immediately walked away, leaving you with the other man. You raised an eyebrow—wondering if it would be smart to even talk to this man after seeing how easily he commanded another.

You glanced down at the mess around you, sighing. The cut in your hand burned. You had the ashes of a deadbeat coating your clothing, you were pretty sure you could even taste a bit of it.

“You’re not in debt.” The man suddenly said, catching your attention.

“Huh?” You whispered, glancing up at him.

“I know everyone who lives in this complex. You’re not in debt, so why do you live here?”

“Oh. You’re a loan shark.” You rolled your eyes, no longer interested in figuring the guy out. “No, I’m not in debt. So you don’t scare me. Just go focus on getting your money.”

“I don’t scare you?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. You got a good look at him and was almost disappointed. A good looking guy being a loan shark, a shame. His black hair looked silky smooth, probably soft to the touch. A strong nose and almond eyes that were naturally scrutinizing you without even moving.

It was as if his neutral face was scary, no, scary felt juvenile to describe his neutral face. It was unsettling.

As if he couldn’t emote.

The thought of him smiling sent shivers down your spine.

You stepped back. Sure, he had no reason to do anything to you. But loan sharks weren’t exactly known for being law abiding citizens. And this one didn’t seem like a lackey at all. He seemed to be someone of higher status. Only an idiot would mess with someone like that.

“As you can see,” you whispered, waving at your soiled clothing. “I need to get cleaned up. Excuse me.”

His eyes flickered down to your clothing. They slowly trailed up your entire body to your face, staring at you as if he was taking you in. You felt like a mouse, staring at a cat was its tail slowly began to sway, their pupils dilating.

If you stayed here any longer, you were sure you would be eaten alive.

You quickly turned around and tried to keep a brisk pace while walking away.

“You’re staying here for someone.”

Your body froze.

“Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

It felt as if time was frozen. He knew Plawan’s full name.

“His father recently died. The service was today, if my memory serves me well. Shame the ashes met a fate on the dirty ground.”

You glanced back at the man, fighting the urge to punch him right in the face. “What? Are you threatening me?” You walked right back over to him, your fists clutching on your sides.

He didn’t flinch even as you got close to him, his hands still resting in his pockets. “Move out. Only residents in debt to Khun Lily stay here.”

“No.” You answered without a second thought. “I’d be a fool to leave Plawan with someone like you and your mutts.”

“You may think staying close helps, but you weren’t able to him save a year ago, were you?”

You blinked, staring up at the man in shock. The dots connected immediately as you subconsciously stepped back. It was him. The boss that ordered Plawan’s humiliation. Anger bubbled up inside you—your past fear all gone at the thought of finally getting revenge for Plawan.

“No. I’m not leaving, I’m staying right here. You’ll have to drive me out,” you said, glaring at the monster in front of you. With a shaky hand, your voice threatening to crack, you pressed your bloody hand right on his crisp white shirt.

His eyes immediately glanced down at your hand. You took a deep breath, leaning in closer as you dragged your hand down his chest. Blood coated the shirt, soiling it with blood and ashes.

“I’m not one to back down.” You whispered, pulling your hand away. “Try to learn more about me, try to make me scared of you, none of it’ll work. I’ll stay by Plawan’s side until the day I die.”

You quickly took a large step backwards, eyes wide as you tried thinking about what you just did. What you just said. Needing to get away, you only shook your head and walked away—leaving the broken urn and ashes of a deadbeat on the floor.

“Saint,” Hope sighed, walking up the stairs. His face was twisted in anger as he wiped off blood that coated his cheek. “I managed to get him—not sure if he’s still alive though.”

Saint kept his gaze in your retreating back, taking note of which direction you went. He looked back at Hope and hummed. “So long as you got the money.”

“Mhm, of—woah, woah, what the hell happened to your shirt?” Hope blinked in shock, seeing the bloody hand print that was on Saint’s shirt.

“Hm,” Saint reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “My first gift from a new plaything. You’ll start collecting money from Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

“Huh, Plawan? I thought Drake was handling him.”

Saint only had to give Hope a look before the man quickly nodded. He hummed and began typing in his phone. “Don’t just collect the debt, get close to him. I need to know information about that friend he keeps around.”

Hope nodded. “Okay. What happened to your last one, bored already?”

A slight chuckle left Saint’s lips as he began walking downstairs, not waiting to see if Hope would follow. Everyone followed him.

“You could say that.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

Plawan sighed, staring at the bucket of ice in front of him. The sound of music was beginning to bother him. Why did P’Janine like playing English rock music on Sunday’s? She was a bit too eccentric for his liking. The loud instruments were begging to give him a headache.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he finally grabbed the scooper, shoveling some ice into the glass nearby him. The patrons were talking amongst themselves behind him—speaking louder so they could each other over the music.

“Here, call me if you want more.” Plawan said, giving a faint smile as he handed the drink over.

After another hour or so, the music finally wined down to some American R&B. Plawan sighed in relief. A few patrons began leaving—it being a Sunday night after all.

“See ya, Plawan!”

“Bye.” He nodded towards the door, not making effort to look over.

“Plawan,” Janine came over, a grin on her lips. “I think I might close a little early. There’s hardly anyone here. You can start cleaning up. If anyone walks in tell them we’re closing.”

“Okay.” He waved her off, just happy to make it home quick. His phone rang just as he began putting away the bottles. It was you. “Hello, Hia? Need something?”

“What do you want for dinner?” Your voice was cheery. “I’m stopping by this Chinese shop that recently opened up. It’s the real deal, I can make a traditional dinner that my mom taught me.”

Plawan hummed. “Okay. Anything is okay.”

“Hm, okay. What time are you getting home? Should I do my apartment or yours?”

“Let’s—”

“Scotch whisky.”

Plawan frowned, looking back to see a man near the bar. The man placed his empty glass on the hardwood as he stared at Plawan. Every bone in Plawan’s body immediately stiffened.

“Excuse me?” Plawan managed to mutter, staring at the man in confusion.

The man pointed at the bottle in Plawan’s hand, “before you put it away, pour me some.”

“What happened, Wan?”

Your voice suddenly cut through, gaining Plawan’s attention. He turned his back to the man and sighed slightly, calming his nerves.

“It’s okay, Hia (Name). I’m at work, I’m supposed to get off at 11 pm. It’s only a thirty minute walk back to the apartment. P’Janine should be in her office.” He breathed out.

You were silent for a second. “Okay. 11:30 pm. No later than that. Meet me at my apartment.”

Plawan hung up the call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He debated what he should say to the man but decided to just to satisfy him. With a shaky breath, he slowly turned back to face the stranger. His footsteps felt heavy as he walked over and poured a generous amount in the man’s glass.

“It’s quite dark in here.” The man suddenly said as Plawan kneeled down to put the bottle in the cabinet. “Does the owner like it dark? I can hardly see your face.”

“I..” Plawan coughed, standing up as he kept his gaze down, switching to polite speech. “I don’t think it’s necessary to see the bartender’s face. If that’s all, I’ll settle your tab. We’re closing early tonight.”

“I heard. But there’s no need to settle a tab. Just put it under Khun Lily’s checking.”

Plawan only nodded. The man was a loan shark. Only a loan shark would say that… but usually one of higher standing. Plawan began to busy himself, feeling the man watch his every move.

“It’s interesting. From what the others described you as, you aren’t like anything I imagined. Or really remember.” The man downed his drink, resting his glass on the hardwood with a particularly heavy force. Plawan flinched from the sound, his body freezing.

“What did they say, you would fight with us sometimes. You were often held back by that friend of yours. Did one little visit from my boss put you in your place?” He laughed as he pushed away the bar.

Plawan quickly moved to the other side of the bar, checking the stock, mentally taking note of which liquor that needed to be replenished. Foot steps behind him caught his attention as the overhead lights were suddenly turned on.

“Wha—?”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around, slamming into the wall behind him. The bottles shook and clinked against each other. One slid right off its shelving and came tumbling down. It shattered on the ground, somehow able to drown out the music.

With the lights finally on, Plawan was able to get a good look at the man in front of him. Messy black hair with fox like eyes. He had a single earring in his right ear. Compared to the other loan sharks, he looked like a delinquent—different to the type of style she usually wanted her men to have.

Did being a higher up means you didn’t have to follow the uniform?

“He really did fuck you up.” The man laughed, staring at the scar on Plawan’s face. His hand slowly reached out to grab his chin. Plawan quickly looked away—shame and embarrassment pooling in his stomach.

Janine was nice enough to keep the lights low whenever he worked his shift. The patrons were smart enough to not question it. To think he’d be getting made fun of like a kid in high school by a loan shark.

The man scoffed, harshly gripping Plawan’s chin as he forced him to look at him. “Are you five? Do you plan on hiding in the dark for the rest of your life? What, feeling self pity for yourself?”

Plawan glared at the man but it hardly packed any punch. He was all out of anger by now. Because the man was right, Plawan did pity himself. Only someone like him would get stuck with a dead father who drowned him in debt over liquor and gambling.

“I want to see you.” The man suddenly said, his free hand coming to rest right near Plawan’s head. Plawan blinked as he tried to ask what the man was insinuating but he was shushed by the tight grip moving to his jaw. “It must’ve been, ages since I last saw you. You don’t remember me at all?”

Plawan frowned, reaching his free hand to press against the man’s chest. He tried to push him away with as much strength as possible but the man hardly budged.

The man let out a breathless sigh, his gaze felt as if he was drowning Plawan. He was staring at Plawan with a sort of fondness that he wasn’t used to. Maybe you would stare at him lovingly sometimes but it was family like.

This… This was filled with tenderness and a type of warmth Plawan didn’t think was possible for someone like him.

Plawan stiffened as the man’s hand slowly loosened its grip on his jaw, his thumb pressing against his lips. He pressed down on his bottom lip, parting them open. Plawan stared up at the man in shock—wondering what type of humiliation was this supposed to be.

“I want you, Plawan. Even with the burn marks on your arms.” He leaned down and captured Plawan’s lips into a searing kiss. Plawan’s hands tightened their grip on the man’s shirt as his eyes widen.

How’d he—?

The kiss was hungry, as if the man was kissing Plawan like he’d never get to ever again. Plawan reached up and tightly squeezed the man’s nose, gasping when his lips were finally free.

The man cursed, rubbing the tip of his nose as he slightly glared at Plawan. But it hardly felt scary—just a glare you’d give a loved one after they slightly pissed you off.

“Plawan—”

“P’Hope?” Plawan cut him off, knowing there was only two people in the world who knew about his burn marks.

You….

And his ex-boyfriend.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“Where is he?” You frowned, watching the clock on your phone. It was reaching 11:20 pm. It couldn’t really take thirty minutes to walk back home.

You were sitting at the small water fountain in the center of the complex. The complex used to be more luxurious until the original owner crossed paths with Lily. After that, it went downhill. At least that’s what people that have lived here for over thirty years attest.

You only moved here for Plawan. Your family wasn’t rich or even comfortable by any means. They just never got into debt by pure luck. You knew many people who unfortunately fell for loan sharks for medical debt, house loans, and other financial crisis.

To say your parents didn’t want you to move here was an understatement. But you’d do anything for Plawan. Your mom joked that he was practically your son, even if you were only two years older than him.

It was the least you could do for him, at least that’s how you thought about it.

You tapped away at your phone—debating if it’d be smart to call him again. Loan sharks wouldn’t usually follow you to work unless you leave them no choice. But they didn’t follow their own rules half of the time.

“Waiting for someone?”

An immediate frown pulled in your lips at that voice. You hadn’t seen him for over a month now—almost believing you imagined the whole situation.

“Why are you here?” You managed to whisper, still not able to look him in the eye. “Collecting late night debt?”

The man only hummed as he walked over to you, sitting down on the edge of the fountain. You immediately scooted over. He let out a humorless chuckle. Great, you certainly showed him that you didn’t fear him at all.

“(Name) Piniwat.”

“Scary, you know my name now. Should I search for yours now too?”

“Saint.”

You scoffed. “Your parents were funny giving you that name.”

“They were no saints themselves.”

You rolled your eyes and checked your phone again. “Where’s your lackeys?” The time read 11:28 pm.

“Why, did you want an audience?”

“Audience?” You finally looked over at Saint, seeing him look straight ahead as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was calm as he lit it up with a lighter—leaving you to just stare at him in confusion.

Whatever goes on in that man’s head wasn’t something you wanted to really learn more about it. It must be like opening a Pandora’s box.

Seeing no point in entertaining him any longer, you moved to stand up only for his hand to grab the back of your collar. A gasp left your lips as you stared at him shock.

One minute you were staring at him—the next, you were underwater.

His left hand held your collar, the right gripped your neck. Your hand dropped your phone onto the ground as you immediately gripped at his arms and shoulders. They travelled frantically across his body.

You took a deep breath just as he brought you back up. Your chest heaved as you greedily took in as much air your lungs could bear. Saint stared down at you, his cigarette between his lips. Smoke blew from his nose as he let out a slight chuckle.

“You look good wet.” He said just as he dunked you back into the fountain.

Your legs flailed, sneakers scrapping against the concrete as you dug your nails into his arms. You tried to keep your lips closed to prevent yourself from drowning but it was easier said than done.

He pulled you out with just one hand, tightly grasping your t-shirt. His gaze was neutral as he watched you gasp for air.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” his voice didn’t waver as he kneeled down close, your nose bumping into his. “Leave or I’ll have my fun with you.”

You gritted your teeth, mustering your best glare. Your body was shivering now due to the cool air that swirled around you. “I’ll never abandon Plawan.”

Saint leaned away, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. He blew out a puff a smoke and sighed. The cigarette fell to the floor as he stepped on it with his loafers.

“You’re already more fun than he was.” He said.

Water filled your lungs. This time his hand was pushing down at your neck, applying pressure. You couldn’t think straight and began panicking. Your body shook and flailed against his as you essentially fought for your life.

The thought of being murdered in a fountain that hadn’t been cleaned in years was an embarrassing thought.

But it was less than the fear of leaving Plawan alone with someone as sick and twisted as Saint.

Just as it felt like you were losing the fight, you were harshly pulled out. Your t-shirt had tore from the force of his strength. It was an old thing—no wonder it tore so easily. Your chest was fully free to the cool air as you coughed and heaved.

A hand cradled your head, holding it high just as you felt yourself being lifted up. You coughed, spitting out water and spit onto your chest. Your eyes struggled to stay open as footsteps filled your head.

You took another greedy gasp for air, resting your head against the solid wall you were pressed against. It felt warm. You could’ve sworn you were hearing a heartbeat. The rhythmic sound of a beating heart brought a sense of peace.

Your hand shakily pressed against the wall, your finger beginning to tap in harmony with the beating.

“Wan…” You whispered as your body officially lost the battle against the fatigue.

“High school sweethearts? Hm. If it works, it works. Whatever you do with Plawan is none of my concern—so long as you do your work. Do I have him? Mhm, I took him for a swim, he didn’t disappoint.”

Don’t be too harsh? If he breaks too early then it’ll be his fault. Did you get a copy of his key? No, I’m not at the complex. Why would I willingly stay there? Am I keeping him here?”

Can’t say. He’s currently listening in. If you’re waiting until I fall asleep—no need. The door can’t be unlocked without a key.”

Saint ended the phone call, watching as you quickly burrowed yourself underneath the comforter. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly. Were you stupid? Possibly.

He carelessly tossed his phone onto the nightstand beside him and got up from the chair. He had brought you back here after you fainted. His apartment. It wasn’t lavish by any means but it was decorated with furniture that only someone with money could afford.

The bed slowly dipped as Saint leaned onto the bed, hovering over you. He stared at you before pulling down the comforter, enjoying the surprised look on your face.

Your eyes were wide—body curled into yourself. But even then, he could tell that you had a growing anger in your eyes. Good, you would be fun.

“Did you collect any useful information?” Saint asked, sitting down on the bed. His hand slowly moving to brush your hair. “Unfortunately for you, your movement quickened at the mention of Plawan. He really is your weakness.”

You mustered a glare, moving to sit up. “Don’t touch me. It’s not a weakness to care about someone.”

Saint hummed, he moved his hand away. His eyes flickered to your neck. “It’s lightweight.”

“Huh?” You glanced down before touching your neck, noticing a collar was there. Your fingers tried to tug underneath it but it was as if it was stuck to your skin. “What—what the hell is this?”

“Don’t speak so loudly—it’s 3 am.” He reached over and pushed your hands away, looping his finger around a metallic item hanging off the collar. “Skin tight, you can hardly feel it. Does it scare you?”

“Take it off.”

“Hm. The padlock is small, to break it, you’d have to be careful to not accidentally cut yourself.” He continued, ignoring your words. “Though, if I find you with it off,” his voice lowered as his hand gripped your hair, pulling you in close harshly. “I’ll dispose of you.”

Saint released his grip on you, glancing back at his phone once it began to ring. You coughed slightly and rubbed the back of your head. He was insane—to think he actually collared you like a dog. You were his mutt, just like that Hope guy.

“Hm? He wants to talk?”

You flinched when he tapped your cheek, glancing over to see him hold up his phone. He lazily shook his phone when you didn’t make any attempt to grab it. Deciding to keep him as calm as possible—you grabbed the phone.

“Hia?”

“Plawan?!” You yelled, a wide grin immediately spreading on your lips. “Where are you? Are you okay? Did you make it home?”

“Mhm. I’m okay. I got home by midnight… you weren’t at the fountain.” Plawan sighed slightly. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess—he has you, right?”

You glanced over at Saint, seeing him tilt his head at your gaze. He looked unfazed by your eyes. You quickly looked away. “It’s ok. I can handle myself. Who are you with? They aren’t bothering you, yea?”

“Plawan is the safest he can be right now. Hope wouldn’t hurt his little boyfriend,” Saint suddenly chimed in. “Oh, of course, unless I tell him to. Maybe then you should be worried.”

“You…” You glared at Saint, wanting nothing more to strangle him to death. “Little boyfriend? Did you sell Plawan into—” the thought made you sick to your stomach that you couldn’t even finish it.

“Hia! It’s not like that.” Plawan quickly placated you. “I know Khun Hope.”

“Khun Hope?” A voice said, startling Plawan. “I’m suddenly Khun Hope?”

You frowned. That voice sounded familiar. “That mutt guy?” You whispered, hearing Plawan say something to Hope that you couldn’t decipher.

“I’m ok, Hia (Name). There was a pearl on the ground that I came across earlier. Before I came home I saw a black bird and this guy selling pig meat so late at night, weird right?”

“Mhm.” Pearl, Nok, and Muu. You let out a slight sigh in relief. Those three would be able to watch that mutt for you. Until you found a way out at least. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell that mutt that if you have any new scars I’ll kill him.”

Plawan laughed slightly. “Okay. Do you want shrimp for dinner?”

Gung. “Yea. Make sure to buy it in the morning. It gets sold out quickly.”

You sighed just as the phone call ended. It hardly did anything to bring you any sense of relief but it was better than nothing.

Saint hummed beside you. “Tomorrow? You think you’ll be going home tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do I have to ask?”

“You enjoy acting like a brat,” Saint said, taking his phone from your hand. “Fine. You can go home tomorrow. It’s like aftercare.”

“Aftercare?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Just let me go to bed.” You moved to lay back down when Saint gripped your arm.

“I’m interested in you.”

You blinked, staring at Saint with a confused expression. “Wha, What do you mean interested?”

Saint gazed down at your arm, his grip loosening as he moved down to your wrist. He gripped your wrist and pulled it close to his face. His thumb pressing down onto the edge of your palm.

“I’m interested in seeing how you’ll react to pain. Interested in why you risked everything for one boy. The way the blood flows through your veins.”

“I’m not a science experiment.” You tried to pull your hand away but his grip only tightened.

“Mhm. More like a toy. I’ll enjoy you until you break.”

“Then you’ll be dealing with me until you get bored.”

Saint looked away from your wrist. He reached over and grasped your shirt. You flinched and wondered what he could be doing when he pulled the already tattered shirt further apart.

You tried pulling away again as he harshly pushed you onto the bed, moving to hover over you. His bangs almost tickled your forehead. His eyes stared down at you—he was silent as he seemingly took in your face.

“Even in submission,” he whispered, releasing your shirt, his hand resting on your collarbone. “You glare at me.” His hand slowly tightened its grip before shooting up, grasping your neck.

A choked gasp left you. He mad no effort to tighten his grip. His gaze simply watching your reaction.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of being scared.” You grunted out.

Saint hummed, releasing your hand as he reached into his pants pocket. “It’s good that you don’t. Then it wouldn’t be fun.” Your eyes narrowed at the moment just as he pulled out a switchblade.

Any feeling of defiance was long gone. Your eyes widen in terror as you began thrashing underneath him. Your hands pushing at his chest, your legs kicking and trying to help you use your lower body to toss him off.

The thought of the knife touching your skin terrified you to death. A slight wet whimper left your throat. You were awaiting the cool blade to touch your skin. Until you noticed he had stopped moving.

You slowly opened your eyes, having not realized they had closed. His hair tickled your nose as he stared down at you. The knife was no where to be found. His hand was empty. The only thing you received was a slight calculated smirk on his lips.

“Thought so.” He said, reaching up to wipe away your tears with his thumb. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying. “You’re scared deep down.”

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to grit out, your voice shaky.

“Many things. Though if I told you,” he leaned down, his breath tickling your ear. “I’d have to kill you. I’m still Khun Lily’s mutt, that’s what you call us, right?”

You watched as he pulled away. A mutt? Saint didn’t say anything else, getting up and began to taking off his suit.

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.” Saint bluntly said, tossing his tie on the chair. “What, do you really think I call the shots here?” For the first time since you’ve seen him, his face actually contorted into a human expression. One eyebrow rose, eyes wider, a jester like grin on his lips.

He turned his back to you, slipping off his button up. Your eyes widen at the sight—scars, burn marks, and something that resembled a whip, coated his back. They were healed but a few looked recent.

“You’re my toy for a reason.” He said, turning over to face you after having his pajama shirt on. “I’m Khun Lily’s toy, it’s only fair I get to have my own to relieve some stress. I think I’m quite nicer than how she treats her own.”

Saint sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He began to unbuckle his pants. You couldn’t help but watch. There were the same marks littered all over his legs. The sight made you question the rest of his body.

Compared to the other loan sharks, Saint wore a button up that covered his neck. You didn’t get to see his arms as he changed—too focused on the shocking sight of his back. Was there scars all over him?

Just how dangerous was Khun Lily?

“I get it.” You said, watching Saint. “You’re already damaged goods so you just want to make others hurt just like you. What, do you don’t feel lonely, huh?”

Saint didn’t say anything, continuing on with his routine. He diligently put away the knives that were hidden in his pants, jacket, tie, socks, and shoes in a drawer. You were uncomfortable at the fact he could hide so many so easily.

You scowled at the lack of reaction. Just because you were technically under his thumb right now didn’t mean you couldn’t push back. You slipped out of the bed and walked over to where he was.

“I should’ve known that some loan sharks might’ve had their own debts. How much do you owe her? More than Plawan’s debt? Since you essentially sold your body to her.”

No reaction. You almost pouted.

Saint began folding his pants and shirt, placing them on the chair. You groaned in frustration and reached over, roughly pulling his shoulder. He looked back at you with a slightly raised eyebrow as you began pushing him back against the wall.

“I’m not the first person to say that, huh?” You asked, glaring up at him. “Others must call you a whore behind your back—”

“Is this your attempt at provoking me?”

“You know the answer.”

Saint hummed, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll give you this—no one has ever been brave enough to say that to my face.”

“I have more than just words.” You said. Your hand moved up to hold the back of his head as you pulled him into a kiss. Saint immediately uncrossed his arms and gripped your shoulders. Without much effort, he pushed you away.

You stared up at him in confusion. “What? Isn’t this what you wanted out of a toy? Sexual pleasure? Is it not fun if it’s not forced onto me?”

Saint glowered at you. “I don’t have sex with toys.” He harshly gripped your face, pushing you with just one hand. You gripped his hand as you glared at him, forced to move back towards the bed. “Sex is pointless. When I could gain satisfaction from seeing you plead for your life.”

Sex is pointless? You blinked, the cogs in your brain turning.

He’s a virgin.

“Was I your first kiss?” You muttered, fighting the urge to smirk if he wasn’t squeezing your face.

Saint scoffed, pushing you down on the bed. “Why, would that make you happy?”

You grunted at the force. His answer was all you really needed as you smirked up at him. You leaned further back on the bed, purposely spreading your legs to allow your shorts to ride up.

“More than happy.” You whispered, catching his gaze flickering down your thighs. But any slight of arousal you thought he would show was nowhere to be seen. He almost looked bored at the sight as he simply shook his head and walked off to the bathroom.

You had a plan to survive Saint and get him and the other loan sharks off Plawan’s back.

You’d get him to fall for you.

Or at the very least, get him obsessed with you.

Shouldn’t be hard enough… right?

lol. Plot twist? Don’t worry, he’s gonna get freaky later. Just wanted to do a little set up. If yall liked Plawan’s PoV, I’ll add a bit more next time, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t take over you. Ask to be tagged for part 2

ps. Nok, Muu, and Gung is the word for bird, pig, and shrimp in Thai. These can also be someone’s nickname. Pearl is already mentioned. But Plawan is basically hinting that Nok, Muu, and Pearl (residents at the complex) saw Plawan get home and know that Hope is with him, meaning they’ll keep an eye out. Him telling Gung is for part 2~

Tag list: @carnalcrows @chill-guy-but-cooler @the-ultimate-librarian @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @tomoeroi @castocipher @iwishtobeacrow @tehyunnie @remdayz @love-kha1 @rhetorical-conscience @star-3214 @mooncarvers-world @cherry-blossoms-187 @secretivemessenger @yuzuukix @bensontrechic @anchoredphoenix @ning1e @m00n-b4b3

[jupiterpilgrim]

New Skin

Irene Bae x male reader

word count: 15K

commissioned fic

It’s mid-afternoon, that point where productivity takes a nosedive and the clock hands seem to wade through treacle. You push back from your desk, time to stretch the legs. And, coincidentally, time to see if Irene Bae actually finished inputting those quarterly projection figures. That’s the official reason, anyway. The one you’d type into a time-tracking app if this place were that anal.

Unofficially? You just want to talk to her.

Irene. She’s been with the company for three or four months now. Casual contract, data entry, the kind of gig that’s meant to be a revolving door. But she’s stuck around. And in that time, she’s cultivated an air of almost complete invisibility. She’s a whisper in the office cacophony, a muted color in a palette of forced corporate brightness. She does her work, meticulously, flawlessly. Never complains, never participates in the break-room bitching sessions or the awkward birthday cake celebrations. Most people probably don’t even know her real name.

But you do. Bae Joohyun. You’d seen it on her initial paperwork. Irene’s the name she goes by here.

She speaks to you. Not much, never initiating, but she responds. There's a politeness there, a guarded stillness that never tips into outright rudeness, which is more than some of the other office drones manage. Maybe it’s because you’re her supervisor, a rung or two up the ladder. Maybe it’s because you’ve made a point of being… well, not a dick. Friendly, even. You try to be, anyway. God knows this place needs a bit less soul-crushing bureaucracy and a bit more basic human decency.

You weave through the maze of cubicles, a landscape of grey fabric and flickering screens. The usual suspects are in their pens: Wendy from accounts scrolling through what definitely isn’t work-related, Seulgi from marketing on yet another clearly personal call, her explanations pitched low and urgent. You offer a vague nod if anyone catches your eye, but your trajectory is set. Irene’s little nook is at the far end, slightly more isolated than the others, a small mercy in this open-plan purgatory.

As you round the last partition, you see her. And fuck, she looks… good. Really good. It’s nothing outrageous, nothing that would breach the unwritten dress code. She’s wearing a simple black top, some kind of soft, clinging material, with three-quarter sleeves. It’s understated, like everything about her, but it hugs the lean lines of her petite frame in a way that makes you notice the toned strength beneath. Her black hair, usually just neatly tied back or falling straight, has a slight wave today, like she maybe didn’t have time to fully straighten it, and it catches the shitty office light, making it gleam. Her head is bent, focused on her screen, one slender hand guiding a mouse, the other resting near the keyboard. Even the line of her neck, exposed where her hair parts, seems delicate, smooth.

You pause for a beat, a couple of feet from her desk, just taking her in. It’s not a leering thing, not really. More like… appreciation. Like noticing a rare, quiet bird in a flock of pigeons. There's a subtle tension around her, even in repose, like a coiled spring. You’ve always sensed it.

You clear your throat, just a little, not wanting to startle her. "Hey, Irene."

She looks up, and for a split second, before the usual mask of polite reserve slides perfectly into place, you see something else. A flicker of… surprise? No, not quite. Vulnerability, maybe? It’s gone before you can properly catalog it. Her dark eyes meet yours, large and surprisingly intense in her small face. No smile, not usually, but the tightening around her eyes isn't hostile.

"Oh. Hi," she replies. Her speaking manner is soft, not quite a whisper, but definitely low, like she’s conserving energy, or maybe just doesn’t want her syllables to travel too far.

"Just doing the rounds," you say, leaning a casual shoulder against the fabric wall of her cubicle. Trying for breezy. "Making sure everyone’s still alive after that marathon budget meeting this morning." You didn’t actually ask her to be in that meeting; her role doesn't require it. Just making conversation.

A tiny, almost imperceptible dip of her chin. "It sounded… long."

"You have no idea. I think a part of my soul shriveled up and died in there." You give a mock shudder. "Anyway, I was wondering how you were getting on with those quarterly figures. The ones for the Anderson account?"

She swivels slightly in her chair, her movements economical and precise. Her gaze drops to her monitor, then back to you. "I finished them about an hour ago. They should be in the shared drive, under 'Q3 Projections - Final'."

Of course, she did. Meticulous. You knew she would be. "Ah, brilliant. Knew I could count on you." You make a mental note to actually check them later, just for form's sake. "No problems with the source data? Sometimes marketing sends it through looking like a dog’s breakfast."

"There were a few inconsistencies in the initial dataset from last Tuesday, but I cross-referenced them with the updated figures from yesterday morning. It should be accurate now."

See? Smart. Doesn’t just blindly input. She actually thinks. Most of the temps just plough through, garbage in, garbage out. You find yourself smiling, a genuine one. "That’s great, Irene. Seriously. Saves me a headache later."

Her eyes flick down, then back up. Is that a hint of… satisfaction? Hard to tell with her. She’s a masterclass in neutral. "I just try to make sure it’s done correctly."

"And you do," you affirm, pushing off the wall slightly, taking a half-step closer, more into her personal space than you usually would, but keeping it open. "So, uh, besides saving the company from numerical chaos, what else is on the agenda for you today? Any exciting plans for… data collation?"

She considers the question, or at least appears to. Her fingers tap once, very lightly, on her desk. The nails are bare, neatly trimmed. No polish. "I have the backlog from the Henderson merger to sort through. It’s… substantial."

"Sounds thrilling," you say, and this time, you think you see the corner of her mouth twitch. A ghost of a smile. Progress. "Well, don't let it swallow you whole. If you hit any major roadblocks, or if the sheer tedium becomes a threat to your sanity, you know where I am."

"Thank you," she says, and her gaze lingers on yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual. There’s an odd sort of directness in her eyes when she properly meets your look, like she’s assessing something deep inside you. It’s unnerving and intriguing as hell. "I appreciate that."

"No worries." You linger for another moment, searching for something else to say, some way to keep this fragile thread of interaction going. You notice a small, potted succulent on the corner of her otherwise bare desk. It’s a tiny, unassuming thing, but it’s green and alive. "New plant?"

She glances at it. "Oh. Um. Yes. My… neighbor was moving and couldn’t take it."

"It’s… resilient looking," you offer, which is a stupid thing to say about a plant, but it’s out there now.

A tiny, almost inaudible huff of air escapes her. It might have been a laugh. It really might have been. "It’s supposed to be hard to kill. That’s what she said."

"Always a good quality in an office plant," you agree. "Or an office worker, for that matter. Well, I’ll let you get back to the thrilling Henderson merger files. Thanks again."

"You’re welcome," she says, her attention already starting to drift back towards her screen, the brief opening in her defenses slowly closing up. But it was there. A little crack.

You find yourself reluctant to leave, to let the usual office drone silence settle back over her. The way that black top clings just so to the curve of her back as she turns slightly, the faint, clean scent that you can only catch when you’re this close (something like fresh laundry and maybe a hint of a very subtle, floral soap). It’s doing things to your concentration that have absolutely nothing to do with quarterly projections. You know you should probably just go, get back to your own mountain of work, but there's a pull, a quiet magnetism she exudes that makes you want to just… stay. See if another tiny piece of the real Irene Bae might surface if you wait long enough, patiently enough.

That faint, almost-laugh, the tiny, fleeting opening… it’s enough. It’s more than enough. Now or never, idiot. Before the professional shell hardens completely again, before she retreats back into that fortress of polite distance.

"So," you begin, trying to make it sound like the most casual afterthought in the world, even as a different, less casual thought hammers in your head, don't fuck this up. "Seeing as it's Monday, and Mondays officially suck by universal decree… I was thinking of grabbing a drink after work. You know, just to sort of… defiantly kickstart the week. Would you, uh, be interested in joining? In case you don't have any other more interesting plan. No big deal if you have, totally get it."

There, it’s out. You hold your breath without meaning to.

Irene’s gaze, which had started to drift back to her monitor, snaps back to you. For a moment, her face is perfectly, utterly blank. Not surprised, not annoyed, just… still. Like a photograph. Then, a slow blink. She looks down at her neatly folded hands in her lap, then back up at you.

"That’s… very kind of you," she says. "But I think I’ll have to pass. I have a few things I need to finish up here."

A polite decline. Of course. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, managing a smile that you hope looks understanding and not like you just got gently punched in the gut. "Hey, no problem at all. Totally understand. Rain check for another lifetime, maybe?" you add, trying to keep it light, to show her it’s genuinely okay.

A tiny, almost imperceptible softening around her eyes. "Maybe." She offers that. "I’ll send through that Henderson merger summary report by end of day."

"Sounds good," you nod, already backing away, giving her space. "Don’t let it bury you alive. And, uh, thanks again for the Anderson stuff."

"You’re welcome."

And just like that, she turns back to her screen, the brief window of interaction decisively closed. You walk away, a familiar mix of mild disappointment and a strange sort of respect for her unbreachable composure settling in. Well, you tried. Can’t say you didn’t try.

The rest of the afternoon crawls by. You actually do your work, or at least a passable imitation of it. Around five-thirty, an email pings into your inbox. Subject: Henderson Merger Summary - Irene Bae. You click it open. The report is attached, and even a cursory glance tells you it’s immaculate. Clear, concise, all the key data points highlighted, potential issues flagged with brief, intelligent notes. Fucking hell, she’s good. Way too good for a casual data entry gig. You fire off a quick reply: "This is perfect, Irene. Seriously, amazing work. Thanks!"

No reply to that. You didn’t expect one.

By six, the office is starting to empty out. The symphony of keyboards has dwindled to a few sporadic taps. You grab your bag, sling your jacket over your shoulder, and head for the elevators. As one slides open with a soft hydraulic sigh, you step in, pressing the button for the ground floor. Just as the doors are about to close, a hand darts out, stopping them.

Irene.

She slips inside, her movements quick and economical as always. She’s got a small, plain handbag over her shoulder, and she looks… tired. There are faint shadows under her eyes that weren’t as noticeable in the brighter office lights. The doors close, encasing you both in the small, brushed-steel box. An awkward silence immediately descends. This is always the worst part of accidental shared elevator rides.

"Hey," you manage, because the silence is starting to feel like a physical weight. "That report you sent? Seriously, top-notch. You made my evening a lot easier."

She looks up at you, a brief flicker in her dark eyes. "I’m glad it was helpful."

Her reply is soft, barely disturbing the canned muzak seeping from a hidden speaker. The silence stretches again, punctuated only by the quiet hum of the elevator descending. One floor. Two. You can feel the seconds ticking by. You want to say something else, anything, but the words just don’t come. Don’t be that guy, you tell yourself. Don’t be the slightly-too-eager supervisor cornering the quiet girl in an elevator.

She probably just wants to get home. Respect that.

The doors slide open onto the ground floor lobby. Freedom.

"Well, have a good night, Irene," you say, stepping out, already turning towards the exit. "See you tomorrow."

You’re halfway to the main glass doors when you hear it.

"You asked… if I had plans."

Her words are so quiet you almost miss them, almost think you imagined them against the backdrop of distant traffic noise and the lobby’s echoing emptiness. You stop. Turn around slowly. Irene is standing just outside the elevator, her bag clutched in front of her, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher.

"Yeah," you say, walking back towards her. "I did."

"I don’t," she states. Just like that. No preamble, no explanation for the earlier refusal. Just: "I don’t have plans."

Holy shit. Your brain seems to short-circuit for a second. Okay. Okay, asshole, she just threw you a goddamn lifeline. Don't drown. You swallow, trying to regain some semblance of composure, to make your next words sound casual and not like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Oh. Well, in that case," you begin, a slow smile spreading across your face, "the offer for that drink still stands. To, you know, combat the general Monday-ness of things. I know this great little bar not too far from here, actually. Good music, not too loud, and they make a mean old-fashioned, if you’re into that sort of thing." You pause, holding her gaze. "What do you say?"

She looks at you, properly looks, for what feels like a full minute. Her dark eyes search yours, and for a terrifying second, you think she’s going to say no again. Then, the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. "Okay."

"Okay?" you echo, a grin breaking free. "Yeah, okay. Brilliant. My car’s just in the parkade across the street."

The walk to your car is filled with a slightly giddy, slightly surreal silence. You keep stealing glances at her. Irene Bae, willingly accompanying you somewhere. It feels… momentous. You unlock the car, a slightly battered but reliable sedan, and open the passenger door for her. She murmurs a "thank you" and slides in.

Once you’re both in and you’ve navigated out of the dimly lit parkade into the early evening traffic, the atmosphere in the car feels charged, but not uncomfortably so. It’s the buzz of something new, unexpected.

"So," she says, breaking the silence first, her gaze on the passing cityscape, a blur of office lights and neon signs. "This job. Is it… what you always wanted to do?"

You laugh, a short, surprised sound. "Managing quarterly reports and navigating inter-departmental squabbles? Not exactly the dream I had when I was, like, ten." You glance at her. "It’s alright, though. Pays the bills. I’ve kind of gotten used to it, you know? Found a rhythm. Got a decent team, for the most part. People I actually don’t mind seeing every day. That’s something, right?"

"It is," she agrees, turning her head slightly to look at you. "You’re good at it."

That surprises you. "You think so?"

"Yes," she says, with a quiet certainty that makes you sit up a little straighter. "You don’t… take advantage. Of your position." Her eyes flick to the road, then back to you. "You treat everyone like they matter. Even the casuals." There's a faint emphasis on the last word, a shadow in her tone that makes you wonder.

"Well, that’s just… basic decency, isn’t it?" you say, a little embarrassed by the praise. "Nothing to write home about. Everyone’s just trying to get through their day."

"Not everyone sees it that way," Irene counters, her words flat, devoid of inflection, but carrying a weight nonetheless. "I’ve worked in places… with terrible superiors."

"Ah, the petty tyrants of middle management," you sigh, shaking your head. "People with miserable, unhappy lives who get a tiny sliver of power and suddenly think they’re Genghis Khan in a polyester suit. They try to feel better by making everyone else feel smaller. It’s pitiful, really. Because at the end of the day, they’re still just employees. Same as anyone else. One major screw-up, one too many complaints, and they’re out on their ass just like the next person." You glance at her. "Hope you didn’t have to deal with too many of those."

She doesn’t answer directly, just looks out her window again. "It happens."

A beat of silence. You change the subject, not wanting to dwell on whatever bad experiences she’s clearly had. "So, do you live around here? Or am I kidnapping you to the other side of the city for this drink?"

"No, I live pretty close by, actually. Just a few blocks from the office."

"Oh, good," you say. "Well, after we’ve thoroughly deflated Monday’s ego with a beverage or two, I can drop you off, if you like. Save you the walk."

She turns to you again, and this time, the smile is a little more definite, reaching her eyes. "Thank you. I’d like that."

The bar is that classic thing: dimly lit, exposed brick, a long mahogany counter gleaming under strategically placed spotlights and indie rock plays at a conversational level. It’s busy enough to have a buzz, but not so packed you can’t find a quiet corner. You spot a small, empty table tucked away near a bookshelf filled with mismatched paperbacks. Perfect.

You lead her over, pulling out one of the sturdy wooden chairs for her. "Best seat in the house," you announce with a mock flourish.

She slides into the chair, her handbag placed neatly on her lap. "It’s nice," she says, looking around, taking it all in. "I like it."

"Glad it meets with your approval," you grin. "Now, the crucial question: what are you drinking?"

Her eyes scan the chalkboards behind the bar listing craft beers and cocktails. "Um. Maybe a… gin and tonic? If they have a good gin."

"Consider it done." You head to the counter, weaving through a few small groups. You order her G&T, specifying a decent small-batch gin you know they carry, and an old-fashioned for yourself. Waiting for the bartender to work his magic, you glance back at Irene. She’s watching the other patrons, her expression unreadable but not, you think, uncomfortable. She looks small and almost delicate in the low light, yet there’s that core of resilience you always sense in her.

Drinks secured, you carry them carefully back to the table. You set her tall, clinking glass in front of her and place your own squat tumbler down. Sliding into the chair opposite, you make sure you’re facing her directly. This feels good. Really good.

You pick up your glass. "Well," you say, raising it slightly.

Irene mirrors your action, her dark eyes questioning yours over the rim of her glass. "What are we toasting to?" she asks

A grin spreads across your face. "To new beginnings," you start, then amend it. "No, scratch that. To Monday nights that don’t suck. And, more importantly," you meet her gaze directly, "to the best goddamn casual worker this company has ever had the dumb luck to hire."

A beat of silence. Then, something remarkable happens. Irene laughs. It’s not a loud laugh, not a boisterous one. It’s a soft, breathy sound, genuine and utterly unexpected, crinkling the corners of her eyes and making her whole face light up for a precious, unguarded moment. "Oh my god," she says, still chuckling, shaking her head slightly. "Thank you." She clinks her glass against yours. "I’ll drink to that.”

That shared laugh, her unexpected, genuine amusement: it’s like a key turning in a rusty lock. The air between you shifts, losing some of its earlier, fragile tension, replaced by something warmer, more… possible. You take a slow sip of your old-fashioned, the sharp bite of whiskey and bitters a pleasant counterpoint to the sweetness of the moment. Her gin and tonic is already a little lower in its tall glass, the ice clinking softly as she sets it down.

"So," you begin, leaning back a fraction, trying to project casual interest rather than the full-blown interrogation your curiosity is screaming for. "Aside from being a spreadsheet wizard and a savior of Monday nights, what else does Irene Bae get up to?”

"Nothing too extraordinary. I like to read. And I walk a lot. Explore the city."

"Reading, huh? Anything good lately?" You try to keep your follow-up equally light. You’re intensely aware that every question is a potential landmine. Too personal, too probing, and she might just vanish back into that shell.

"I just finished a collection of short stories," she offers, her words measured. "Modern gothic. Quite dark."

"Sounds… cheerful," you remark, raising an eyebrow. "Matches the general Monday vibe, I guess." Your internal monologue is whirring: Modern gothic. Dark. Okay, that’s… interesting. Not exactly chick-lit. Adds another layer to the enigma.

She gives a tiny shrug, a graceful, minimal movement. "I find it interesting." She takes a delicate sip of her drink, her eyes watching you over the rim. Then, before you can formulate another carefully casual question, she flips it. "What about you? When you’re not cracking the whip at the office or rescuing Mondays, what’s your grand passion?"

The question, coming from her, feels like a small gift. You lean forward, genuinely pleased to share, to keep the conversational ball rolling. "Ha, 'cracking the whip.' If only. Mostly I just try to keep the ship from hitting the nearest iceberg." You grin. "Passions? Let’s see. I’m a bit of a film nerd. Old movies, foreign films, anything that isn’t a superhero sequel, basically. And I attempt to play guitar – emphasis on 'attempt.' My neighbors probably hate me."

"A film nerd?" A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Any particular director or era you favor?"

"Oh, man, where to start?" You launch into a slightly-too-enthusiastic explanation of your love for classic film noir, the French New Wave, the oddball genius of Kurosawa. You talk about the satisfaction of finally tracking down a rare print, the joy of watching a masterpiece on a big screen, even if it’s just at the local art-house cinema. You’re aware you’re probably rambling a bit, but she’s listening. Or at least, she appears to be. She’s still, her gaze fixed on you, not interrupting, just… absorbing. It’s more attention than she’s ever given you in the office.

You eventually wind down, a little breathless, feeling slightly foolish for your impromptu lecture. "Sorry," you say, laughing a bit. "Probably more than you ever wanted to know about black and white cinematography."

"No, it’s… interesting," she says, and you think she actually means it. Or maybe she’s just incredibly polite. "You’re passionate about it. It’s clear."

"Yeah, I guess I am." You take another swallow of your drink. The warmth of the whiskey spreads through your chest, mingling with the unexpected warmth of this conversation. "So, you said you walk a lot. Any favorite spots in the city? Hidden gems I should know about?"

"I haven't found any particularly interesting places yet. But, uh, I went to a historic library this month and the place is really pretty. I think that's a start."

"Sounds interesting. The city’s definitely got a lot to offer if you just wander. I keep meaning to do more of that myself, but, you know, life. Work."

"It can be hard to find the time," she agrees, her gaze returning to yours. Her expression is neutral, but her eyes are observant, constantly gauging. You have the distinct feeling you’re being carefully evaluated. "Do you… enjoy living here? In this city?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," you reply honestly. "It’s not where I grew up, but I’ve been here long enough that it feels like home. There’s always something going on, good food, decent music scene. And it’s big enough that you can disappear if you want to, but small enough that you still run into people you know. What about you? Are you originally from here?"

Another brief hesitation. "No. Not originally." She offers no more than that. Another door, gently closed. You’re learning the rhythm of it: she’ll answer the direct question, but volunteer nothing extra about herself.

"Well, no need to thank me for revealing the best gin in the city," you joke, gesturing to her glass.

A tiny smile again. "This place is cool. And the gin is really good."

"Well, I know you are a reserved person, but I’m honored you made an exception for my 'kickstart the week' initiative."

"It was…" she pauses, as if searching for the right word, "...a good suggestion."

The conversation flows like that for a while longer, a gentle ebb and flow of questions and answers. You learn that she prefers tea to coffee, that she finds crowded places overwhelming, that she once had a cat but doesn’t currently. Each piece of information is tiny, almost inconsequential on its own, but you hoard them like precious gems. In return, you tell her about your disastrous attempts at cooking, a funny story about your college roommate that happened years ago, your undying loyalty to a consistently terrible local sports team. You’re careful to keep it light, to match her level of disclosure, but inside, you’re buzzing. You’re actually talking to Irene Bae, and she’s… talking back. It feels like a minor miracle.

Her drink is nearly empty, and yours isn't far behind. The initial energy of the bar has mellowed into a comfortable, late-evening hum. You catch the bartender’s eye, you lift two fingers, then tap your chest and mouth "non-alcoholic beer for me this time." He nods, already reaching for a specific bottle from the cooler. Driving Irene home safely is suddenly a very high priority.

When he brings the drinks, a fresh, fragrant G&T for her, and a dark, malty-looking non-alcoholic brew for you, Irene is watching you, that quiet, considering look in her eyes again.

"So, about the work,” you start, “are you actually, you know, enjoying your time at the company? Aside from my brilliant supervisory skills, of course."

"It’s… okay," she says, which from Irene is practically a glowing endorsement. "I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, since I’m usually… quiet."

"Hey, quiet is fine," you interject quickly. "You’re always polite, you do incredible work, and you haven’t tried to set fire to the servers yet. Honestly, that puts you in the top percentile of casuals we’ve had." You mean it. "Seriously though, as long as you’re not miserable, that’s what matters."

"I’m not miserable," she confirms. "It’s… structured. Predictable. I appreciate that."

"Good." You nod, relieved. "So, what’s the plan then? Your current contract is up in, what, another month or so? Any thoughts on what you’ll do next? Back to the exciting world of job hunting?" You try to keep it light, but there’s an underlying purpose to your question now.

She looks down into her drink, swirling the ice with a long, slender finger. The small gesture somehow seems incredibly thoughtful. "I haven’t really thought that far ahead," she admits. "Find another job, I suppose. That’s usually how it goes."

This is it. Your opening. Your heart gives a little thump. "Well," you begin, trying to sound casual, like this is just a random thought that popped into your head. "About that. There’s actually been some talk… about your role."

Her head comes up, eyes narrowed slightly in question.

"The thing is, Irene," you lean forward a fraction, "you’re kind of indispensable. And some of us, higher up the food chain, have noticed that." You take a breath. "So, I was wondering… how would you feel about making your position full-time? Permanent contract, benefits, the whole shebang."

She stares at you, her expression unreadable. Surprise, definitely. Maybe a hint of suspicion? "You… can do that?"

"Not me, personally," you clarify quickly. "This isn't me pulling strings as your dashingly handsome supervisor." You shoot her a quick grin, which she doesn’t return, her focus entirely on your words. "The decision actually came from the big boss, old Henderson himself, after seeing the quarterly summaries and the work you did on that merger data. He was… impressed. He asked me to sound you out, see if you’d be interested. I was planning on talking to you about it sometime this week, but, well, now seems as good a time as any, right?"

Irene is silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on some distant point over your shoulder. You can almost see the gears turning in her head. Finally, she looks back at you. "I… I’d have to think about it."

"Of course," you say immediately. "No pressure at all. Seriously. Take your time. But," you can't help adding, "it would be really great to have you on board properly. As a, you know, full-fledged contract worker."

She cocks her head, a tiny, bird-like movement. "Why?"

The question is so direct, so simple, it throws you for a second. "Why?" you echo. You hesitate, searching for the right words. The real reasons are a tangled mess of professional admiration and a rapidly growing personal affection that feels way too soon, too intense to articulate. "Well, because… because you’re an excellent professional, Irene," you land on, hoping it sounds convincing. "You’re efficient, you’re meticulous, your attention to detail is incredible. You make my job easier, and you make the whole team look good."

She shakes her head slowly, a faint frown touching her lips. "What I do… it’s no big deal. Data entry, report summaries. There are plenty of people out there who can do the same thing."

You lean forward, a mock-serious expression on your face. "Actually, Irene, I don't like you just doing your job," you say, letting the pause hang for a split second before a grin breaks through. "Because what you do isn't just 'your job.' It's exceptional. And no, not 'several out there' can do it like you." You soften your expression, meeting her gaze earnestly. "Besides, everyone at the company genuinely appreciates you, and your work."

A beat of silence. Then, Irene laughs again, that soft, breathy sound that does ridiculous things to your insides. Her eyes, though, are sparkling with a teasing light you’ve never seen before. "Oh really?" she says, a playful lilt in her quiet words. "Is it everyone? Or is it… just you?"

Heat floods your face. You can feel the blush creeping up your neck. You look away, flustered, trying to come up with a clever retort, but your brain has apparently short-circuited. Shit. You’re usually better at this.

Seeing your reaction, her expression softens. "Hey," she says, her words a soft balm. "I’m just joking." She reaches out, just for a second, and her cool fingertips brush the back of your hand where it rests on the table. "Don’t look so terrified."

You manage a shaky laugh, looking back at her. Her eyes are kind. More than kind.

"And for the record," she continues, her gaze holding yours. "I appreciate that you like my work. You're very kind.”

Irene’s gaze is steady on yours, a hint of that earlier blush still dusting her cheekbones, but her expression is open, almost serene. That tiny, brave nod she gives is more articulate than a thousand words.

"Alright," you manage, letting out a shaky laugh. "Okay. That’s… that’s really good to hear, Irene. So," you venture, your smile softening, "does this mean you’re going to accept my incredibly generous, Henderson-approved proposal to become a permanent fixture of corporate excellence?"

She chuckles. It’s amazing how quickly she seems to be shedding layers of that formidable reserve, at least with you, in this moment. "I said I’d think about it," she reminds you, a playful glint back in her eyes. "No need to rush such a life-altering decision, right?"

"Right, right, of course," you concede, still grinning like an idiot. "Strategic deliberation. I respect that."

And just like that, the initial fear peak passes, settling into a comfortable, warm plateau. You talk. For hours, it seems. The second round of drinks arrives, your non-alcoholic beer surprisingly satisfying, her gin and tonic still her companion. The conversation meanders easily now, a stark contrast to the careful, step-by-step navigation of your earlier interactions. You touch on office matters: the ridiculousness of certain company policies, the upcoming (and dreaded) office move to a new floor, the latest gossip about which department head is feuding with another (which Irene, surprisingly, seems to have a few wry, understated observations about).

Then you drift to side things. You talk more about films you both like, discovering a shared appreciation for a particular cult sci-fi series from the 90s that you’re both shocked the other has even heard of. She mentions, very briefly, a passion for minimalist photography, focusing on urban decay and overlooked details, and you make a mental note to ask her more about it another time, when it feels right. You tell her about your disastrous attempt to learn coding during lockdown, which ended with you accidentally wiping your own hard drive. She doesn’t laugh uproariously, but her shoulders shake a little, and her eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that makes you smile unconsciously.

Time seems to dissolve. The bar gradually empties. You’re both leaning in slightly over the small table, the rest of the world faded into a pleasant, out-of-focus backdrop. It’s only when you catch a glimpse of the clock behind the bar, nudging past midnight, that you realize how long you’ve been here.

"Whoa," you say, genuinely surprised. "Look at the time." You glance at Irene. She does look a little tired now, the earlier animation softened by a gentle weariness around her eyes, though her expression is still content. "I should probably get you home. You must be exhausted."

She stifles a small yawn, then nods. "Probably a good idea. Mondays, even good ones, take their toll."

When the bartender brings the bill, Irene immediately reaches for her handbag. "Let me get my share," she says, her tone matter-of-fact.

You wave your hand dismissively. "Nope. Not a chance. My treat. I did invite you to defiantly kickstart the week, remember?"

"But we had four or five rounds," she protests mildly. "And you offered me a job. The least I can do is pay for my own gin."

"Consider it a pre-emptive signing bonus discussion fee," you counter, already pulling out your card. "Seriously, Irene. It’s on me. Please."

She hesitates for a moment, then a small, appreciative smile touches her lips. "Okay. Thank you. That’s… very chivalrous."

"I have my moments," you say, winking, as you settle the bill.

In the car, the city lights painting fleeting stripes across the dashboard, Irene gives you her address; a street in a quiet, older residential area not far from the office, just as she’d said.

"So," you ask, as you navigate the familiar streets, "you live alone?" It’s a casual question, but your heart beats a little faster waiting for the answer.

"Yes," she replies, looking out at the passing buildings. "For a few years now." She turns her head. "You?"

"Same here," you say. "Just me and my old movie collection. The second part probably justifies the first."

She gives a soft chuckle at that.

You pull up outside a well-maintained older apartment building, with a small, neat garden out front. It looks… peaceful. Like her.

"Well, here we are," you say, putting the car in park.

Irene turns in her seat to face you more fully. "Thank you," she says, her gaze direct and sincere. "For the invitation, for the drinks. It was… a really nice chat. I enjoyed it."

"Me too, Irene," you reply, your own sincerity matching hers. "Thanks for your company. It was a lot of fun. Definitely the best Monday I’ve had in a long time."

"Good night, then," she says softly. Her hand hovers near the door handle. For a wild second, you wonder if you should lean in, if this is the moment for a goodbye kiss, but something in her stillness, a lingering hint of that old reserve, tells you not yet. Don’t push it. Not now.

"Good night, Irene," you echo. "Get some rest."

She nods, gives you one last small smile, and then she’s out of the car, a fleeting figure disappearing into the building’s warmly lit entryway. You wait until you see the lobby door close behind her before pulling away, a wide, goofy grin plastered on your face that doesn’t fade the entire drive home.

—

From that night on, something undeniably shifts. Your bond with Irene, forged in the dim light of that quiet bar, begins to progress in subtle but significant ways. In the office, she still maintains her discreet presence, never drawing undue attention to herself. But with you, things are different. She seeks out your gaze more often across the expanse of cubicles, a small, almost imperceptible smile usually accompanying it. When you approach her desk, she looks up immediately, the guardedness you were so used to now noticeably lessened, replaced by a welcoming warmth in her dark eyes.

She talks to you more, too. Not just about work, though she’s still impeccably professional. She’ll share a wry observation about a particularly mind-numbing office memo, or ask your opinion on a new software rollout. Sometimes, she even initiates the conversation, a quiet "Got a minute?" when she has a genuine query or, increasingly, just something she wants to share. And jokes (Irene actually makes jokes). They’re subtle, dry, delivered with that understated wit you’re quickly coming to adore, but they’re there, little sparks of humor that light up your interactions.

It makes you ridiculously happy, this gradual unfolding. Every shared glance, every quiet conversation, every fleeting smile feels like a victory, a testament to the connection you’re building. You find yourself looking forward to seeing her each day with an eagerness that’s entirely new. There’s no denying it, not anymore. You’re liking Irene Bae more and more, and the thought of where this all might be heading fills you with a buoyant, thrilling anticipation.

The week has been a blur of spreadsheets that all look the same and meetings that could have been emails. Standard. You do your usual wander through the office tundra, a flimsy excuse to stretch your legs and make sure the drones haven't revolted. You offer the requisite nods, the "how’s it goings," the feigned interest in weekend plans that involve either mind-numbing DIY or equally mind-numbing children's soccer games. But really, your internal compass is pointing one way: Irene’s desk.

She’s there, a small, still point in the surrounding office chaos. Head down, focused. God, she’s beautiful. It’s not even a conscious thought anymore, just an accepted fact, like gravity or the office coffee being terrible. Today she’s wearing a cream-colored sweater, soft and slightly oversized, that makes her look even more delicate. Her dark hair is clipped back loosely, a few stray strands feathering her cheek. As you approach, she senses you, looking up. And this time, there’s no hesitation, no fractional delay before her polite mask clicks into place. This time, a small, subtle smile touches her lips almost instantly. It’s a tiny thing, barely a curve, but on Irene, it’s like a goddamn sunrise. Your chest does that stupid warm lurch it’s been doing a lot lately.

"Morning, Irene," you say, leaning against the partition of her cubicle, trying to match her quiet energy. "Or, well, almost afternoon, I guess."

"Good morning," she replies, her words soft, but the smile lingers in her eyes. That’s new. And definitely not unwelcome.

"Just checking in. How’s that… uh… creative asset compilation for the new campaign coming along? The one I dumped on you yesterday with zero notice?" You’d asked her to pull together a bunch of visual elements and a draft for some new ad copy. A bit outside her usual data-entry scope, but you had a hunch she’d be good at it.

"Almost done," she confirms, gesturing vaguely at her screen. "Just finalizing the font choices for the header. It should be ready by three."

"No rush at all, you’re a miracle worker as it is." You glance at her screen, trying to seem interested in fonts, but your attention snags on the small, almost hidden detail on her desk – a tiny, exquisitely wrapped parcel, no bigger than a matchbox, tied with a simple silver ribbon. It wasn't there yesterday. "So," you continue, keeping your tone light, "anything exciting happen since I last graced your cubicle with my overwhelming presence?"

Her gaze flickers to the small parcel, then back to you, and the subtle smile widens just a fraction. "Actually," she says, her fingers brushing the ribbon lightly, "I received what you sent."

Ah. So she got it. This week was her birthday. You’d thought about organizing something, a small surprise with a few of the nicer people on the team. But then you’d pictured Irene, the center of attention, forced smiles, awkward small talk… and you’d nixed the idea. She wasn’t the surprise party type. So, you’d sent a small, carefully chosen gift to her apartment instead (you still had her address from that night at the bar). A collection of short stories by an author she mentioned being a fan of and, apparently, she didn't have this book yet, which is a new release.

"Oh yeah?" you ask, feigning mild surprise. "Well, I hope I didn't choose something boring. Choosing gifts isn't really something I'm very talented at."

A soft chuckle escapes her. "No, it was… lovely. Thank you. You really didn't need to bother, though."

"Hey, what are supervisors for if not to occasionally bother their best employees with unsolicited tokens of appreciation?" you say, grinning. "Glad you liked it." You pause, then decide to take the plunge. "So, listen. Friday today. End of a massively busy week. Any chance I could tempt you with another round of drinks? All on me, of course.”

She looks up, and for a moment, you see that familiar flicker of hesitation, the slight tensing around her eyes. She bites her lip, her gaze dropping to the desk. "I don't know…" she begins, her words very quiet. "Don't you think… people in the office might find it a bit strange? Just you and me, going out for drinks together again?"

Her concern is valid. You’re her supervisor. And while this office isn't exactly a hotbed of malicious gossip, people notice things. But the thought of not seeing her outside these four grey walls, especially after the progress you’ve made, feels… deflating.

You shrug. "Let them think whatever they want. Honestly, Irene, who cares? It's just a couple of colleagues grabbing a drink after a long week. Besides," you add, leaning in a fraction, lowering your tone slightly, "no one here is interesting enough to be a dedicated gossip columnist. They’re too busy worrying about their own TPS reports. You don't need to worry about it."

She looks at you for a long moment. You can see the internal debate warring in her eyes. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile. "Okay," she says. "Okay, I’d like that."

—

Lunchtime. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at a spreadsheet that’s threatening to induce a coma, when a small shadow falls over your keyboard. You look up, surprised.

It’s Irene. She’s holding a small, clear plastic container, tied with a simple piece of kitchen twine. Inside, you can see a neat stack of perfectly round, golden-brown cookies. Homemade. No doubt about it.

"Hi," she says, a little shyly, holding out the container. "I, uh… I made these last night. For you. As a thank you. For the… for the other day. And the gift."

You’re genuinely speechless for a second. Irene Bae baked you cookies. You take the container, your fingers brushing hers. "Irene, wow. You… you really didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to," she says, that faint blush back on her cheeks. "They’re just chocolate chip. Nothing fancy." She pauses, then adds, with a tiny, playful smirk, "Don’t get spoiled."

"Too late," you say, already prying the lid off. The smell of warm butter and melted chocolate hits you. "These look incredible. Seriously." You take one, biting into it. It’s perfect: soft and chewy in the middle, slightly crisp around the edges. "Holy shit, Irene, these are… you’re a wizard."

"They’re just cookies."

"No, these are not 'just cookies'," you insist, taking another enthusiastic bite. "These are edible drops of pure happiness. You’re wasted on data entry, you know that? You should open a bakery."

"One business is enough for now," she says, but she looks genuinely pleased by your reaction. She lingers by your desk for a moment, not quite meeting your eye, but not leaving either. "How’s… how’s your day going? You look a little tired."

It’s true. The past few days have been a relentless onslaught of urgent requests, looming deadlines, and a particularly tedious software integration project that’s been fighting you every step of the way. You probably look like you’ve been wrestling a badger.

"Yeah, it’s been a bit of a beast," you admit, rubbing your eyes. "Lots of fires to put out. Trying to get the specs finalized for the Q4 roll-out, plus Henderson is breathing down my neck about those new compliance protocols. Standard corporate fun and games." You try for a light tone. "But I’m fine. Just need about seventeen more cups of coffee."

Her expression softens with something that looks a lot like genuine concern. "Don’t try to do too much," she says. "You’ll burn yourself out."

"Words of wisdom from the cookie queen," you say, smiling at her. "I’ll try to take it easy. Especially since," you add, your grin widening, "I’m really looking forward to those drinks later."

You expect her to just nod, to give one of her polite, non-committal responses. But instead, her eyes meet yours, and there’s a surprising warmth, a definite spark in their depths. "Me too," she says, her words clear and, to your utter astonishment, tinged with what sounds like genuine anticipation.

—

The end-of-day exodus is in full swing, the usual shuffle of tired bodies and the clatter of keyboards being powered down. You catch Irene’s eye as she’s gathering her things, and that subtle smile, the one that’s becoming less of a rarity when you’re around, touches her lips. She does look tired, a faint weariness around her dark eyes, but it doesn’t diminish the quiet prettiness that always seems to cling to her. If anything, the slight vulnerability makes her even more striking.

You meet her by the elevators, a silent agreement passing between you. No need for forced office goodbyes today.

"Ready to officially declare war on the work week?" you ask as you both step out into the cool evening air. The city is already starting to glitter, streetlights blinking on against the fading daylight.

She glances up at you, noticing you're not heading towards the parkade. "No car today?"

"Nope," you say, hands in your pockets as you start walking. "Figured if we're going for drinks, actual drinks, then driving is counterproductive to the whole 'getting drunk and forgetting responsibilities' vibe. Thought we’d walk."

Irene falls into step beside you, her pace surprisingly brisk for someone who looked so weary moments ago. "Didn't you come to work by car today? But… I could have said no to the invitation. You would have walked for nothing."

You shoot her a sideways grin. "Nah. I had a pretty good feeling you’d say yes."

"Very presumptuous of you," she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it, only amusement.

The walk to the bar is easy, the conversation flowing more naturally than it ever has in the sterile confines of the office. You talk like coworkers, at first. The new coffee machine in the breakroom, which everyone agrees is a downgrade despite its fancy chrome exterior. The inexplicable disappearance of all the good pens from the supply closet.

"Seriously," you say, shaking your head as you navigate a cracked paving stone, "it’s like there’s a pen gremlin. I bought a pack of twelve on Monday. By Wednesday, they were all gone."

Irene actually chuckles at that. "It’s Henderson. I saw him pocket one of mine yesterday when he thought I wasn’t looking."

"No way!" you exclaim, genuinely shocked. "The CEO? Stealing pens? That’s… actually kind of hilarious."

"He has very specific preferences for blue ink," she says, her tone dry, and you both laugh.

It’s like this, small talk, office anecdotes. Nothing too deep, nothing too personal, but it’s comfortable. You notice the way she walks, with a quiet grace, her gaze often drifting to the small details of the cityscape around you; an interesting piece of graffiti, an old, weathered doorway, the way the light hits a particular window. She doesn’t say much about what she sees, but you get the feeling she’s absorbing it all.

The bar is the same familiar spot, a haven of dim lights and good music. You find your preferred corner table, and Irene slides into the chair you pull out for her with a small, appreciative nod.

"Same again?" you ask, already knowing her answer.

"Gin and tonic, please," she confirms.

You head to the bar, ordering her drink and another of those surprisingly decent dark ales for yourself.

When you return, she’s watching the crowd, a faint smile on her lips. You set the drinks down, the tall glass of her G&T clinking softly against your bottle. You slide into the chair opposite her, the small table creating a sense of comfortable intimacy.

"Alright," you say, picking up your bottle and raising it slightly. "First round."

She lifts her glass, her dark eyes meeting yours. "To what, exactly, are we dedicating this particular round of defiance against the universe?"

You grin. "To surviving another week of corporate warfare. To Fridays. And," you pause, your gaze softening, "to the fact that the mystery of the stolen pens was finally solved, thanks to your important intel."

"You’re welcome. Happy to assist in the fight against executive kleptomania." She clinks her glass against your bottle. "Cheers."

You both take a sip, a comfortable silence settling between you for a moment. The bar’s atmosphere wraps around you, the low murmur of other conversations, the distant clatter from the kitchen, the bluesy track oozing from the speakers. It feels… right.

"So," you begin, after a while, setting your bottle down. "That whole full-time contract thing. Still mulling it over?"

Irene takes a slow sip of her G&T, her eyes thoughtful. "I am," she admits. "It’s… a big decision. More responsibility. More… permanence."

"No pressure," you reiterate. "The offer stands. But Henderson was genuinely impressed. You’ve made a good mark."

"It’s just… data," she says, looking down into her glass. "It’s not like I’m revolutionizing the industry."

"Hey," you say, leaning forward slightly. "Don’t sell yourself short. You have a knack for seeing patterns, for making sense of chaos. That’s a rare skill. And honestly, the way you transformed that Henderson merger data from an absolute clusterfuck into something coherent? That was art, Irene. Pure, unadulterated, spreadsheet art."

She looks up, and there’s a faint blush on her cheeks, but also a flicker of something else (pride, maybe?) "You really think so?"

"I know so." You pause, then decide to just go for it. "Look, I’m not going to bullshit you. The main reason Henderson wants you on full-time is because you’re damn good at what you do. But for me?" You meet her gaze, holding it. "I just… I really like having you around the office, Irene. You make the place better."

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, her lips parting slightly. The blush deepens. She looks away, down at her glass, then back at you, a complex mix of emotions playing across her usually composed features. She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, takes another sip of her drink.

She finally sets her glass down with a soft click, her fingers tracing the condensation. "That’s… a really nice thing to say," she says.

Your smile widens at her quiet admission, the sincerity in her dark eyes hitting you with a pleasant warmth. "Well, 'nice' is a good start," you say, your own words softer now. "I was aiming for at least 'not actively terrible,' so I’m calling this a win."

She gives a small, almost shy laugh, her gaze dropping to the G&T she’s cradling. The ice cubes shift and clink as she swirls the glass. "You set a low bar for yourself."

"Hey, gotta manage expectations," you retort, grinning. "Especially on a Friday when the main goal is to de-stress, not to impress." You take another sip of your non-alcoholic beer. It’s not bad, actually. Almost makes you feel like a responsible adult.

The conversation flows easily after that, the topics meandering from the absurdities of office life to more general things. She listens with an unreadable but attentive expression as you recount a particularly disastrous client presentation you had to salvage earlier in the year, even managing a small, sympathetic grimace when you get to the part about the projector dying mid-PowerPoint. Hours seem to melt away, marked only by the gradual lowering of the liquid in your glasses and the comfortable rhythm of your shared talk.

It’s Irene who eventually steers the conversation into more personal territory, and it’s so unexpected it almost makes you choke on your beer. She’s been quieter for a few moments, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. Then, she looks up, her dark eyes meeting yours with a new sort of intensity.

"So," she begins, her words careful, measured, "you mentioned your friends at the office. The ones you started with."

"Yeah?" you prompt, curious where this is going.

"Is it… just friendships? Or is there anyone… more specific?" Her gaze is direct, unwavering, and you realize she’s not just making small talk. This is deliberate. She’s plucking up the courage, right here, right now.

You try to keep your expression neutral, but you can feel a faint heat rising in your own cheeks. "More specific how?"

"You know," she says, a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. "A girlfriend? Someone you’re seeing?" Then, her eyes flick to a point just past your shoulder, a subtle shift. "Like… Seulgi? You two seem… very close."

Ah. Seulgi. You should have seen that coming. Seulgi is vibrant, outgoing, and yes, you two are close. You share a lot of inside jokes, grab lunch together sometimes, and there’s an easy camaraderie between you that probably looks like more than it is to an outside observer. Especially an observant one like Irene.

You lean back in your chair, considering how to answer. Honesty seems like the best policy here, especially with the way Irene is watching you. "Seulgi and I…" you begin, then pause, choosing your words. "Yeah, we’re close. But it’s not… like that. Not anymore, anyway."

Irene’s eyebrows lift slightly. "Anymore?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. Might as well just lay it out. "Look, years ago, when we both first started at Henderson Corp, fresh out of uni, barely knew which way was up… yeah, Seulgi and I had a thing. An affair, I guess you’d call it. It was intense, for a while. But it was a long time ago. We were young, stupid, figuring things out." You meet her gaze. "It burned out pretty quick. Honestly, we realized we were much better as friends. And that’s what we are now. Good friends. Nothing more, I promise."

She absorbs this, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, "Aren’t… relationships between employees frowned upon? At the company?"

"Officially?" you shrug. "There’s no explicit rule against it, as long as it doesn't involve a direct reporting line, which ours didn’t, even back then. Henderson’s surprisingly old-school about some things, but pretty laissez-faire about others. Unofficially, the policy is basically: keep it professional at work, don’t let it affect your performance, and for God’s sake, no dramatic breakups in the middle of the quarterly budget cycle." You take a sip of your beer. "What you do on your own time, outside the office walls, is generally considered your own business. As long as you’re not an idiot about it and it doesn’t spill into work, they tend to look the other way."

Irene nods slowly, processing that. "So… it’s okay?"

"Yeah, mostly. Just gotta be smart, maintain professionalism when you're on the clock. Everything’s fine. Honestly, there are probably more office romances brewing in that place than anyone realizes." You grin. "Henderson Corp: Where Careers and Questionable Life Choices Collide."

She gives a small, hesitant smile at that. The conversation drifts a little after that, back to safer, more general topics. You order another round, she sticks to her G&T, you get another non-alcoholic ale. The bar is thinning out now, the Friday night energy mellowing into a late-evening calm. Irene seems more relaxed than you’ve ever seen her. She’s leaning back in her chair, one arm resting on the table, her earlier tension almost entirely gone. She even initiates a couple of topics, asking about a book you mentioned earlier, a small, thoughtful question about one of the characters.

It’s as you’re describing a particularly ridiculous plot twist that she starts to chuckle. Not a full laugh, but a series of soft, breathy huffs of amusement, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"What?" you ask, grinning. "Too unbelievable?"

"No, it’s not the book," she says, shaking her head, her smile widening. "It’s you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," she confirms, and there’s a definite warmth in her gaze now. "You’re… you’re actually quite funny." She pauses, as if surprised by her own admission. "It’s… rare. For me to find men funny."

You blink, then let out a surprised laugh yourself. "Is that a compliment, Bae Joohyun?" you tease, using her full name for the first time, enjoying the way a slight blush rises on her cheeks.

She rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. "Don’t let it go to your head."

"Too late," you say, your grin spreading wider. "I’m officially adding 'surprisingly humorous to discerning women' to my resume." You lean forward, your elbows on the table, the atmosphere between you feeling lighter, more charged than ever. The drinks, the late hour, her unexpected praise… it’s all coalescing into something…

promising.

"So, Irene Bae, now that we’ve established this mutual… "liking"," you drawl the word out, enjoying the faint blush that returns to her cheeks, "does this improve the odds of you accepting Henderson’s most gracious offer of permanent employment?"

She picks up her G&T, takes a thoughtful sip. "Still thinking," she says, her eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass. "Wouldn't want to seem too eager, would I?"

"Heaven forbid," you agree, playing along. "Strategic ambiguity. Very professional."

The conversation continues, hours evaporate. The bar staff are starting to wipe down distant tables, the music has shifted to something even more mellow, and the crowd has thinned to a few lingering couples and solitary drinkers. Irene glances at the small, elegant watch on her slender wrist.

"Wow, it’s… getting pretty late," she says, her words carrying a hint of surprise, as if she hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed.

You nod, a reluctant sigh escaping you. The beer has settled into a comfortable warmth in your system, your limbs loose, your head pleasantly fuzzy. "Yeah, you’re right." You pause, looking at her, at the soft way the low light catches her dark hair, the way her eyes seem even deeper, more expressive in the intimate gloom. "Damn shame. I wish this night wouldn't end."

She meets your gaze, her smile soft, questioning. "Oh yeah? Why’s that?"

The alcohol has definitely loosened your tongue, stripped away a few layers of your usual caution. "Because I like being around you, Irene," you confess, the words coming out easily, honestly. "Your presence… I don’t know. It’s kind of hypnotic." You give a small, self-deprecating laugh. "And now I’m going to go home and just… keep thinking about you."

"You… think about me?" she asks.

"Yeah," you admit, feeling your own cheeks warm a little. "A lot, actually."

She’s silent for a moment, then, very slowly, her hand reaches across the small table, her cool fingertips brushing against yours. It’s a feather-light touch, barely there, but it sends a jolt straight up your arm. "What… what do you think about?"

"Everything," you say, your gaze locked on hers, feeling a bit drunk on more than just the beer now. "The way you concentrate when you’re working. The way you have that tiny little frown when you’re figuring something out. The way your hair falls across your cheek when you’re not looking." You shake your head, a small, dazed smile on your face. "Lately, Irene, you’re pretty much the only thing on my mind."

Her fingers intertwine with yours, a soft, hesitant pressure. Her dark eyes are searching yours, and you can see a storm of emotions in their depths. "Lately," she confesses, "I’ve… I’ve been thinking about you too."

"Yeah? What do you think about me, Irene Bae?"

She takes a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to your joined hands, then lifting back to your eyes, bold and vulnerable all at once. "I think about… what it would be like… if you kissed me."

The world around you just… stops. Your brain stutters, reboots. You lose focus on the bar, the music, everything but her face, her eyes, the feel of her hand in yours. She thinks about you kissing her. That’s it. That’s all the fucking permission you need.

Before you can second-guess it, before the moment can break, you’re moving. You lean across the small table, your other hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb stroking her soft skin. And then you kiss her.

It’s insane, the moment your lips meet. Her lips are soft, yielding, tasting faintly of gin and lime. She gasps softly into your mouth, then kisses you back, her initial hesitation melting away into a surprising, eager passion. Her tongue, tentative at first, then bolder, meets yours. It’s not a polite, end-of-the-date kiss. It’s hungry, searching, like you’ve both been starving for this without even knowing it. Your fingers tighten in her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until you’re both breathless.

When you finally break apart, gasping for air, your foreheads are resting against each other. Her eyes are closed, her lips swollen and glistening.

"Don’t let the night end here, Irene," you whisper. "Please."

She opens her eyes, her gaze dark, hazy with desire. "Okay," she breathes. "My apartment."

You’re on your feet in a second, fumbling for your wallet, the earlier weariness completely gone, replaced by a thrumming, urgent energy. Irene is already sliding out of the booth, her movements a little unsteady but graceful nonetheless. You throw some cash on the table (way more than enough to cover the bill) and then you’re out, into the cool night air.

You’re definitely tipsy, the world having a pleasant, fuzzy edge. Irene stumbles slightly as you step onto the uneven sidewalk, and you instinctively reach out, your arm going around her shoulders, pulling her close. She leans into you, her body warm against yours, her head resting against your arm. She’s giggling, a light, infectious sound that makes you laugh too, a stupid, happy, drunken sound. You walk like that, a tangled, giggling mess, your steps uneven but your direction certain.

Her apartment.

—

The elevator ride up to her floor is a blur of stolen kisses and breathless laughter. You’re pressed against the cool metal wall, her hands in your hair, your mouths searching, hungry. Every time the elevator dings at a floor, you pull apart, slightly dazed, only to crash back together the moment the doors close.

She fumbles with her keys at her apartment door, still kissing you, her body pressed flush against yours in the narrow hallway. Finally, the lock clicks. She pushes the door open, stumbling inside, pulling you with her. Her bag hits the floor with a soft thud. And then, before you can even register your surroundings, she jumps, her legs wrapping around your waist, her mouth finding yours again in a bruising, desperate kiss. You catch her instinctively, your hands splaying across her ass, lifting her, holding her tight against you as you kick the door shut.

She pulls back for a moment, her chest heaving, and a wide, triumphant smile spreads across her face when she sees yours. "You’ve got my lipstick all over you," she says, her words a delighted slur, as she reaches up to smudge a pink streak on your cheek with her thumb.

You glance around then, taking in her apartment for the first time. It’s small, neat, surprisingly minimalist but with touches of warmth: a stack of books on a low shelf, a soft throw draped over a simple armchair, a couple of framed black and white photographs on the wall. "Nice place," you manage.

Her eyes sparkle. "Did you come here to look at my apartment, or do something else?" she teases, her hips giving a suggestive little squirm against yours.

"Definitely something else," you growl, taking your "revenge" by burying your face in her neck, your lips finding the soft skin just below her ear, nibbling gently.

She yelps, a surprised, delighted sound, then dissolves into giggles, her body squirming in your arms. "Hey! That tickles!"

"Bedroom," you murmur against her skin. "Show me the way."

She points vaguely down a short hallway, still giggling, and you carry her, your mouths finding each other again, kissing deeply as you navigate the unfamiliar space. You find the door, push it open, and then you’re gently depositing her onto the bed, following her down, never breaking the kiss.

The world narrows to the feel of her beneath you, the taste of her, the soft sounds she’s making. After a moment, you pull away, reluctantly. "Clothes," you manage, your breath ragged. "Need these off."

You roll off her and stand, your fingers already working at the buttons of your shirt. Irene watches you, her eyes dark and hungry, as she sits up and reaches for the hem of her own sweater. It comes off in one smooth motion, revealing the delicate black lace of her bra, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Her petite body is, as you’ve always known, perfectly toned, every line and curve an invitation. She doesn’t hesitate, her fingers going to the clasp of her bra next.

The cotton of your shirt feels like a restriction, a barrier. Your fingers, clumsy with a mixture of alcohol and adrenaline, work at the buttons, fumbling them free one by one. It hits the floor. Shoes next, kicked off with impatient shoves of your heels, then the belt buckle clinks as you undo it, the leather sliding free. Your pants join the shirt in a heap on the floorboards. You’re standing there in just your boxers, the air of her bedroom suddenly cooler on your skin, or maybe that’s just the fever pitch of your own blood.

Then it’s her turn. Her hands go to the delicate clasp of her black lace bra. It gives way easily, and she shrugs the straps down her pale arms, letting the flimsy garment fall. Her breasts are revealed, small, yes, but perfectly shaped, round and perky, with pale pink nipples already pebble-hard in the cool air, or perhaps from anticipation. They’re exquisite. You’ve imagined them, of course, in fleeting, guilty moments, but the reality is so much fucking better. Then, she reaches for her shoes. She kicks them off one by one, the soft thud against the wooden floor loud in the charged silence. Finally, her hands go to the waistband of her pants, a simple black one that clung to her hips. It slides down her legs with a soft rustle, pooling around her ankles, leaving her standing before you in nothing but a pair of sheer black panties. They’re scandalously tiny, doing very little to hide the curve of her ass.

You feel like you can’t breathe.

You’re on her in a second, moving without conscious thought, your body acting on pure, undeniable instinct. You climb onto the bed, settling over her, your weight pressing her into the soft mattress. Your mouth finds hers again, but this kiss is different from the one at the bar. It’s rougher, needier, your tongue plunging, seeking, demanding. She meets your intensity, her own hunger flaring.

Your kisses trail down her jaw, her neck, your lips and teeth mapping the sensitive skin there. She arches into you, a soft whimper escaping her. You reach her breasts, your mouth closing over one hard nipple. She moans instantly, her fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tight. You suck, hard, your tongue laving the peak, then flicking, teasing. Her whole body shudders.

"Fuck… yes…" she gasps, her hips starting to buck beneath you. "They’re… so sensitive…"

You grin against her skin, moving to the other breast, giving it the same relentless attention. You squeeze and suck, feeling the delicate flesh swell in your mouth, the nipple hard against your tongue. The skin around it is already turning a delicious shade of pink, flushed and slightly raw from your attention. Her moans are getting louder, less inhibited, open-mouthed gasps of pure pleasure.

Her hands, which were gripping your hair, slide down your back, then lower, her fingers finding the thick, insistent ridge of your cock straining against your underwear. She squeezes, a playful, testing pressure, and a low growl rumbles in your chest. She feels you, hard and ready, and a wicked little smile dances on her lips, visible even as she throws her head back, lost in the sensations you’re creating.

Then, just as you’re about to lose yourself completely in the taste and feel of her breasts, she moves. With surprising strength, her hands are on your shoulders, pushing, guiding.

"My turn," she breathes

She pulls you, making you lie back against the pillows. You watch, dazed, as she straddles your hips, her gaze fixed on your groin. Her movements are slow, deliberate, almost torturous. Her fingers hook into the waistband of your boxers.

"Been waiting for this," she murmurs.

She pulls your underwear down, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch, her knuckles brushing against your straining erection with every downward tug. The fabric slides past your hips, down your thighs, until your cock springs free, thick, veined, and brutally hard, slick with pre-cum.

She just stares at it for a long moment, her dark eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. A genuine, almost awestruck smile spreads across her face. It’s the smile of someone who has just been presented with their favorite fucking meal.

She reaches out, her small hand surprisingly confident as it wraps around your shaft. It’s a perfect fit, her fingers cool against your heated skin. "Jesus," she breathes, her thumb stroking the thick, prominent vein that runs along the length. "It really has been a while since I’ve had sex." Her gaze lifts to yours, burning with an intensity that steals your breath. "You have no idea," she says, "how much this cock, your cock, is everything I want right now."

Before you can even process the raw honesty of her words, she leans down. Her tongue, pink and wet, flicks out, lapping delicately at the bead of pre-cum glistening on the slit of your tip. Then, she takes a mouthful of her own saliva (you see her gather it) and lets it dribble slowly onto your shaft, her fingers working quickly to spread the slickness all the way down, coating you, preparing you.

And finally, her mouth descends.

The moment her lips close around the head of your cock, you fucking groan, your hips bucking involuntarily. Her mouth is hot, wet, impossibly soft. She starts working you immediately, no hesitation, no awkwardness. Her lips create a perfect seal, her tongue swirling, lapping, teasing, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks with a practiced, almost reverent skill. This isn't the tentative exploration of a novice. This is the confident, devastating expertise of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

Holy shit. Irene Bae is a fucking professional.

You can feel the muscles in her throat working, a gentle, rhythmic pulse that’s already threatening to undo you. And her eyes. Fuck, her eyes. They’re locked on yours, wide, dark, and glittering with a deadly combination of intense focus and raw, unadulterated lust. There’s a challenge in them, a silent dare. Think you can handle this? they seem to say. Think you can last?

"Fuck, Irene…" you groan, your hips giving an involuntary jerk. "That’s… holy shit…"

A low hum vibrates from her throat against your shaft, a sound of pure, animalistic satisfaction. She pulls back just enough for the head of your cock to pop free with a wet, obscene sound, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of your slickness.

"You like that, baby?" she murmurs. "Like the way my mouth feels wrapped around your big, thick dick?"

"Yes… God, yes…" you pant, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. "It’s… you’re amazing, Irene. Fuck, you’re so good at this."

Her smile is a predatory flash against your skin before she takes you in again, deeper this time. Her tongue is a relentless engine of pleasure, lapping, swirling, flicking against every sensitive nerve. She knows exactly where to press, where to tease, how to vary the pressure and speed to keep you right on that knife-edge of unbearable pleasure. It’s not just her mouth, either. Her hands are working you too, one wrapped firmly around the base of your shaft, pumping in rhythm with her sucking, the other gently cupping your balls, her fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles.

"Mmmm, you taste so fucking good," she says, her words slightly muffled but no less potent. She breaks suction for a moment, her hot breath ghosting over your hypersensitive skin. "I love the way you get so hard for me, the way your cock just throbs in my mouth." She punctuates the statement by taking just the swollen head between her lips and sucking, hard, focusing all her attention there, her tongue doing that insane swirling thing that makes your vision blur.

"Shit, Irene… don’t stop…" you gasp out, your voice rough, pleading. "Please, don’t stop…"

Her head bobs faster, a satisfied, almost guttural sound coming from her throat. "Oh, I’m not stopping, baby," she promises, her eyes blazing into yours. "I want to hear you moan for me. I want to hear you fucking beg." She sucks harder, her lips pulling, teasing. "Moan for me, supervisor. Let me hear how much you love your little casual worker sucking your dick."

The sheer audacity of her words, the way she so effortlessly flips the script, calling you out, it’s fucking electrifying. A raw, broken groan tears from your throat. "Fuck… yes… Irene… please… feels so good…"

"That’s it, baby," she purrs, her mouth still working you relentlessly. "Louder. I want to hear every filthy sound you make when I’m sucking you like this. I want to know I’m driving you absolutely fucking insane."

And you are. You’re losing it. Her mouth is a goddamn weapon, and she’s wielding it with devastating precision. She shifts her attention, her lips sliding down your shaft, her tongue laving a hot, wet path until she reaches your balls. You tense, anticipating, and then her mouth closes over one, warm and wet, and you fucking cry out.

"Oh my god… Irene… fuck…"

She sucks, gently at first, then with increasing hunger, her tongue rolling, massaging. Your balls are heavy, aching, and her mouth on them is an entirely new level of torture and bliss. She leaves them absolutely soaked, glistening with her spit when she finally moves back up your shaft.

"You like that, huh?" she breathes, her lips brushing against the underside of your cock, right where the skin is thinnest, most sensitive. "Your balls taste just as good as your cock. So salty… so fucking you."

Her tongue flicks out, targeting your frenulum with an accuracy that makes your entire body jolt. She plays with it, licking, teasing, nipping ever so gently with her teeth before sucking that sensitive ridge into her mouth. You’re bucking against her now, completely lost, your own moans a constant, ragged soundtrack to her ministrations.

"Fuck… Irene… please… I can’t… I’m so close…" you plead, your voice a shredded mess.

Her only answer is to work faster, harder. Her hand is a blur on your shaft, slick with spit and your own pre-cum, while her mouth continues its relentless assault. She takes you as deep as her little mouth can manage, her throat working, a series of soft, choked gagging sounds escaping her that are, perversely, driving you even wilder. She’s not just sucking your cock; she’s fucking devouring it, worshipping it.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" she asks, pulling back for a split second, her eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. Saliva strings from her lips to the head of your cock. "I want it. I want your hot load all over my tongue. I want to swallow every last drop. Please, baby, give it to me. Begging you."

That’s it. Her words, the sight of her, so beautiful, so depraved, kneeling before you, mouth open, waiting for your release…it shatters your last shred of control.

"Irene!" Your shout as your orgasm rips through you. Your hips slam upwards, your back arching off the bed. Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot from your cock, hitting the back of her throat. She doesn't flinch. She takes it all, her throat working, swallowing, her eyes locked on yours, a triumphant, ecstatic glint in their depths. You keep pumping, jet after jet, emptying yourself into her waiting mouth. The sensation is blinding, overwhelming. You’re vaguely aware of your eyes rolling back in your head, your body trembling uncontrollably. It feels like you’re cumming for an eternity, each pulse a fresh wave of unbearable pleasure.

When the last viscous glob finally spurts out, you collapse back against the pillows, panting, drenched in sweat, utterly fucking spent. You’re in heaven. Or hell. Or some glorious, filthy place in between.

Irene stays there for a moment, gently sucking the last drops from your now twitching, softened cock. Then, slowly, reverently, she pulls away, her lips making a wet sound. She licks her own lips, savoring the taste, a small, incredibly satisfied smile playing on her features.

"Holy… fucking… shit, Irene." You shake your head, still trying to process the sheer intensity of what just happened. "That was… That was, without a fucking doubt, the best blowjob of my entire life."

Her smile widens, a genuine, radiant thing that makes her eyes sparkle. The exhaustion is there, but beneath it, there's a deep, purring satisfaction. She leans forward, pressing a soft, sticky kiss to the now-sensitive head of your cock.

"Good," she murmurs. "That’s what I like to hear." Then she looks up at you. "I aim to please, supervisor. Especially when the benefits are… this rewarding.”

You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down at her. She’s still kneeling between your legs, that pleased, cat-who-got-the-cream smirk playing on her lips, now glistening with your cum.

"Irene," you rasp. "Where in the ever-loving fuck did you learn to do that?”

She lets out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in her chest. She reaches up, wiping a stray smudge of your load from the corner of her mouth with a delicate finger, then slowly, deliberately, licks it clean, her eyes never leaving yours. The gesture alone is enough to make your semi-flaccid cock give a hopeful twitch.

"Every woman has her secrets, supervisor," she purrs. "Maybe one day I'll tell you some of them." Then, before you can even process that delicious, infuriating coyness, she’s moving. climbing onto you with a fluid grace. Her petite, pale body straddles your chest, her knees bracketing your shoulders. She leans down, her dark hair curtaining your face. "Besides," she whispers, her lips brushing against yours, "who said anything about being done?"

Her mouth finds yours, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you, of her, of pure, unadulterated lust. While her lips work their magic, her body begins a slow, deliberate crawl down yours. Kisses are pressed against your jaw, your throat, lingering on the pulse point there until you can feel your heart hammering in response. She moves lower, her tongue flicking out to trace the line of your collarbone, then lower still, across your pecs.

When she reaches your right nipple, she pauses. Her gaze, hot and knowing, flicks up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before her mouth closes over it. Your breath hitches. You weren't expecting that. Her tongue swirls around the already sensitive peak, rough and wet, then she starts to suck, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, pulling the nub into her mouth, her teeth grazing it ever so lightly.

"Nghh… Irene…" A surprised, helpless moan escapes you. Fuck, that feels good. Way better than it has any right to.

"Sensitive here, are we?" she murmurs against your skin. "I thought so."

She continues her assault, licking, sucking, her lips working your nipple like it’s the head of another cock. And all the while, one of her small, deceptively strong hands snakes down your torso, past your navel, her fingers tracing teasing patterns on your lower abdomen. You feel the heat of her palm as it hovers, then finally settles, over the base of your now rapidly re-hardening cock.

"Oh, look at that," she says. "Not so spent after all, are you, big boy?"

Her hand closes around you. Even through the haze of pleasure radiating from your nipple, you can feel the change. Your cock, which had been softening, content in its post-orgasmic haze, now surges back to life, thickening, lengthening, pressing urgently against her grip. She starts to stroke you, slow, deliberate movements, her fingers slick with the remnants of your earlier release and her own gathering wetness.

"The night is far from over, supervisor," she whispers, her mouth leaving your nipple to trail a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses towards the other one. "I know you can give me more. Much more." She punctuates the last word by taking your other nipple into her mouth, sucking on it with a greedy, demanding pressure that mirrors the rhythmic pull of her hand on your shaft. "And you will give it to me."

And she’s right. Fuck, she’s absolutely, undeniably right. Your cock is already granite-hard again, throbbing in her skilled grip, every nerve ending in your body screaming for more of her, more of this. The lingering exhaustion is a distant memory, burned away by this fresh, potent wave of desire she’s so effortlessly conjured. The slight ache in your balls is back, but it’s a good ache now, a heavy, needy throb that promises another explosive release if she keeps this up.

Her hand on your reawakened cock is a brand, her touch electric. The soft, rhythmic stroking, combined with the devastating assault on your nipple, is a one-two punch of pure, unadulterated sensation. Your breath hitches, your hips giving a small, involuntary buck.

"That’s it, baby," Irene purrs against your chest, her lips still teasing your other nipple, her words a hot, damp caress. "Feel that? Already getting hard for me again. You just can’t get enough, can you?"

"Fuck… no…" you manage to groan out, your eyes fluttering. "Not… not when you do that…"

"Mmmm, I know," she hums, a smug, satisfied sound. "The night is far from over, supervisor.” Your cock is already iron-hard again, throbbing with a renewed, almost painful urgency against her skilled fingers.

With a lithe movement that takes your breath away, Irene shifts, disentangling herself from your chest and sliding down your body. She straddles your hips, her petite frame settling over you, and the sight of her poised above you: dark hair tousled, lips swollen from your kisses, her small, perky breasts bare and flushed, nipples still pebble-hard; is enough to make your vision swim. She reaches down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of her sheer black panties.

"You like these, baby?" she teases. "Thought you might."

She doesn't wait for an answer. With a slow, deliberate tug, she pulls them aside, hooking the flimsy fabric around one hip, exposing her pussy to you. It’s perfect. Pink, glistening, the inner lips slightly swollen and already dewy with her arousal. The dark thatch of hair above is neatly trimmed.

"Ready to feel me again?" she whispers, her gaze locked on yours.

Before you can form a coherent word, she’s lowering herself onto you.

The way she takes your cock is a revelation. There’s no hesitation, no tentative exploration. She knows her body, she knows yours, and she sinks down with a practiced, almost arrogant ease, her hips rolling, her inner muscles clenching around you, milking you from the first fucking inch. A guttural groan rips from your throat as she takes you deeper, her tight, wet heat a scalding brand.

"Fuck, Irene… so tight…"

"Mmmm, you love how tight my little pussy is, don't you?" she moans, her head falling back, her hands gripping your shoulders for balance as she starts to bounce. "Love the way it squeezes your big, thick cock?"

"Yes… God, yes…"

Her rhythm is insane. She starts riding you with a skill that leaves you breathless, her hips a blur of motion, bouncing, grinding, rotating in ways that hit every goddamn nerve. She’s not just fucking you; she’s performing, a symphony of sensual movement designed to drive you absolutely wild. Her small breasts jiggle with every thrust, the pink nipples bouncing hypnotically. You can see the way her pussy lips stretch, glistening, around the base of your shaft as she lifts herself up, only to slam back down, taking you to the hilt.

"Look at me, baby," she pants, her eyes finding yours again. "I want you to watch me ride your cock. I want you to see how much I fucking love it."

You can’t look away if you tried. The sight of her, so beautiful, so utterly consumed by pleasure, her body moving on yours with such raw, uninhibited abandon, is seared into your brain.

"You’re… incredible…" you gasp out.

"I know," she says, a smug, breathless laugh escaping her. Then her expression shifts, darkens. "But you’re getting distracted." Her free hand snakes out, unbelievably fast, her fingers wrapping around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand your absolute attention. "You close your eyes on me again, supervisor, and I’ll make you regret it. Got it?"

The sudden pressure, her fingers cool against your heated skin, the sheer dominance in her gaze... Your cock gives a hard, convulsive throb inside her. "Fuck… yes… Irene…"

"Good boy." Her grip loosens slightly, but her hand stays there, a possessive brand. "Now, look at me. I want to see that pretty face of yours when I make you feel good. I want to see every fucking expression." She punctuates the command by grinding down, hard, her hips rotating in a slow, torturous circle that makes you cry out.

You reach up, your hands finding her breasts, squeezing them, needing to touch her, to feel her. They’re soft, full in your palms, the nipples like hard little pebbles against your skin. "Fuck, your tits are perfect, Irene…"

She moans, leaning forward, pressing them against your chest as she kisses you, a deep, filthy, open-mouthed kiss, her tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, you like them, baby?" she whispers against your lips, her hips still moving, still squeezing. "You can play with them all you want… as long as you keep fucking me with that big, thick cock of yours—God, it’s so good—It fills me up so perfectly!”

You can see it then, when she leans back slightly, her stomach tight, the unmistakable bulge of your cock pressing against her lower abdomen, a clear testament to just how deeply you’re buried inside her, how perfectly her petite frame is taking every inch of you. It’s a brutally hot visual, a stark reminder of your size against her smallness, and the sight alone nearly pushes you over the edge.

"Jesus, Irene… I can see it… You’re so fucking tight…"

"I know," she pants. "Now make me cum, supervisor. Fuck me until I can’t see straight. I want your load. Give it to me."

This isn't the Irene from the office, the quiet, mysterious woman who barely met your eye. This is someone else entirely: a wild, insatiable creature of pure, unadulterated lust. And fuck, you love this Irene. You love every goddamn demanding, filthy, beautiful inch of her.

She rides you harder now, faster, her moans turning into raw, broken cries. Her body is slick with sweat, her muscles trembling with the effort, but she doesn’t slow down. She’s chasing it, that shattering release, and she’s dragging you right along with her. Her pussy pulses around your cock, squeezing, milking, each contraction an exquisite torture.

"I’m… I’m gonna cum…" she screams, her voice cracking, her back arching as her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave.

Her body seizes, her walls clenching around your shaft in a series of violent, unbearable spasms. She’s crying out your name, her head thrown back, her entire being consumed by the pleasure. It’s beautiful, watching her shatter like this, so completely undone, so utterly yours.

But she doesn’t stop. Even as the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her, her hips keep moving, a desperate, frantic grinding, her pussy still milking your aching cock.

"Fuck, Irene… I’m close…" you gasp out, your own release clawing at you. "I’m gonna cum…"

The moment the words leave your mouth, she’s moving. With a surprising agility, she pulls off your cock with a wet, sucking sound, her own body still trembling. Before you can even register what’s happening, she’s scrambling off the bed, dropping to her knees in front of you, her flushed face upturned, her dark eyes blazing with a renewed, almost manic hunger.

"Give it to me, baby," she pants. "I want it all over my face. Drench me. Make me your fucking whore."

Your brain short-circuits. Her words, the sight of her kneeling there, so eager, so fucking filthy, it’s too much. You get out of bed, standing in front of her. You grab your cock, your hand slick and shaking, and start stroking, hard and fast.

"Look at me, Irene," you growl. "Open that pretty little mouth for me."

She does, her tongue flicking out in anticipation. You stroke faster, your balls tight, your vision blurring. One more stroke… two…

"FUCK!"

With a guttural roar, you explode. Thick, heavy ropes of your cum shoot from your cock, spurt after spurt, splattering across her face. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn away. She takes it all, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the hot, sticky load coats her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. A thick glob lands on her lips, and her tongue darts out, instinctively licking it away, a soft, pleased moan escaping her. You keep cumming, more than you thought possible, drenching her, covering her, marking her as yours.

When the last pulse finally subsides, you’re left panting, your body trembling, your cock still twitching in your hand. Irene stays there, kneeling, your cum dripping from her face, her hair stuck to her slick skin. She looks utterly debauched. Utterly fucking beautiful.

She opens her eyes, her dark gaze meeting yours. There’s no shame there, no disgust. Only a wild, exhilarated pleasure. She slowly brings a hand up to her cheek, her fingers tracing through the thick, creamy mess, then brings them to her lips, sucking your cum from her skin with a delighted, almost reverent expression. Receiving your load like this, being painted with it, clearly turns her on as much as it does you. It feels fucking amazing, this raw, shared depravity.

You can't resist. You lean forward, your own body still thrumming with the aftershocks of release, and dip your thumb into the thickest patch of your load still clinging to her cheek. You bring your slick finger to her lips.

"Taste good, Irene?" you murmur.

Without a word, her eyes still locked on yours, she parts her lips and takes your thumb into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around it, hot and wet, sucking sensually, cleaning every last trace of you from your skin.

You let out a long, slow sigh, your whole body going lax. "That was… Jesus, Irene. That was fucking amazing."

She releases your thumb with a soft, wet sound, a tiny, almost smug smile playing on her lips. "It was, wasn't it?" she agrees, her usual quietness now laced with a husky, satisfied confidence. "Best Friday night I’ve had in… well, a very long time." She pushes herself up, her movements fluid and graceful despite the intensity of what just happened. "I should probably… shower now."

"Yeah," you manage, watching her. "Good idea."

She disappears into the en-suite, and you hear the distant hiss of the shower starting. You lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, your mind a blissful, empty buzz. Eventually, you push yourself up. You should probably leave, give her space. It’s the decent thing to do, right? Even if every fiber of your being wants to crawl back into that bed and wait for her.

By the time she pads back into the bedroom, you’re mostly dressed – pants on, shirt half-buttoned. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel that looks ridiculously large on her petite frame, her dark hair damp and clinging to her neck, her face scrubbed clean and glowing. She stops when she sees you, her brow furrowing slightly.

"You’re… leaving?" Her words are soft, a hint of something unreadable in them.

"Yeah," you say, trying for casual, even though your limbs feel heavy, your head still pleasantly swimming from the beer and everything else. "Figured I shouldn’t bother you. It’s late."

She walks closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the fresh, clean scent of soap and her skin. "You’re still a little drunk, aren’t you?" she observes, her gaze steady.

You shrug, a sheepish grin touching your lips. "Maybe a little. The beer was good. The company was… distracting."

"You can stay," she says. "It’s no problem. You shouldn't be walking around like that.”

You look at her, surprised. "You sure? I don’t want to impose."

"I’m sure," she replies. "The bed’s big enough."

And just like that, the decision is made. You reverse the process, now unbuttoning your shirt and taking off your pants. Irene takes off her towel, drys her hair, and puts on comfortable pajamas. You both slide into her bed, the sheets cool against your skin. She keeps a respectable distance at first, lying on her side facing away from you. You lie on your back, staring up into the darkness, your mind replaying the night’s events.

"That was…" you begin, "quite a night."

She shifts slightly, turning her head on the pillow to look towards you, though you can barely make out her features in the dark. "It was," she agrees, her reply just as soft. "It’s been a long time since I… since I had a night that good."

"Me too," you admit. The silence stretches for a moment, comfortable, intimate. "So, this whole 'not going out much' thing," you venture, remembering her earlier comment at the bar. "Are you, like, super strict with your routine? Or is it just a general aversion to humanity?"

"A bit of both, maybe." She pauses. "But it’s also… more than that." Her words are hesitant now. "I just… I ended up depriving myself of some things. For a long time. For my own good, I thought."

"Things like… fun? Or just human contact in general?" you ask gently, trying to understand.

"Things like… letting go," she says, her meaning still veiled. "Being… open."

You process that for a moment. "Well," you say, trying to inject some lightness, "I hope, as your newly appointed (and incredibly charming) supervisor, I can attempt to bring a little more… spice? Unpredictability? Into your carefully curated life. Supervisors can be cool too, you know. It’s not all spreadsheets and passive-aggressive emails."

She gives a weak, tired chuckle. "You’re cool," she concedes.

Silence again. This one’s heavier, but it’s not uncomfortable. It wraps around you both like the comforter you’re only half under. Her presence is warm and grounding, even with the distance she’s keeping between your bodies.

And just when your mind starts fuzzing at the edges, drifting toward sleep, you hear it.

“…hey.”

Your eyes flutter, but you don’t answer immediately.

She tries again. “Hey. You awake?”

You manage a half-conscious “Hmm?”

“I… I need to tell you something,” she says, her tone suddenly different. Strained. Fragile. “And I don’t think I’ll get another chance like this.”

You roll your head a little, but you’re already falling. You’re trying to stay up, your body fighting it, but there’s alcohol in your blood and pillows under your skull and her voice sounds like a lullaby even when it’s trembling.

“It’s kind of awful,” she says. “I mean: I think it is. Most people would think it is. I don’t even know why I’m bringing it up. I guess… it’s easier when I can’t see your face.” Her voice catches. She swallows. “And I’m drunk,” she adds bitterly. “That helps. Brave little idiot version of me that only comes out after gin and zero lighting.”

You want to say something, your brain claws for words, but you’re slipping. The room is tilting, your breath slowing, mouth too heavy to open.

“I don’t want this to blow up,” she goes on, like she’s already sure it will. “But you’re… nice. Too nice. And I think it’s going to matter eventually. So maybe it’s better you know now.”

She turns, the sheets rustling. Her breath’s close. She's watching you.

“I used to do porn,” she says into the dark. “I know it’s horrible. But, God, I liked it. Not just the attention, not just the money. I liked the sex. I was… addicted. Like, actually. Probably still am. I think I’m a… I don’t know. A nympho? That sounds dramatic. But it’s true. And I’m terrified you’re gonna look at me differently if you ever find out. Like it’ll be all you see. Like I’m… stained.”

A sharp breath.

“You probably will look at me differently. If not now, then later. And that’ll kill me. Because I think I actually like you. And you’re the first person in forever who makes me feel like I don’t have to hide.”

Her hand reaches out under the blankets, not to touch you, just to rest nearby.

“I’m still not sure if I’m ashamed because I regret it… or because I liked some of it too much. Isn’t that worse?” She exhales. “I tried to cut it all off. Cold turkey. Quit the industry. Quit everything. No sex. No relationships. No late nights. No bars. No letting anyone get close. I started hiding from everything I wanted. Because I had to. My last relationship was a disaster. Everything fell apart. I wanted to be invisible again. Safe. And I thought if I worked a boring job, wore boring clothes, kept my mouth shut, nobody would see me. Nobody would want me.” She pauses. The next words are like admitting a sin:

“And then you saw me.”

“You were kind to me. Just… kind. That’s all it took. And I started feeling again. I tried to fight it. I told myself you were just being nice. That it wasn’t anything. But every time you smiled, or made some dumb joke, or talked to me like I mattered… I couldn’t stop it.” She sounds exhausted. Hollow. “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to kiss in years. The first one I’ve wanted to touch. The first one I’ve let into my bed. And I hate that I like you. I hate that it scares me. Because I’m not… good.”

Her voice breaks, just a little.

“I’m not someone who deserves soft things. Or quiet moments. Or this stupid, beautiful night.” Another deep breath, followed by a silent bitter laugh. “And you’re asleep. Of course you’re asleep.”

She waits. Hopes, irrationally, for some murmur of understanding, some unconscious twitch of your hand to say you’re still with her. But there’s nothing. Nothing. Your chest rises, falls. Silent. Peaceful. Asleep.

Another rustle of sheets as she rolls back onto her side, facing away again.

“Maybe that’s better,” she whispers. “Maybe if you knew, you’d leave. Or worse… maybe you’d stay for the wrong reasons. I just wanted you to know. Even if you never hear it.”

She tugs the comforter up to her shoulders, folds in on herself, and presses her forehead to the pillow, eyes closed, breath warm against the sheet. And then she whispers one last thing. So quiet it almost doesn’t exist:

“Please... don’t hate me.”

—

The days that follow are not what you expected. Not at all. After that night, after the intensity, the confessions, the shared intimacy, you thought you’d climbed a new step with Irene, reached a new layer. You imagined easier smiles in the office, maybe even her initiating a coffee break, a casual lunchtime chat. You pictured the comfortable progression from Friday night drinks to something… more.

Instead, it’s like you’re back at square one. Worse, even.

Irene is a ghost again, but this time, her politeness is tinged with an almost painful discomfort. She still does her work, still impeccably, but she avoids your gaze. Your attempts at casual conversation are met with short, clipped answers. The easy banter, the shared laughter from that night at the bar; it’s all gone, replaced by a strained, awkward formality.

You try, of course you try. You invite her to your apartment to watch that terrible sci-fi series you’d bonded over. "Sorry, I have plans," she’d murmured, not looking at you. You suggest grabbing a quick drink after work, just like before. "I can’t, I’m busy." Even a casual, "Hey, fancy grabbing lunch in the park? Sun’s actually out for once," is met with a polite, "Thank you, but I brought my own."

Each refusal is a small, sharp sting. Always polite. Always with a hint of something that looks like regret, or discomfort, in her eyes. But always a refusal.

You know what this means, or at least, you think you do. She regretted that night. Of course she did. She was drunk. You were too. Maybe she was feeling lonely, vulnerable, and just got carried away by the alcohol and the moment. You probably came on too strong, misread the signals, pushed too hard, too fast. And now you’ve messed it up, scared her off, ruined whatever fragile connection you were starting to build. The thought settles in your gut like a cold, heavy stone. You fucking idiot.

Weeks bleed into each other. The distance between you and Irene solidifies, an invisible wall of her polite deflections and your own frustrated, confused silence. You stop trying so hard. What’s the point?

Then, the email from HR lands in your inbox. A reminder: Irene Bae’s casual contract is due to expire at the end of next week. Department heads need to submit any recommendations for extension or permanent placement by close of business Friday.

Your office feels colder than usual when you call her in. You keep your expression neutral, professional, as she walks in and sits in the chair opposite your desk. She doesn’t meet your eye, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your left shoulder.

"Irene," you begin, your own words sounding unduly formal. "Thanks for coming in. As you know, your current contract is… coming to an end." You pause, waiting for some reaction, any reaction. Nothing. She just sits there, perfectly still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "HR needs a final decision regarding the full-time offer we discussed. This is… well, this is pretty much your last chance to decide." You try to keep the disappointment, the faint, stupid hope, out of your delivery. "So, I need to ask. What conclusion have you reached?"

She takes a slow, deliberate breath. Her gaze is still averted, focused on the framed print of some abstract cityscape hanging on your wall. When she finally speaks, her reply is short and cold.

"I… I’m going to have to decline the offer.”

You look at her. She’s still not meeting your eye, her gaze resolutely fixed on that abstract cityscape print on your wall as if it holds the answers to the universe. Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles are white. You know. Of course, you fucking know. It’s not about the job, not really. It’s about that night. It’s about you.

"Irene," you begin, your carefully constructed professional composure starting to fray at the edges. You try to keep your delivery even, reasonable. "That… that doesn’t make a lot of sense, professionally speaking. This isn't just a casual offer. It’s a permanent position. Full benefits package, paid time off, a significant salary increase from your current rate. Henderson genuinely likes your work; he specifically mentioned your efficiency with the merger data. This office… it’s a good environment. People respect you here. There's clear potential for promotion down the line, further salary increases. Turning this down… frankly, it’s not a rational career move for someone with your skills."

You’re laying it on a bit thick, the corporate spiel, but you need her to see, to understand that you’re trying to offer her something good, something stable. Something she deserves.

Still, she doesn’t look at you. "I understand the terms, and I appreciate the opportunity." Her words are precise, almost robotic.

"Then what is it?" you press, a note of frustration creeping in despite your best efforts. "Because it sounds like you’re about to walk away from a genuinely great opportunity for no good reason." You lean forward, resting your elbows on your desk. "Irene… I know why you want to turn this down."

Her head snaps up at that, her dark eyes finally, belatedly, meeting yours. "No," she says, her reply sharper than usual, cutting through her quiet demeanor. "You don’t know."

"I think I do," you insist, your gaze holding hers. "It’s because of what happened between us, isn’t it? That night. After the bar."

Her expression shutters again, becoming unreadable, guarded.

"Look," you continue, softening your approach, trying to sound reassuring, "if that’s what this is about… if you’re sorry it happened, or if you felt pressured, or if you’re just uncomfortable now… it’s okay. I get it. I swear, I won’t pressure you, I won’t bother you at work. We can just… go back to how things were. Professional. I respect you, Irene. Your decision, whatever it is." You’re laying your cards on the table, trying to give her an out, trying to make this easier for her, even if it twists something in your own heart.

"It’s not because of you."

Not because of you? Then what the hell is it? "Then what?" you ask, genuinely bewildered now. "What’s the reason, Irene? Because I’m not seeing it."

She sighs, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. "It’s… complicated." She pushes her chair back slightly, her hands gripping the armrests. "I should probably just… go." She starts to get up, a clear intention to flee in her movements.

"No." The word is out before you can stop it, sharper, more commanding than you intended. You’re on your feet too, moving around your desk, stopping her before she can reach the door, positioning yourself between her and her escape route.

She freezes, her eyes wide, trapped.

"Irene, wait," you start, “okay, look. I’m sorry. For… for what I did. For that night. We were both drunk, I know that. And if you’re uncomfortable now because of it, if I made you feel… pressured, or weirded you out, then I am truly sorry. That was never my intention. I just… I thought you liked me too. I guess I misinterpreted things." God, you sound like a desperate idiot.

"I do like you," she says. "I told you that. At the bar."

"Yeah, but…" you trail off, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "I thought you were just… drunk. Saying things. I didn’t think…"

"That’s the problem," she cuts in. "Liking you. That’s the problem." She finally looks up at you. "If I stay here… in this job… in the same environment as you… things will… they’ll develop." Her gaze is pleading, desperate. "And I know how it will end."

You stare at her, completely lost. "Develop? End? I… I’m confused, Irene. Is it so bad? Liking me?"

A sad, hollow little laugh escapes her, a sound that tears at something inside you. It’s devoid of any humor, filled only with a deep, weary pain. "Oh, you have no idea. It’s not about whether liking you is bad." She looks up, her dark eyes swimming with unshed tears. "It’s that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of liking you."

"But… it’s mutual, Irene," you say, stepping closer, wanting to reach out, to comfort her, but holding back, unsure. "I like you. A lot. I… I thought that was obvious. The way I act around you, the way I talk to you…"

"I know," she whispers, a single tear finally escaping, tracing a path down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. "I know you do. You… you treat me so well. Better than I deserve."

"Don’t say that."

"But it’s true!" Her words gain a desperate edge. "And that’s why I’m afraid! I’m afraid you’ll… you’ll be disappointed in me. Like any other guy would be. Eventually."

"That won’t happen, Irene," you assure her, your conviction absolute, even if you don’t fully understand the depths of her fear. "Not with me."

Her gaze searches yours, desperate for reassurance, for a guarantee you can’t possibly give, not without knowing what demons she’s fighting. "How?" she breathes. "How can you be so sure?"

"You just… you have to trust me.”

She sighs then, a long, shuddering exhalation that seems to carry the weight of years. Her shoulders slump, her head lowers. "I… I have a past," she says. "A past that I’m… I’m not proud of."

"It’s okay," you say gently. "Everyone has things in their past they’re not proud of, Irene. That doesn’t define who you are now."

She shakes her head, still not looking at you. "No, this is… this is different." She takes another shaky breath. "When I was younger… much younger… I… I was a porn star." The words come out in a rushed, choked whisper, as if saying them aloud might shatter her. "For three years."

Porn star. Irene? Your quiet, meticulous, reserved Irene? Your brain struggles to reconcile the image with the woman standing before you, so vulnerable, so afraid.

"I… I almost told you," she continues, her words tumbling out now, as if a dam has broken. "That night, at my apartment… when we were in bed. When I was drunk and feeling… brave. But you were already asleep. And I just… I gave up. Maybe, I thought, maybe it was better that way. Better for you not to know."

She finally lifts her head, her eyes raw, pleading. "My last relationship… it was four years. And it ended the moment he found out about it. He didn’t just leave. He… he leaked it. To my work, to everyone I knew. As revenge. Because he felt… betrayed, I guess." Her words are choked with remembered pain. "I had to leave. My job, my apartment, everything. I was… traumatized. Completely exposed." She shudders. "That’s why I only work as a casual worker now. I’m terrified of staying in one place too long. Terrified that eventually… someone will find out. That it will all happen again."

She looks at you then, her face pale, her eyes wide with a terrible, naked fear. "So now you know… Do you… do you think I’m disgusting now? Do you think I’m a whore?"

You listen, your own expression carefully neutral, though inside, a storm of emotions is raging: shock, yes, but overwhelmingly, a deep, aching empathy for what she must have endured. Disgusting? Whore? The words feel alien, obscene when applied to the woman in front of you.

You step closer, very slowly, and gently, calmly, you reach out and take her trembling hands in yours. Her skin is cold.

"No, Irene," you say, your gaze holding hers, willing her to believe you. "No, I don't think you're disgusting. And I sure as hell don't think you're a whore." You give her hands a gentle squeeze. "I am no one to judge you. No one. And what you went through… at your old work, with your ex… Jesus, Irene, I am so incredibly sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine the trauma of feeling exposed like that, of having your life and your privacy violated so brutally."

She stares at you, her lips parted, her dark eyes wide with a dawning, incredulous surprise. It’s as if she was braced for a blow, and instead, you offered her… understanding.

"The job offer," you continue, your tone unwavering, "it still stands, Irene. Henderson wants you because you’re brilliant. I want you here because this team, this office, is better with you in it. That hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed that."

"You’re… you’re serious?"

"Deadly serious," you affirm. "The contract is yours if you want it. No questions asked, no judgments made." You pause, then take another step closer, your grip on her hands tightening just a fraction. "And more importantly, Irene…" Your words are softer now, laced with all the unspoken emotion that’s been building between you for weeks. "I still want to keep… seeing you. Dating you. Whatever this is that we’re starting." You search her eyes. "If… if you still want to, of course. After all this."

For a long, breathless moment, she just looks at you, her expression a maelstrom of shock, relief, and a fragile, burgeoning hope. Then, slowly, wordlessly, she steps forward, closing the small distance between you. Her hands leave yours, sliding up your arms, to your shoulders, and then she’s rising on her tiptoes, her face lifting to yours.

Her lips meet yours, soft, hesitant at first, then deepening with a desperate, grateful intensity. It’s not like the hungry, alcohol-fueled kisses from before. This is something else entirely. It’s a kiss of acceptance, of relief, of a future that suddenly feels possible again. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are shining, her cheeks wet, but she’s smiling. A real smile. Radiant.

"Yes," she whispers, but the words come out clear as day. "Yes to both.”

—

Two months have passed since the night Irene told you her secret. You hadn’t pressured her for details after that. You figured she’d share more when she was ready. And maybe you’re dying to know, because there’s a whole life behind those eyes you’re only just beginning to uncover, but you’ve kept quiet. The important thing is simple: Irene’s here, now, with you. Not a passing contract worker anymore, but a full-time part of the company, of your team, of your life. She’s taken root, quietly but firmly, in your space.

And the sex? If anything, it’s only gotten wilder, like with the weight of her secret off her chest, she’s finally able to let go in ways you hadn’t seen before. The shy smiles, the slow, calculated movements…still there, sure, but now layered with something hungrier, less reserved, like she’s reclaiming something with every time you push her over the edge. You love it. Love her.

Which brings you to today. Your birthday. You didn’t tell anyone at work, not even Seulgi, who usually insists on dragging your ass out for overpriced cocktails every year. No thank you. You didn’t want a party. All you wanted was your day off, the luxury of doing absolutely nothing with Irene. You arranged to meet her at 6:00 PM at your apartment, which left your afternoon free. You went for a run in the park, as you usually do, and for some reason, the day feels brighter; maybe because it’s your birthday, or maybe because you know you’ll be seeing Irene in just a few hours. The air was cool, but the city was beautiful, glinting in that late afternoon gold.

By the time you got home, you were sticky with sweat, a faint sheen from the walk making your shirt cling to your back. You opened the door expecting the familiar sprawl of your apartment (the faintly messy pile of laundry on the chair, the open laptop on the coffee table), but instead, you stopped dead.

She was standing there, barefoot on your rug, a modest little cake perched on the kitchen counter, a couple of small, wrapped boxes beside it, the faint scent of chocolate and flour in the air.

“Irene… what the fuck…” You blink, stunned, taking it in: the simple but unmistakable gesture. She’s dressed so casually it almost undoes you: black tank top, thin and loose enough that you can see the faint outline of her nipples beneath, and tiny gray cotton shorts that barely cover the tops of her thighs. Her hair’s pulled back, but messier than usual, strands framing her face. She looks so effortlessly gorgeous it pisses you off a little, how she always does this without even trying.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you say, still standing in the doorway, key half out of your hand. “Seriously.”

She shrugs, but her lips curl up, pleased. “It was a pleasure,” she says, walking toward you, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. “You deserve it.”

You exhale, feeling something tight release in your chest. She’s already so close now, tilting her head up to kiss you. You bend down automatically, catching her mouth in yours, slow and grateful. She tastes like the chocolate she must’ve sampled from the cake.

You pull back, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “I’m just gonna take a quick shower. I’m disgusting after that walk.”

She smirks, and her hand snakes out, giving your ass a firm squeeze. “But you look hot like that.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “It’ll be quick.”

She lets you go with a small, satisfied hum, and you head to the bathroom, stripping as you go. Under the hot spray, you let your muscles relax, your mind drifting. This week’s been a nightmare: training a bunch of new hires who couldn’t give a shit about what you say, their apathy bleeding into your own work, your inbox piling up, everything a fucking mess. You rinse your hair, scrubbing shampoo out, and call out loud enough for her to hear in the other room.

“I swear to god, babe, this week’s been brutal. I’ve been babysitting these useless newbies, none of them care, none of them listen—” You towel off roughly, stepping out, water still dripping down your chest. “—and I still have to keep up with all my own shit. It’s like I’m doing two jobs.”

You walk into the bedroom, still talking as you rub the towel over your head. “I should’ve just told Henderson to shove it and let them sink.”

And then you stop mid-sentence.

She’s standing there.

Naked.

Not a single stitch of clothing, just her flawless, toned petite frame, the faintest sheen of lotion on her smooth skin, her black hair loose now, falling around her shoulders. And her nipples (your breath catches) her nipples are each dabbed with a smear of dark, glossy chocolate, the scent of cocoa rich and unmistakable from where you stand.

She tilts her head, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Do you really want to talk about work? And by the way, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes right now.”

You’re frozen, towel hanging loose around your hips, your cock already stirring in response to the sight of her.

She steps closer, one slow, deliberate stride at a time, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. Her fingers ghost over the edge of your towel, teasing, tugging, and with a practiced flick, she pulls it free. Your cock springs up, hard and ready, and she smiles like she expected nothing less.

“You didn’t really think cake and presents were your only gifts, did you?” she murmurs, eyes dropping to your length appreciatively.

Before you can answer, she pushes you gently but firmly backward, making you sit on the bed. You fall back onto the mattress, legs spread, leaning on your elbows, watching her climb up, her knees on either side of your thighs.

“It’s time for your second gift,” she says.

She shifts forward, and her small, perfect breasts are suddenly right there in front of you, chocolate gleaming on her tight little nipples.

You groan, sitting up and catching one of her nipples in your mouth without hesitation. You suck hard, your tongue circling the hard peak to clean away the bittersweet smear of chocolate. She lets out a soft, sharp gasp, her fingers immediately threading through your damp hair, gripping the strands, holding your head firmly in place. You take that as an invitation.

You drag your tongue over every last trace of the chocolate, lapping at her skin, feeling the delicate flesh swell and tighten even more under your attention. The taste is insane; dark, rich chocolate melting into the salty, warm taste of her skin. Once the first nipple is clean, glistening, and pink from the friction of your tongue, you move to the other. This time you start with your teeth, grazing them ever so gently over the hardened bud.

She shivers violently, a full-body tremor, her hips giving a small, involuntary buck against the mattress. "Fuck… yes…" she pants. "Right there… don't stop."

"You like that?" you murmur against her breast, your hot breath making her shiver again. "Like it when I bite?"

"I… fuck, yes," she admits, her hands tightening their grip in your hair, almost pulling. "Bite it harder."

You do, clamping your teeth down just enough to make her gasp again, a sharp, pained-pleasured sound that makes your cock throb. Then you soothe the faint mark with your tongue, lapping at her, sucking her deep into your mouth until her moans become a steady, breathless rhythm.

"Fuck," you breathe, finally pulling back to look at her, your lips wet and dark with chocolate. "You taste so fucking good."

She smirks. "I know," she purrs. "I was hoping you'd think so." She leans forward, her clean, hard nipples brushing against your lips. "They're all yours tonight, supervisor. A birthday present. You can do whatever you want to them."

"Anything?" you ask.

"Anything," she confirms, her eyes glinting. "Suck them, bite them, cover them in your cum… Just make them feel good. Make them feel used."

That's all the permission you need. You dive back in, taking her left nipple into your mouth again, but this time your assault is rougher, needier. You suck hard, creating a powerful suction, pulling at the flesh, your tongue a relentless engine against the peak. She cries out, a raw, open-mouthed sound, her body instinctively pressing closer against yours.

"God, you're so fucking sensitive," you mutter against her skin, loving the way her body reacts to your every touch. "I love how your nipples get so hard for me, how they just stand at attention, begging for my mouth."

"They are," she gasps, her hips starting to writhe. "They've been aching for you… for weeks… every time you look at me in the office…"

You pull away from her breast just enough to trail a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up her chest, over her collarbone, until you reach her mouth. You capture her lips in a deep, filthy kiss. Your tongue, slick with her taste and melted chocolate, plunges past her teeth, and she meets it eagerly, her own tongue wrestling with yours. You let her taste herself on you, the sweetness of the chocolate mingling with the salt of her skin.

When you finally break the kiss, you're both panting, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. "See?" you breathe. "I told you you taste good."

Irene licks her swollen lips, a dazed, utterly debauched look in her eyes. "Fuck," she whispers. "You're right." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then back up again. "You know what else tastes good?” she asks, cupping the back of your head and guiding you down, down until your shoulders hit the mattress again. Then she moves, her thighs sliding up, one smooth motion as she positions herself right over your face, her pussy bare and slick, already dripping for you.

You barely manage a breath before she lowers herself onto you, her inner thighs framing your face, her weight pressing you down in the best possible way.

“This will be more delicious than the cake,” you say, voice muffled against her.

Irene smiles down at you lazily, like a queen about to settle onto her throne. Her hands find the headboard above your head, bracing herself, and then, finally, she lowers herself onto your mouth, her warmth enveloping you, her thighs tightening around the sides of your head.

The first contact is enough to make your cock twitch against your stomach. You slide your hands up the backs of her thighs, fingertips tracing the toned, soft muscle there, and then up further to her ass, gripping it firmly as you pull her closer, burying your face in her cunt. She’s soaked already, the slickness smearing across your lips and chin as you flatten your tongue and drag it slowly from the very base of her slit all the way up to her clit, savoring every second.

She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips twitching forward instinctively.

“Shit…” she breathes, looking down at you, her expression already beginning to shift from teasing control to raw need.

But for now, she’s still in charge. She rocks her hips forward just a little, her pussy sliding wetly over your mouth and nose, smearing you with her arousal. You keep your tongue out, letting her use your face however she wants, just occasionally giving her little flicks against her clit to remind her how eager you are.

“You love this, don’t you?” she says, her tone soft but with that dangerous little edge that always drives you crazy. Her fingers tangle in your damp hair, holding your head still as she starts to move her hips in slow, deliberate circles against your mouth. “Love being under me… letting me use you…”

You can’t answer (she’s not giving you space to) but your moan is deep and guttural, vibrating against her slick folds as you slide your tongue back up to her clit and start circling it in slow, agonizingly steady motions.

“Mmm, fuck…” she exhales, head falling back slightly, her chest rising and falling with quickening breaths.

She’s setting the pace. You know better than to rush her. Your hands stay planted firmly on her ass, kneading the flesh as she rides your face, her hips rolling smoothly, confidently. The heat of her grows with every pass of her pussy over your tongue, her slick spreading across your cheeks and chin, and every time you flick the tip of your tongue against her clit just a little harder, she gasps and rocks her hips more forcefully.

“You always… eat me so fucking good…” she mutters, her voice breaking into a breathy moan as you latch your lips around her clit and start sucking gently, your tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud.

Her thighs tense around your head, the muscles flexing beautifully as she grinds down harder, chasing more friction. The more you give, the more she takes, rolling her hips with more intensity, dragging her soaked slit all over your face, smearing herself on you like she owns you (and she does).

Right now, she does.

“Don’t stop,” she hisses through gritted teeth, her fingers gripping your hair tighter, anchoring herself as she starts to lose some of that controlled rhythm, her movements becoming more desperate, more erratic.

You moan into her, the sound vibrating directly against her clit, and she cries out, a sharp, needy sound that makes your cock throb with how much you want her. But this is her moment. You flatten your tongue again, letting her grind against it, letting her slide herself up and down at her own pace, her pussy getting wetter, creamier, with every second.

“Fuck… fuck, you’re making me so wet…” she gasps, looking down at you, her dark hair sticking to her temples now as her body starts to glisten with sweat.

She lifts herself slightly, just to reposition, then slams her hips down against your mouth again, harder this time, her pussy mashing against your tongue and nose. You slide one hand from her ass to her lower back, steadying her, encouraging her to keep going, to use you just like this.

You can feel the shift now. The subtle change in her moans, from teasing and playful to raw, involuntary noises she can’t hold back. Her thighs begin to shake slightly on either side of your head as she rides your face, her slick coating your lips and chin, the taste of her getting thicker, sweeter, more intoxicating.

“I’m so fucking close…” she whimpers, her voice cracking with how hard she’s working herself against your mouth.

You respond by tightening your grip on her ass, pulling her down harder, guiding her against your tongue as you focus all your energy on relentless, steady strokes against her clit. She gasps, her whole body shuddering above you, her head dropping forward so her hair hangs in her face.

“God… yes… just like that… don’t you fucking dare stop…” she growls, grinding her pussy against your face with wild, desperate circles now, her control all but gone.

The wet sounds of her pussy dragging over your lips fill the room, slick and obscene, her arousal practically dripping onto your chest now as she rides you, using your face like her own personal toy. You keep your tongue out, letting her smear herself all over you, letting her control everything, loving how small but powerful she is, how easily she can overwhelm you with just her hips and her need.

“Shit… shit…” she pants, her thighs clamping tighter around your head, her fingers gripping the headboard so hard her knuckles go white.

You feel it, the way her pussy clenches, her body going rigid above you as she slams her hips down one final time and cries out, a long, shuddering moan that echoes off the walls. Her whole body quakes as she cums, her pussy gushing over your mouth, slick and creamy, her arousal spilling down your chin and onto your chest as she grinds out every last wave of her orgasm against your face.

You don’t stop. You keep your tongue moving gently, lapping up everything she gives you, licking around her swollen clit and savoring the taste of her cum as she rides out the aftershocks.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she collapses forward, her body draping over yours, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and slick with sweat. Her thighs tremble as she slowly lifts herself off your face, and you look up at her, lips and chin gleaming with her wetness, your eyes glazed with pure, feral hunger.

She smiles weakly, her breathing still ragged. “Happy birthday…” she whispers, voice hoarse but full of smug satisfaction.

You grin, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Best fucking birthday ever.”

She laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you, tasting herself on your lips, her tongue slipping into your mouth with a slow, deliberate slide.

And then she pulls back, biting your lower lip gently, her eyes still dark with want.

“But we’re not done,” she says as her hand trails down your chest and wraps around your cock, already throbbing and slick with precum. “That was just your first gift…”

You groan, tilting your head back, already ready for whatever she has planned next as she shifts her weight and starts to slide down your body.

You laugh breathlessly, wiping the last traces of her slick from your chin with the back of your hand, still riding that high from having her grind out her orgasm on your face. “Jesus,” you exhale, your chest heaving. “That’s already the best fucking birthday I’ve had in years.”

She chuckles, low and throaty, still catching her breath. Then she leans in, presses a lazy kiss to the corner of your mouth, and whispers, “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.”

That pulls a grin out of you immediately. You squeeze her ass, your fingers digging into the soft but firm flesh, pulling her closer as you smirk. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

She pulls back just far enough to give you that look: mischievous, calculated, playful. Her lips tilt up in a smirk, then she bites the inside of her cheek and says, almost sing-song, “Wait here.”

Then she’s sliding off you, her bare feet hitting the floor with that soft, soundless grace that only she seems to have. You watch her as she pads out of the room, completely naked, that tight little body moving with unhurried confidence, her hips swaying just enough to make your already rock-hard cock give another desperate throb.

From the bedroom, you hear the faint sound of a zipper, metal teeth rasping open. A pause. Then some soft rustling. Your heart picks up, your curiosity burning, trying to piece together what the hell she’s planning. And then, her footsteps again, crossing the hall, getting closer.

She comes back into the room, eyes glinting, and tosses something at you. You catch it on instinct.

It’s a small bottle.

You turn it over in your hand, read the label.

Lube.

Your brows shoot up and you look at her, grinning in disbelief. “What the hell do you plan on doing with this?”

She climbs back onto the bed, crawling up slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking prey, her eyes locked on yours, her knees spreading on either side of your hips until she’s hovering right above you.

“You’re the one who’s gonna do it.”

You blink, your brain still processing, the words sticking in your throat for a second. “Wait… what?”

She leans down, her lips grazing yours as she whispers, “Because it’s your birthday…” she kisses you, slow and soft, then pulls back, “…and because you’re such a great supervisor…” another kiss, deeper this time, “…you get the privilege of fucking my ass today.”

Your whole body tightens instantly, your cock jerking so hard it practically aches. You stare at her, eyes wide, like she’s just handed you the keys to some secret vault you didn’t even know existed. “Are you… are you serious?”

She sits back on her heels, all casual, like she didn’t just offer you the dirtiest birthday present imaginable. “Of course I’m serious.”

Then she reaches behind her, drags her fingers slowly down the curve of her own ass, giving one cheek a light slap, making it jiggle just enough to send your pulse into overdrive.

“It’s been a long time since I took it in the ass…” she says, almost absentmindedly, her voice that same casual, almost shy tone she uses when discussing quarterly reports, like this is just another item on her to-do list. Then she looks right at you, her eyes dark and steady, “…and I kind of love anal.”

Your jaw slackens a bit, your mind racing with images, with questions, with raw, hungry need.

She grins at your reaction, shrugging one bare shoulder. “Makes sense, right?” she adds, almost teasing. “Former porn star. Guessing I’ve done it… more times than I can count. It's part of the job.” Then her voice drops just a little more, breathier, more vulnerable. “But… it’s been years since I’ve had a real dick back there. Just… toys. Dildos.”

Your cock twitches violently at that, thick and hard, standing straight up against your stomach. You groan, dragging your palm slowly along your length, almost needing to ground yourself with the sensation. “Fuck, Irene…” you mutter, shaking your head. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“But you like it… don’t you?”

“Like?” you laugh quietly, breathless. “This is… this is the best fucking gift.”

She smiles, pleased with herself, then crawls forward a little more, turns, and gets onto all fours right in front of you. That perfect little ass of hers tilted up, back arched so her cheeks spread just slightly, giving you the clearest possible view of her tight, pink little asshole. Your throat goes dry.

She glances back over her shoulder at you, smirking. “Well… supervisor… you gonna get started?”

Your heart is hammering out of your chest. “Damn right.”

You pop open the bottle of lube, the faint plastic crack of the cap clicking free, and squeeze out a generous amount into your palm. It’s cool and slick, coating your fingers easily as you rub them together, warming it up a little.

Without wasting any more time, you slide closer to her, one hand gripping her hip, the other bringing the lube to her ass. You let the first cold drop fall right onto her tight little hole, watching as she shivers at the sudden temperature shock.

“Ohhh… fuck,” she breathes out, her back arching deeper as her hands grip the sheets.

You smear the lube over her asshole with slow, steady circles, massaging it in, spreading it across the perfect crease of her ass, making sure it’s slick and glistening all over. Her cheeks are shining now, slippery under your fingers, and that tight little star is all slicked up, glistening and ready.

The more you work the lube in, the more she relaxes, her breaths coming deeper, slower.

“You’re loving this,” you murmur, running your thumb gently along the rim of her hole, teasing her.

She looks back at you, biting her lower lip, her eyes half-lidded with arousal. “You have no idea…”

You apply a little more pressure with your thumb, testing her, and she pushes back slightly, welcoming it, her body already opening up for you.

“Mmm… that’s it,” you say under your breath, gripping one cheek and spreading her wider, admiring the way her asshole puckers and flexes, slick and inviting.

The contrast between the shy, composed Irene everyone knows at the office, and the filthy, unashamed woman kneeling naked in front of you now, offering you her ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world… it’s fucking intoxicating. You love this about her. That duality. That quiet power.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the small of her back, your hand still massaging circles around her entrance, feeling her pulse there, steady and hot. She shivers again, but it’s not from the cold now; it’s pure anticipation.

“You sure about this?” you ask.

She laughs, breathless. “Don’t make me beg…”

You grin, sliding your lubed fingers lower, brushing her slick pussy briefly, just enough to make her moan softly, before bringing your hand back up to her ass. You add a little more lube to your fingers, making sure it’s dripping, then slowly, carefully, you press the tip of your index finger against her tight, pink hole.

Her breath hitches. Her whole body tenses as you apply steady pressure. The tiny muscle fights you for a second, a stubborn little ring, before it finally gives way with a soft squelch. You slide your finger in, just to the first knuckle. She groans, a low, guttural sound that’s half pain, half pure bliss.

"Fuck…" she breathes out, her hips twitching. "Okay… okay, that’s… mmm."

You wait, letting her adjust to the feeling of being filled, your finger still and warm inside her. Then, you start to move it, a slow, gentle circling motion. Her asshole clenches around you, tight and hot.

"Easy, baby," you murmur. "Just relax for me. Let me open you up."

She exhales, a long, shuddering breath, and you feel her body soften, her tight muscle relaxing just a fraction around your finger. You push in a little deeper, hooking your finger slightly, massaging her from the inside.

"Oh, god… that feels…" she trails off. She pushes back against your hand, wanting more. You continue the slow, steady rhythm, and she lets out a soft, contented sigh. "It's… it's so nice," she whispers. "To be able to do this again."

You keep moving your finger, feeling her pulse against the tip. "Do what, baby? Take a finger up your ass?" you tease gently.

She lets out a wet little laugh. "That too. But… just this. All of it. The sex… being filthy…" Her voice drops, becoming more serious. "But feeling… safe. Feeling protected while I do it. Knowing you’re not going to… hurt me at the end. Or judge me." Her hips rock back, pressing her ass more firmly onto your hand. "God, I’m so happy you didn’t give up on me. That you insisted on staying."

You slide your finger out slowly, coat it with more lube, then add a second finger to the first. You press them both against her entrance. She gasps as you work them in together, stretching her, filling her more completely.

"I would never lose a woman like you, Irene," you say. "You're the most beautiful, intelligent, fucking amazing woman I've ever met. Past, present, all of it. You're perfect."

She shudders as your fingers begin to move inside her again, a slow scissoring motion that makes her moan, a high, keening sound this time. She looks back over her shoulder, her face flushed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Fuck… that’s…" she bites her lip, a shy blush creeping up her neck despite the raw vulgarity of the situation. "That’s… really nice of you to say, but… maybe we can leave the love talk for later?" she gasps out between moans. "Talking about these things while you have your fingers in my ass isn't exactly… the best time."

You bark out a laugh, the tension breaking. "You're right. My bad." You lean in and bite her ass cheek playfully. "Sorry for trying to be romantic while I finger-fuck you."

"It's okay, baby," she giggles, her whole body relaxing into your touch now. "Just… focus on the finger-fucking part for now."

"Whatever you want, boss," you say, grinning. You add a third finger, and she cries out, her ass clenching hard around you, starting a slow, relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of her tight little hole. The lube makes a wet, slapping sound with every thrust of your hand, a filthy soundtrack to her ragged moans. Her ass cheeks are spread wide, giving you a perfect, obscene view of her pink, stretched muscle gripping your fingers. You watch, fascinated, as she completely melts under your touch, her body surrendering to the pleasure.

"Fuck, Irene… look at you," you growl. You rotate your fingers inside her, feeling her stretch wider around them. She cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound. "You're taking my whole hand like a champ. Just imagine how good this is gonna feel when it's my thick cock stretching you out instead."

"Mmmm… don't… don't stop," she pleads, her words broken by gasps as she pushes her ass back onto your violating fingers, meeting the pressure.

"Oh, I'm not stopping," you promise, your pace quickening slightly. You lean down, your lips brushing against her ear. "I think I'm gonna get addicted to this. To your perfect ass. I'm going to want to fuck it every single day." You thrust your fingers deeper, imitating a hard fuck. "How's that sound, baby? Waking up every morning with my cock already buried deep inside your ass, filling you up before you've even had your coffee."

Her response is a raw, guttural moan that vibrates through her entire body. Her hips begin to grind against your hand in wild, needy circles. "Yes… fuck… keep talking," she pants. "Tell me more… tell me what you're gonna do to my ass…"

You glance down between her thighs and your own cock gives a hard throb. A glistening, clear trail of her arousal is dripping from her soaking wet pussy, running down the inside of her thigh and pooling on the sheets. She's not even touching herself, but the thought of you fucking her ass is making her cunt gush.

"Look at that," you murmur, your free hand reaching down to trace the slick path of her juices. "You're so fucking wet for this, aren't you? So horny just thinking about my cock in your ass that your pussy is weeping for it." You dip your thumb into her slickness and bring it back up to her asshole, smearing her own cunt juice around the rim of her hole, mixing it with the lube. "Let's make it even messier."

"Please…" she whimpers, completely gone. "Please, just… fuck me… I need it…"

You pull your fingers out of her with a loud, wet sound. Her asshole, stretched and glistening, puckers greedily, empty for only a second. You can see how ready she is, how open you've made her.

You draw your hand back.

The sound of your palm connecting with her ass cheek is sharp and loud, echoing in the quiet room. A perfect, red handprint blossoms on her pale skin. She yelps, a shocked, ecstatic sound, her whole body jolting. She looks back at you over her shoulder, her eyes wide, dazed, and full of pure, unadulterated need. Her chest is heaving, her lips are parted, and her ass is red, abused, and beautifully, perfectly ready for you.

The lube glistens like syrup under the low light, a sheen coating the delicate wrinkle of her pink asshole, smeared slick between the cleft of her cheeks and dripping slowly toward the tight seal of her pussy. She keeps herself open for you, kneeling deep into the mattress, arms stretched forward, arching her back like a fucking exhibit. She’s panting, her head down, black hair spilled over her shoulder blades in wild, careless strands.

You trace the tip of your cock along the seam of her hole, barely nudging the outer ring, and she makes a noise: sharp, needy, almost angry.

“Don’t tease me,” Irene growls, hips pushing back against you, practically punching your cock with the weight of her ass. “Put it in. Now.”

You obey. You press forward slowly, resisting the urge to just bury yourself to the hilt and fuck like an animal. Her hole yields just a little, then grips you, impossibly snug, sucking you in with a hot, slick resistance that makes your whole body twitch.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter under your breath, biting down on a curse as the ring of muscle clamps around your head, slow and greedy, dragging every millimeter into her. “Jesus, you’re… tight.”

“I know,” she smirks into the pillow, biting down on her bottom lip as she breathes through the stretch. Her tone is breathless but taunting. “I haven’t been used in a while. Not properly. Not like this.”

You ease in another inch. Then another. Her asshole flutters and clamps, adjusting around your girth like it’s testing you.

“That’s it,” Irene whispers, then harder: “Keep going. All the way. Don’t you dare stop until your balls are fucking pressed against me.”

You grit your teeth, rocking your hips gently forward, both hands gripping her sides to keep steady. Inch by inch you sink into her, the resistance melting into slick pressure. She moans, a raw, throaty sound full of pain twisted with hunger. Her whole body shudders as the last inch disappears into her heat.

When your pelvis finally nestles flush against the swell of her ass, your balls brushing her dripping cunt, she exhales hard; like she’s just been filled with something holy.

“Goddamn,” you breathe, locked inside her, unmoving for a second, overwhelmed by the feel of it. “You’re gonna break me.”

“No,” she says, lifting her head just enough to look back at you. “You’re gonna break me. Keep moving, or I’ll sit on your face until you pass out.”

You pull back slow, dragging yourself out until just the thick head is left buried inside, then push back in with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes her whine low in her throat.

“That’s it,” Irene murmurs. “Nice and deep. I want to feel every inch. I want to feel it in my fucking stomach.”

You start to move, slow and steady, your cock plunging deep into the hot grip of her ass and pulling out again, over and over, building a rhythm. Her moans rise in pitch, sharp and cut with whimpers, but her ass keeps pushing back onto you, meeting every thrust with a greedy snap of her hips.

“Faster,” she snarls. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.”

You pound into her harder, the slap of your skin against her ass echoing in the room, obscene and constant. Her back arches deeper, the curve of her spine a perfect invitation, and you drive in deeper still, your hands spreading her cheeks to watch your cock disappear again and again into that slick, stretched hole.

“Fuck yes,” she gasps. “That’s it. That’s your hole. Say it.”

Your brain is on fire, body wound tight, but you nod, fucking her faster, harder. “My hole. All mine. Fuck—so good, Irene.”

“Tell me what I am,” she spits, grinding her ass against you mid-thrust. “Tell me what you’re fucking.”

You groan, barely coherent. “My whore. My nympho slut. My fucking anal-obsessed goddess.”

“That’s right,” she laughs, low and mean, pleasure twisting her words. “I’m your filthy bitch. Keep filling me. I want you so deep I can’t walk tomorrow.”

You grip her hips and slam into her, cock buried to the base every time, her ass stretched wide around you. Her pussy is a mess now, slick and twitching, untouched and throbbing with every shockwave of your rhythm.

“Harder,” she snarls. “I want to feel your cock rearranging my guts.”

"Alright, ma'am," you growl.

You give her exactly what she's begging for. Your hips become pistons, slamming into her with a brutal, relentless force. All your strength is channeled into your cock, driving it into her ass again and again, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. The wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoes in the room, obscene and glorious. You grip her hips so hard you know you'll leave bruises, using them as handles to anchor her as you pound into her without mercy.

Her moans shatter, turning into raw, animal cries of pain and ecstasy. She pushes back against you with every brutal thrust, her body a taut bow of pure sensation. You watch your cock disappear into her tight, glistening hole, the muscles of her ass clenching desperately around you. Her untouched pussy is a mess below, dripping her slick onto the bed with every jarring impact. She's so fucking hot, so insatiable.

"Tell me again what a filthy whore I am!" she snarls, voice cracking. "Tell me how much you love fucking my tight ass!"

"You're my perfect little anal slut," you pant, the words ripped from your throat as you continue your assault. "You take this cock so fucking good. Your ass was made for this. Made to be stretched, used, and filled by me."

"It was," she sobs, the words half-lost in a scream of pleasure. "It's yours! My ass is your fucking property! Now wreck it! Wreck me!"

Her body starts to tremble, fine tremors at first that grow into violent, uncontrollable shudders. Her asshole, which was already impossibly tight, clenches down on your cock like a vise, spasming, milking you with an intensity that almost makes you lose control. She's close. So fucking close.

"That's it, baby," you groan, feeling her body start to come apart around you. "You feel that? You're going to cum for me. You're going to cum all over my cock from your ass."

"I am… fuck… I'm… oh god…"

Her head whips back, a choked, guttural scream tearing from her lips as her orgasm hits her like a lightning strike. Her entire body locks up, her back arching so high her knees lift off the bed. Her asshole spasms violently around your shaft, a series of deep, rhythmic pulses that feel like she's trying to suck your cock clean out of your body. She’s coming, harder than you’ve ever seen anyone come, purely from the brutal, relentless fucking you’re giving her ass.

"FUUUUCK!" she screams as she shatters. Her body convulses around you, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through her. She's sobbing, drool trailing from the corner of her open mouth, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation. You don't stop, slamming into her through it, dragging her along the edge of that climax until she’s twitching, sobbing, her thighs soaked, everything between her legs shaking from overstimulation. Her asshole clenches over and over, like it’s trying to keep your cock inside her permanently. The sound of your name on her lips turns into a whimper, a plea.

And then she collapses.

She goes limp under you, body gone soft, her face buried into the mattress, hair plastered to her neck with sweat. You slow just enough not to hurt her more, but you're still buried in her, and she’s still trembling like something in her got snapped and rearranged.

You reach down, cup one hot, twitching cheek in your palm, fingers sinking into the softness, then you slap her ass. She jerks violently, crying out again, a fresh gush of wetness from her untouched cunt.

Irene’s panting like a dog, but she lifts her head slowly, pushing herself up on shaky elbows. Her asshole is raw and red, clenching around nothing now that you’ve pulled out, and your cock stands slick and flushed, aching to go again.

You run a hand down her back, smearing sweat, and watch her shiver under your touch, still catching her breath. She looks over her shoulder, eyes dark and dazed, lips parted.

“What now?” she asks, still high on it, a smirk tugging at the edge of her fucked-out expression.

You crawl over the mattress, slow and deliberate, the mattress dipping under your weight until you’re hovering above her. You reach out, brush her damp hair away from her cheek, and tilt her face toward you. Her eyes meet yours; you lean in and kiss her.

It’s not rushed. Not forceful. Just the soft press of your lips on hers, a quiet connection that feels startlingly out of place after how violently you’d just been inside her. But it fits. Her lips part easily, kissing you back, slow and sweet, her moan caught between you like breath being passed from one lung to another.

When you pull back, your thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone, you speak low and close.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She blinks once, then laughs; a little stunned, a little disbelieving, the sound raspy and full of heat. She shifts onto her side, hair falling in her face, her lips tugged up into a crooked grin. “Jesus,” she murmurs. “That’s a hell of a romantic thing to say after you fucked my ass like it owed you rent.”

You laugh too, forehead pressed to hers, eyes shut for a second. “I mean it.”

“Yeah?” she whispers, her palm sliding up your chest, nails dragging faintly across skin. “You always get all poetic when I let you wreck my holes?”

“I’m discovering new talents,” you say, and kiss her again, deeper this time, longer, your tongue meeting hers slow and deliberate, savoring her like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. Her fingers find your hair, tangling in it, keeping you there until she finally pulls back, panting softly, her lips swollen and wet.

You straighten, letting your hand glide down her bare side, palm trailing over the curve of her hip. “Come on,” you murmur, fingers nudging at her.

She doesn’t move.

Instead, she stretches lazily, catlike, then rolls onto her back, arms above her head, bare chest rising and falling. “Make me,” she says, grinning like a brat, teeth flashing beneath the curtain of black hair stuck to her cheek. “If you want me up so bad, you better earn it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re in that mood again?” you mutter, and before she can blink, you lunge, grabbing her under the thighs, flipping her off the bed in one fluid motion. She shrieks, half-laughing, half-startled as your arms lock around her, her bare ass landing square in your hands.

“Hey!” she gasps, but she’s laughing, eyes bright. “Assault!”

“You asked for it,” you growl against her throat, kissing her hard, biting the skin there just enough to make her squirm.

Still holding her up, you reposition your grip—one hand under her ass, the other around her back. Her legs wrap around your waist like it’s instinct. She clings to your shoulders, breath hitching as your cock brushes against her inner thigh, then her slick, drenched cunt.

You drag the tip along her folds, once, twice.

She gasps. “Fuck, fuck, I’m—” she starts, but your head nudges inside, the slickness between her legs so intense it practically sucks you in.

“Sensitive,” she finishes, her whole body jolting.

You groan as you push deeper, her pussy hot and swollen and soaked from everything that came before. She’s not just wet—she’s drenched, her folds clinging to your cock like velvet, the entrance spasming as you ease in inch by slow inch. Her breath stutters out of her mouth in broken moans, arms tightening around your neck, her nails biting into your skin.

“Irene—fuck—you’re soaking,” you hiss, your lips brushing her ear.

“I know,” she moans, her words thick with need. “It’s from before…I came so hard… ahh, god, don’t stop, don’t—”

You don’t.

You fuck her slowly in the air, each thrust smooth and deep, her weight light in your arms but heavy on your cock. Her pussy clenches with every movement, already overstimulated and begging for more. Her head falls back, exposing the line of her throat, mouth open in helpless pleasure as you move inside her.

Her moans get louder, warmer, wetter, her body rocking with every motion, the slap of skin against skin muted by the softness of her thighs wrapped tight around you.

“You like that?” you whisper, kissing her collarbone, trailing your tongue between the swell of her breasts. “You like getting fucked right after I ruined your ass?”

She nods frantically, face flushed, lips parted. “Y-yes, I—fuck, yes, I need this, don’t stop, I’m so close already.”

You kiss her, swallowing her cries, letting her whimper into your mouth as you keep thrusting up into her, slow and deep, filling her again and again until her cunt spasms, her whole body clinging to yours like she’s afraid to fall. Her moans melt into kisses, breathy, broken, desperate, like she’s trying to stay anchored through her own bliss.

And you just keep holding her, hips rolling, fucking her deeper… slower… not letting her come down yet.

Your arms are burning with the effort, but you don't care. The feeling of her wrapped around you, your cock buried deep inside her slick, hot cunt, is worth everything. Her body is a dead weight of pure pleasure, clinging to you, her head thrown back as you continue the slow, relentless rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, deep, a lazy roll of your hips that slides you all the way in until your pelvis presses against her, then draws you almost all the way out before sinking back down.

She whimpers into your mouth every time you pull back, a desperate, needy sound. "Please..." she breathes against your lips, her own hips trying to buck, to rush the pace, to find the friction she so clearly craves.

"Shhh," you murmur, capturing her mouth in another long, slow kiss. "Just feel this, baby. Let me love you." You fuck her with an infuriating gentleness, your movements tender, almost reverent. It's the exact opposite of what her body is screaming for, and you both know it.

That’s the fucking point.

"You're... torturing me," she pants, her nails digging into the muscles of your shoulders. Her pussy is so wet it's practically frictionless, dripping down onto your thighs, but it clenches around your cock with a desperate, pulsing grip.

"Am I?" you whisper, your lips tracing a path down her throat to her collarbone. You continue the slow, deep strokes, ignoring her plea. "I'm just loving you, Irene. Showing you how much you mean to me. How perfect you feel." You thrust upwards, slowly, filling her completely, and hold yourself there for a moment, letting her feel every thick inch. She moans, a long, frustrated wail.

"No... please... I need it harder," she begs, voice cracking. She starts to writhe in your arms, trying to grind her hips against you, to create her own rhythm. "Fuck me... please, just fuck me properly."

You chuckle softly against her skin, a low, dark sound. "But I like this," you say, resuming the agonizingly slow pace. "I like feeling you squeeze me. I like hearing you beg." You kiss her again, a deep, possessive kiss that smothers her protests. You can feel the frantic, thrumming energy building in her, the pleasure coiling into a tight, unbearable knot of pure need.

Her body is trembling now, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat. "You're an asshole," she gasps, her voice a mix of fury and arousal. "You know what I want... you know what I need, and you're just... playing with me."

"I am," you agree easily, your hips still rolling in that same, maddeningly slow rhythm. "And you love it. Look at you. You're soaked. Shaking. Completely coming apart just from me being inside you."

"Then make me come!" she cries out, her control finally snapping. "For fuck's sake, stop making love to me and just FUCK ME! Fuck me hard! Use me like I'm a toy, like I'm just a fucking fleshlight you own! I need it! Please, I need you to ruin me!”

You kiss her neck gently, your lips brushing her skin in a gesture of pure affection that completely contradicts the filthy words she just screamed.

"A fleshlight?" you murmur against her ear, your voice a soft, teasing caress. "Is that all you think you are to me, Irene? Just a set of holes to use?" You slide almost all the way out of her, making her gasp and instinctively clench her pussy around the thick head of your cock, trying to keep you inside. Then you push back in, slowly, deeply, until you bottom out against her cervix. "That doesn't sound very romantic."

"I don't want romantic right now!" she cries. Her body writhes in your arms. "I want to be used! I'm just a cunt for you! A tight, wet hole for your big dick! Please, I'm begging you, just pound me! Pound my cunt until I'm stupid! Forget my name! Forget everything but how good it feels to fuck me!"

"Are you sure?" you ask, your voice still infuriatingly calm and gentle. You continue the slow, deep fucking, each stroke a deliberate act of torture. "Because I love making love to you, Irene. I love holding you like this. Feeling your heart beat against mine."

"Fuck my heart!" she sobs. "Fuck my heart and fuck my brain! Just fuck my pussy! Please! I'll do anything! I'll be your good little whore, I promise! Just stop teasing me! I can't take it anymore! I'm going to come just from this, and I'll fucking hate you for it!"

You stop moving.

For one torturous second, you are completely still inside her. She whimpers, her body frozen in anticipation. "Alright," you growl. "If you're going to beg for it like a good little whore, then I guess I have to give you what you want."

"Yes..." she breathes.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into the meat of her ass as you slam her down onto your cock harder, rougher, the sound of her soaked cunt getting louder, wetter. The wet smack of flesh on flesh fills the room, and she yelps, then laughs through it, her eyes wild, her smile twisted with too much pleasure.

“God, yes—fuck me, use me—don’t stop—don’t you dare—”

You do exactly what she demands.

You use her.

You fuck her like she’s a doll made just to take cock, just to squeeze and stretch and be filled until her mind breaks and drips out of her pussy. You slam into her over and over, brutal rhythm, zero mercy. Her nails are digging into your shoulders, her forehead pressed to yours, moaning every breath into your mouth as her body takes the full force of your thrusts.

“Fucking hell,” you growl, gritting your teeth as her pussy tightens and pulses around your cock, “you’re taking it like a fucking slut, Irene.”

“I am,” she pants, the words shuddering out of her, “I’m your fucking slut—I’m your toy—make me fucking cum, I want it, I want it, please!”

You feel the change before you see it. The muscles inside her pussy, already clenched tight around you, suddenly begin to flutter, then seize, locking down on your shaft like a superheated vise. Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open wide, not with pleasure, but with pure, unadulterated shock.

"Oh... oh my god... I'm..."

A sharp, strangled cry rips out of her as the first gush erupts from her cunt. It’s not just wetness; it's a hot, violent spray that shoots out, soaking your stomach and thighs, splashing on the floor below you. It’s a shocking, uncontrollable release, and her entire body locks up, trembling in your arms as she comes so hard she can’t breathe, can’t think.

You don't stop. You don't even slow down.

The sight, the sound, the feeling of her completely letting go like this makes you lose control. You keep slamming into her, your cock driving through the gushing fluid, making it splash and spray with every thrust. The fucking is louder now, wetter, a constant, obscene slapping sound. Another powerful torrent shoots from her, then another, seemingly endless. Her pussy is a broken faucet, gushing warm, clear fluid that runs in rivers down your legs, pooling on the floor.

"Aaahhh—fuck—it's still coming!" she screams. "I can't stop it—what's happening?! Fuck, fuck, don't you dare stop!"

Her legs, locked around your waist, are trembling so violently she can barely hold on. Her entire body jerks with every stroke, completely helpless in your grip. You fuck her through the flood, your own vision blurring, your body on fire. You watch her face, see her mind completely erased by pleasure, her eyes rolled back, her mouth wide open in a silent, unending scream.

You only slow when the last pulses drain from her, the violent gushes finally slowing to a warm, steady trickle down her thighs. Her limbs go limp, her body slumping against you, completely boneless and spent. She collapses against your chest, shivering and dazed, her entire body buzzing in the aftermath.

With a groan, you stumble back with her still in your arms and half-fall, half-sit on the edge of the bed. She’s still on your lap, your cock buried deep inside her wrecked, dripping pussy. Her arms curl weakly around your neck and she buries her face in the crook of your shoulder, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps.

You hold her tight, your own heart hammering against your ribs. Your hands slide slowly up and down her back, a soothing, grounding motion. You kiss her hair, her temple, the shell of her ear, whispering her name over and over.

Finally, you tilt her chin up to kiss her. Her lips are soft, wet, and slow to respond, her body still floating, completely fucked-out. She moans weakly into your mouth, a sound of pure, exhausted bliss.

When she pulls back, her eyes are barely open, her long lashes wet with tears and sweat.

"Mmm," she sighs, nuzzling her cheek against yours. Her gaze drifts down, looking at the mess. Your bodies are gleaming, the floor is soaked, and the air is thick with the clean, musky scent of her release. "Your cock is magic," she whispers. "That was… Jesus Christ. I don't even squirt. Like, ever. I think I've maybe done it once in my entire life, and it was nothing… nothing like that."

You chuckle, your forehead pressing against hers. "Well, I guess your pussy just really, really likes me."

"I guess so," she murmurs, a lazy, dazed smile spreading across her face. "Or maybe you just finally fucked me hard enough to break me.” Then her hand slips between the two of you, down to your lap. Her fingers wrap around your shaft, still rock hard, still throbbing inside her. “Are you close?”

You nod, your breath hitching. “Yeah.”

Her smile changes—still soft, but wicked underneath.

“Good.”

Then she pushes you back, palms on your chest, making you fall flat onto the bed with a surprised grunt. She rolls her hips as she pulls off your cock, the slick noise of her body separating from yours obscene, strands of wetness sticking to your shaft.

She straddles you like she owns you; knees braced on either side of your hips, sweat-slick thighs trembling but determined, ass flexing as she angles herself just right. You’re flat on your back, heart thundering in your chest, cock twitching and red and glistening with her slick, twitching against your stomach until she grips it with one hand, lines the head up with the soaked, glistening pucker of her asshole, and then sinks.

Your breath catches in your throat as her ass envelops you again, tight and hot, that familiar pressure building immediately as she sinks down with a slow, sinful twist of her hips. The tip slides in, and she moans, a low, guttural sound of pleasure and defiance, her back arching, hair sticking to her damp face. Her hole stretches around you perfectly, so perfectly it borders on painful, but she keeps going, inch by inch, until her full weight settles against your hips and you’re buried to the base.

You groan, your fingers digging into the sheets as her ass clenches around your cock like a fist. She lifts her head, licking her lips, eyes half-lidded with bliss.

“Still so fucking hard,” she murmurs. “You love my ass, don’t you?”

You nod, helpless.

“I could ride this cock all night,” she whispers, then smiles wickedly. “And I just might.”

She starts to move.

No slow buildup, no gentle grind: she fucks you, bouncing on your cock with reckless rhythm, ass clapping against your thighs, wet, loud, filthy. You groan through gritted teeth, hands finding her waist to keep yourself grounded, but it’s impossible to keep up with her. She’s wild. Even after cumming twice, even after being reduced to a trembling, soaking mess; she’s still fucking insatiable. Every drop of strength she has is poured into fucking herself on your cock like a nymphomaniac possessed.

“Oh my god,” you groan, hips thrusting up instinctively to meet her. “Irene—Irene, I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

“I know you’re close,” she gasps, riding you harder. “I can feel it. Your cock’s throbbing like it’s about to explode. Come on. Don’t hold back.”

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, and slaps your face (not soft). Your head rocks to the side, the sting immediate, and your cock jerks hard inside her.

“Cum,” she hisses, breath hot against your mouth. “Fucking fill me. Cum in my ass. Do it.”

Your hands clamp onto her hips, pulling her down with every thrust, using her body like a goddamn toy, because that’s what she wants—her words, not yours. She’s a toy, a whore, a filthy little anal slut who wants nothing more than to milk the last fucking drop out of you.

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” she pants, her nails dragging down your chest. “I know you do. I can feel it. You’re right there. Do it—cum inside my ass.”

Your brain goes blank. There’s no air, no words, just pleasure, pure and blistering, like you’ve been set on fire from the inside out. Your whole body seizes, hips jerking up into her as the orgasm slams into you like a bomb.

“Fuuuck—” you groan, head thrown back, every muscle tightening.

You cum. Hot, thick spurts of seed shoot deep into her tight little ass, each pulse more intense than the last, her body milking you with every squeeze, every rhythmic clench. It pours out of you, heavy and helpless, so much it feels like your balls are emptying themselves completely into her. She moans low and deep as she feels it, still grinding, slow now, purposeful, drawing out every spurt like she’s harvesting it.

“Fuck yes,” she groans, eyes fluttering shut. “So hot inside me… I can feel it—all of it. So warm. So fucking full.”

You can't stop moaning, your voice a pathetic, broken thing in the quiet of the bedroom. Your orgasm has left you hollowed out, your body trembling and weak, but she’s still moving. Her hips continue their slow, tight circles, grinding your now hypersensitive cock against the walls of her asshole. Every tiny movement sends a jolt of raw, overstimulated friction through you that’s almost painful. Your semi-flaccid cock twitches again, spasming weakly, squeezing out another dribble of cum into the hot, slick grip of her ass. The wet, squelching sound is obscene.

“Jesus,” you whisper. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, your whole body tense. “Irene—I can’t—please, stop…”

She just laughs. It’s not her usual soft, sweet chuckle. This is a low, throaty, cruel sound that vibrates down through her body and into yours. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her sweat-slick hair falling around her face like a dark curtain. Her eyes are glittering with a wild, sadistic light.

“Stop?” she purrs, her hips not pausing their relentless, grinding motion. “Oh, baby. We’re not stopping. We’re just getting started.” She grinds down harder, a deliberate, punishing circle that makes you cry out. “Remember earlier? When I was begging you to fuck me harder, and you just kept going slow? When you were teasing me, making me wait, making me plead for it?”

You nod weakly, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Well,” she says. “Payback’s a bitch. This is my revenge. Now it’s your turn to beg. It’s your turn to lie there and take it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you want me to stop. You don’t get to move. You don’t get to pull out. You just take it. Understood?”

“Irene… please… I’m empty,” you plead, your hips instinctively trying to squirm away from the relentless pressure.

Her hands shoot out, pinning your wrists to the bed on either side of your head. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “I said, don’t move,” she hisses. “And you are not empty. I know you, baby. I know your body. There’s always more. And I’m going to milk every last fucking drop out of you before I’m done.”

With your arms pinned, you’re completely at her mercy. She speeds up, just slightly. The slow, torturous grind transitions into a purposeful, steady rhythm. The wet, sloppy sounds of your cum lubricating her fucking get louder. She’s using your own release against you, turning it into a slick coating for her relentless ride.

“That’s it,” she moans, her own pleasure building again. “Feels so good, riding you when you’re this sensitive. I can feel your cock twitching inside my ass with every fucking squeeze. You love it, don’t you? Even though it hurts. You love being my toy.”

“It’s too much, babe…” you groan, your head thrashing on the pillow. Your cock, against all odds, is hardening again inside her, engorging with trapped blood, the sensitivity becoming an unbearable, burning ache.

“Too much? Oh, no. This isn’t even close to too much,” she taunts, her pace quickening even more. She starts bouncing on you, her ass slapping against your thighs, each impact sending a shockwave of sensation straight to your overstimulated nerves. “I’m not stopping until I cum again. And you’re going to be hard and buried inside my ass for that whole ride. You’re going to fill me up again while I’m screaming.”

She’s a fucking demon, a beautiful, insatiable nympho riding you into oblivion. She can feel you getting hard again, feel your body’s unwilling response. A triumphant, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oh, look at that,” she pants, her rhythm becoming frantic now. “Getting hard again for me. Such a good boy. You can’t help it, can you? Your cock just wants to please me. It just wants to be milked by my greedy little asshole.”

Her words are a death sentence to your self-control. Your body is already screaming, a raw nerve of overstimulation, but her filthy promises send a fresh wave of heat through you. You’re actually hardening again, impossibly, painfully, inside the slick, tight grip of her ass.

“You’re on the edge again, aren’t you?” she pants, her rhythm becoming frantic now, a brutal, merciless bouncing on your raw cock. “I can feel it. Your cock is twitching inside my ass, getting ready to shoot for me again. Good. I want it. I want your hot load coating my insides. I want to feel you pump every last drop into my greedy little hole.”

“Irene… please… I can’t…” you plead.

“Shhh. You don’t get a say in this. You don’t decide when you’re done. I do. I’m going to milk your balls dry, and you’re going to lie here and take it like the good little toy you are. I want to feel you come apart inside me. I want to feel you lose your fucking mind.”

She feels the tell-tale tremor run through you. She knows. A triumphant, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oh, yes… right there…” she hisses, her pace becoming even more punishing. “You’re going to give it to me now. You’re going to fill your whore’s ass up again. Fucking beg me for it. Beg me to let you cum.”

“Please,” you sob, the word ripped from a place beyond your control. “Please, Irene… let me cum… please…”

“That’s it,” she purrs. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

She lets go of your wrists, braces her hands on your shoulders, and with a final, guttural cry of her own, she sits down on you. Hard.

The sudden, overwhelming pressure is blinding. It forces the air from your lungs in a choked scream. Your body goes rigid, your back arching violently off the bed as the second orgasm rips through you with a force that feels like it’s tearing you apart. It's a complete system overload, a raw, involuntary expulsion that is pure, agonizing bliss.

Hot, thick ropes of your cum shoot deep inside her again, flooding her, filling the space that was already slick with your first release. You’re screaming, incoherent, your mind completely blanked out by the intensity.

As you flood her, a sound tears from her throat; not a taunt, but a raw, shocked scream of her own. Her whole body locks up, seizing around you. Her ass muscles spasm violently, a deep, powerful clenching that milks you even harder, drawing out every last drop of your release. The sheer force of you coming inside her, filling her so completely, has pushed her over her own edge.

“OH FUCK!” she screams, voice cracking as her own orgasm hits her suddenly. She’s coming apart on top of you, her body convulsing, her mind wiped clean. You feel her climax in the way her inner walls flutter and pulse around your still-erupting cock. She’s coming from your cum, from the feeling of being brutally, completely filled.

She rides out the violent waves, her body still moving on instinct, until the last shuddering tremor racks through both of you. Finally, with a long, shuddering sigh, she collapses, her body a dead weight on top of yours, her face buried in the crook of your neck. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, completely and utterly broken. Her ass is still wrapped snugly around your now-softening cock, your combined releases making a warm, sticky mess between you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is your ragged, shared breathing. You stroke her hair, your fingers trembling slightly, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks. She feels impossibly warm, impossibly real, molded against you.

You let the silence stretch, letting the intensity fade into a soft, warm quiet. You feel her press a weak, open-mouthed kiss against your throat.

“I love you, Irene,” you whisper. It's the first time you've told her that. It feels like the only true thing in the universe right now.

You feel her tense for a second, then melt against you even more. She lifts her head, her face a beautiful wreck. Her eyes are hazy, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed. She looks at you, and the raw, unadulterated love in her gaze steals your breath all over again.

“I love you too,” she whispers back. She leans down and kisses you.

She pulls back, resting her forehead against yours. “Jesus,” she breathes, a shaky laugh escaping her. “No one’s ever… done that to me before.”

“Done what?” you murmur, your thumb stroking her cheek.

“That,” she says, her gaze soft and vulnerable. “Made me feel so… completely dominated. So used and broken. And then… made me feel so completely loved, all in the same breath. I didn't know that was possible.” She nuzzles her face into your chest. “I trust you so much. I can be… all of this… this filthy, needy thing… and I know you won't leave. I know you’ll still be here to hold me after. You are the first person to understand me completely."

You wrap your arms tighter around her. “I’m never leaving,” you say. “You can be whatever you want with me, Irene. Dominant, submissive, a fucking demon, an angel. It doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here. I’ll still love you.”

She sighs, a sound of pure, contented relief. “Good,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut. “Because I think you broke my ass. You’re going to have to carry me to the shower.”

You chuckle, kissing the top of her head. “Deal.”

—

An hour later, after a long, hot shower that washed away the sweat and cum but left the buzzing, bone-deep satisfaction, you're both on the couch, tangled together in a thick blanket. The apartment is quiet and dark, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp. You take the cake that Irene prepared and put it on the coffee table.

It's a rich, dark chocolate cake, with a glossy ganache frosting that’s a little uneven on the sides, a testament to the fact that she made it herself. A few simple, elegant chocolate shavings are scattered on top. It looks cute and real. You find a few candles in a drawer and stick them in the center.

"Alright, birthday boy," she murmurs. "Make a wish."

You look from the flickering candles to her face, her skin glowing in the warm light, her eyes soft and heavy-lidded with exhaustion and love. "Already got it," you say quietly.

You lean forward, and blow the candles out in a single, gentle puff. The wicks glow red for a moment before extinguishing, leaving thin trails of smoke curling in the air. You cut a large, messy slice and hold the fork up to her lips. She parts them, taking the bite, and her eyes flutter shut. A low, genuine moan of pure bliss rumbles in her chest.

“Holy shit,” she sighs as she chews slowly. “Okay. This is what I needed all along.”

You laugh, taking a bite yourself. "What, not the two hours of borderline-abusive anal sex?"

She nudges you with her shoulder, swallowing. “Okay, both,” she concedes, her lips quirking into a grin. “But this is a very, very close second. I can’t believe the cake actually turned out good. I had to whip it up in a rush before you got back from your walk.”

"This is honestly the best chocolate cake I've ever had," you say, meaning it. You pause, a wicked grin spreading across your face. "But... I think I still prefer the taste of it on your tits."

Her laugh is sudden and bright, a beautiful, airy sound. A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she hides her face in your shoulder for a second. "Oh my god, you're an idiot," she murmurs into your t-shirt, but she’s still shaking with laughter. “In my head it was an incredibly erotic idea.”

She leans her head against your shoulder, tucking her legs up under the blanket, and you both eat the cake in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sharing the fork.

“I really like this,” she says quietly.

“Yeah?” you ask, nudging her gently with your head. “What part?”

She sighs, a sound of deep, bone-deep contentment. “All of it. The chaos from earlier. The quiet now. You.” She pauses, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket over your thigh. “Just… this. Sitting on a couch, eating cake. It feels so… normal. I haven’t felt normal in a very long time. I think I forgot what it was like.”

She looks up at you, her eyes wide and sincere. “For years, I just felt like this… lonely creature. Hiding. Just trying to get through the day without anyone really seeing me. It’s so nice to not feel like that anymore. To just be… here. With you. And for it to be this easy.”

You put the plate down and turn, wrapping your arms fully around her, pulling her into your lap. You kiss her forehead, holding her close. “This is your new normal, Irene,” you whisper into her hair. “You’re not a lonely creature. You’re my amazing, brilliant girlfriend who makes killer chocolate cake and who I get to come home to. You’re not alone anymore.”

She burrows her face into your neck, holding you tight. You feel a wetness on your skin and realize she’s crying, but it’s a quiet, happy, cleansing cry.

After a moment, she pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, a watery but radiant smile on her face. She leans in, kisses you softly, deeply.

“Happy birthday,” she whispers again against your lips. “This was a really good day.”

—

It’s deep into the night by the time you make it to bed. The room’s completely dark except for the faint glow of the city filtering in through the slats in the blinds. Irene’s lying on her side, bare under the sheets, one leg tangled with yours, her fingers lazily drawing circles on your chest.

“Can I tell you something?”

You turn to face her. “Always.”

She takes a breath. “It’s… about my past. The… stuff I used to do.”

You nod, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”

“No. I want to.” Her hand presses against your sternum, anchoring herself. “I just haven’t really… said this out loud in a long time. But I think it's time to tell you the whole story.”

You wait.

“I got into porn when I was twenty-one,” she says, slowly, like each word needs to be chosen carefully. “I was drowning in student loans. I’d dropped out after two years of college because I couldn’t keep up financially, and I was so fucking angry; at myself, at my parents, at the system. I was doing retail. I was behind on rent. I was living in a place with mold on the walls, sharing a mattress with someone I didn’t even like.”

You nod, your hand finding hers under the blanket and squeezing it.

“People think porn is this glamorous, expensive thing you fall into because you’re greedy or slutty or broken. But it wasn’t like that. It was desperation. And curiosity. And yeah, maybe a little recklessness too.” She chuckles, but it’s dry. “I found an ad on the internet. It was a new adult film studio that was gaining popularity. I think it no longer exists today, but it was becoming well-known at the time. The ad didn't say much, just ‘professional shoot, high pay, women 18–30.’ And I thought… fuck it. What else am I gonna do?”

A new adult film production company

Your thumb runs along her knuckles slowly. She continues.

“I wasn’t scared, really. I was more scared of being broke forever. I’d always been… into sex. A lot. Like, way more than anyone I knew. Masturbating three times a day since I was a teenager. Hookups that made my friends call me names behind my back. But porn? It felt like a way to finally own that part of myself. Monetize it. Flip the script.”

She shifts, her cheek brushing your chest. Her voice steadies, but it’s raw.

“The first shoot was awkward as hell. I cried afterward. Not because I hated it. I didn’t. I liked it. I liked the power of it, the thrill of being watched, of giving someone a fantasy and being in control of how far I’d take it. After spending 1 week filming the scenes, I came home with two thousand dollars in a brown envelope and the weirdest feeling that I’d just started something I couldn’t undo.”

The way she talks—it’s not rehearsed. It’s not for pity. It’s like she’s finally giving herself permission to speak it out loud.

“And from there it just… grew. I filmed more. I used different names. I met people who pulled me in deeper. Some were great, honestly. Some were predators. But the money came fast. I paid off my college debt in under a year. Got a better place. Better food. Clothes. And I was fucking constantly. It was like being high.”

She pauses. Her fingers clutch yours tighter.

“I got addicted. Not to the money. Not even to the attention. To the sex. To the permission. Like I was finally allowed to be as filthy as I’d always been inside. And people were clapping for it. Commenting. Downloading. Jerking off to me. I became this thing. A brand. A body.”

You feel her exhale. Her voice cracks at the edges.

“Eventually I couldn’t tell where Irene the girl ended and Irene the performer began. I’d be doing grocery shopping and people would stare at me and I’d wonder if they recognized me. Or if I was just imagining it. I stopped dating. Who the hell wants to date a girl who’s had fifty dicks on camera? I started pulling back. Told myself I’d film one last scene. Then another. Then another… Eventually I met a guy, he was nice. And I thought maybe this was my chance to leave that world and live a normal life. I had no idea what was yet to come.”

Her voice fades for a second, and you hear her swallow.

"My relationship fell apart when he discovered everything. I had every intention of telling him the truth—I swear I didn’t mean to deceive him—but it was such a difficult thing to bring up. I was trying to find the right moment, building up the courage. By then, I had already left the adult film industry and was working a regular job, trying to move on with my life. But I waited too long, and somehow, he found out. I still don’t know how it happened. Maybe one of his friends stumbled across something and told him, or perhaps he came across one of my old videos online. It doesn’t really matter now. After that, my world unraveled. He told everyone: our friends, even people at the company where I worked. The shame and judgment were overwhelming. So, I just… vanished. I cut ties completely. Deleted all my social media accounts, changed my phone number, and moved to a new city to start over.”

You can feel her heartbeat through her chest, thudding softly against yours.

“And since then, I’ve been alone. Not just physically. I mean… alone. I didn’t touch anyone. I didn’t let anyone touch me. I thought if I deprived myself long enough, I’d stop wanting it. That I’d be better. Cleaner. Deserving of a different life.”

She lifts her head, finally. She looks at you like she’s terrified. And yet still determined.

“Then you came along. And for the first time in years, I wanted to want again. Not just for the release. But for the way you looked at me. The way you talked to me, saw me. You didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared. You didn’t treat me like I was made of broken parts.”

You move your hand to her cheek and stroke it gently.

“I was scared I’d fall back into old habits. That if I let myself be touched again, I’d become… her. That insatiable thing. The one who always needed more. But it’s different with you. I don’t feel empty after. I don’t feel used.”

She exhales, her lips trembling. “I feel… real. Like I can breathe again. Like I’m allowed to be who I am. And still be loved.” Then quieter. “You don’t think I’m sick, do you?”

Your response is immediate. Fierce.

“No. Not even close.”

Her lip trembles. “I’ve done things that would probably make you run if I told you. Stuff I can’t take back. And I still want sex. I’ll probably always crave it too much. I’m still trying to balance it. Be healthy. Not lose myself in it again. But it’s hard. It’s messy. I feel like damaged goods, sometimes.”

You cup her face in both hands, pressing your forehead to hers.

“You are not damaged. You’re not sick. You’re brave. You’re human. And you’ve survived more than most people even think about. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. And you have a right to want. To need. To feel.”

She lets out a sound like a sob, but it turns into a laugh, wet and breathless.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me like this. Not even me.”

You pull her close, so close there’s no air left between you.

“You deserve to be loved, Irene. Every inch. Every version. Every mood. You deserve it.”

She stays curled against your chest, her breath soft and steady now, her body wrapped around yours like she’s trying to memorize the shape of safety.

“I was such a bitch when I started,” she says.

“You were not.”

“I kind of was.” She laughs quietly, her nose brushing against your jaw. “I didn’t talk to anyone. I barely made eye contact with you the first two weeks.”

“You were reserved,” you correct her gently. “Not rude.”

“I was terrified,” she admits. “Not of you, just… of everything. I had the feeling that I was constantly being watched. I thought I’d last maybe a month before someone recognized me. Before the whispers started.”

You nod, stroking her spine slowly with your fingertips.

“I almost quit the second week,” she confesses. “I wrote the email. Had my resignation drafted and everything. I thought it’d be easier to just run. That’s always been my thing—run when it starts to feel like people care too much.”

You tilt your head, nudging her nose with yours.

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” she says, a small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “You wouldn’t let me.”

You smirk. “That makes me sound controlling.”

She giggles, quiet and real, the kind of laugh she only gives you when it’s just the two of you in the dark like this.

“No, you were just… kind. And persistent. You kept checking in. Bringing me coffee even when I wouldn’t talk to you. Including me in conversations even when I’d pretend I was busy.” You shrug like it was nothing. Because to you, it was nothing. The bare minimum. But to her? It’s clearly more. “I don’t think I would’ve stayed if it wasn’t for you,” she says, voice dipping lower again. “You didn’t push. You didn’t ask too much. You just… let me be, while still reminding me I wasn’t invisible.”

Her fingers skim your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the corner of your mouth. “So yeah. Thank you. For being patient. For not giving up on me before you even knew what I was hiding.”

You meet her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I didn’t know what you were hiding, but I knew you were worth knowing. That was enough.” She looks like she’s about to protest again, maybe deflect or crack a joke, but you don’t let her. “And for the record,” you add, leaning in just a little, your lips grazing hers, “you being here tonight? With me? That’s the best birthday present I could’ve asked for.”

Her eyes flutter shut for a second like she’s letting it soak in. Then she leans forward and kisses you, slow and unsure at first, but then deeper, warmer, like her body’s catching up to what her heart’s just now starting to believe. Her fingers wind into your hair, her chest pressing to yours, and her lips stay against you for long moments, whispering wordless thank-yous between every soft drag of her mouth.

—

Everything is fine. For months, everything is fucking perfect.

The revelation of Irene’s past, that raw, terrifying confession in the dark of your bedroom, didn’t break you. It bonded you. A routine settles in, easy and comfortable. She keeps the apartment, a permanent fixture now, her quiet confidence growing day by day. She starts talking to people more, a small smile here, a shared joke there. She’s still Irene, reserved, observant, but the wall of fear has been dismantled, brick by brick. She’s a common face in your life now, an essential one. Her toothbrush is in your bathroom holder. Your hoodie is her favorite thing to sleep in. You trade nights at each other’s apartments, building a small, shared world of takeout, inside jokes, and lazy Sunday mornings.

And the sex. Fuck, the sex. Knowing her history, knowing the deep well of experience she draws from, only makes it hotter. It’s not just a physical act; it’s a form of communication, a place where she can be completely, uninhibitedly herself. And you… you’re falling in love with her. It’s not a sudden realization, but a slow, creeping certainty that settles in your bones. You’re in love with every part of her—the quiet office worker, the demanding lover, the brave woman who is learning to trust again. Everything is fine.

Until today.

The office is quiet. It’s break time on a Monday. Half the staff are outside or in the break room. You’re just walking back to your desk after refilling your water bottle when you see it. A huddle. Four, maybe five guys from the junior sales and IT teams, clustered around a workstation at the far end of the open-plan space. Their backs are to you, their shoulders hunched together, their focus absolute.

You hear murmurs, low and conspiratorial. A snicker.

"…Jesus, look at her take that…"

"No way that’s really her…"

"God, I’d pay good money…"

A familiar, unpleasant prickle goes up your spine. You start walking over, your curiosity piqued. Probably just watching some stupid viral video or a sports highlight. You come up behind them, peering over the shoulder of some fresh-faced IT kid.

And then you see it. Your heart stops. Literally fucking stops. The blood in your veins turns to ice.

On the monitor, displayed for anyone to see, is a porn video. The image is sharp, clear, and utterly undeniable. It’s her. It’s Irene. Younger, yes, but unmistakably her. She’s on her knees, her mouth wrapped around some guy’s cock, her eyes looking straight into the camera with a practiced, dead-eyed expression that is so alien from the woman you know it makes you physically sick.

You freeze. For one, long, terrible second, your brain cannot compute. The two realities: Irene, your Irene - the woman who makes you laugh and brings you cookies, and this woman on the screen, a sexual commodity - violently collide, and your mind just… shorts out.

You don’t even think. You move. You shove your way through the huddle of gawking men, their surprised yelps barely registering.

"Who the fuck put this on?" you scream, your words ripping through the quiet office, echoing off the partitions.

Your eyes land on the person in the chair. It’s fucking Kyle. A newbie from the sales team, barely twenty-two, a smirking, entitled little shit you’ve disliked from day one, the kind of kid who thinks sexual harassment policies are just a suggestion.

You grab him by the collar of his preppy polo shirt before he can even react, hauling him out of the chair, slamming him back against the cubicle wall. His feet scramble for purchase.

"Was this you?" you roar, your face inches from his, your knuckles white where you’re gripping his shirt. "Did you do this?”

His smug little face has dissolved into pure, slack-jawed terror. "Whoa, man, chill out! I-It wasn’t just me!" he stammers, his eyes wide, darting between you and the screen where Irene is now taking the guy’s cock deeper down her throat.

"I’m going to ask you one more fucking time," you snarl, giving him a hard shake. "Did. you. put. this. on?"

"N-no! I mean, yes, but—but Kevin recognized her!" he squeaks, pointing a trembling finger at another terrified-looking newbie cowering nearby. "He said he’d seen one of her movies before, and we didn’t believe him, so we just… we just looked it up to see if it was true! It was just a joke!"

"'A joke'?" you repeat. "You think this is a fucking JOKE? You had no right. No fucking right!" You draw your fist back, every ounce of rage in your body screaming at you to smash it into his stupid, terrified face, to wipe that pathetic excuse off the planet.

"Hey! What the hell is going on over here?"

The commotion has drawn a crowd. Park Sooyoung from HR is there, her face a mask of stern disapproval. Seulgi from accounts is peering over a cubicle wall. And then, among the new faces trickling in from the break room, drawn by your shouting, you see her.

Irene.

She stops, a cup of tea in her hand, a look of mild curiosity on her face. Then she follows everyone’s gaze. First to you, holding Kyle pinned against the wall. Then to the huddle of now-terrified men. And finally… to the monitor.

Time slows down. You watch as her eyes land on the screen, as they widen, as she processes the grainy, moving image of her younger self. You see the exact moment of recognition. You see the color drain from her face, leaving it a sickly, ashen grey. You see her mouth fall open in a silent, horrified expression. You see her worst fear, the trauma she’s been running from for years, realized in the most brutal, public way imaginable. And it breaks your fucking heart. The rage in you evaporates, replaced by a cold, sickening horror that mirrors her own.

Her cup slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor, splashing hot tea across the grey carpet. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are still glued to the screen, her body frozen. Then, a choked, strangled sound escapes her lips. She turns, her face a mask of such absolute, bone-deep horror that it will be seared into your memory forever, and she runs.

"Irene!"

You let go of Kyle, shoving him away so hard he stumbles and falls. You push past Wendy, past the stunned onlookers, your entire being focused on getting to her. But she’s already at her desk, her movements frantic, clumsy. She snatches her handbag, her hands shaking so badly she can barely hold it.

"Irene, wait!" you call out, but she’s not listening. She’s a cornered animal, driven only by the instinct to escape. She bolts, running for the elevators, her footsteps echoing in the now-silent, watching office.

You lunge, your body moving on pure instinct, throwing yourself through the gap just as the polished steel doors of the elevator begin to slide shut. You land inside with a heavy thud, the doors closing behind you, sealing you both in the small, descending box. The world outside: the shocked faces, the murmuring, the obscene image still frozen on that monitor, is gone. It’s just you and her.

And she’s broken.

Irene doesn’t just stumble; she collapses. Her body gives out completely, her legs folding beneath her as she hits the floor in a heap. A raw, animal sound of pure agony is torn from her throat, a sound that has nothing to do with the quiet, composed woman you know. She curls into a fetal position on the cold, sterile floor, her hands clawing at her hair, her whole body shaking with violent, uncontrollable tremors.

"No… no, no, no…" she gasps, her words dissolving into ragged, hyperventilating breaths.

This isn't just crying. This is a panic attack, full-blown and terrifying. You’re on the floor with her in an instant, you gather her into your arms, pulling her trembling body against your chest, trying to shield her from a horror that’s already inside her head.

"Irene, hey, I’m here. I’ve got you," you murmur. You hug her tight, trying to use your own body to still her shaking. "Breathe, baby. Just try to breathe with me."

"I knew it," she whines, her face buried in your shirt. "Oh god, I knew this would happen… I was so stupid… so fucking stupid to think I could just… leave it behind…" Her words are punctuated by desperate, panicked gasps for air. "It’s never going to stop. It’s always going to find me. It’ll never fucking stop haunting me…"

"Shh, shh, no, that’s not true," you insist, your heart fracturing at the sheer, raw despair in her words. You gently take her face in your hands, forcing her to look away from the floor, to look at you. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, her beautiful face streaked with tears and twisted in a mask of pure terror. "Irene. Hey. Look at me." Your tone is firm but gentle, trying to cut through the noise in her head. "Look at me. I’m right here. You see me?"

Her gaze flickers, struggles to focus on yours. She gives a tiny, shuddering nod.

"Good," you say, your thumbs stroking her tear-soaked cheeks. "You are not alone in this. Do you hear me? I am not leaving you. Not now, not ever. We… we can get through this. Together. But I need you to be strong right now, Irene. I need you to just hold on for me. Can you do that?"

"I can’t…" she chokes out, a fresh wave of sobs shaking her. "I can’t go back there. I can’t face them. I can’t…"

"You don’t have to," you say immediately. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do." And then, the words, the most honest, urgent truth you possess, just… come out. A desperate anchor thrown into the storm of her panic. "I love you, Irene."

Her frantic, panicked breathing stutters. Her wide, terrified eyes blink, the wildness in them receding for just a second, replaced by a look of stunned, utter disbelief. She stares at you as if she’s never seen you before.

"I love you," you repeat. "And because I love you, I will fight for you. I will protect you. Those fuckers who did this? They will be punished. They will be gone from that office before the sun comes up tomorrow, I fucking swear it. I will talk to Henderson. I will talk to HR. I will talk to every single person in that office and I will explain exactly what happened; that a couple of immature, pathetic little shits violated your privacy and humiliated you, and that they don’t represent what our company stands for."

You lean closer, your forehead pressing against hers. "Remember what I said? That it’s a good office, with good people? That is still true, Irene. The people who did this… they are the exception. They are newbies who don’t fucking belong there. You do. You belong there."

Her breathing is starting to even out, her gaze still fixed on yours, clinging to your words.

"You don’t have to be silent," you continue. "You don’t have to hide. I can be your voice, if you want me to. I will scream for you until my own throat is raw. All I ask… all I need from you right now… is that you don’t run away. Not from this. And not from me."

For a long moment, she just looks at you, the tears still flowing silently down her face, but the raw panic has subsided. Then, with a shuddering cry that’s more relief than pain, she collapses forward, her arms wrapping around your neck, clinging to you as if you’re the only solid thing in a world that has just disintegrated around her.

"I love you too," she whispers, her words muffled against your shoulder, choked with sobs. "God, I love you so much."

A huge, shaky smile breaks across your face, even as your own eyes start to burn. You hug her back, hard, burying your face in her hair, breathing in her scent. "That’s great," you whisper, laughing a little through the sheer, overwhelming emotion of it all. "That’s… that’s all that matters." You pull back, looking into her eyes again. "We can do this, Irene. Together."

She looks at you, her face a mess, her body still trembling, but for the first time since this nightmare started, there’s a flicker of her old strength, her resilience, in her eyes. She nods, a small, jerky movement. "Yes," she says. "Okay. Yes. I can… I can try."

Just then, a soft chime rings through the small space, and the elevator doors slide open with a gentle whoosh, revealing the brightly lit, indifferent emptiness of the ground floor lobby.

—

The hours that followed your escape in the elevator were a blur of cold, focused fury. While Irene was safely behind the locked door of your apartment, you went to war. You didn’t just want to find out what happened; you wanted names, you wanted details, and you wanted blood. Leveraging your supervisor credentials and a couple of quiet, pointed conversations with reliable sources (people you knew weren’t part of the office’s smirking underbelly) the whole pathetic story spilled out.

It was exactly as the terrified little shit Kyle had stammered. A rookie named Kevin, a recent transfer from another branch, had recognized Irene. He’d apparently bragged to his new friend Kyle that he’d jerked off to one of her films back in college. Kyle, ever the skeptic and dickhead, had called bullshit. So, on a slow Monday afternoon, they looked her up. When they found the videos, confirming Kevin’s claim, their pathetic little minds were blown. They couldn’t just keep it to themselves. They had to prove their discovery, gathering a small, willing audience of other bored, morally bankrupt juniors to gawk at their coworker’s past, laid bare on a company monitor.

The ugliest part, the detail that made you want to find them and break their fucking hands, came from Park Sooyoung in HR, who had pulled one of the other witnesses aside. Just before you’d walked in, Kyle had allegedly joked to the group that maybe he should make Irene a "proposal" (a bit of quid pro quo). She could fuck him, and in exchange, he’d keep her secret from spreading to the rest of the company. He claimed, when confronted, that it was "just banter." You classified it as attempted blackmail and gross misconduct of the highest order.

Their expulsion was swift and brutal. You, Sooyoung, and Henderson, the big boss himself, had them in a conference room before they could even clock out. By the time they were escorted out by security, their careers at Henderson Corp were over, and the big boss promised you he’d be making a few calls. Thanks to his contacts, those two little shits were going to have a very, very difficult time finding another job in this industry, in this city, ever again.

Now, the next morning, you stand at the head of the main conference room. Your entire team is here, seated around the long, polished table. And so is Irene. She’s sitting between Wendy and another woman from her department, a silent, formidable wall of female support flanking her. She looks pale, exhausted, her eyes slightly puffy, but she’s here. She showed up. The sheer, breathtaking courage of that simple act makes you look at the people in the room with renewed determination.

You clear your throat, and the room falls silent. Everyone’s eyes are on you.

"Good morning, everyone," you begin, your tone calm, level, professional. You let your gaze travel around the room, meeting the eyes of each person there. "I’ve called this meeting because I need to address the incident that occurred in our workspace yesterday afternoon. I’m not going to go into the explicit details, because frankly, they are irrelevant. What is relevant, what is critical for every single one of us to understand, is what that incident represents."

You pause, letting the weight of your words sink in.

"Yesterday, a member of our team had her fundamental right to privacy violated in the most egregious way possible. She was exposed, without her consent, to a small group of employees in an act that constitutes severe, targeted harassment." You can feel the anger, still simmering just below the surface, but you keep it leashed, transforming it into cold, hard authority. "Let me be absolutely, unequivocally clear: this type of behavior is not just unacceptable within this company; it is antithetical to everything we stand for. This is a zero-tolerance policy issue. The individuals responsible for perpetrating this act, for creating what is legally defined as a hostile work environment, have already been terminated. Their access has been revoked, and they will not be returning."

A few people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Good. Let them be uncomfortable.

"We are all human beings here," you continue, your tone shifting slightly, becoming more personal, more human. "We come to this office every day from different walks of life. We all have experiences, we all have histories, we all have traumas and triumphs and pasts that are entirely our own. And no one—no one—in this room, or in this company, has the right to excavate another person’s history and put it on public display for their own amusement or judgment. The moment we start believing we have that right is the moment we lose our own humanity."

Your eyes find Irene’s across the room. She looks up, meeting your gaze. You give her a small, almost imperceptible smile, one meant only for her.

"I am incredibly proud, and frankly, humbled," you say as you continue to look at her, "that our coworker chose to walk back into this office today. That she chose to stay with this team, even after what happened. That choice shows an incredible amount of trust in us. In all of us." You look around the room again, at your team. "It shows that she believes this incident was an anomaly. That she believes the rest of us are better than that. And I hope, I expect, that every single one of you will spend every day proving to her that she is absolutely right to place her trust in us once more."

"We have an obligation to maintain not just a physically safe workspace, but a psychologically safe one. And what happened yesterday was a profound breach of that psychological safety. It will not happen again." You take a deep breath. "Irene, what you did today, just by being here, took more courage than most people will have to show in their entire careers. You are facing this with your head held high, and you have the full, unwavering support of this company’s leadership, and of your team." You start clapping, a slow, deliberate sound in the quiet room. "I’d like to ask for a round of applause for Irene."

For a split second, there’s silence. Then, Sarah, sitting next to Irene, starts clapping loudly. Then another person, and another, until the entire room erupts in a wave of sustained, genuine applause. It’s not polite, corporate clapping; it’s loud, it’s heartfelt. The women beside Irene grab her hands, squeezing them tight, hugging her shoulder. You see a single, fresh tear roll down Irene’s cheek, but this time, she’s smiling through it, a watery, overwhelmed, but real smile.

You let the applause continue for a long moment, a testament to her, a cleansing of the ugliness from yesterday. When it finally dies down, you clap your hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that brings the focus back to you.

"Alright," you say, your tone shifting back to that of a no-nonsense supervisor. "Thank you for your attention. The matter is dealt with. Let’s get back to work. We have deadlines to meet, and no one is slacking off on my watch."

A few nervous chuckles ripple through the room as people start to stand, the tension finally broken. You wait as the last person files out of the conference room. You inhale and exhale slowly your shoulders slumping slightly. It’s over. The worst is over.

Then, you hear the soft scrape of a chair. It’s Irene. She didn’t leave with the others. She pushes herself to her feet and slowly walks towards you, navigating the maze of chairs.

"That was a great speech," she says.

You manage a tired grin, shoving your hands in your pockets. "Well, I have to live up to my fancy supervisor title sometimes, right? Can’t just be about chasing you for reports and stealing your pens."

Her smile widens. "Henderson steals the pens, not you."

"Right." You look at her, and she looks, even at this delicate moment, the most beautiful woman in the world. "How are you doing? For real."

She considers the question for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. "I’ll be fine," she says. "Tired. A little… wrung out. But I’ll be fine."

"Do you think you can work today?" you ask gently. "Because if you want to go home, you just say the word. I’ll handle everything here."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I want to stay. I need to stay." She meets your eyes, and there’s a flicker of her newfound fire in them. "I’m done running."

"Okay," you nod. "Okay. But you take it easy." You pause, then a thought strikes you, a desire to anchor this new beginning with something normal, something just for you two. "Hey. You wanna… you wanna go out to dinner tonight? After work? A proper place, with tablecloths and everything. No dive bars."

"Wow, look at you," she teases. "We’re evolving. No more getting me drunk at a bar. Now it’s romantic dinners?"

"Well, now that you've said you love me—twice—I figure I don’t have to get you drunk anymore to trick you into liking me. Saves me some money."

She chuckles again, reaching out and patting your shoulder lightly. "You’re an idiot." Her expression softens, her eyes searching yours. "Hey… can I kiss you?"

You glance instinctively towards the glass door of the conference room, a conditioned reflex. "As long as it’s quick," you whisper back, your heart starting to hammer again for a much, much better reason.

She rises up on her tiptoes, her hands coming to rest on your chest, and presses her lips to yours. It starts as a quick, sweet thank you, but neither of you can hold back. It deepens, fast, her mouth opening against yours, your arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against you. It’s a long, full, passionate kiss, filled with all the terror and relief and love of the last twenty-four hours. It’s a victory.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathless, she reaches up with her thumb and gently wipes the corner of your mouth. "My lipstick," she murmurs. She looks you right in the eye, her own gaze clear and steady. "I love you," she says again, not as a desperate confession in a falling elevator, but as a simple, solid statement of fact.

"I love you too, Irene," you reply.

She rests her forehead against yours for a moment, a comfortable, contended sigh escaping her. "I’m happy to be here," she says softly. "I like it here."

You smile, a teasing glint in your eye. "I hope that’s because of me, and not just because of the significant salary increase and comprehensive benefits package."

"Mmm, it’s mostly because of the salary, to be honest," she says, deadpan. "But you’re nice too, I guess."

"Alright, you," you say, reaching out to playfully nudge her. "We better get going before someone walks in and finds us. Back to pretending we’re just professional coworkers."

"Okay, boss," she says. As you both turn to leave, she gives your ass a sharp, surprising slap.

You yelp, jumping in surprise and turning to look at her with wide, laughing eyes. "Hey! That’s harassment!"

She just winks, her smile turning wicked. "Not my fault you have such a nice ass."

You shake your head, still laughing, a feeling of pure, unadulterated joy bubbling up inside you. "Well, it seems like you’re not that shy, mysterious woman from a few months ago anymore."

She steps closer, looping her arm through yours, leaning her head on your shoulder as you walk towards the door together.

"You’re right," she says, and that confidence of hers that you love so much is back. "I’m not." She looks up at you, her eyes full of love and fire and endless possibilities. "Now, I’m your woman.”

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume four — eternal life

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: listened to a ton of jeff buckley and novo amor writing this. hope you guys enjoy <3. again, check out the playlist for the curated mood and for a forehead kiss.

✦ ── word count: 4.6k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - previous volume - volume five

art by outdmilk on twt

“Didn’t ask for a maid, still don’t need one. Not gonna get on my knees and thank you neither.”

In the bathroom, your knee bobbed up and down, a fiery rage still swirling a tempest storm within you. You had to bite your lip to cease your incessant huffs that began to bubble over like a whistling kettle, nearly tasting copper from the pressure, eyes watering at your embarrassment.

You flexed your fingers open and closed, trying desperately to slow your breathing, but to no avail. 

Besides your snarky personality, you’d been nothing but kind to Sukuna—save for the incident in the woods, but that was when you were in intense pain. He couldn’t blame you for that.

You’d made him breakfast and cleaned up his place, and though you weren’t expecting a ‘thanks,’ you would appreciate him at least treating you like a person. You even groomed his dog for God’s sake.

You didn’t want to be here any more than he wanted you here—so he could cut the act of you being some pesky girl hovering around him like a mosquito and sucking him of his livelihood.

How much longer would you have to endure such an easily riled man no matter what you did?

The cruel familiarity of his words were no comfort either—only cracking open a wound you’d scabbed over long ago. 

But what managed to piss you off the most was that the sole reason you’d come to the woods was now somehow tainted with everything you’d been trying to escape.

The bathroom door creaked, a shadow shuffling below the crack. You could hear the huffs of Sukuna’s breath, quiet and steady, though you could tell he was deep in thought. Or at least you hoped he was after whatever the hell that was outside.

He settled to the ground, back against the bathroom door, eyes dialed in on his bedroom before him. His eyes studied the medullary rays across the wooden frame, small pathways branching out and clawing the across to the end.

You didn’t jaw a peep. If anything, you were steadily holding your breath, Sukuna having you cooling your heels.

He called your name out, gruff and irritated. 

You kept your mouth shut.

He sighed, knocking his head back against the wood and squinting his eyes, trying to decipher the emotions coursing through him. “You gonna live in there forever?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “If it means I don’t have to deal with you.” 

He doesn’t understand why hearing your voice felt like the smallest bit of consolation. “I’m afraid that’s not gonna work.”

“You’re an asshole,” you blurted, worrying your lip between your teeth, peeling the skin and feeling your skin flare in heat. 

“I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, the hum of the bathroom fan coming to a quiet drone in the back of your mind. “You know?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitated this time. “You’re a dick, too.”

He grunted, tossing his arms over his knees. “Shut up and come out. I, uh. I wanna show you something.”

You scowled, cracking your knuckles as you heard the wooden planks shift below Sukuna’s weight as he came to a stand. 

His shadow remained still in that little sliver, and you could feel your mood sharply sour when you’d realized he’d stomped inside with his boots still on.

You came to a stand, flinging the door open and already releasing a slew of curses. “You’re fucking unbelievable, I just mopped the—.”

Your voice was immediately muffled as he stuffed… fabric (?) into your face.

Pawing him off of you, you pulled whatever he’d shoved at you into your hands just to see he’d handed you those ugly jorts from earlier and a graphic t-shirt.

He just stood there, eyeing you casually, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes searched yours charily.

Clenching your teeth, you dropped your hands to your sides. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

He pushed air from his nose before walking away. “Nah. Get changed and c’mere.”

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

You’d put the outfit on—not without huffing and cursing under your breath in his bathroom—after peeling Sukuna’s massive attire off, forgetting how it felt to wear clothes that actually decently fit you. 

The top he’d handed you was clearly from some grunge store, thick lettering across the front with flames and guns and skulls, and the words METALLICA in bold.

Hopping your way out of the bathroom, you peered around the kitchen and living room to find it empty, but just past the open drapes you could see Sukuna tossing a bone, Uraume wagging their tail and chasing after it.

“What do you want?” You shot with venom on your tongue, waddling down the steps you’d come to know, spots where your weight would cause squeaks and to avoid protruding nails.

Sukuna folded his arms over his chest, watching you nearly snag your bandaged foot just to see the wrap come loose. He grunted, brushing past you and into his house in a mere few strides.

Your eyes dialed in on the ground before you, eyes narrowed in a focused reverie to avoid tripping and embarrassing yourself further.

Within seconds, Sukuna came back out with the first aid box and his hat, and wrapped a beefy arm around your midsection.

Your eyes flew wide, the world flipped upside down as your maw hung agape. Your vision met his back, effectively tossed over his shoulder in one fell swoop to have your stomach heaving. 

You brought a hand down to smack his back, legs flailing as you desperately tried to pry yourself free. “Put me down, you oaf!” You shrieked, writhing in his grasp.

“Pipe down,” he growled, one bulging arm wrapped around the backs of your knees and the other carrying the first aid kit, effectively dwarfed in his meaty hand.

“No! I said put me—” You felt yourself begin to fall backwards, Sukuna’s hand cradling the back of your head as he laid you down on a patch of grass. 

Blood drained from your face as you actualized the proximity.

One large arm was still cradled along your waist, his face mere inches from yours as his hand pressed into your scalp, draining any sense of rationality from your short-circuiting brain through his finger tips. 

He then slid his hand from your head and allowed himself to steady upright by placing it beside your face in the greenery.

He smelled like Marlboro Reds.

Time felt still for a moment, eyes following the flow of the sooty work permanently decorating his face. You foolishly wondered if it hurt for him to get them—if he’d huff and grunt and blink back the tears while the artist endured whatever curses he spewed at them. 

And in a rash and senseless motion, your finger reached up and skimmed the edge of his cheek, following the inky trail in nothing but mesmerization and keenness. His skin was unexpectedly soft.

You could feel Sukuna stiffen, his muscles tensing as an annoyed growl left his lips.

And then you couldn’t feel him anymore.

He sat up, mumbling something about how you needed to be placed into an insane asylum while he shuffled through the box in his grasp to pull out bandaids.

All you could do was stare up at the sky, wondering why your finger tip was cold.

His hands were cradling your calf, eyeing your wound suspiciously after he’d stripped it of the dressing. “You said you changed it.”

“I did.”

“So not only are you irritating, but you’re a liar, too,” he scoffed.

You couldn’t help the giggle you let out at that, not able to defend yourself as you’d kept forgetting to check the bandage.

His hands worked to clean your wound, not without you wincing and twitching in his hold, but he held firmly. The ointment was cool and sharp like ice, your hands digging into the dirt behind you as you watched him work.

Venerated, your eyes followed the trails of the wide ink markings across his arm that matched his face, curiously tilting your head as your mind worked. Reasons unbeknownst to you, wonder was stitched into every seam of your making.

Every here and there, he’d find your stare and cast you with a look that sent piercing daggers, to which you’d bite your cheek and peer away.

Still, you weren’t sure if you had much of a place to ask. 

You’d fix your wide orbs on spots around you—watching as summer slipped into solstice arms, the world cast in a golden charm, a sweet and gentle surrender.

“It should only take a few more days before you can properly walk on it,” he stated, placing your leg on the grass once he’d finished. He averted his gaze from you, mindlessly staring at his front door, voice now lower. “You’re welcome to stay until then.”

You furrowed your eyebrows in return, eyes dancing across his stern side profile before your lip tugged upwards curiously. “Is this your way of apologizing to me?”

He scoffed, casting his cheek to you before laying on the ground beside you, a hand over his midsection as he pulled his hat over his face. “You talk too much.”

Wiggling your foot, you squinted your eyes as you eyed his careful patchwork. “You don’t talk enough.”

The next few minutes were silent, not stifling but easy. Like midsummer air.

You leaned back on your elbows, mere feet from Sukuna who’s breaths were slow and heavy. He must’ve fallen asleep.

It’d make sense. He’d had quite the day—you could only assume as a guy who chopped wood in his free time. 

The skyline past the pine trees was spun orange hues melting into an auburn red, and you think that right between them could’ve matched Sukuna’s stark hair. It seemed well-kept, which was surprising for a man living on his own in the forest.

The brush tickled your arm, and most people would’ve found it uncomfortable to be splayed out on itchy grass but you found an odd warmth in it. It smelled of honeysuckle and damp moss.

You couldn’t see the sun past his house, but you assumed it was falling and kissing the skies farewell for now. Praying to see another day as the stars would soon glitter the horizon.

You dropped your head, a few twigs prodding your scalp, but you didn’t move. 

You didn’t know how badly you’d needed quiet all this time.

Back home, you’d fall asleep to the bustling of late traffic and night owls, and awake to the early birds starting their day before they’d have their coffee and honk at each other like territorial mockingjays.

But now, all you could hear were the quiet chirps of canaries, the ticking of cicadas, and the steady breaths of the oaf beside you.

You glanced over, his hat covering his enter face, arms folded over his chest that lifted up and down rhythmically.

He was the kind of guy who’d have no issue falling asleep outside.

Uraume seemed to have given up on playing catch, calling it a night and pawing over to their dogshed.

It felt like you were the only person alive right now.

In your own little bubble, you were the only one to watch time patter on, not a single other pair of orbs to witness it.

Sun marked your bare calves, a soft burn that had every hair standing on edge as your  brain dazed into a summer night's musing. 

Your hand lifted over to the edge of his hat, carefully lifting it to take a peak.

Curling your fingertips against it, your slow deliberation worked in your advantage, earning a glance at Sukuna’s resting profile.

Those deeply marked creases that had been carved into him over time seemed to have come to rest, smoothing out his complexion into something gentler.

His jaw didn’t look clenched like it did whenever he was around you.

You wonder what he must be dreaming about. If he was dreaming.

However, your curious train of thought was quickly broken as you felt a pair of fingers wrap firmly around your wrist.

You let out a stifled yelp, flinching as your gaze followed Sukuna’s incredibly quick hand.

“What are you doing?” He grunted, expression hardening though he had yet to open his eyes.

“I- Uh—,” your heart thrummed in your chest, netted in the act of prodding once again to a man who forbade it so fervently. You needed to think quick. “You said you were going to show me something,” you whispered, voice mousy as you emphasized each word, confidence unraveling like caught thread.

He opened his eyes, casting his gaze over you. His arrant crimson irises flickered with something akin to fostered suspicion, before he loosened his firm grip and tugged his hat off. “Uh, yeah.”

You shivered, dropping your hand. 

You ignored the scars you saw littering his knuckles. 

Thankfully, his grip wasn’t tight or anything, just unmoving enough to make you jittery. 

Rule of thumb: Don’t touch Sukuna. Got it.

You dropped your head back onto the grass, your heart thumping along with the calls of the crickets as your trepidation came to a slow halt.

“You said you’re from the city, right?” He dragged a hand across his face, then tossed it behind his head to rest against.

“Oh, yeah. Lived in Yokohama all my life.”

He was quiet for a few moments, sight fixed on the sky blankly, before he spoke up. “You ever sky gazed before?”

You rested your hands against your stomach, peering over at him with a curious and pure gleam coloring you like a child had just been introduced to dinosaurs. “I’ve never had the chance to. Light pollution and all…” you trailed off, looking back at the sky with wonder. “Can you see stars from here?”

He hummed. “But not until the sun is down.”

And so the two of you waited. 

You’re not sure how long you did, lost in a quiet spell like you'd been placed in a doorway between reality and a tender dream.

All warm light drained, day sky devoured and replaced by a mix of blue and purple auroras to color the black canvas. Twinkling stars kissed midnight in white gleams.

Your lashes felt heavy, but your eyes were still full of intrigue and thrill.

For the first time since you could remember, you didn’t feel like the world was caving in on you. Like the world was just waiting for you to finally give in and be swallowed whole.

“I was invited to a wedding,” you blurted out, all sense of silence tucked beneath your tongue.

You couldn’t tell if Sukuna reacted, your eyes fixed on the flicker of a star.

Nevertheless, he stayed quiet.

“The invitation I received… it was from my ex-husband.” You breathed out, feeling your rigid shoulders droop.

A sinner perched in a confessional, misplaced and bitter and bruised. The only cold comfort was the moon tethered to the skies. 

”Ex-husband, huh?” He queried, voice a distant whisper.

“Yeah. Divorced last year.”

And this time, Sukuna stirred—turning his head in his palm to fix you with an incredulous stare you couldn’t see but feel burning you. “Yer kidding.”

You chuckled, though it was nothing short of dry and pitiful. “Seems he found himself a proper wife. Weddings’ not too long from now.”

Sukuna eyes bore into you, heavy and thick with judgement. “Okay, then. So what?”

Your eyes met his, shoulders caging up once more. “What do you mean ‘what’?”

He broke your stare, lazily shrugging his shoulders as he looked back up, eyes registering nothing between him as the cogs in his mind spun. “Why’s it matter what he does?”

You opened your mouth, defenses already loading themselves, before you paused. 

Why does it matter?

You found yourself staring at his side profile, fixed in nothing but displeasure despite his incredibly softening words.

You shouldn’t care—you could barely tolerate your ex-husband. And he clearly couldn’t tolerate you either. 

Sukuna didn’t push. He didn’t need to know your story before stumbling upon you in the forest. He only sees what he has to deal with before you’re healed and out the door.

It was true, it shouldn’t matter. But you couldn’t shake that off as easily. You lived it.

Regrettably, the life of a wife was still engraved into every fiber you were composed of, bleeding into each sorry part and staining it for everyone to witness. 

Or at least you thought. You wondered if everyone could see the chipped and cracked edges of you.

The grief had been so heavy, you had nowhere to place it—clung to you like a thick coat you couldn’t shed.

The years spent in a disgustingly loveless marriage to a sleazebag that looked at you like property, accused you and your womb of things no woman should hear. 

The proud look on your parents faces when they saw that you were finally settling down, done with the prancing around as an unmarried woman of your age.

And to a man with such status, they couldn’t believe it to be true. 

Neither could you. Not until you’d bore witness to his dull, true colors previously brightened with rose-tinted lenses.

You’d rushed into it—a rich, and dashingly charming man with dyed blonde hair. You’d been attracted to his arrogance, assuming it’d be tall enough to build the both of you up.

You were woefully wrong.

“So what’s your story?” You found yourself inquiring, worrying your lip between your teeth.

He scowled, nose scrunching as if he’d just smelled something putrid. “Not everyone’s got a sob story.”

You giggled, leaning on your palm as you watched him reject your entire being in real time. “You saying that is making me think you’ve got one,” you pushed with a grin, leaning closer.

His molars grinded against each other, wishing he could head inside and feed you to the wolves but it seemed the jagged edges of his common logic were frayed. “I ain’t got nothing to tell,” he growled, placing a hand against your looming face and shoving you away.

You gasped, but then began to paw off his claws with giggles, knowing you’d gotten under his skin. “How long have you lived here?” You started. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than you if anything, so it couldn’t have been too long.

“Long as I can remember,” he curtly replied.

Wow. “Alright, don’t have to go and tell me your whole life story,” you dryly and sarcastically taunted, itching your scalp in an attempt to ward off your irritation.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You rolled your eyes, but still you were desperate for some conversation. “You get into a lot of fights?”

“Huh?”

You pointed at his knuckles, not even caring about your bluntness, to which he moved away as if you’d somehow burned him. “Your scars.”

He waited a beat before replying. “Something like that.”

You shrugged off his deflection with a ‘whatever,’ gaze lingering back towards the sky.

And like a magnet drawn to another, Sukuna felt oddly compelled to begin speaking. Yet, you beat him to the bush.

“I don’t think anyone noticed I got lost in the woods,” you whispered, hoping your quiet admission would disappear with the night.

Sukuna huffed indignantly, but you didn’t know what to make of it.

You brought a limp forearm to your face and casted it over your eyes lazily. “I wonder how long it’ll take for them to notice.”

Your tone was dry, but anyone could make out how defeated you sounded.

Sukuna’s mouth went dry, eyes dancing across the black canvas desperately. “Open your eyes.”

You groaned, tugging your arm off and glancing over at him. 

He lifted an arm, pointing at the sky. “Over there.”

You followed his direction, pointer finger directed at a cluster of stars hung gracefully. “What am I looking at?”

He huffed. “You're not the smartest cookie in the jar. It’s a constellation.”

You beamed at the information, brushing over how he’d just insulted you. “Wait, wait! Where?” You sat up on your elbows, eyes fixed on the spot he pointed out.

“Follow my finger,” he mumbled, fingertip drawing out the constellation before your eyes.

And you did, eyes dragging with his, a childlike wonder twinkling in your irises.

“That constellation is-“

“Lupus.” You interrupted in awe, mouth hanging open slightly as you cocked your head, able to make out the creature's shape.

Sukuna’s eyebrow arched, surprised at your knowledge.

You gazed down at his sudden silence, moonlight casting an ethereal glow on your features, a soft simper on your lips. “Not the smartest but definitely close.”

Sukuna’s brows furrowed, irked at your sarcasm despite every nerve in his body betraying him. “Not that close.”

You shrugged, facing the sky again and hugging your knees. 

Sukuna stared at your back, pulling his cigarette box from his pockets. He placed it between deft fingers, pulling it to his mouth before fumbling for his lighter and sliding his thumb against the spark wheel.

Within moments, the scent of smoke you easily could associate with Sukuna or the back alleys of Yokohama at night, wafted into your nostrils, making you scrunch your nose instinctively.

He hummed, the smoke billowing from his pursed lips.

“Give me one.”

Sukuna’s eyebrows raised. “City girl wants a smoker?”

You pushed air from your nose, unimpressed. “I just said that.”

He hesitated. “Have you ever smoked before?”

You remained quiet, shuffling uncomfortably.

Sukuna chuckled, low, enough to send goosebumps dancing across your bare skin that had nothing to do with a soft night chill. “Here.”

He sat up, shoving a hand into his pockets to dig out the box and handed you a cigarette. You held it awkwardly between your thumb and forefinger, eyeing it suspiciously and suddenly regretting your burst of confidence.

“It’s not gonna eat’cha,” he gruffed, jutting his chin at you.

You frowned, placing it between your lips.

“Cup your hands.”

You obeyed, curling them around the cigarette to avoid the breeze snuffing out the blaze.

He held the lit lighter against the butt, just for a few seconds. Enough for it to burn, sending smoke into your mouth and down your lungs.

You jerked away, coughing up a fit as it seared your insides, clinging to the lining of your esophagus and singeing the hairs in your nostrils.

Sukuna found an odd sense of humor in your distress. He took the cigarette from you and crushed it before tossing it somewhere, placing an arm behind your back on the grass and laughing to himself as his head lolled. “Not so bad, right?”

“The hell do you mean ‘not so bad?’” You retorted with a hoarse voice, wanting to dip yourself into a lake and clean yourself from the prints of smoking. “I feel like I just inhaled fumes.”

Sukuna cocked his head in thought, an uncharacteristic grin on his sharp features. “You technically kinda did.”

You glared up at him, the barely-there buzz from one hit tickling the edges of your psyche. 

Sukuna peered down at you, the distance between you suddenly shortened.

He hollowed out his cheeks, his cigarette hanging between his middle and forefinger, before he inhaled it sharply through his mouth and out of his nose.

His expression was unreadable, as if wheels were turning in his mind, possibly trying to understand you.

Your eyes swam with skepticism, just 24 hours with this man and you couldn’t understand him. “Why’d you let me stay with you?”

He didn’t falter, just blinked at you for a moment, before looking away. “Dunno.”

You frowned at his reticence, but nonetheless bit your lip. Most people would’ve just given you directions and sent you off with thoughts and prayers, not bothering to take you in the way he did.

If you hadn’t run into Sukuna, who’s to tell you wouldn’t be dinner to a pack of wolves for the next few days, a forgotten corpse turned into nothing but a bag of bones.

You couldn’t help but question what kind of person he was.

“Gets quiet out here,” he started up again, pulling his knees up just to toss his arms over them. “Just me and that mutt.”

You stared wide-eyed at his large form beside you, an odd ache in your chest at his admission. 

Who knows the last time he’d had a proper conversation with someone that wasn’t small talk at the work?

He peered over at you, his scowl flinching before he flicked his cigarette to the ground. “Fuck you makin’ that face for,” he grumbled.

You hadn’t even noticed the watery orbs you’d been giving him, shaking your head and wiping the backs of your hands on your eyes. “Shut up. I’m an empath.”

He snorted at that, wanting to shove your face again when he heard you sniffling. “You hungry?”

You nodded quickly, to which he rolled his eyes at.

He stood up, rising to his feet and dusting off his jeans. He grabbed his hat and jacket and strode back inside, you on his tail.

Shutting and locking the door behind you, you watched Sukuna’s form pace around the kitchen. Wandering over to the kitchen table, you plopped down and watched him work.

He’d grabbed his toaster from a cabinet, popping in a couple of chocolate chip Eggos from the freezer and searching for the pan you had used earlier that morning.

Your eyes felt heavy, the quiet clinking and clattering of Sukuna nearly lulling you to sleep, chin bobbing against your chest.

“Oi. Keep those eyes open, I’m not eating two servings,” he grunted, cracking a couple of eggs into the pan.

You adjusted in your seat, rubbing your eyes and yawning. When did it get so late?

Standing up, you wobbled over to the couch and laid down, nearly resigned to your exhaustion from cleaning all day. 

Sukuna peered over at you skeptically, not even realizing he had been quickening his movements as your eyes threatened to shut.

But it was inevitable, your lashes fluttering and your breath steadying.

Sukuna grumbled something, placing both full plates on the coffee table minutes later and looming over you with a chagrined expression.

Within moments, he was snapping his meaty fingers in front of your face, breaking you from your slumber.

You flinched, sitting up and feeling your head spinning. Grumbling, you rubbed your eyes and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Sukuna plopped down beside you, shoving a plate of waffles and eggs into your hands as if the two of you hadn’t eaten pancakes that same morning.

You were too tired to complain.

With low lids, you brought the fork to your lips and began eating in slow and heavy movements, like your limbs were caught in black tar.

Sukuna eyed you warily, afraid that you’d fall asleep into your plate and you’d somehow stab your eye.

“Aye. City girl. Finish your food.” He cracked open a beer with one hand, tossing it back in just a few gulps. You studied the way his Adam’s apple bobbed while he guzzled it down.

Shuddering, you tossed him a sleepy scowl. “I’m full.”

He passed you a glass of water, grabbing your plate with his and heading towards the kitchen to set it down. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

You let out a small burp after a sip, quickly covering your mouth and tossing him an awkward glance before shuffling in your seat. “I’m going to need a refresher.”

You didn’t actually need one.

Sukuna inhaled sharply at your feigned ignorance, hands placed beside the sink as he stared down, before pushing off and running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll let you help out. Don’t need to wire me nothin’ when you get back.”

You chuckled, grabbing a shopping bag to pull out some pajamas he’d bought for you. A grey satin set that probably cost far too much but you didn’t complain, it’d definitely keep you warm. “Okay. Thanks for this, Sukuna.”

“Whatever.”

[guliexe]

━━━IN HIS NAME 18+

♱ Pastor's Son!Lee Anton x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: slow burn, religious/sacrilegious themes, blasphemy, small town, pastor's son!anton, slight hard dom!anton, sub!reader, virgin!reader, childhood friends to lovers, soulmates, anton has god complex, reader is a softie, reader worships anton, dirty talk, fluff, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, love, possessive anton, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, choking, marking, crying, creampie, aftercare

♡ you came back home expecting a quiet summer—then saw anton again. the sweet, golden boy, and all yours behind closed doors…the only boy you’d ever worship.

.ᐟwc: 17.4k

disclaimer! this content might offend or disturb some people, so if you don’t like this type of content please ignore.

You left the town when you were fourteen. Back then, you swore you wouldn’t miss it—this little town that moved too slow and talked too loud. The heat stuck to your skin like syrup, the neighbors always had opinions they shouldn’t, and everyone showed up to church twice a week like it was salvation itself. You were a kid, and the world outside seemed so much bigger. Better. But now, years later, you’re back. Not for a visit. Not for a funeral or a holiday. For good. Your parents wanted to return, said it was time to come “home.” Whatever that means anymore. You didn’t fight it. You didn’t exactly agree either. You just packed your things, followed the motion of their decision, and watched your life in the city shrink behind you. Now you’re here. Sitting on the porch of the same old house you ran through barefoot every summer, the one with the creaky floorboards and the paint peeling off the shutters. The door still groans the same way when it opens. The porch swing still drifts lazily. Some things don’t change, apparently. You pull one leg up under you, sip your ice tea, and squint into the sun. It’s the kind of sticky late afternoon that smells like grass clippings and pavement, almost too hot to breathe. Everything’s still and quiet. Until you hear it. A low voice carries from next door—gentle, warm, vaguely amused. It’s faint, but enough to stir something in you. A ripple of familiarity you weren’t expecting.

You turn your head, and suddenly, everything inside you stops. He’s standing in the yard next door. Anton Lee. At first, you don’t believe it. Your eyes try to make sense of him, this version of him, the one time has molded into something…different. He’s talking to a pair of old women in wide sun hats and floral dresses, probably fresh out of a church committee meeting. He’s got one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other gesturing politely as he nods along to whatever they’re saying. You can’t hear the words. You’re not really trying to. You’re too busy staring. He looks…grown. Not in a “he got taller” kind of way—but in the way his shoulders fill out his faded t-shirt. In the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his neck, the slope of his nose, the way his hair curls slightly at the ends from the heat. Even from this far, you can tell—he’s beautiful. And he’s still Anton. Your neighbor. Your best friend. The boy who used to chase frogs with you until your mom called you in. Who used to pass you folded notes during service. Who once cried when your parents told you you were moving away.

You’d promised to stay in touch. You meant it. But you were fourteen, and life got loud, and somewhere along the way, the calls and texts stopped. Now here he is. Right there. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Your ice tea glass sweats in your hand. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still caught in conversation. You wonder if you look different—older, prettier, unfamiliar. Would he recognize you right away if he turned? You don’t wait to find out. Your nerves get the best of you. You stand, grabbing your empty glass, and head toward the door. You tell yourself you’re not avoiding him. You’re just hot. Tired. Not ready even. But just as your hand pushes the door open, something makes you glance back over your shoulder. And there he is—Staring right at you. The old women are gone now, vanished as quietly as they arrived. Anton’s standing alone in the yard, one hand shielding the sun from his eyes, the other still loosely in his pocket. His gaze is fixed on you. He looks confused. Not startled, but searching. Like he’s not sure what he’s looking at. Or like he is, and just can’t believe it. You don’t move. For a second, the world narrows down to that look, his eyes locked on yours, brows drawn just slightly, lips parted like he’s about to say your name. And then the door creaks open, and you step inside, heart pounding. You don’t look back again.

♱

The church hasn’t changed. Same tall stained-glass windows. Same dusty hymnals and creaky pews. The same low hum of whispers as the congregation filters in, dressed in their Sunday best. It smells like old wood and candle wax and someone’s too-strong perfume. You smooth down the dress your mom made you wear—soft blue, modest, snug around your waist—and slide into the pew beside her. She’s already smiling and waving at everyone like she never left. You, on the other hand, feel like an imposter. Like a ghost drifting back into a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

And then you see him. Anton. Standing at the front of the sanctuary, just off to the side of the pulpit, next to his father—Pastor Lee. His posture is perfect. His hands folded in front of him. His white button-down shirt is tucked in tight, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms. The warm light from the stained glass glows faintly against his skin, catching the edges of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. He looks calm. Holy, even. But when his eyes find yours from across the room, he grins. Just slightly. It’s subtle. Private. Like a secret being passed from the altar to the back pew. You feel your lips pull into a shy smile before you even realize it. Your fingers twitch in your lap, and then, almost without thinking, you lift your hand and give a small wave.

He returns it. Barely a flick of his fingers. Then he glances away, face schooled back into quiet reverence. Your mom leans over and whispers, “Is that Anton? My goodness, he grew up so well.” You try not to show how warm your face suddenly feels. The final “Amen” echoes through the chapel, and the congregation begins to stir—hymnals closing, shoes scuffing, greetings starting before people even leave the pews. You trail behind your mom as she makes her way through the crowd, stopping to hug familiar faces and catch up with people she hasn’t seen in years. Everyone’s talking at once. You spot Anton near the front doors, his father deep in conversation with one of the deacons. Anton’s standing just off to the side again, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. This time, you go to him. “Hey,” you say, voice soft, nerves bubbling in your chest like soda.

He turns fully, and when he sees you up close, his whole expression shifts—like he wasn’t prepared for it. Like he’s still piecing together the girl he used to know with the version of you standing in front of him now. “Wow,” he breathes, and then, quieter, “You came back.” You nod, feeling suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing. “We moved back. For good.” His eyes drag over your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every difference, every change. “You look…” He doesn’t finish. Just offers a crooked smile. “It’s good to see you.” You smile, heart pounding. “You too. You—uh. You look good.”

That makes him laugh under his breath, low and warm. “Yeah? Thanks.” But before either of you can say anything else—“Oh, Anton!” Your mom’s voice slices through the air like a knife, and both of you turn to her. She slips beside you with a bright smile and gently pats Anton’s arm. “It’s been so long! Look at you—such a handsome young man now. You’re the spitting image of your father.” Anton chuckles politely, hands still tucked in his pockets. “It’s really good to see you, Mrs. ___.” Your mom beams. “You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime! You and your family. How about tonight?” Your breath catches. Tonight? Anton’s brows lift slightly. “Uh—I mean, I’d love to. If my parents are free.” “I’ll ask your mother myself,” your mom chirps. “I’m sure she’d love the chance to catch up. You’ll come too, won’t you?” she adds, turning back to you with a wink, as if the two of you didn’t just meet like strangers five minutes ago. Anton looks at you. His voice is calm, but his eyes burn just a little too long on yours. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

♱

The evening sunlight filtered warm through the windows as your mother moved around the kitchen, humming a song under her breath. The table was already set, too neatly and too nervously. Everything felt like a performance. You sat on the edge of the couch, smoothing your dress for the fifth time, your heart fluttering even though you told yourself to stop. They were just neighbors. Old friends. Familiar faces. So why were your hands shaking? You heard the knock on the door, and your mom rushed to answer it, voice lifting in a cheery greeting. You stood slowly, swallowing the tight feeling in your throat as you peeked around the corner. And there he was. He looked like a dream. Soft, navy pullover, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled like he hadn’t even tried, and still, somehow, he looked perfect. He smiled, all warmth and politeness, as your mother pulled him into a hug, then turned his eyes toward you. Something in his expression shifted for just a second when he saw you—something unreadable. His eyes dragged over you slow, then stopped at your face like he had to remind himself to keep it respectful. And then, that gentle smile again. “Hey,” he said softly, walking toward you. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” Your lips parted, the sound caught in your throat. “Hi. Yeah, me neither.” He looked taller up close. Broader. And his voice had dropped since you were kids—low, smooth, just a little husky when he said your name.

The rest of his family trailed in behind him, greetings flying around the room. But all you could hear was the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed over the pie he brought. All you could feel was his gaze, lingering just a second too long when you sat beside him at the table. Dinner passed with polite conversation, church talk, your mom laughing too loudly at Pastor Lee’s stories. But beneath the table, your knees brushed every now and then. Barely. But you felt them. You felt him. And every time you got a little flustered—fumbling your fork, fixing your skirt—he noticed. Of course he noticed. At one point, when your mother stepped away to grab more wine and the conversation quieted, Anton leaned a little closer to you. His voice was low, just for you. “You look good tonight,” he murmured, eyes still trained politely ahead. Your breath caught, cheeks flushed immediately. “Oh…thanks. So do you.” He tilted his head just slightly, that same soft smile still on his face. “Yeah?” You nodded, biting your lip. He blinked slowly, eyes flicking over your face. Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours again under the table, fingers grazing your palm like a secret. And when dessert was served and your mom asked Anton if he could help you bring the dishes to the table, he stood right away, still perfectly polite and perfect.

The house was full of soft voices and clinking glasses. From the living room came the low hum of conversation, your mom and the Lees laughing about something from years ago, the kind of stories adults always went back to after dinner. But you weren’t in there. You were in the kitchen. Feet swinging gently from where you sat on the counter, hands resting at your sides, cool glass of water in your lap. Anton stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water as he quietly washed the dishes. The warm overhead light hit his profile just right—sharp jaw, lashes lowered, mouth set in focus. His back was broad beneath his shirt, shoulders flexing slightly with every quiet movement. He looked unfair like that. Domestic. Godly. You didn’t know how long you’d been watching him. He hadn’t said anything since he started washing, just passed you a small smile when you hopped up on the counter, like it was normal for you to sit there, legs bare and tucked beneath you, eyes trained shamelessly on him.

He rinsed the last plate, turning off the faucet. Flicked water off his hands before reaching for a towel. “You always watch people do chores,” he asked, drying his fingers, “or just me?” You smiled, letting your head tilt just a little. “Just you.” That made him laugh softly. It rumbled low, barely audible. He turned slightly to face you, still rubbing his hands with the towel. “You’ve changed,” he said, voice calm. “You’re…different.” Your heart thudded. You looked down at your glass. “Is that…bad?” “No,” he said. Then, quieter, “Not at all.” Another pause stretched between you. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Then, without thinking, you asked, “Do you wanna go on a walk?” His brow lifted slightly. “A walk?” You nodded, eyes meeting his. “Yeah. Just…around the neighbourhood. It’s still warm out.” He hesitated for a second. Not because he didn’t want to—but because it was too easy to say yes. And then he did. “Sure,” he said, smile slow. “Let me grab my shoes.”

The streets were quiet when the two of you slipped out the front door, the summer air thick with warmth and crickets. Porch lights flickered behind doors, and far-off wind chimes swayed lazily in the breeze. The town was asleep. You walked side by side in the dim orange glow of the streetlamps, arms brushing occasionally. Anton’s hands were in his pockets, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead as if he didn’t want to look at you too much. But he did. Every now and then, you caught him. “It’s so weird being back,” you murmured after a stretch of silence. “Everything’s the same. But not really.” He nodded, glancing over. “I know what you mean. I still expect to see you riding your bike down the road with that ridiculous blue helmet.” You laughed. “Hey, I loved that helmet.” I know,” he grinned. You walked like that for a while, laughter trailing into comfortable quiet. Eventually, you reached the edge of a small park—the same one you used to play in together when you were kids. The swingset was still there, creaking gently in the breeze. The old sandbox. The crooked bench. You tugged his arm gently. “Let’s sit for a while.” He didn’t hesitate. You both dropped into the cool grass near the trees, far from the streetlight. The ground was still warm from the day, but the night air had cooled enough to make the moment feel peaceful. You leaned back on your hands, head tilted to the sky. “The stars here are brighter,” you said quietly. “They always were,” he replied, watching you instead.

You talked. About church. About how weird it was being adults now. About the people who’d stayed, and the ones who left. And somehow the conversation slowed—turned softer and deeper. The kind of conversation that only happens when it’s late and quiet and you feel like the rest of the world isn’t real anymore. Anton sat cross-legged now, one arm draped over his knee. He looked relaxed, content. And you…felt brave. Your heart pounded as you turned toward him. His profile looked so serene in the moonlight, his lashes casting shadows, lips parted slightly, breath calm. And before you could stop yourself—You leaned in. A soft kiss. Just a quick, warm press of your lips to his cheek. Barely a breath. When you pulled back, his head turned to you instantly. You looked down at the hem of your dress, fingers nervously twisting the fabric in your lap. “What was that for?” he asked, a quiet laugh under his breath. “I-I don’t know, sorry—,” you mumbled, shoulders curling in a little. He didn’t say anything for a second. Then, he reached out. One hand cupped your jaw, soft and slow, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek. He leaned in, tilting your face toward his. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.” You did. Big, nervous eyes meeting his calm, unreadable ones. And then—He kissed you. Not rushed. Not messy. Just firm and real, lips warm and sure, like he’d wanted to do it for hours but waited until you asked first, without saying a word. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter than ever. “I missed you,” he murmured. Your heart felt like it could explode.

The kiss lingered on your lips long after it ended. You didn’t speak as he helped you up from the grass, his hand brushing yours gently—barely holding it, but not letting go either. The walk back was quiet, the kind of silence that says everything. The air between you was different now. Warmer. Buzzing. When you reached your front porch, the light was still on. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the Lees’ house next door, your mom probably inside chatting with Anton’s parents. Anton stopped at the base of your steps. Hands in his pockets again. Looking up at you like he was still memorizing your face. “My parents went home already,” he said softly. “I should head back too.” You nodded, unsure what to say. Still dazed from the kiss. From him “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. He stepped up onto the porch now, closer. Just enough to make your heart skip. “Thanks for the walk,” he said, voice even softer. “And the kiss.” Your cheeks burned. You looked down again, fidgeting with the hem of your dress like you had earlier. He didn’t tease you for it. Instead, he leaned in, one hand brushing lightly against your elbow as he tilted his head and kissed the top of yours. “Goodnight.” he murmured into your hair. Your chest ached. “Goodnight, Toni.” you whispered. He lingered for a beat, then gave you one last glance, turned, and stepped off the porch, disappearing into the quiet dark. And you just stood there, frozen in place, barely breathing, fingers clutching your dress. Still tasting the kiss from earlier and trying to make sense of the boy next door—the pastor’s golden son, all grown up and kissing you like that.

♱

Days passed, warm and slow. You kept seeing Anton. Not on purpose, but always like clockwork. He showed up one afternoon with a Tupperware of still-warm cookies, claiming his mom made too many again. The day after that, you bumped into him outside while taking out the trash, and he offered to help like it was nothing—shirt sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, that same easy smile on his face. There were walks again, too. Small ones. Night air between you, your arms occasionally brushing. The conversation was light—never touching that night. The kiss. The way your heart pounded every time you looked at him too long. But Anton never pushed. Just walked beside you like he had all the time in the world. The church bells rang slow and sweet, echoing through the summer air.

You sat next to your mom like always, her hands clutching her small bag. The usual crowd filled the pews, faces you’d known since childhood, some changed by time, some exactly the same. The windows let in golden light, and the air smelled faintly of old wood and floral perfume. Anton sat beside his father at the front—eyes forward, posture perfect. Button-up crisp, sleeves rolled just once at the wrists. His hands were folded, resting neatly in his lap like some model of quiet discipline. But then he looked over. Just a flick of his eyes at first. But then he saw you, and the shift was subtle but real. The corner of his mouth lifted. You smiled too—small, hesitant. He raised two fingers in the tiniest of waves, the gesture hidden just beneath the edge of the pew. You returned it, heartbeat thrumming. When everyone bowed their heads to pray, you did too. Eyes closed. Hands together. But you could feel him watching you.

The usual bustle followed—hymns fading, churchgoers chatting, children running in the yard. Your mom was pulled into a conversation with some older women near the back, and you stepped out into the hallway for a breath of air. That’s when you heard footsteps behind you. “Hey.” You turned, and there he was, smiling softly. Holding a paper cup of lemonade. Hair slightly messier now that the formalities were over. “Hi,” you said, a little breathless. You hated that he could still do that to you.He looked at you quietly for a moment, then reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear—so gently it made your chest ache. “You look good today,” he said, voice low. “Really good.” Your breath caught. You tried to hide your smile by looking at the floor, mumbling, “You too.” He chuckled, head tilted. “You think?” “Mhm.”“Then maybe you should come over tonight.” Your eyes lifted slowly. “Tonight?”“Just for dinner. Hang out a bit. My parents will be out…for a while.” He gave you a look. One you felt deep in your stomach. You swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.” “Okay,” he echoed, and his smile softened. “I’ll text you.” Then he leaned a little closer—just enough to brush his fingers against your wrist as he passed.

You knocked once—lightly. The door opened almost immediately. Anton stood there in a soft gray t-shirt and jeans, white socks, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hand through it before you arrived. His eyes dropped to your dress, the short, soft one you hadn’t worn in forever. White with a little blue. You saw the flicker in his gaze before he blinked it away. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Come in.” You stepped past him, blushing. His house smelled like warm food and clean linen. Familiar and still somehow brand new. You slipped off your shoes by the door, glancing around as he led you to the living room. “My parents are out. Church committee stuff.” He looked over his shoulder, voice easy. “You want to eat on the couch?” You nodded. “Sure.” The two of you sat with plates on your laps—chicken and mashed potatoes and something buttery his mom must’ve made. The TV was on low in the background, but neither of you were watching it. You talked about dumb things. Summer. Church gossip. What your moms were probably up to. “I still can’t believe you’re back,” he said suddenly, glancing at you as you licked a bit of sauce from your thumb. “It’s like…I blinked and you turned into a whole woman.” You almost choked on your drink, cheeks heating. “Anton—” “Sorry.” He smiled softly. “Just being honest.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, glancing down at your lap. The hem of your dress barely reached mid-thigh. His eyes kept flicking down, and then back up, every time. He cleared his throat, then stood. “Wanna see something?” “What?”“Old photos. Us.” You laughed, instantly standing. “You still have those?”

“Unfortunately.” He led you up the stairs, your heart thudding harder with every step. His room was at the end of the hall, same as you remembered, but different now. Cleaner. Calmer and more grown-up. He let you sit on his bed while he rummaged through a drawer. You crossed your legs and the dress shifted, rising slightly. Anton paused, back still toward you, but you saw the way his shoulders rose with a breath before he kept going. “Here,” he said, finally holding up a crinkled photo album. You leaned close as he sat beside you, the two of you shoulder to shoulder as you flipped through the pages. “Oh my god,” you whispered, pointing. “You look so cute!” “I was 10.” “And this one! The matching outfits?” “Our moms were insane,” he groaned, grinning. But every time you laughed, every time your thigh brushed his or your shoulder pressed into his arm, you could feel the shift in the air. It was slow, creeping in like heat. His smile softened. His gaze lingered longer. And when you turned your head toward him to say something, your breath caught. Because he was already looking at you. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just…looking. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Like he was holding something back so tightly it hurt. “What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head a little, but didn’t look away.“You’re just…” He exhaled slowly. “You’re so fucking pretty.” Your breath hitched. “Anton…” He reached up, so slowly, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. Your cheeks flushed instantly. You could feel the warmth spreading down your neck, across your chest, like your skin knew something was coming before your mind did. Anton’s thumb was still brushing your cheek, and your heart was hammering like it wanted to climb into his hand. “I—um…” Your voice came out breathless. Quiet. Embarrassed. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your dress, twisting the hem like you didn’t know what to do with your hands.cAnton didn’t say anything at first. He just let the silence stretch—thick, humming, full of everything you weren’t saying. Then, softly, almost amused, “You always this quiet when someone tells you you’re beautiful?” You froze. Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering as you finally looked up again. His smile had softened, but his eyes hadn’t—they were still dark, focused, soaking in every little flinch, every blush. “It’s cute,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly. “Makes me wanna see what else gets you like this.”You blinked. “Anton—” He moved before you could stop yourself. One hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Not rough, but not hesitant either. His thumb brushed along the side of your jaw, tilting your face up just slightly, just enough for your eyes to lock again. “Can I?” he asked. You swallowed, lips parted, the air between you tight as a thread. And then you nodded, looking up at him with big sparkly eyes. That’s all he needed.

His lips were on yours before you could blink, stealing the air right out of your lungs. His hand stayed firm behind your head, holding you in place like he was finally letting himself taste what he’d been craving since the second he saw you on that porch again. It wasn’t rushed. But it wasn’t soft either. It was deep, and hot, and meant. Like he’d already decided you were his, and this was the first time he let himself show it. You whimpered into his mouth, hands clinging to his shirt, and that was when he groaned—quiet, low, right against your lips. “I swear, you look at me like that and I can’t think straight.” Then he kissed you again, harder.

And for a second, just a second, you felt everything else—church, family, rules—slip away like it had never existed. Just you. Just him. His lips moved against yours with growing heat, still controlled, but barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers curled tighter at the back of your head, the way his breath hitched when your body pressed closer to his. Then you felt his hand slip down, slowly, gliding from your jaw to your waist, and lower. You gasped softly when his fingertips ghosted under the hem of your dress, meeting the bare skin of your thigh. He stilled for half a second, almost like he was asking permission without saying it out loud, but when you didn’t stop him, his touch grew firmer. His palm slid higher, his hand large and warm on the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The kiss deepened. His tongue slipped into your mouth, slow and steady, tasting you like he’d been imagining this forever. You melted into him completely, fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, thighs parting just a little more as he leaned into you. He groaned quietly when you did that. “Lie back,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and rough, like he was trying not to break. “Please.” You let him guide you down gently, back hitting the mattress, your dress shifting with the movement. He came with you, hovering, his knee slotting between your legs, hand still gripping your thigh as he kissed you again. You sighed into his mouth when his hand traveled up farther, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, but stopping just short. “Fuck,” he whispered, lips moving against your jaw now. “You don’t get it…” his voice cracked. “I’m trying so hard to be good.” His hand squeezed your thigh, possessive, like he was grounding himself. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.” His mouth found yours again, open and hot, and all you could do was whimper into it, body arching into his like your whole skin was burning for more.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, soft and slow, and he let out the faintest breath, like even your touch could undo him. He was still kissing you like he didn’t want to take too much. Like he was holding himself back even though you could feel the tension in every part of him. And then you looked up at him. Sweetly. Eyes wide, lips parted, your gaze soft and honest like you didn’t even know what that look was doing to him.“Anton…” He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, brows drawn tight like he was trying to read you, trying to figure out if he could survive any more of this. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones. You leaned in, barely a whisper between your lips. “You don’t have to be good with me.” The second it left your mouth, you felt it happen. His breath stilled. His eyes darkened. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, more like a warning to himself than to you. “You don’t know what you’re giving me.” But his hands were already moving, gripping your thighs, pushing your dress up slowly until it was bunched at your waist. You gasped as the night air met your bare skin, and he hovered there for a second, eyes dropping.The sight of you underneath him—flushed, breathing hard, in your pretty little panties and dress—did something to him.

His mouth found your neck first. But this time, he didn’t hold back. He sucked hard, right on the soft skin beneath your collarbone. Then again, higher this time, where he knew it would show tomorrow. A visible claim. You whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair. “Mine,” he whispered against your skin, almost too low to hear. “You’re mine.” His lips trailed down, wet, open-mouthed kisses across your chest, lower, down your stomach. Slow. Worshipful. Possessive. Then he knelt between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. And then he saw them. Your panties—soft, soaked through, clinging to your folds just enough for him to make out the outline. He groaned, dragged his palm up your thigh and pressed it right over your center, fingers cupping you through the wet fabric. “Fuck…” His voice was ruined. “You’re already dripping, baby?” You couldn’t answer. Your hips lifted into his touch instinctively, a soft whimper breaking in your throat. He looked up at you, eyes wild now, barely able to stay soft anymore. “Want me to keep being good now?” he asked, thumb dragging along the dampest part of your panties. You shook your head no, and he smiled softly. You could barely breathe.

His thumb pressed gently over your soaked panties, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch. His touch was slow, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he wanted to feel every little reaction you gave him. He kissed your inner thigh again, soft and wet, then moved his lips even closer, brushing just shy of where you needed him. “God, angel…” he murmured against your skin. “You’re soaked.” You whimpered, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. He kissed you again, higher this time, just at the edge of your underwear, and your hips lifted instinctively.He smiled softly. He liked that. You could tell. “You trust me?” You nodded, breathless. “Yes.” “Good.” His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, slowly, teasingly, and began to pull them down. You lifted your hips for him without thinking, cheeks burning as the cool air kissed your skin. He dragged the fabric down your thighs, your knees, your ankles, then tossed them aside like he’d been waiting years to see you like this. And then he just stared for a moment. Silent. “So fuckin’ pretty…” he said, almost to himself. His hands slid back up your thighs, warm, slow and possessive, and when he reached your hips, he pressed a kiss right above your mound. Then lower. And lower. Until his mouth was right where you needed him most.

You barely had time to gasp before his tongue was on you. Hot. Slow. Unbelievably soft. Your hips jerked. Your back arched. And he groaned like he loved the way you tasted. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging on instinct, and the sound it pulled from him, that low, needy groan, shot straight through your spine. He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lips slick and red, hair a mess from your grip. And you almost came just from the sight. Golden boy Anton. Saintly, sweet, so polite Anton. On his knees, tongue deep between your thighs, looking up at you like you were heaven. “Anton—” you gasped, nearly overwhelmed. “You—fuck—” He didn’t stop. He didn’t even blink.

His tongue moved faster, more focused now, licking slow deliberate circles over your clit, and when you tugged his hair harder, his grip on your thighs tightened. His eyes never left yours. “You taste insane” he whispered, voice thick and ruined against you. He went right back in, and your thighs threatened to close around his head—your saint of a boy, face buried in your heat, moaning like he was being blessed by every sound you made. His tongue kept working you, steady and deep, your thighs trembling against his big hands. You were falling apart underneath him, whimpering, gasping, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tightened in his hair, holding on like you were about to float away. “Toni—nghh—please~” you cried out, voice broken, eyes fluttering. That name from your lips, so sweet, so needy, made him groan so deep it vibrated against your clit. Then, without warning, he slid two fingers into you. Slow. Deep. Filling. You gasped—head falling back, mouth parted in a breathless moan—as he began pumping them in and out, curling just right, dragging wet, lewd sounds from between your thighs. “That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, breath warm. “You sound so pretty like this.”

You couldn’t even think, you could only feel.The stretch of his fingers. The way his palm pressed perfectly against your heat. How his mouth returned to your clit, licking and sucking hard while his fingers fucked into you. You were so close. So close. “Toni—Toni, please, I—” His mouth pulled back, breath warm on your soaked skin. But his fingers didn’t stop. They kept moving inside you, deep and curling upward with every pump, the slick sounds making your whole body burn. You reached for him, desperate, your hand grabbing the back of his head and pulling him up fast. And then you kissed him. Hard, messy and needy. Your lips crashed into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as his fingers kept moving inside you relentlessly. Anton hummed into the kiss, hips pressing forward into the mattress like he couldn’t help it, like he was falling apart just from the way you kissed him back. His free hand grabbed your waist, pulling your body closer to his chest as the kiss deepened—his fingers still fucking you, perfectly in rhythm with the way your body rocked against his hand. Your whole body tensed—hips lifting, hands tangled tight in Anton’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. And when his fingers hit just right, deep and curling, his mouth finding your clit again, you shattered. “T-Toni—! F-fuck—” You moaned into his mouth as he kissed you through it, swallowing every gasp, every broken cry, as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave. Your thighs clenched around his waist. Your fingers gripped his hair in both hands. Your body shook beneath him. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Even as your hips bucked and trembled, his fingers kept moving. Slowly drawing it out. Helping you ride it until your whole body gave out in his arms. And when you finally collapsed against the bed, gasping, boneless, lips parted, he pulled away slowly, breathless, mouth red and glistening, cheeks flushed like he’d just sinned and loved it. He looked at you like you were holy. He reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek, warm and gentle. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice rough around the edges. You nodded, barely. Still breathless. He leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek, then one just below your jaw. Then lower to your neck, where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His lips stayed there a moment, like he wanted to memorize the feeling of you. His hands moved down, big and warm on your bare thighs. He caressed the soft skin gently, thumbs stroking where he’d held you open, his touch full of something that felt like quiet praise. Then, without saying a word, he reached for your panties on the floor and helped you slip them back on, careful and slow. Once they were in place, he leaned forward again, resting his forehead against yours for just a second, both of you breathing the same quiet air. Then he murmured, “I think my parents’ll be back soon.” Your heart jumped, reality creeping back in, but Anton’s hand was already smoothing over your thigh again, grounding you. He looked at you like he didn’t want you to leave. But he would let you. For now.

♱

The night air was cooler now, soft against your skin as you stepped out into the quiet, still pulling your cardigan around you. Anton walked beside you in silence, his hands in his pockets, close enough for your fingers to brush every few steps. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. You could still feel him—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. And he could still feel you too. You saw it in the way he glanced at you when he thought you weren’t looking. That small curve of a smile he couldn’t quite hide. When you reached your front porch, you turned to face him, heart fluttering in your chest. He looked so soft in the dim porch light—hair a little messy, lips still a little pink, his eyes warm and unreadable. He stepped closer. “Thanks for coming over,” he murmured. “Thanks for…everything,” you whispered back, cheeks warming again, your hands behind your back. He chuckled quietly. Then he leaned in, hand gently cupping your waist, and kissed you. Soft and sweet. A stark contrast to the way he’d touched you earlier…but just as overwhelming. When he pulled back, he stayed close. His forehead nearly touching yours, his voice low, “See you tomorrow?”

You nodded. “Yeah…tomorrow.” He smiled, eyes flicking briefly down to your lips again, and then turned to walk back toward his house, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders just a little looser than before. And you stood there a moment longer, fingers brushing your lips, your heart pounding so loud it felt like it echoed through the quiet street. You tried to blink it away, tried to smooth your face as you stepped inside your house, quietly closing the door behind you. The light from the kitchen was still on. “There you are,” your mom called from the table. “I was starting to think you fell asleep next door.” You let out a soft laugh, cheeks still warm as you stepped out of your shoes. “No… Just stayed a bit to talk.” “Mhm,” she hummed, sipping her tea. “Well, don’t forget—we’re helping set up for the charity event tomorrow after church. Anton will be there too.” Your heart skipped. “Right. I remember.” You turned toward the hallway, trying to keep your voice even. “G’night, Mom.” “Night, sweetheart.” You made it to your room, closed the door softly, and leaned back against it, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile. Tomorrow. You’d see him again tomorrow. And the worst part? You were already aching for it.

♱

The church was warm with soft chatter and the scuff of shoes on tile. Long folding tables lined the walls, each draped with pale tablecloths and surrounded by open boxes of clothes and canned goods. It smelled like lemon cleaner and faint perfume and sunlight clinging to old wood. You stood at one end of a table, fingers smoothing out the cloth. Your eyes were focused, but your mind wasn’t. Not when he was this close. Anton stood just beside you, setting out trays and centerpieces like it was second nature. His sleeves were rolled up, veins in his forearms catching the light when he moved. He didn’t say much. Just worked quietly, side by side, like he was trying not to draw attention to the way his shoulder kept brushing yours. And then he leaned in. Not much. Just enough that his mouth was near your ear, his voice low, almost lazy. “You look beautiful.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a confession. Your breath caught. You froze for half a second, hands paused on the table, before you slowly looked at him. But he was already turning, lifting another box, acting like nothing happened. Like your heart wasn’t now hammering inside your chest. You swallowed. Lips parted. Eyes burning into the back of his neck.

The church was mostly quiet except for the gentle shuffling of boxes and folding chairs. It was just the two of you now. The sun had dipped hours ago, casting golden light through the stained glass before fading completely into night. Only the warm glow of the overhead lights remained, soft and holy. Anton was stacking donation boxes near the front pew while you tried to make sense of the tangled folding chairs at the back. You were humming softly to yourself—half from nerves, half from the way his presence always made you feel too warm lately. You reached for one of the metal chairs, too quick, and your foot caught on another folded leg. Your balance slipped. “Oh—!”But before you could hit the ground, Anton was there. His hands gripped your waist firmly, holding you upright, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breath hitched. His eyes scanned your face quickly, his hands still steady on your body. “You okay?” You nodded, your hands splayed against his chest now. His pullover was soft. Warm. And under it, he was solid. “Sorry,” you whispered, the tiniest laugh in your throat. Your smile was shy, your cheeks flushed.He didn’t laugh. Didn’t let go. Just looked at you. Like he was thinking something he shouldn’t. And then, his arms tightened slightly around your waist.

His mouth parted just a bit, and his voice came low, “You’re really not making it easy for me.” You blinked up at him. “What?” But he didn’t explain. Instead, he kissed you. Right there, in the middle of the church, surrounded by donation stuff and folding chairs. It was sudden, and deep, and so full of everything he’d been holding back. His lips moved over yours with a kind of hunger that felt like it had been waiting for an excuse. And you—pressed to his chest, hands still curled in his sweater—kissed him back like you’d been waiting too. His lips moved over yours with more urgency now, rougher and deeper. Your fingers curled in his hair as his hand slid around to your lower back, pressing you closer, closer, like he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the quiet growl in the back of his throat every time your breath caught.

You gasped into his mouth, pulling away just enough to whisper, “Anton… we’re at church—” His mouth chased yours, voice low and hard, “I don’t fucking care.” He kissed you again, hungrier, and in one swift, effortless motion, his hands gripped your thighs and lifted you up. Your breath hitched as he placed you on the edge of the long wooden table behind you, the one you’d just been sorting donation envelopes on. Now, forgotten. You looked at him, heart racing.“What if someone sees us?” you breathed. His hands slid up your thighs, firm and possessive, as he stepped between them.“Let them.” His voice was rough, wrecked. A low growl right against your skin. And then his lips dropped to your neck.

He kissed over the faint marks he’d left days ago, soft at first, then deeper. His teeth grazed the skin just below your jaw, and you whined, hands gripping his shoulders. He kissed lower, leaving new marks with every pass of his mouth, like he was reclaiming territory only he could touch. “Toni…” you whispered, breath trembling. He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips—like that. Soft, whiny, his. His fingers pressed into your thighs, thumbs brushing under the hem of your skirt as his mouth dragged down your throat, slow and hot. His hands were everywhere—firm on your thighs, sliding under your skirt, curling around your waist like he couldn’t get you close enough.

You gasped when his hands gripped lower, squeezing your ass, pulling you forward on the table until you could feel the pressure of his hard-on between your legs. “Toni,” you whimpered, dizzy, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his sweater. “We can’t—God’s watching—” He froze for half a second. Just long enough to lift his head, eyes burning into yours. Then he said it—quiet, calm, but full of something dark and unshakable, “I am God.” Your lips parted, breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know if you were shocked or turned on. Maybe both. He watched your face as the words settled in, his eyes hooded, the corner of his mouth twitching up when he saw the heat rising in your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, curling into your chest like smoke. “Right now…I’m the only one you pray to.” And then his mouth was back on you—kissing your collarbones, biting softly where your strap had slipped just low enough.

One hand slipped up your back while the other gripped the underside of your thigh, holding you wide open for him. You whimpered, arching into him without meaning to. “Anton—“ “Say it again.” His voice was ragged now, mouth warm on your skin, dragging against the edge of your bra strap. You barely managed a breath, “Toni…” He groaned, low and deep, fingers digging into your skin. “Mm. Keep saying my name like that.” His breath hitched as he pulled back just slightly, eyes locked on yours. His jaw was clenched, brows tight, voice lower than you’d ever heard it.“Get on your knees.” You blinked. “What?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, as he leaned in close, lips brushing your cheek. “On your knees, baby.” Your heart practically jumped out of your chest. Heat flooded your face, your stomach, your thighs. You hesitated only for a second, just long enough for your breath to stutter. But then, you slid off the table slowly. Down to your knees. The cold floor pressed against your skin as you settled in front of him. You tilted your head up, shy, lips parted, eyes doe like and innocent, and his entire body visibly tensed. His gaze was fixed on you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was trying not to fall apart. “Fuck…” He reached down, threading his fingers into your hair. Not pulling, just petting. Slow, reverent strokes, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you like this. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, soft and possessive all at once. “Look at you,” he whispered. “So sweet for me.” You sighed, eyes never leaving his. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip. “My pretty little angel…”

You stayed perfectly still on your knees, heart thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it. Anton’s thumb grazed your bottom lip slowly, and you parted your lips without even thinking. That’s when his smile shifted, something darker curling at the corners. He dragged his thumb down, then slid his index finger along your lip, tapping it once against your mouth. You let him push his finger past your lips—slow, deep—and your lashes fluttered as the pad of it pressed against your tongue. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively, and his breath stuttered. “Good girl…” His voice was a whisper, low and wrecked. Like just seeing you like this, on your knees, sucking his finger, eyes big and wet—was too much for him to handle. He watched you. Let you lick and suck gently, the corner of his lip twitching when you whimpered quietly around him. His other hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking along your skin like he was soothing you, even while you were on your knees, mouth full, obeying his every move. “So fucking perfect,” he murmured. And still, you held his gaze. Still, you sucked softly, cheeks warm and flushed, knees pressed to the cold church floor like you were praying to him. And maybe you were.

He pulled his finger slowly from your mouth, glistening and warm, a soft little pop echoing in the still air. Your lips were parted, your breath shaky, chest rising with every pulse of heat settling low in your core. And then, he took your hand. His fingers slid between yours, gentle but sure, and he guided it slowly downward. You followed instinctively until your palm landed against the front of his jeans—hot, hard, unmistakable beneath the fabric. Your eyes widened. “Toni—” He didn’t speak. He just pressed your hand more firmly to it, his breath hitching at the contact. And you could feel him. All of him. Thick. Heavy. Straining. A soft whimper escaped you before you could stop it. Your fingers twitched, and then you palmed him. Tentative at first. Just the softest pressure. He groaned. His head tipped forward, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.” Your cheeks burned, but you obeyed, letting your hand move slow and shy over the thick line of his cock through his jeans. You squeezed gently, experimentally. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, baby…” One of his hands braced on the table behind you, the other still cradling your cheek, brushing over your temple like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched, even while you had your hand wrapped around the very thing he’d been trying to hide from you for days.

And then he looked down at you again. “Do you feel what you do to me?” he said softly. You swallowed, thighs clenching where you knelt, and nodded, dazed, completely lost in him. Your palm kept moving, slow, nervous strokes over the thick bulge, until his hips gave the tiniest roll into your hand. That low groan from his throat made your knees feel weak all over again. Then, still holding your gaze, he moved your hand to his waistband.“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take it out, angel.” Your breath caught. You hesitated, cheeks already flushed deep pink. But your fingers moved anyway, slow and unsure, as they found the button of his jeans and undid it with a quiet pop. Then the zipper. Each slow tug of it felt impossibly loud in the silence of the church. Your hand shook just a little as you dragged the denim down his hips, revealing gray boxers. Tight, and so full. And then, finally, you let your fingers slide past the band. And when you lowered his boxers, his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking already, and standing proud against his stomach. Your lips parted instantly. Your cheeks went bright red. You blinked like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was just…so big. So pretty. Long, veiny, flushed at the tip and glistening already with need. And it was all because of you. Anton chuckled softly above you, low and rough. “You gonna keep staring, pretty girl?” Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted and completely overwhelmed. He smiled. One hand slid into your hair, petting softly again. Thumb brushing your cheek.

Your breath shook as you gently wrapped both hands around the base of his dick, like you were afraid to grip too tight. He was so warm in your palms, heavy and twitching. You looked up at him. He was already staring down at you, jaw tight, breathing uneven, one hand resting on the back of your head. You leaned in slowly, lips parting as you brought your mouth to him. Your tongue flicked out, just the softest lick over the flushed head. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck…” You licked again. Slow and careful, like you were testing something sacred. His precum hit your tongue, and your lashes fluttered, still looking at him. Big, wide, innocent eyes. Your hands shifted, stroking softly as you leaned forward to kiss the tip, lips plush and pink, leaving a warm breath against his skin. Then your tongue circled it once, barely touching, and he groaned, deep and wrecked, head tipping back for a second before his eyes found yours again. “Jesus, baby…” He looked completely undone. Red-cheeked, hair messy, chest heaving. His fingers threaded deeper into your hair now. “So fucking pretty on your knees.” he muttered, voice hoarse. You whimpered softly and kissed him again, lower. Letting your tongue trail down the underside of his cock, slow and reverent. Worshipping him like he was your god. And he was.

Your lips parted further as you took him deeper, just a little. Just enough to feel the stretch, the pressure, the way he twitched against your tongue. Your hands gripped his base tighter, keeping steady, and your breath fanned hot against his skin as you hollowed your cheeks around him. His fingers threaded deep, gripping at the roots, but still gentle. Still shaking a little. Like he was trying so hard to keep it together. “F-fuck, baby…” His hips rolled the tiniest bit, pushing just a touch deeper, and you moaned around him. Then, a soft whimper escaped him. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. That sound? From him? It was everything. His other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you, breathless, eyes dark. “You take me so well,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “So fucking good for me.” You sucked a little harder in response, tongue teasing the underside of him as you took him just a bit deeper, and that’s when the shift happened. His voice dropped. No more shaky breath. No more awe. Just that low, possessive rasp, “Yeah… that’s it, angel. Keep going.” He started to guide your head now—slow, steady movements. You blinked up at him, breathless, cheeks flushed, spit clinging to the corners of your mouth—and pulled back just enough to speak. Your voice came out soft and whiny. Worshipful.“I’ll take anything from you, Toni…” His entire body tensed. His hand gripped your hair so tight it hurt. Possessive. His jaw clenched, barely holding himself together. “Fuck…”

His voice cracked, like you saying that, looking like that, was too much. “You mean that?” You nodded, lips still brushing against the tip of him, warm breath spilling down his length. You weren’t teasing anymore. You were giving yourself to him. And he felt it. “Yeah?” he said again, voice lower. “You’d let me do anything to you?” Your hands tightened around him, and you nodded once more, eager and desperate. His thumb brushed across your wet cheek, eyes scanning every inch of your face like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus Christ…” he whispered. “Mine,” he muttered, half to himself. “Fucking mine. Made for me.” And then he pushed. Guiding your head lower, deeper. His hips rolled forward as his other hand braced the edge of the table behind you, his breath breaking in soft, strained groans. “Just like that, angel…fuck.”

You felt his control slipping. His soft-spoken calm replaced with something rougher, needier. He started moving his hips more deliberately, his cock slipping deeper into your mouth each time, and your hands gripped his thighs for balance. And through it all, he whimpered. Soft, broken sounds, raw from his throat. Frustrated moans. Curses. Praise. “Your mouth is perfect—mine—just for me—” He was unraveling. Desperate to cum. And when he did—his whole body shuddered. A high-pitched moan broke from his throat, his hand tightening just a second longer in your hair. When he finally stilled, breath ragged, he looked down. You blinked up at him, cheeks red, lips swollen, tongue out—clean. His eyes darkened. “Holy fuck.” Then, his hand slid from your hair to your throat. Firm. Possessive. He pulled you up in one swift movement, crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that was nothing like before—messy, breathless, filthy.

His hand stayed on your throat, thumb under your jaw, holding you still as he kissed you like he didn’t care about anything else—not the church, not God, not anyone. Just you. You whimpered into his mouth, body flushed and weak, still kneeling slightly between his legs when—“Anton?” A voice echoed down the hallway. You both froze. It was his mom. Anton moved first—fast. He gently but quickly helped you to your feet, hands smoothing down your dress, brushing your hair from your face as your heart raced in your chest. He tugged up his jeans, zipped them shut in one motion, fingers trembling just slightly. You turned around, fixing your hair in the reflection of the dark window, smoothing the skirt of your dress down like it could erase the heat still buzzing across your thighs. “We’re here!” he called, voice clear, like he hadn’t just finished kissing you breathless with his hand wrapped around your throat. His mom stepped in a second later, holding a tray of cookies. “Sorry for interrupting,” she smiled. “Sweetheart, you can head home now, it’s getting late. I’ll stay and help Anton finish up.” You nodded quickly, heart still pounding. “O-okay. Goodnight, Mrs. Lee.” You started walking toward the exit, but as you passed Anton, he stepped closer. His hand slipped gently to your waist, and he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” His voice was softer than ever. Barely a breath. Still warm with what just happened. But sweet. You nodded slowly, biting your lip to hide the smile. “Mhm.” And then you walked out, heart pounding, legs shaky, feeling like nothing in the world could compare to the way Anton Lee touched you like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.

The charity event had gone very well. Laughter floated through the air like music, kids running across the grass with lemonade cups in hand, neighbors huddled near folding tables stacked with donation boxes and home-baked cookies. The sun was high and golden, casting soft shadows through the trees that lined the old church yard. You stood near the donation tent, helping a few older ladies gather envelopes and sort through sign-up sheets. You were smiling, polite, answering questions when asked—but your eyes kept flicking toward the side lot where Anton was helping carry chairs, sleeves pushed to his elbows, arms flexing, the edge of his shirt sticking slightly to his back from the heat. He looked like he belonged here. Everyone loved him. You were surprised they didn’t hand him a halo.

It wasn’t long before he drifted your way again. You didn’t hear his footsteps, you just felt it when he was near. “Hey,” he said, gently. “Everything’s pretty much wrapped up. I think we’re just waiting on my dad to lock up.” You looked up from the papers in your hand and gave a soft smile. “You did good,” you murmured, “It all turned out really nice.” He smiled back, but he wasn’t looking at the tables or the decorations. He was looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “It did.”His voice was a little quiet when he added, “My mom said your family’s coming to ours for dinner tonight.” You blinked. “Oh…really?” He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “She and your mom planned it earlier. You’ll come, right?” A hopeful tone in his voice. You nodded, a bit shy, heart fluttering in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come.” You glanced around—most of the others were busy chatting or packing up, distracted. Without thinking too hard, you stepped a little closer, rose onto your tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze. And then, just as his eyes found yours again, you smiled. “Only for you.” Anton’s gaze lingered on your face for a second too long, and you could see it—he was gone for you.

♱

You couldn’t stop checking the mirror. Your room was filled with golden evening light—curtains swaying gently in the summer breeze, the soft hum of cicadas outside blending with the faint creak of your floorboards as you moved back and forth, barefoot on the rug. Your heart hadn’t stopped fluttering. You curled your hair carefully, setting the pieces with care as the warm scent of your favorite lotion floated around you. You wanted to look nice. Not too much. But still nice. The dress you chose was soft violet—just barely off the shoulder, with a gentle sway to the hem that brushed mid-thigh. You smoothed the fabric down your hips and whispered to your reflection, “Just dinner.” But your heart didn’t believe that. Not really. Your mom called for you from downstairs, and soon enough, the three of you—your mom, dad, and you—were walking the short path next door to the Lee house. You felt like your whole body was humming, warm and restless, as the familiar porch came into view. Your mom knocked cheerfully on the door, calling out, “We brought dessert!” A moment passed before the door opened, and there he was. He looked up, lips parting slightly as he caught sight of you behind your parents. His eyes did a slow sweep—hair curled, cheeks flushed, the soft violet fabric of your dress catching the light. And for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then he smiled. “Hey. Come in.” You stepped inside behind your parents, heart hammering. His house smelled like warm food. You slipped out of your shoes and followed the others toward the dining room. Anton walked beside you, close enough that your fingers nearly brushed.

“You look…” he started, voice soft so only you could hear. Then he smiled like he didn’t trust himself to finish it. “Really good.” You looked down, smiling nervously. “You too.” And even as the voices of your parents floated down the hallway, and dishes clinked gently in the kitchen, you could feel it building The air changed when it was just the two of you. The night hadn’t even started yet. And you already knew it wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to. Dinner was loud in the way family dinners always were—dishes passed hand to hand, voices overlapping, stories being told and retold like it was tradition. The Lees had made roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, and something creamy with mushrooms that melted in your mouth. Warm bread sat in the middle of the table, along with a pitcher of juice that never seemed to stay full. You sat beside Anton, of course—because your mom had said, “Oh, let the kids sit together. They probably have so much to catch up on.” And now your knees kept brushing under the table, soft and warm every time, making your heartbeat flutter in your throat. You could barely focus on your plate. He looked good. Too good. His shirt sleeves were rolled again, clinging to his muscles, and the way he kept glancing at you made it almost impossible to eat. “It’s so sweet,” Mrs. Lee said suddenly, gesturing between you and Anton. “Seeing you two back together again.” Your fork paused mid-air. “I know,” your mom chimed in. “You used to be inseparable. I have pictures, remember? Anton, you were always following her around with your little toy guitar—” “Mom,” he groaned, laughing but clearly flustered.

You hid your smile behind your glass. “Well,” Mrs. Lee went on, cheerful and far too pleased with herself, “if this keeps up, maybe we’ll be planning a wedding soon.” Your heart stopped. Your cheeks flushed so fast it almost hurt, and beside you, Anton choked on his drink. “M-Mom—” “What?” she teased. “I’m just saying. You’d be a beautiful couple.” The table laughed. You looked down at your plate, smiling helplessly into your mashed potatoes. And then you felt it—his hand, sliding gently under the table, brushing against yours. You let your fingers shift, brushing back. He curled his around yours slowly, deliberately, lacing them together like it was the easiest thing in the world. When you looked up at him, he was already watching you, eyes soft, cheeks faintly pink, thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. You smiled. And he smiled back.

The night passed slowly. The dining table behind you was still full of empty glasses and half-finished desserts. Your mom and Mrs. Lee had moved to the couch near the window, feet curled up and voices louder than usual, giggling over stories you couldn’t quite make out. Mr. Lee was laughing too, and the scent of red wine lingered faintly in the air, swirling with candle wax and roasted herbs. You and Anton sat on the smaller couch in the living room, just the two of you. A little apart from the rest. Not hidden, but not seen either. The lights were dim, just the soft glow from the lamp in the corner and the flicker of something playing quietly on the TV, long forgotten. Anton’s arm rested behind you on the cushion, fingertips brushing your shoulder every now and then, and your bare knees were pulled up gently beside you. You were supposed to be listening to his dad’s story, something about his youth group days, but all you could focus on was him. The warmth of his body beside yours. The way his lashes curled when he blinked. The tiny scrape of his thumb brushing the side of your arm. He looked at you then, like he felt your gaze. The corners of his mouth twitched, soft and knowing. You leaned in slowly. Your lips pressed to his cheek, quiet and careful. He froze for half a second. You felt him exhale through his nose, like he wasn’t expecting it, but loved that it happened. And then you whispered, sweet and barely above the hush of the room, “Do you wanna go to my house?” “It’ll be more quiet.” He looked at you for a moment, eyes flicking from yours to your lips, then back again. Then he nodded once. Slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You both stood at almost the same time. Anton glanced at you like he was checking, making sure you hadn’t changed your mind, and you gave him the smallest nod. Your joined hands slipped apart gently, and he turned toward the adults still laughing behind you. “We’re gonna go for a walk,” he said casually, voice calm, steady. Your mom barely looked up, too caught in a story about a church retreat years ago. “Mhm—be back soon!” “Don’t stay out too late,” Mrs. Lee chimed in, waving a hand in your general direction, her words slightly slurred from too much wine. You and Anton both smiled politely before slipping toward the front door. His hand touched the small of your back as he opened it for you, barely there, but firm. Familiar. Protective. The summer night air wrapped around you the moment you stepped out, warm and soft, with the faint smell of pine and cut grass. The porch creaked beneath your feet as you walked down the steps together in silence, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your house was just steps away, glowing faintly under the porch light. You glanced at him once before opening the door, and he followed you inside.

The house was quiet. The TV hummed softly in the corner, volume low enough that it barely registered. Dim lamplight washed the living room in warm gold, flickering gently across the couch where the two of you lay, curled up like you’d been there forever. You were draped over him, head resting on his chest, the soft swell of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight lines up and down your spine beneath your dress. You could feel his breath rising and falling under your cheek, steady and warm. The laughter from next door didn’t fade. Your parents probably still telling stories they’d told a hundred times.

But in here, it was just him. Just you. Just this silence that held everything neither of you had said. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding onto the slow rhythm of his breathing. And then, finally, you tilted your face up to look at him. He was already looking down at you. And that’s when you kissed him. Soft. Warm. Just your lips pressed gently to his—like you were testing the way it felt to be that close. Like you already knew it would change everything.

He didn’t hesitate. His arms tightened around your waist the second your mouth touched his, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a single breath between your bodies. He kissed you back with heat and softness all at once, like it had been building in him for years. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand pressing against the small of your back to keep you close. But then you pulled back slowly, cheeks burning, breath caught in your chest. Your lips brushed his jaw as you whispered, barely a sound, “Toni…I love you.” The words hung there. Heavy. Fragile. Sacred. You hadn’t meant to say them tonight. Not out loud. Not like that. But now that they were out, you felt the way your chest opened up with them, like it was relief to finally say what your body had already been telling him. His eyes locked onto yours. And something shifted in them. Not shock. Not hesitation. Just pure, undeniable devotion. He cupped your cheek, eyes warm and focused, and leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours. “Say it again,” he breathed. “Please.” You swallowed, voice trembling as you looked up at him. “I love you.” He kissed you again. Slow and deep. His hand curled at the nape of your neck, anchoring you there like he didn’t want to let you go—not now, not ever. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you too.”

His mouth moved over yours, deeper more sure. Like he wasn’t holding back anymore. His hands slid down your sides, pulling you tighter against him as the kiss grew hot, feverish. You moaned softly into his mouth, lips parting for his tongue, and the sound only seemed to make him hungrier. You shifted in his lap, straddling one of his thighs, and your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid up into his hair. “Let me…” you whispered between kisses, breathless. He leaned back just a little, eyes burning into yours, lips swollen. And you bent down, lips grazing along the line of his jaw, trailing lower. You kissed the soft skin just beneath his ear, your tongue flicking out gently, earning a low groan from his chest. You sucked a mark into the base of his neck. Visible. Yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter instantly. And then, his hand wrapped around your throat. His fingers splayed across your neck, tilting your face up toward him, his eyes locked on yours as his thumb brushed your jaw. “My sweet angel.” he whispered, before kissing you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth, claiming you all over again.

You gasped into him, fingers tugging at his shirt, your thighs clenching around his. In a swift, fluid motion, he shifted, flipping you beneath him on the couch, his body hovering over yours. His knee nudged between your legs, spreading them just enough. You let out a breathy whimper, arching into him, and he kissed down your jaw, down your throat, leaving hot, wet hickies in his path. Marking you his. “So pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “So soft…all mine.” His hand slipped beneath your dress, slowly caressing your thighs—fingertips light and teasing, moving higher and higher, his mouth never leaving your skin.

You could barely breathe. And then, you felt his fingers slide under the waistband of your panties. His touch brushed your folds, gentle but sure. He exhaled slowly when he felt how wet you already were. His lips returned to your ear, voice rasped and low. “All this for me?” You nodded, biting your lip, eyes glazed. His fingers moved slowly between your folds, the heat of his hand making your back arch off the couch. His mouth stayed on yours, kissing you through every tiny gasp he pulled from your lips. You whimpered softly, hips shifting, and he groaned quietly against your mouth like he could feel everything you were feeling. Then, he pulled back slightly. He turned his head, eyes flicking toward the window behind the couch. The soft golden glow of the porch light still shone from next door, and through the sheer curtains, he could make out the faint shadows of your parents and his still hanging out. He looked back at you then, breath unsteady, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a thumb that trembled just slightly. “Can we…” he swallowed, voice quieter now, like the question was heavy. Sacred. “Can we go to your room?” Your heart thudded loud in your chest. You nodded. Softly. Shyly. Eyes wide and warm as they met his.

And that was all he needed. He kissed you again softly, like a promise. Then you took his hand in yours, fingers weaving together, and gently led him off the couch, past the soft glow of the TV and toward the stairs, his hand held yours tight the whole way up. The door clicked shut behind you, the soft sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The hallway light spilled in for just a second before Anton reached back and flicked it off, leaving the room bathed in the dim, golden glow of your bedside lamp. Your fingers were still laced with his. You turned to him, heart racing in your chest, and rose onto your tiptoes, giggling softly as you pushed him back against the door. “What are you doing?” he murmured, laughing breathlessly as his back hit the wood.

Your hands slid up his chest, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt, and you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Just wanted to kiss you first,” you smiled, lips brushing his. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, like he was overwhelmed that you were here, his, wanting this. “You’re dangerous when you smile like that,” he whispered, voice low. Then, suddenly, his hands gripped your waist tight, and he took over. He kissed you deeper now, stealing the breath right out of your lungs as he spun the two of you around and walked you back slowly, lips never leaving yours. Each step was careful. Controlled. Your knees bumped the edge of the bed, and his hands smoothed up your sides as he leaned down, guiding you onto the mattress. The soft fabric of your dress fluttered as you lay back against the pillows, looking up at him—eyes wide, chest rising and falling like you could barely contain the warmth inside you. Anton stood over you, breathing hard. His gaze roamed your body, drinking in the way your hair fanned across your pillow, the way your dress clung to you in the soft light. “You’re…breathtaking,” he murmured. Then he leaned down again, kissing you slow—taking his time now, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh beneath your dress. His fingers trembled slightly at first. But then you whispered his name, soft and trusting, and that’s when everything inside him shifted.

Your hands slid up beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin of his stomach. You felt the slight tremble in his muscles, the way he inhaled sharply as your palms flattened against his chest. Then you tugged. He pulled back just enough to let you lift his shirt, and without a word, he raised his arms and let you peel it off. The moment it hit the floor, you paused. Your breath caught. His body was lean, toned, broad shoulders and sculpted arms—but what held your gaze was the small gold cross resting against his chest, just above his heart. The chain glinted faintly in the dim light, almost glowing against his skin. You reached up with a shy hand, brushing your fingers gently over the planes of his abs, trailing up toward the delicate charm. Anton’s breath hitched. “You’re staring,angel” he said softly, eyes watching yours. “I can’t help it…” you murmured. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, soft, reverent. His hands came to the hem of your dress, fingers curling into the fabric, voice low against your skin. “Can I take this off?” The question settled between you like a vow. Your heart thudded as you looked up at him, cheeks burning, chest fluttering. And you nodded. “Please.”

Anton’s fingers slipped under the hem of your dress, eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulled the fabric upward, inch by inch, until it lifted over your head and joined his shirt on the floor. His breath caught. You lay there beneath him, bare from the waist up, soft skin glowing in the golden light, your chest rising and falling with each nervous breath. The dainty lace of your panties and your frilly white socks were all you wore now, and his gaze swept down the length of you slowly, devouring. “Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re fucking divine.” He leaned in without waiting, he couldn’t hold back another second. His mouth found your collarbone first, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat along your skin. Then he kissed lower, just beneath your throat, then lower, lips and tongue marking you up until you were covered in soft, red blooms. You whimpered, hands threading through his hair, stroking gently, helpless to the way his mouth worshipped your chest. Then his lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking slowly. You gasped. His other hand moved to your other breast, massaging gently, thumb brushing your sensitive skin in slow circles as his tongue laved your peak. Every motion was slow. Meant. He wanted to make you feel it, all of it. “T-Toni…” you whispered, hips shifting beneath him, thighs brushing together.

He groaned softly against your chest, the sound vibrating through you. He kissed your breast once more, then moved to the other, treating it with just as much attention, hand still caressing and holding like you were something he’d been waiting his whole life to touch. Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, your soft breaths turning to quiet, broken whimpers. zhe kissed lower, lips trailing a hot, wet path down the center of your stomach. His hands smoothed over your sides as he went, fingers gentle but possessive, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him see you like this—bare, soft, trembling beneath him. When he reached your navel, he paused, pressing a soft kiss, then another, slower one just below. Your thighs shifted restlessly. He smiled against your skin. Then he leaned down and kissed over the delicate lace of your panties, a featherlight brush of his lips, more like worship than lust. “So fucking pretty…” he whispered. His hands hooked gently under the waistband, and he glanced up at you, eyes searching, voice tender. “Is this okay?”You nodded, lips parted, heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Yes…please.” He slowly tugged the fabric down your thighs, so slowly, like he was unwrapping a blessing, and dropped them to the floor, his hands smoothing along your skin as he did. And then he just looked. Like you were the most godly thing he’d ever seen. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling them apart just a little more. He bent down, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of one thigh, then the other.

You whimpered, body arching slightly. Then he started to mark you, again and again. Soft hickies bloomed across your inner thighs, his teeth grazing gently, tongue soothing after each one, until your skin was dotted with faint red love bites, claiming you. “Can’t help it,” he murmured against your thigh. “Want everyone to know who you belong to…” His breath was warm against your skin as he kissed even lower, lips brushing just beside where you needed him most. He groaned softly at the sight of you, already glistening, already so wet for him.“So perfect.” he whispered, voice almost reverent. Then he slid his fingers between your folds—gentle, exploring, just enough pressure to drag your slick along your seam. You gasped, hips twitching as he moved slowly, fingers gliding up and down, barely grazing your clit with every pass. “T-Toni…” you whimpered, voice trembling. He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he lowered his head, mouth parting as he finally licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your heat. Your entire body arched. A cry slipped from your throat as your hands flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, overwhelmed. His tongue circled your clit, then closed around it with a soft suck, and you could feel him moan into you. One of his arms slipped up your body, reaching for your hand, and you instinctively laced your fingers with his, holding tight, grounding yourself.

The other hand curled firm around your thigh, gripping hard, holding you open. His fingers dug into your skin with quiet desperation, a bruise surely blooming beneath his touch. You looked down at him through heavy lashes—his face between your thighs, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and slick, hair messy from your hands. His eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet yours. And you swore—he looked at you like he just saw God. Anton’s mouth didn’t let up, slow licks, deeper pressure, his tongue working you with a rhythm that had your body trembling. You whimpered his name again, fingers buried in his hair, hips beginning to move without meaning to. Then he slid his hand from yours and brought it down between your thighs. You felt his fingers press to your entrance. And then he pushed them in—slow, steady, the stretch making your eyes flutter closed. You gasped as he began to pump them inside you, curling just right, dragging that tight, sweet spot with every thrust. All the while, his mouth never left your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking and swirling, working in sync with his hand. Your legs trembled around him. “A-Anton—Toni—” you gasped, back arching. His fingers went deeper. His tongue moved faster. “Please—Toni, I’m—nghh—!”You couldn’t even finish your sentence. Your voice broke into high, breathy whimpers, thighs clenching tight around his head as your release hit you. Your whole body shook, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you cried out, hips jerking, his name slipping from your lips over and over like a prayer. And still, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking up every drop, soft and tender now, worshipful.

Anton kissed his way slowly back up your body—your inner thighs, the curve of your hip, the soft skin just under your ribs—until he reached your lips. His mouth met yours hungrily, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, still warm from where he ate you like he was starving. You cupped his jaw as he kissed you, soft whimpers still slipping from your throat, body trembling under his weight. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly, his breath shaky. Then, slowly, he sat back on his knees between your legs. You watched through heavy lashes, still dazed from your high, as he reached for the button on his jeans. His hands moved with quiet purpose, slow and deliberate. You could see the way his fingers trembled a little as he undid them, and then he slid the denim down his hips. His boxers strained with how hard he was—his arousal obvious, heavy, and thick beneath the fabric. You swallowed softly as he hooked his fingers under the waistband, his eyes on yours the whole time. When he pulled them down, you gasped. So beautiful, just like last time. Your cheeks went hot instantly, your thighs instinctively pressing together, but Anton just reached forward again, gently parting them with his hands as his eyes dragged down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand wrapped around himself, pumping slowly, a soft hiss of breath leaving his lips as he did. You could see the flush rising on his cheeks, the flex of his forearms, the tension in his body like he was holding himself back—barely. Then he leaned forward again, his forehead pressing to yours, voice low and almost shaking, “Are you sure? Tell me to stop, and I will. I swear.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and wet, lips parted, skin still tingling from the way he’d touched you and kissed you. One of your hands rose to brush along his jaw, fingertips gentle. And then, with a voice barely above a whisper, breathless, soft, completely surrendered, you whispered, “I’m at your mercy, Toni…” He froze. You saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale that hitched in his throat. Something in him cracked wide open. His lips parted, and for a moment he just stared at you, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Then, without warning, he exhaled a low, broken groan and kissed you—hard. Rougher now. Deeper. His hands gripped your waist tight, possessive, pulling you flush against him as his hips rolled forward, his hard length brushing against your core.“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice lower now—gravelly, filled with something dark and desperate. “You say things like that…I can’t stop myself.” He kissed down your throat again, sucking harshly at your skin, teeth grazing, leaving deeper marks. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs, sliding up and gripping firmly. One hand curled around your throat while the other moved between your legs again, fingers stroking along your slick seam. “Mine,” he muttered, like a prayer.

Anton’s body was tense above yours, muscles flexed as he hovered over you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips were soft on your skin—gentle kisses, a contrast to the grip of his hands on your thighs as he guided himself between them. He rocked his hips forward slowly, the weight of him settling against your heat. His length slid along your folds, hot, heavy, teasing, and your breath hitched as your hips twitched under his. “Shh, baby,” he murmured, kissing just below your ear. “Just breathe for me.” You whimpered, your fingers gripping his biceps, legs trembling around him. The warmth, the stretch, the pressure of him right there—it was too much and not enough all at once. Then, slowly, he pushed in, just the tip. You gasped, a soft cry slipping from your lips as your back arched and your nails dug into his skin. “Toni—” you whimpered. He stilled immediately, breathing ragged as he pressed kisses along your throat. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I promise. I’ve got you.” Slowly and carefully he began to move, easing in deeper, inch by inch. Your breath hitched, legs tightening around his hips as you clung to him, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. He kissed your cheek, then your temple, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other squeezing your waist gently. “You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his voice tight with restraint. “Just a little more, okay?” You whimpered, a soft tear slipping down your cheek as the fullness settled in. He wiped it away instantly, thumb brushing under your eye. And then—he was fully inside you. All of him. He stayed still. Both of you breathing hard, wrapped in silence and heat, your bodies pressed together so close it was like you were one.

Your arms came up to circle his shoulders, holding him close. He rested his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?” he murmured, lips brushing yours. You nodded weakly, your voice nothing but a breath. “I just…need a second…” “Take all the time you need,” he whispered, kissing your cheek again. “I’m not going anywhere.”After a moment, when your breathing slowed and your hips shifted ever so slightly against him, he began to move. Slowly. Deeply. Carefully. Each stroke was patient, deliberate, letting you feel everything without rushing anything. Your cries were soft, your fingers tangled in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as you adjusted to the stretch and pressure of him inside you. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, voice shaking as he moved. “You were made for me.” His movements started slow, every thrust deep and measured, his lips brushing your cheek, jaw, neck. But then, you shifted, hips tilting just slightly, and he slid in deeper. Your breath hitched. A soft, shaky moan left your lips. “T-Toni—”He froze. “Too much?” You shook your head, fingers digging into his shoulders as your eyes fluttered open to meet his. “N-no… it feels—” your voice cracked, breathless and trembling, “feels so good, Toni…” That was all he needed.

His jaw tightened as he exhaled shakily, one hand gripping your thigh tighter, the other braced by your head. He began to move again, faster now, the rhythm gaining confidence, deep, rolling thrusts that made your body shake. The pain was fading—replaced by a spreading heat, a pressure that built with every movement, making your back arch and your legs wrap tighter around him. “You take me so well,” he breathed against your skin, his voice now lower, rougher. “So perfect for me.” Your moans grew louder, your breathing faster, every stroke pulling another soft cry from your lips. His hips snapped harder now, a possessive edge creeping in. His control was slipping, and you could feel it, in the way he kissed you, the way he moved, the grip of his hands on your thighs like he was claiming every inch of you. His thrusts grew deeper, rougher now, his hand hooking under one of your legs—lifting it up, draping it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything.

Your back arched with a gasp, nails scratching down his back as he filled you even deeper. The rhythm was relentless, his breath ragged, your moans uncontrolled, bodies crashing together like waves. “T-Toni—ahh—” He kissed your calf where it rested on his shoulder, eyes locked on you, wild and reverent all at once. His hand gripped your waist, holding you right where he wanted you. “So fucking perfect for me.” You were crying out, fingers clinging to the sheets, your body trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. And then, eyes wide, lips trembling, you looked up at him with all the love you had burning in your chest and whispered, I’m yours, Toni,” you moaned again, breathless but his rhythm faltered. “All yours…you’re all I believe in.” He groaned, a deep, broken sound, like he couldn’t take it anymore, and leaned down to kiss you hard, your leg still high on his shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs so tight it left marks.

His hips snapped forward, thrusts rougher and deeper, angled just right, and when he hit that spot again, your whole body jolted.“T-Toni—! There—right there—” He grunted, burying himself to the hilt over and over, sweat-slicked skin pressed to yours, his lips dragging along your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So tight—so fucking good for me.” he groaned, almost in disbelief. Your hands trembled on his back, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Use me as you please, Toni,” you whimpered, voice broken and full of feeling. “I was made for you.” He stilled for half a second, breath catching in his throat. Then he completely lost it. “Fuck,” he moaned, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t say that—don’t fucking say that if you don’t mean it—” “I do,” you whispered through your tears, stroking his hair, your voice barely a breath. “I do, I do—I’m yours.” His hips drove into you harder, deeper, his rhythm desperate, like he was trying to fuse your bodies together—claim you, fill you, mark you forever. “You are.” he growled against your skin. “My sweet angel. My religion.”

Anton’s hand slid between your bodies,, finding the swollen bud at your core. He circled it with pressure, never stopping his deep, perfect rhythm. Your legs trembled around him, nails digging into his back as your body began to unravel beneath him.“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Cum for me, angel.” Your breath hitched, high-pitched and broken, and then it hit you. A rush of heat, your whole body tightening, then shaking around him as you cried out his name, your release crashing through you. Anton groaned deep in his chest, kissing your temple and rubbing your clit gently as you rode it out, tears falling from the corners of your eyes. But he didn’t stop. He was still hard, still deep, and when you finally caught your breath, he leaned back to look at you. His gaze dark, reverent, full of hunger. “You can take one more for me, yeah baby?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face. “Hm, angel? Just one more?” You nodded—quick, eager, breathless. “Yes…yes, Toni.” You clung to him for a second, chest heaving—and then you pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Can I…try something?” His brows lifted slightly, lips parted. “Anything.” You bit your lip, then gently pushed him to lie back. He let you, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you swung a leg over his hips and straddled him, your body still trembling. You guided him to your entrance, your hand shaking slightly as you positioned him, and then, with a deep breath and a soft whimper, you sank down slowly. Anton’s head fell back with a groan, his hands gripping your thighs hard.

“Fuck—baby…” You whimpered, your hands braced on his chest, taking your time as you adjusted to him again, so deep, so full, until he was seated completely inside you. “You’re unreal” he murmured, hands caressing up your sides. “So perfect like this…” You began to move, slowly at first, lifting your hips just enough before easing back down onto him. The stretch still made your breath catch, but the pleasure had bloomed so deeply now that it only made you want more. Anton’s hands gripped your thighs, sliding up to your waist, then down again to squeeze the soft curves of your ass, guiding you without saying a word. You leaned forward as your rhythm quickened, forehead pressed to his, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest brushed his with every motion, soft moans leaving your lips as your body moved in sync with his. “That’s it, baby…” he whispered, voice strained. “You feel so good—so fucking good.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, your other hand on his gold cross, and he groaned into your mouth when you kissed him again—hungry, deep, messy. You rocked against him harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting growing louder, more desperate. His hands slid up your back, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough. And then, your lips brushed his ear, voice barely above a breath, thick with emotion and need, “You’re my god, Toni…I worship you.”

The words barely left your lips before everything snapped. Anton let out a low, broken growl, his hands suddenly gripping your hips tight—so tight it might bruise, and before you could brace yourself, he started lifting you up and slamming you back down onto him, hard, over and over. Your gasp broke into a high, helpless whimper, the air knocked clean out of your lungs with each deep, punishing thrust.“Yes,” he rasped, voice low and desperate, lips right against your throat. “Yes, angel. I’m your god. Say it again—say it.” You could barely breathe, clinging to him, your body trembling in his hands as he used your body like you were made for him, because you were. “Y-you’re my god,” you sobbed, mouth against his ear, “I only pray to you.”His hips stuttered at that, a broken whimper leaving his lips as his hand snuck between your bodies again, rubbing fast, tight circles on your clit. “That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just me.” Your body was shaking, your legs quivering as the tension built so fast it stole your voice. You clung to his back, burying your face in his neck, whimpering through your sobs of pleasure.“Toni—S-so close—!” “Me too, baby,” he groaned, holding you tighter, thrusts getting messier, rougher, deeper. “Give it to me…come on.” “In me, Toni—please—I want all of you…” You came with a cry, voice high and raw, as your body locked around him, pulsing so tightly he choked on his own moan. He only lasted a few more thrusts before he followed with a deep, guttural curse, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, warmth dripping from where your bodies met, streaking down your thighs, pooling on his lower belly as he pressed into you one last time.

You lay there together for a moment, bodies still tangled, skin warm and damp, his heartbeat echoing against your chest as he held you. The only sound in the room was the low hum of your breathing slowly syncing back into rhythm. His hand stroked gently along your thigh, then up your side, then back down again, reverent, calming. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You nodded slowly, still dazed, a soft smile on your lips. “Mhm…never been better.” His eyes softened, his hand cupping your face fully now. “I love you,” he murmured, barely audible. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think.” Your eyes widened a little, heart skipping, but your answer was instant—quiet, but sure. “I love you too, Toni. So much…” The way he looked at you nearly made you cry again. He kissed your lips gently, slow and soft, then moved down your body, lifting your legs up to his lap. He reached for your panties from the floor, and you blushed, but let him guide them back up your legs, sliding them into place himself with a kiss on your inner thigh. Then he whispered, just for you, “Don’t let it spill, angel.” Your cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dazed, and he grinned softly at the look on your face—still his sweet girl, even after all that.

He helped you sit up slowly, then slipped your dress back over your head, straightening the straps for you and smoothing it down your thighs. He kissed your shoulder, then moved to dress himself, slipping his shirt back on, buttoning his jeans. When he turned back to you, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, hands tucked shyly in your lap, watching him with glassy eyes. “I should let you shower and rest,” he said softly, coming to kneel in front of you. “I’ll go check on our parents. Make sure they’re still alive.” You let out a breathy laugh, and he kissed your cheek once more before pulling you into a tight, grounding hug. His arms around you made everything feel safe again. Like he’d hold you through anything. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured against your ear. “Okay.” One last kiss, and then he slipped out quietly, leaving your room.

♱

The sun was warm on your shoulders, the church bells quiet now after service had ended. The yard buzzed with familiar voices, congregants laughing, chatting, hugging goodbye. You stood off to the side, just near the corner of the building where the ivy grew thick along the old stone. Not hidden, but not exactly out in the open either. Anton was already waiting there, leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked into his slacks. His white button-down sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his black tie a little loosened from the heat. But when he saw you approaching, he stood straighter, the corners of his mouth lifting into that soft, private smile he only gave you. You looked around once, then slipped into the little pocket of space next to him.“Hi,” you said, quiet and breathless. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes on you like you were the only thing that mattered. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice low. You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I missed you too.” And then his hands gently found your waist, pulling you closer until your front pressed to his. His touch was light, his eyes flicking between yours. You barely had a second to catch your breath before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, sweet, tender, warm with everything you’d become to each other. You kissed him back, hands resting on his chest, heart thudding softly. But then—

“OH MY GOD!” You jumped and instantly pulled back, cheeks flushing. “You guys are TOGETHER?!” Anton’s arm dropped from your waist just as two very familiar voices came racing toward you from across the church yard. “I knew it!” your mom practically squealed. “I told your dad last week, didn’t I?” “I can’t believe it,” his mom gasped, all smiles and excitement. “I’m so happy!” “M-Mom!” you squeaked, face burning. Anton’s hand flew to the back of his neck, visibly flustered as he cleared his throat and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s, uh…new.” he said. “Not that new,” your mom grinned knowingly. “The way you two have been sneaking glances all month? Please.”Anton glanced at you, eyes twinkling, and despite your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but smile back. Your pinkies brushed, and he hooked his gently around yours.“Well,” his mom beamed. “I guess it’s time we start planning the wedding.” “MOM!” The four of you burst into laughter, joy bubbling like sunlight. And in that moment, in that ridiculous, love-filled chaos, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

a/n: yall i had to do research for this story bcs i don’t know anything abt catholic church terms in english LOL and also i hoped you liked this, personally this is my fav thing ive ever written but i know that it can come across as controversial

my other works ➵ masterlist

© guliexe

[meowcats734]

I pulled out my phone and started scouring the Orchard listings. The jobs weren’t great today. DEVIL TORTURING HUMANS WITHOUT A CONTRACT? Problematic, but I’d had enough of devils for a week after the Shrimp Sex debacle. HOT LONELY TRAPPED INSIDE OVERHEATING BUILDING? I hated dealing with temperature control, but I forwarded the job posting to a good Firefighter I knew. SWORD REFUSES TO LEAVE STONE?

That sounded like something I could handle. I was good at telling people when they had to move on. I opened the dossier. While renovating an old apartment complex, Hammerwall found some sapient war relic. Nobody really wanted to undergo construction while a telepathic sword was screaming at them, so they put out a bounty and hoped someone would convince it to leave. Fair enough. 

There was no conflicting magic localized on my body, so instead of the trams I just went straight to the portal network. A ragged creature with six arms and insectile chitin desultorily held up a sign that read NEED FAMILY in old Kessil glyphs. I swapped contacts with them and added their account to my family for a week—they signed something I couldn’t understand and sent back a favor token. Aside from the beggar, the portal stop was largely empty, so I just navigated my way to the right door and walked on through.

Hammerwall was one of those families that devoted itself to clearing out the minefields left over from Twenty-Seventh Magic, and from the looks of the place, they’d done good work. Ghostbusters were hauling canisters of goblin and paladin souls to their next of kin, Clouds were straining the nanites out of the water system, and I even saw another Orchard talking to a very angry floating chestplate. The war-torn suburbia was paved clean for nearly half a kilometer, fresh foundations being laid while spectives shoveled rubble through interdimensional gateways. I nodded to the definer watching over the proceedings, showing them my membership sigil. Their strigine eyes flickered over my phone.

“Nonbiological technology and magic needs to be left outside the workzone,” the definer said, ruffling their wings. I set down my phone in the nearby lockers, one of which rattled worryingly, and headed off towards my assigned area. 

It was easy to fall back into the rhythm of work. I had a job to do, and everything else in my life could be safely tucked away on the other side of the portal. I was confident, focused, and collected, which was the only reason why the telepathic screaming didn’t bowl me over the instant I got in range.

The world around me wavered, flickering like a projection on smoke, and I was at the bottom of a dark and starless well. Water drifted upwards in weightless globs around me while my body was crushed into the ground, as if all the gravity in the world had been focused solely on me. 

But I had been here before. I had long since made accord with the insecurities and self-loathing roiling in my own skull; nothing that anyone else could project into my mind could be worse.

The rules around telepathy were different for every spective, but according to the dossier, the war relic’s abilities were closer to a conversation than a lecture. And so I replied with my answer to the pit. Someone else might have told a story of how they got back up, how they joined the wellspring and drifted into the night. I’m sure those people wouldn’t even have been lying. But that was never how my story would end.

I envisioned the bottom of the well cracking under my weight, felt bricks and earth and stone dig into my hilt and blade, and then—all at once—let it go. I fell through where rock bottom should have been, into a tunnel that bored through the heart of the world,  into a space devoid of light and end. With nothing pushing back against me, no matter how much I was weighed down, it felt like nothing more than freefall.

The relic’s mind reeled back from mine, shivering, and the wind picked up around us as we fell. Were we falling faster, or was time itself shifting? The ambiguity was, I suspected, the point that the alien mind of the living steel was attempting to get across. We began to shrink, or move further away from ourselves, our body the only thing for kilometers around—

Except in one place. I wrote them into the center of the world, and though we whipped past them too fast to make out anything but a blur the first time, and the second time, and the third, as we slowed and sank towards the center of this planet, they came into view. Seen through the senses of the blade, they were nothing more than points of light, thinking minds in the dumb leagues of rock, but to me they were Ana and Zem and Sha and all the other people who had fallen down pits of their own, who knew they could never reach the skies they once beheld but found ways to drift along weightlessly anyway.

This was my answer to the question the sword had posed, the plea that was not a plea but a memory, the memory that was not a memory but a metaphor. And though our souls were different enough that we could never share a language expressed through words, as the earth dissolved and left us staring at the distant stars, I felt the blade’s intent as they handed control of this shared dreamscape to me for a moment. Like giving an author a blank page, a painter a fresh canvas, the sword let me reshape that beautiful sky.

What were your stars?

And oh, the tales I could tell this blade. I rewove the constellations into the barest glimpse of who I had been, the simple village I had hailed from time and worlds away, and the day I’d been ripped from my place among the heavens and cast down into the void. And though I’d given up going back long ago, I’d found new stars. Glimmering in the heart and minds of the people I could still devote myself to.

The constellations blurred. The night was always brighter through tears.

Somewhere else, I wiped my eyes. Here, I loosened my hold on the reins, giving them back to the relic.

I showed you my skies. What were yours?

A.N.

This is part of a longer story, check out the rest below if you liked this one!

Previous

Table of Contents

Next

Concept: cursed blade rehabilitation center. Destroying a sentient weapon is expensive and highly unethical, so adventurers bring them to the center where highly trained staff can care for them and eventually find them forever homes. It turns out most cursed weapons are products of trauma and are not strictly evil themselves. Some blades turn out to be fiercely protective companions. Others don't even want to be weapons at all, finding joy in simple work like blacksmithing or farming. Most blades just need to be loved.

[booksandteaandtears]

That's your wife? sunshine version

Dr. Jack Abott x f!attending!wife!reader

summary: You started working as a pediatric surgeon at the PTMC about a year ago and people have not yet figured out that you and Jack are married because your personalities are very different

obviously a little inspired by dr. Doug Ross fighting with parents (does anyone else think dr. Robby is kinda like Mark Green?)

slightly angsty, but mostly fluff

mentions child abuse

reader gets hurt but not too badly

masterlist | thunder version

You'd always loved working with kids, working as a nanny during college and volunteering at different foster facilities. You had gone to med-school with the goal of becoming a pediatrician and after many years of internships and residency you had landed a job at UPMC Presbyterian. You'd had loved it there for years, but about a year and a half ago a position had opened at PTMC, with the chance to become Chief of pediatrics in a few years.

Initially you had wanted to turn it down. You had worked in the same hospital as Jack years ago as a resident, but had left when you kept being referred to as "Abbot's wife", instead of people seeing you as a doctor in your own right. Even though you'd kept your maiden name they seemed to link your medical abilities to your husband, and you hated it, so you'd always worked in a different hospital since then. You'd worked too hard on your career to be okay with being treated like that. Jack had been sad that you couldn't drive into work together anymore, but he respected your decision and fully supported your career.

Jack had convinced you to take the job at PTMC in the end, agreeing to keep your marriage secret except for a select few. None of the staff had questioned it so far and working at PTMC had been great. You loved the pediatrics team and the chances you had been given by performing new and exciting surgeries.

You especially loved being the on-call pedes surgeon every couple of shifts, consulting down in the Pitt. With PTMc being a level 1 trauna centre a lot of interesting cases were brought in every shift.

You knew everyone's name in the ER. They thought it was because you put in a lot of effort to get to know them, but you secretly knew because Jack would gossip about his staff with you. So not only did you know their names, but you knew that Javadi had a crush on Mateo, and Trinity had her eyes on Garcia. Sometimes you were the one delivering gossip to Jack, because you brought his nurses coffee and pastries which meant they told you everything.

Besides the treats, they liked you because you were always bright, happy and just incredibly good with children. You could calm down even the kids that McKay had trouble with. You had bright patches with dino's on your coat and had stickers for a ton of specific interests, ranging from cars to animals to TV-shows. You'd given Whitaker a sticker to soothe his feelings on more than one occasion and carried a special pack with some of Mel's favourites.

No one in the Pitt had even entertained the thought that you, with your bubbly personality and ever present smile, could be married to their very own anxious, demoralised and borderline suicidal attending.

You had spent that morning in surgery, fixing up a kid's lungs from a major pneumothorax after a consult in the Pitt. You'd been alerted that the child's father had arrived in the pedes' waiting room and that he had been asking for you.

You took a deep breath and turned the corner with Kiara right behind you. "Mr. Morgan?" You called out. A man raised his head at you and you nodded for him to follow you out of the waiting room.

"Your son's nursery brought him in this morning, he had a fever and was complaining of pain in his chest and back. We operated on a collapsed lung this morning. It was collapsed because of trauma, and it was so severe we could not treat it without surgery. We suspect someone kicked the boy in his ribs. I was called in for a consult by the doctors in the ER, and we found several old injuries during our assessment. Bruises and sprained ribs. Burns on his leg. It appears to us that the child has been hurt over a longer period of time."

You tried to control the anger in your voice. Your place was not to judge the man, but to help his son, but you were having trouble keeping yourself in line.

"This is Kiara, she is the social worker that is tied to the Emergency Department. She's been with your son since he was brought in. We want to have a conversation with you, and then child protection services and the police will be here to investigate further. There might be a reasonable explanation for all of this, but we are legally obligated to make a report and involve the police. Could you follow me into my office please?"

Mr. Morgan stood still in the hall. "You're saying you got the police involved?" His face grew red with anger. You raised an eyebrow, apparently the man was more worried about getting caught than trying to deny the accusation.

Kiara stepped in. "Yes, as the doctor explained, we have to report suspected cases of child abuse. I can talk with you about the next steps, so we can ensure this all goes smoothly for your son."

Mr. Morgan took a step towards you, his breath touching your cheek. He smelled of stale coffee. "You reported this to the police?" He asked again. You nodded, trying to step backwards to create distance. He grabbed your wrist to stop you. His voice grew louder. "I'll raise my boy however the hell I want to raise him. A nosy bitch like you has no say in it. Fucking whore of a doctor who thinks she's all that. Bet you've never raised kids of your own. Where is my son! I'm taking him home!" A bit of spit reached your face from the intensity of his outburst. Several people had poked their heads out of doors in the hallway, alarmed by the raised voice. You felt nervous by the way this was enfolding so you tried to deescalate the conversation once more. "Sir, the law in Pennsylvania states that I have to report you. If you've hurt your child, these are the consequences. There's nothing I can do about that. Your son is what we are worried about here, he's just had surgery because of his injuries. Let's try to talk and see what we ca-."

You felt the punch before you could have seen his fist flying at you. He was a big man and the force of it knocked you to the ground. Your hands flew up to your face, holding your nose. "Fuck." You groaned. You tried to inspect your nose, which, in hindsight, was a mistake, because you missed the foot that came flying into your ribs. A second kick landed soon after.

Kiara cried out next to you, calling for help. A group of nurses came flying in, grabbing mr. Morgan and pulling him off of you. You groaned and turned on your side, trying to breathe. Panic was taking over.

The chief attending came running up, assessing your nose and ribs with soft fingers. The touch grounded you and you tried to steady your breathing. You didn't say much, the pain in you body and the anger that was circling your mind keeping your throat closed.

"I need you to talk to me dear," she whispered. "Does this hurt?" You groaned. "Right, you need an x-ray so we can see what's going on. Let's get you down to the ER. Let's call 'em to let them know we're coming. Somebody get a gurney!"

You felt your heartbeat pick up as she mentioned the ER. Your fingers brushed her arm as she shouted orders. "No ER, please." You groaned at her. "I- I'm fine. Doesn't hurt that bad, I promise." You winced as you tried to put a smile on you face. "Try to convince someone else on that. I'm not keeping you out of the ER just so you can keep your husband in the dark." You groaned, again. "Don't call him. He'll worry. I'm fine." Your attending smiled at you. "Don't worry, I'll leave that to dr. Robinavitch. I would rather not be the one to tell you husband we let you get hurt while working."

Robby, Langdon and Whitaker were waiting in front of the elevator. They took over the gurney when the doors opened and rolled you into one of the rooms. Langdon tried very hard not to hurt you further and assessed your face carefully. You still winced when he brushed your left eye. "Sorry." He whispered at you. Robby was poking your ribs in the meantime. You turned you head towards him.

"Robby," You started, "You didn't call yet, did you?" He nodded and poked a particularly sore spot. "Let's asses first, I'll call him after." You whined at him. "Don't, Robby. He'll just be mad, I'll tell him when I get home." Robby looked at you sternly. "We'll talk about this later." You pouted at him and let Langdon inspect your face again. "Yes dad." You murmured. Langdon couldn't help a laugh escaping him.

Half an hour later you were working on convincing Robby not to call Jack. Your ribs were bruised and you had a massive black eye, but the CT's showed no breaks in you face or your ribs. It did hurt like hell though.

"I am a patient now, Robby, I do not give consent to cal my emergency contact and I am perfectly capable of making that decision right now." Robby nodded fiercely at you. "Yes, those are very pretty words, and very true, but the matter of the fact is that Jack will kill me when he finds out you are in his ER and I did not call him. My life's on the line here, not yours. It's bad enough that Gloria's coming down to investigate, I can not handle an angry Jack on top of that." You almost felt sorry for him.

"I just don't want him freaking out. I'll tell him when he comes in, then he can immediately see that I'm fine." Robby sighed at you. "That won't stop him from killing me and Dana." You grimaced back at him, pain pulsing through your bruises because of the movement. "He won't kill Dana, he'll hold you responsible."

Robby threw his hands in the air in surrender and was called away by an incoming trauma, leaving you alone.

You had planned to stay in the ER bed for another hour to make sure you had no concussion, but five minutes before you wanted to leave the curtain around your bed was ripped open.

"I was going to bring you a coffee upstairs and when I arrive one of the nurses tells me you've been knocked down by a parent and you're in the ER. And when I asked when it'd happened, they told me it was over two hours ago." Jack's face was angry. You opened your mouth to argue but where interrupted.

"So, let's see how you're doing" Langdon stepped in through the curtain and was shocked to see Jack standing there. "Dr. Abbot," Langdon called out, "What are you doing here so early? You shift doesn't start for an hour and a half. Is there a big trauma coming in?" Jack turned, still angry. "Where's Robby?" He demanded. "He's in curtain four, I think. He's been screaming to Gloria about hospital security for the past thirty minutes. But what are you doing here, do you need to discuss something with dr. Robby?" Jack grunted. "Bring him here." You winced at his tone. "Jack, come o-" Jack turned towards you. "Don't. Langdon go get Robby." Frank was confused. "He's in four with a patient. Why can't you just go to him? I've gotta check up on this patient." Jack turned fully towards him and Langdon could see the fury in Abbot's eyes. "Because my wife was brought into the ER this afternoon, and dr. Robinavitch did not contact me. That's why."

Langdon looked around the Pitt. "Your wife was brought in? When? I don't see an Abbot on the board? Where is she."

Jack pointed to you and you grew red.

Langdon opened his mouth but no sound came out. Whitaker kept looking from you to Jack.

"That is your wife?" Langdon gasped after a moment. "She's here all the time! How did you never tell us?" Jack shrugged and gently pushedsome hair out of your face. "Not like you ever asked." You leaned in to his touch. "You can hover around, but let Frank take a look at my face please." Jack's finger brushed your eyebrow. "I can do that. I don't want a resident working on my wife."

You took his fingers and pulled them down, kissing them softly. "Langdon can take care of it. Just sit tight and hold my hand. I'm fine Jack, I promise." You could see some of the worry leave your husband's face. "Sit down. We'll ask someone to cover your shift so you can take me home after. You can make me dinner and we'll hang out on the couch all evening, all right?" Jack resigned and took a seat next to you on the gurney, stroking your thigh with his free hand.

Langdon discharged you a couple minutes later and you managed to get Jack out of the Pitt without bumping into Robby. Jack was still mad that he had been blindsided, but he knew your injuries weren't bad. He'd promised you he'd be screaming at Robby tomorrow, but you were pretty sure you could get him to forgive his friend before then.

Tomorrow was going to be confronting enough, by then the entire hospital would know that the bubbly pediatrician and the grumpy ER physician were married.

Jack helped you into his car and leaned over you to fasten your seatbelt. "Jack," you told him when he was satisfied it was on tightly, "I'm not a kid, I can fasten my own seatbelt." Jack looked up into your eyes. "I know you're not. But you're my wife and I want to take care of you. You scared me darling. I was just going to take you a cup of coffee and I find you in my ER. That's something out of a nightmare. That elevator ride down was the longest of my life. I know you're going to be okay, but I was really terrified for a second there. So just bear with me while I treat you like you're made of glass, all right? It'll make me feel better about it." He walked around the car to get into the driver's seat.

You smiled at your husband. "So, did you abandon the cup of coffee in the pediatric ward or did you have the foresight that I would still want it." Jack fastened his own seatbelt and turned to you. "I did abandon your coffee. So I'm guessing our first stop on the way home is to get a new one?" You nodded at Jack. "You bet. Let's go, husband of mine!" He started the car and took another peek at you, glossing over your face to make sure you were all right. "I love you, my wife."

[kdh-tally]

Huntr/x and Saja Boys Headcannons!!!

This was requested (Here's a summary) : I was wondering if you could do an open world fanfic? Where the saja boys are able to return to the human world since they wouldnt be demons no longer (the defeat of gwi nam). The fansign scene left me STARVING. LIKEEE mystery x zoey and baby being the wingman (nonchalantly ofc) romance x mira x abby (YOU CAN DECIDE WHO GETS WITH MIRA BTW NO WORRIES ❤️) and ofc our NUMBER ONE JINU X RUMI

No idea how long this was but here's my first head cannon thingy :D

The Aftermath

Jinu, the sweet little self-sacrificing boy just shows up one day in the label lobby like hi ☺️☺️ and everyone freezes in place.

Rumi blinks and leaves the room.

Baby, the maknae (youngest member), is like “I’m not crying you’re crying shut up bro.”

The boys don’t question it too hard because they’re just happy he’s back. And now they get to keep playing the hot idol boy group. 

Not that they cared about their fans or anything…

(Spoiler: they love the idol life. They just pretend to be tired.)

Both Huntrix and Saja Boys are definitely under the same entertainment company now. Same building, Same dorm hall, Shared lounges and practice rooms.

This also means people keep taking other peoples stuff. 

Mira wanted to eat the ramen she left on the counter only 3 minutes ago? Too bad, Romance took the cup and left a sticky note: “sorry pinkie. u snooze u starve - R”

The girls didn’t even know when the boys were signed. 

“Wait, are you saying the weird tall guy who always takes my food is one of the Saja Boys??” Mira glances over at Bobby in confusion.

“We’ve been working above them this whole time!!??”

Rumi definitely avoided the whole label for WEEKS once she found out Jinu was alive again.

Abby saw her in the stairwell once when heading to dance practice and she legit LEAPT over the railing to avoid him seeing her.

There will be prank wars.

Rumi suggests it by accident one day, wanting to ensure that Gwi-Ma is sealed forever. “We should just move back into the dorms so we can spy on them.”

Zoey, seeing this as a way to have more fun, gets so hyped, "or we move in so we can BOTHER them!!"

Next thing you know, Huntrix is back in their old dorm and they’re not even subtle about their pranks.

Within the first week?

Baby’s toothbrush gets replaced with a glitter-coated pacifier.

Mystery wakes up to “Zoey was here ;P” written in red lipstick on his mirror. (He stares at it for a good five minutes before wiping it off.)

Jinu goes to work out one day in the company gym only to find that all the motivational posters have been replaced with an image of his head photoshopped onto a barbie doll....

The boys retaliate.

Romance reroutes the girls’ shower water to freezing cold.

Abby writes them a sweet apology note then leaves stink bombs under their couch cushions. (Mira is fuming, cause how DARE he mess with her couch???)

Baby? He would bake them cookies that taste amazing but are actually mild laxatives. He says “oopsie” but is smiling too hard.

Daily Interactions That Would Definitely Happen

Dance Practice:

Somehow both groups would be scheduled to use the practice room at the same time.

Zoey and Mystery would argue over who gets to use the bluetooth speaker first.

Rumi walking in, seeing Jinu sweaty from practice, walking OUT.

Abby quietly waits to stretch but then gets dragged into a Mira vs Romance (she's getting him back for stealing her ramen).

Company Lounge:

Baby would be snacking mid-meeting, sharing with some Zoey (his fellow rapper) and not offering Mystery anything just to start some trouble.

Rumi chooses to sit on the farthest end of the couch from Jinu but he moves closer anyway.

“Mind if I sit here?”

"Um- no! I don't know. Yo-you can do whateeeeeever you want... Heh"

Recording Studio:

Zoey overhears Mystery’s guide vocal and straight up complains. “Ugh. Why is he good at everything.”

He just smirks in the booth (he heard her). She’s blushing. He knows.

Abby helps Mira rehearse her lines in the hallway. Romance pops in with a “need help, pinkie?” and gets hit with her script binder.

Little Scenes

Baby constantly catching Zoey and Mystery coming up with lyrics together in one of the solo-practice rooms. He'd shake his head and walk by, “Not my business.”

(It becomes his business. He’s taking mental notes as to how to set them up.)

Late-night rooftop talks between Rumi and Jinu.

Both of them still haven’t completely come to terms with their demon (and half-demon) heritage.

She’s still so unsure about everything but he's incredibly devoted to her.

“Even when I disappeared I still remember how I felt about you. I mean, I literally gave you my soul” he lets out a small laugh

“Shut up before I cry, you idiot.” (she's already crying into his hoodie)

Romance tries to convince Abby to dye his hair a different colour so that only he matches with Mira.

The Fans

The fans believe the whole “Huntrix vs Saja Boys” rivalry was just a clever concept planned out since the Saja Boys debut.

“Whoa, two groups with an epic fantasy backstory??”

No one knows what actually happened.

They think Jinu’s re-appearance is just him coming back from a long hiatus after health complications.

Little do they know he literally reincarnated.

Fansign Events

Mystery x Zoey Moments (Constant Sarcasm)

A fan is literally spewing so many questions at them “Your concept is sooo realistic. How did you learn to hold swords like that?”

Zoey -> “Extensive training.”

Mystery -> “Yeah. In the mountains. With wolves.”

Zoey -> “That’s why you’re always barking at people huh?"

“I don’t bark at the fans-”

“There’s an hour long youtube compilation of you just-”

Anyways…

A fan brings Mystery a vampire plushie and he just stares at it.

“Do I… give off vampire?”

Zoey shrugs, “I mean, you got the pale skin, hidden eyes, sharp teeth for biting your fans. It’s a fair assumption.”

The fan squeals

Rumi x Jinu (Secret Soulmates)

A fan asks the two “Rumi, you’ve worked with Jinu before right?”

“You could say that.” she smiles while signing their album.

She really means “We literally fought a huge magical demon fire thing side-by-side and he sacrificed himself for me.”

Jinu signs an album with “I’ll protect you forever 😉” and winks at a fan.

Rumi gives him a NASTY side eye and playfully whispers at the fan “He’s not even that charming.”

She is beet red. 

The fan is dying of laughter.

Most fans have a theory that they were cast as rivals in a music video storyline that never ended up being released.

Mira x Romance x Abby Triangle (Pink Trio)

I feel like fans would call them Pink Crayons or something like that cause they all have pink hair.

Fan: “What’s your favorite memory between both groups?”

Abby -> “When we survived our first tour.”

Romance -> “When we survived our first battle-”

Mira, while grinning at the fan, KICKS HIS SHIN UNDER THE TABLE

Romance -> “I MEANT fan battle. On Twitter. With hashtags. Obviously.”

Abby smiles so kindly at fans that they start calling him a “gentle giant.”

Baby Being a single wingman & Secret Keeper

Fans: “What’s it like sharing a company with Huntrix?”

“Loud. Dangerous. Very cursed. I mean—cozy.”

He’s so calm, seeing as he’s the only one who wasn’t being shipped.

He didn’t mind watching his other group members flirting all the time (maybe just a little bit…)

“You know Mystery sleeps like he’s guarding a portal to hell. Kidding. Unless…?”

The fans know he’s the comedic relief between both groups.

Zombie Apocalypse?

Fan: “What would you do in a zombie apocalypse?”

Zoey -> “Take Mira and Rumi and run.”

Mystery -> “I’d already have a plan.”

Abby -> “I’d distract the zombies with my gorgeous muscles.” Proceeds to flex.

Jinu -> “Obviously I’m saving my pets first,”

Rumi -> “Your pets? You still haven’t named them??”

Jinu -> “It takes timeeeeee”

Mira -> “Grabbing my couch, grabbing zoey and running.”

Rumi -> “What about me 🥺”

Mira -> “Jinu won’t let you die so i’m not that worried”

Baby -> “I am the apocalypse.”

Romance -> “What does that even mean–”

[eraserbread]

go as a dream ft. ex-husband satoru gojo ✧

୨୧ - ten years together, five years married -- it's a long time. too long to be running on borrowed time glued together by the past. leaving is easy, but staying away turns out to be impossible. → afab!reader, modern/no curses!au, slow-burn, long-established relationship, mutual pining, heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, mention of pregnancy/failure to conceive, relationship insecurity, emotional sex, oral f!receiving, spanking/slapping, cum eating, mentions of readers relative hair length, mentions of readers family, nsfw → w.c. - 15.3k {1 hour reading time}

a/n: when an idea sticks for me, i head to my graveyard of wips to expand on it. most end up dying, but for some reason the love you guys held for this version of satoru made it stick. make him meaner... then more loving... then spin the narrative - pin it back on him -- all of those thoughts ran my psyche during the month (?) it took me to flush this idea out. happy 3k, my angels <3 i crafted this for you with so much love, sweat and tears. sit with this one for while. let it sink in. part two may come if you guys will it to. with so much of my love, - elly

listen to the soundtrack <3

Your heart is racing, gloss dripping sensually from your lips. Satoru is under you, his familiar face laced with overwhelming stoicism. He’s biting over soft, pink lips, his eyes wide open as he watches you ride him like you never have before. 

You’re sad – on the verge of tears, but he doesn’t notice. He just parts his lips, content with the headiness of the pleasure you’re working yourself up to give him. Usually, he’d be telling you how beautiful you looked, how well you’re taking him, but he’s silent. It’s a deadly combination – you sad, Toru silent. 

You just want to disappear. 

“That’s it, babe. So close… keep going.” It’s like the one sentence of praise needs to be sucked from his very lifeform, because he’s chewing on his words, throwing them at you all mangled and sloppy. There’s no care anymore; gentleness is lost as he grabs your hips and slams them back down on his length. 

You’re reeling, so close, yet so far from any kind of release your body’s begging for. You need Satoru to give you something – to touch and tell you he loves you so gently, but there’s nothing. Fucking nothing. Just grinding bodies lost in the tangle of bedsheets. 

His eyes snap closed, head tilted back as he bares his neck for you. Two years prior, you would’ve gone in, marking every inch of that luminescent skin with love bites. Now, you watch your nimble fingers spread across the soft, veined expanse, fingers concentrating at his Adam’s apple. You squeeze, he breathes out a moan. 

“Ahh – come on, comeoncomeon.” 

“Cum for me… please.” You’re trying your best to come off genuine, to dip your tone into a needier drawl he doesn’t see much anymore, just for it all to be over sooner. Right now, you’re just fulfilling your bodily duties as Satoru Gojo’s wife. He did just buy you a Cartier bracelet, giving you apologies with wide, blue puppy eyes. As fucked up as it sounds, the least you can do is get him off before he goes to sleep. 

“Mm, say my name, baby. Gonna fill you up, give you so many babies.” 

You’re nodding, letting him spill his orgasm thoughts into your lap. You know him far too well, can read his breeding kink inside out. What Satoru doesn’t know is that you went on birth control the second you started drifting apart. There would be no loose ends; you’ve been planning your escape for months. 

So you let him come inside of you, calling him baby and telling him lies about how turned on you are. Satoru knows you too well that he’d notice a fake orgasm, so you don’t even try. You just let him have his moment, kissing up your arm with ruffled, white hair, pumping shot after shot deep inside of you like he’s on a mission. 

And when he’s drained and limp, you’re climbing off of him, not even offering a word as you head straight to the bathroom. 

You and Satoru thought you had it all figured out pretty early. He graduated from university prematurely and got an immediate position doing what he loved – teaching psychophysics as a Professor's Aide. It’s where he met you, not his student, but definitely a co-worker he shouldn’t have approached, because you fell hard. Head over heels, mind over body – you made him your life. 

That lifeline only had about five good years once you got married, and now you two are overworked strangers bumping shoulder to shoulder on a shared lease. Though you’ve mourned the relationship that shaped you into the woman you are now, you don’t have any regrets. There’s no hatred for Toru in your heart – quite the opposite. You love him to pieces, but can’t give him what he needs at the cost of you. It’s just not worth it anymore. You feel like an object manufactured to please. 

So you chase your solace against the hot spray of the shower, letting it drown out your thoughts as water-mixed come seeps down your thighs. 

Now that you’re alone, you can cry. So, you do – for the unborn children you promised you’d give him, for the life and love you manufactured with your bare hands. He didn’t know that you’d be packing your bags and escaping tomorrow. It’s hard for you even to swallow, though you’ve been planning this day for months. Sweet freedom… only hours away. 

Why is it, though you’ve wished so hard and lived in daydreams, that you’re afraid? You don’t want to be alone in any form of the word, but you couldn’t stay here. It’d kill you long before you hit your grey years. 

Your sweet, smiling Toru with that permanent sparkle in his eye would kill you. 

“Suguru and Shoko want to grab dinner tonight after work.” 

Toru’s voice is slow and controlled as he steps into the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. His silhouette moves intently in front of the glass shower door, stopping at your soaking wet shadow. He hears it, the sniffle amongst the spray – the way you’re hunched in on yourself, curled in the corner of the spacious area. “Are you crying?” 

You scoff, shaking your head as you wipe water from your eyes. “Fucking ignore it.” 

“Hey.” He steps forward, pulling the shower door open. Just like he thought, you’re posed like a wet puppy, legs crossed to keep your decency, and arms over your chest in the farthest corner. “Crying after sex is not your style.” 

“Just… weird post-nut hormones.” You’re shrugging him off with a distant look in your eyes. More recently, everything turns into pointless bickering, so you feed him lies to keep him agreeable. 

But, Satoru’s looking at you like he knows you’re a liar, light eyebrows all screwed up. “But, you didn’t even cum-

“Close the door, Satoru.” You’re grimacing, stepping forward to yank the door closed in his face. “What do you want? What about Suguru?” 

“Suguru and Shoko invited us to dinner tonight…” He’s speaking slowly, like he’s trying to gain his bearings. It’s not really an argument, but Toru feels the rush of one in the steamy air. It wouldn’t be the first time this post-sex daze made you two hot-headed. “I was going to say, it’d be good to all be together again, but you’re acting weird… They don’t need to be around that right now.” 

You scoff, forehead falling into your open palm. The water burns you from within, but you stand under it like you want to be scalded. “Did you follow me in here just to fuck with me? Huh!? You see me trying to get away from yo-

Then, when the seal breaks and you’re yelling, that’s when Toru starts – deep voice banging off the tile walls. “You’re a livewire! You sat there and let me fuck you, now you’re acting like I’m the biggest inconvenience to ever cross your path!” 

“Get out! For once in your life, just leave me alone!” 

He really should listen to you – let you have the upper hand because he knows you’re sensitive, but Toru just shakes his head. “A man can’t even take a piss in the bathroom he pays for.” He adds, stepping away from your vengeful, blurred reflection. The toilet is just over from you – he can’t see the shower, you can’t see him. 

For those few moments, you’re holding your breath. The shower drowns out the sound of him relieving himself, but you can guess well enough what he’s doing. When you’re married, intimate moments like this go unsaid – even on the brink of divorce. And when he’s done, he’s lumbering back over to the shower, long arms limp as they reach to pull it open again. You roll your eyes. 

This time, your back is turned to him, water beading at your shoulder and trailing down the curves in your back sensually. His crystalline eyes catch it, and he parts his lips. “Mind if I join you?” 

You don’t answer him, deciding it’s enough just to regard him briefly with a downcast look over the shoulder. You’re still covering your chest with crossed arms, mainly because you’re cold. Toru keeps opening and closing the door like a nuisance. Now, he’s climbing under the spray with you, big hands holding your familiar shoulders. He leans down to kiss your left. 

“Maybe if we had a baby…” He mumbles that same tired argument into your wet skin, hoping for a different response. “It would bring you back to me.” 

“I don’t want babies with you, Satoru.” The realization is heavy, but you know he can take it. All Toru wants besides you and money is a child – a mini little version of him that you adore to the ends of the Earth. When you became a Gojo, you promised you’d give him what he wanted – every breathless reminder in the heat of the moment was fuel. You two were trying… until you weren’t. Until you were shrugging off to appointments without telling him, taking prescription pills once he tucks in for bed. You just haven’t told him yet. 

Now, he’s standing with it, breathing into your skin as he works up a response in his head that covers the devastation. “You know how my family is–

“I don’t care.” It’s a force of habit, you’re leaning back into his cradle. “Bringing a child into this mess is just inhumane.” 

Then, Satoru says it – what he’s been wanting to tell you for weeks. Months, almost. He whispers, “Then why do you stay?” 

All you can do is shake your head. You don’t have it in you to lie, and you surely wouldn’t tell him that you were leaving tonight. So, you reply, “I love you.” 

“Love isn’t enough to keep a marriage going.” 

You know that. You know Satoru loves you more than anything, but you didn’t feel like it was right for him to say it. In your mind, he’s clueless to the cool air you’re exerting every time he draws near. You’re not buzzing in his company anymore, going out of your way to be seen by his blinding eyes. 

So, you don’t answer him. You nod, easing your shoulders from his grip as you collect the rest of your sanity and move to leave the shower. He watches you go, fine white hair nearly translucent on his pale scalp as he stands soaked.

Toru’s long eyelashes are sticking together, clumped and prominent as he watches you move and dry off through the fogged door. The lingering, soft scent of your signature bodywash sits sensually in the air, wafting from your skin every time you bend or bow. He studies that fuzzy reflection as if it's the last time he’ll see it, and thinks he feels sad. Devastatingly sad, it rises in his throat like bile he must swallow. 

You’re slipping into a soft, ivory robe that Satoru’s mother gifted after the marriage; he has a matching one – it’s your favorite robe with his embroidered initials sewn across your heart. He notices your choice to wear it as you walk out of the bathroom, not even offering him a look over your shoulder, and thinks it’s a sign. You’re still sporting him around, telling him you love him even though you don’t want to bear his children. 

But Satoru isn’t stupid. He’s far too smart to feed himself lies in hopes of lengthening this relationship that has always had a timer on it. But he is reeling. There’s nothing he falls short on, in his opinion. He treasures and calls you beautiful, any chance he gets. Vacations, expensive gifts, words of affirmation, and mindblowing touches are just scratching the surface of what he offers you. 

Alone, he sits with these thoughts, thin eyebrows knitting together as his dripping head hangs between his shoulders. Standing statuesque in the shower, palms pressed to the damp wall, keeping him upright because you’re not here to do it. Mentally, you’re not here at all. 

He can hear you in the bedroom stewing about – opening and closing doors, the shuffle of fabric, and the barely-there sound of your breathing. Toru has you all down to a science, now. He knows you’re slipping into bed, likely naked or covered loosely in some silk slip he loves to bury his head in.

That’s where he wants to be now – three years younger, your hair tangled in his long fingers, words of devotion damp in the air. Instead, he’s breathing in shower steam, a cruel metaphor to the heat the relationship used to hold. 

Everything is a metaphor, now. Toru sees that when he’s walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, wide, adoring eyes glossed over with humidity and exhaustion. Still, they never lose their supernatural sparkle when they fall on you, eyes closed peacefully as you feign sleep. 

He was right; you’re in silk, your eyelids twitching as the bathroom light spills a sliver of golden light across your face. Blankets are bunched loosely at your hips. Satoru can’t help but feel the beauty you emit, it’s why he married you – it’s something in your mere presence that makes you so addictive. 

Crawling into bed with you, naked and damp-haired, is so familiar it’s almost sickening. He’s leaning over your shoulders, so gentle as he settles over you, and kisses your cheek. In your daze, you shift. 

“What?” 

Satoru slides up close to you, chest pressed to your back as he winds an arm around your waist. “Good night. I love you so much, beautiful.” He’s whispering in your ear, kissing over the shell with bitten lips. You can feel the cool wetness of his hair brush your bare neck, beads of water falling onto your skin. 

He continues, arm sliding right between the canyon of your breasts, pulling you deeper into his body. You’re lifting your head, eyes shut, because you can’t bear the light right now. 

“Shh, just lie with me.” 

For some reason, you’re taking it. You’re listening to him, pressing your head back into the pillow, sighing softly. Nowadays, you’re impartial to bedtime cuddling, but Satoru insists. It’s become a nasty habit because now he has trouble nodding off if he’s not pressed skin-to-skin. 

It’s the only reason you’re not pushing away. Or, maybe it’s the fact that you’re too far gone to be annoyed or unsettled. His touch feels good, just too warm, too close, like he’s slowly trying to ingest you into his bloodstream. 

You two stay like that for hours. Satoru falls asleep right on the cusp of Midnight – his breath steadies over, and you’re still awake, gazing longingly at the bedside clock. Hands tucked under your pillow, you’re fiddling with them, doing anything to dull those uncertain thoughts away. In seven hours, you’d be standing in a train station, life passing you by as you leave the city, leave your husband. 

You wonder how he’ll act, you wonder if he’ll cry for you. 

No, Satoru never cries. 

You bite your lip, gathering strength in your bones to shift and turn around in his arms. When you do, he’s mushing his face deeper into the bed, arms constricting back around you once you’re settled face-to-face. You can feel the softness of his breath over your skin, can hear the soft hums behind each of them like he’s dreaming uncomfortably. 

Still, he looks so peaceful. Beautifully asleep, like his life wasn’t crumbling and burning all around him. 

In that soft, settled face, you’re staring at the boy you fell in love with – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, flushing and looking away when you’d counter his initial advances. Your friends were always around that early on, egging it all with a jump in their voice. Everyone felt so accomplished when you and Toru got married, as if they pieced together a match made in Heaven. 

You just can’t fathom what went wrong… You don’t want to see it. 

You don’t want to see him, anymore. So, you close your eyes and rid your consciousness of struggle – if only for a few hours. 

Day comes with a vengeance – a gross, salty taste in your mouth as your brain slams awake. Your body is slow to react, cocooned comfortably in Toru’s thick chest. You’re too warm, alarms are blaring, and you realize you forgot to close the curtains last night. The morning sun is deviant. 

You slip out of bed easily, undoing his arms' knot around your body. The silk of your slip is darkened with sweat, most likely Toru’s, but definitely mixed with hints of you. It takes you a while to come to from the cruel awakening, and you’re half alive as you shift to the edge of the bed, feet planted on cool ground. Toru shifts, and you hold your breath. 

Your last hour together, and Satoru refuses to wake up. 

You’re letting him drag the morning out, not bothering to wake him as you head for the bathroom. Time moves languidly with a solemn undertone, hovering over you like bad memories as you scrub your face and teeth raw. There’s so much tension in your body this morning, and you’re taking it out on yourself – swishing mouthwash, swallowing pills, securing jewels and ornaments. 

You’re sure this is the fastest you’ve gotten ready without plans to work. You just think you’d rather be put-together when you disappear from Satoru’s life forever. You want him to have this reflection to remember you by – exposed shoulders, soft skin, dripping with his money in gold. 

When he wakes up, stumbling into the bathroom sleepdrunk, he smiles when he sees you in the mirror's reflection. “Why didn’t you wake me, beautiful?” 

“Figured you’d want more sleep.” You reply, not even meeting his frosty gaze. You’re fixated on securing a bracelet to your wrist – one, of course, from Satoru. It’s a gold-plated Gojo Clan crest that was passed down through matriarchs, eventually given to the prospective head. 

His family is so traditional, overbearing in the worst ways. Since you two started dating, they’ve had a magnifying glass on the relationship, stating it’s just out of care. Sure, the money is endless and overflowing, but it’s not enough to overshadow the abusive balance of power. Toru doesn’t want to lead either – you don’t want to be next to him if he does. He promised you that he’d completely shut down the proceedings if you married him, but keeping his promise isn’t enough.  

Nothing he seemed to do was enough. It’s all just a lost cause. 

“Now I have twenty good minutes to leave the house.” Once your bracelet is secured, he’s crowding you against the sink, his shirtless body pressing hard into your back. You’re humming, leaning back into his frame. 

“At least you showered last night.” 

“You got me on that schedule.” He whispers into your neck, big hands squeezing your hips as he kisses you there. “I feel terrible about last night… Followed me in my sleep.” 

You knew it, you could sense the stress in his breath even when he looked so peaceful. “We both said some things.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make you finish.” Another kiss to the neck, Satoru nuzzles himself deep in your skin, white hair fluffy and strewn about. You look up at him in the reflection and shake your head. 

“Just cause I was on top. I was trying too hard – It’s not your fault.” 

He doesn’t take that well; he sighs into your skin. “You know I don’t believe that.” 

Of course, he doesn’t. One of the most significant parts of your relationship is your uncanny sexual chemistry. There’s never been a time when you two stopped at one round – you both finished multiple times, every time. 

“Then, you know I won’t tell you the truth, you should just stop trying.” Both hands are pressed to the countertop, and you’re still covered in your sleep dress. Toru’s hands start to wander. “No, get off of me.” 

It stings, but you don’t have to tell him twice. Satoru steps back with an odd look in his eyes, moving to your side. Though you’re rejecting sexual advances, you let him pull your chin forward for a sensual kiss to the lips. It lasts for a few seconds, his hand wanders across your jawline, slotting perfectly in your hair. 

“You’re not on campus today, right?”

You shake your head, lips rolling together as you evaluate his lingering taste. “No, you should really brush your teeth.” 

“Yeah…” He starts, reaching over you for his blue and white brush. “Haven’t been on the grounds in a while, everyone’s asking about you, saying we should go to dinner to catch up.” 

“You’re sure I’m acting normal enough to see them now? Isn’t that what you said last night? That I was acting ‘weird’?” 

“You were acting weird last night. Moody.” 

You scoff as he begins to brush his teeth. You two are stealing glances in the mirror, too distant to hold contact for too long. “Why do you say things like this if you’re not trying to make me mad?” 

“I’m just making an observation.” He shrugs like he’s not being a tool, brushing his teeth slowly as he looks at you. You’re staring down at your hands, shaking your head silently. “I’m sure it's news to you, but I never try to make you mad. I just say what I feel, and you jump down my throat.” 

“Just brush your teeth.” You bite out in resolve, standing up straight as you go to walk away. 

You're breathless, clutching a fist to your chest as his words wash over you with time. They fall like dominoes, slow and calculated, as you dress for the day. Satoru thinks you’re working from home once he leaves, so you lean into it, picking something easy to wear, yet professional enough to be on camera. It’s the perfect outfit to run away in – something he sees all the time. 

But even as you dote over your reflection in the bedroom mirror, adjusting necklines, pulling jewelry, smudging lipgloss, you’re thinking about it – him. 

You don’t know why it’s so hard to sit with the fact that Satoru has always been like this. You two are polar opposites in social settings – he’s the life, you’re the longing. In crowded city bars, you’d be the girl tucked under his heavy arm, bearing the weight of his light. Satoru stopped drinking years ago, but when he did, he’d tower over you on the dancefloor, long arms slung over your shoulders as he shouts just how much he adores you – it’s a lot. Everyone’s around. 

Reading your hunched demeanor, he doubles down. Yes, all these people are around… these undulating, nameless faces lost among the neon glare, but none of them held a flame to you. He chose you. 

And when you’re alone with him, sober to the bone and drained after a work week, all of those sweet memories seem to fade away. 

He’s always too loud, too close, overbearing, but never at arm's length. This monstrous, silent loathing is a hard feeling to live with. It eats you alive, until he touches you and takes it all away again. 

It’s all you want, right now. Satoru’s touch. 

“Staring introspectively into my bedroom mirror whilst my shitty husband calls for me repeatedly. That should be the prompt on your next scholarly paper.” 

You turn around, brows furrowed as reality hits again. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hear you.” 

“Let’s sync our breaks – meet up somewhere to eat.” Right as you open your mouth to blow him off, he’s rushing back. “It can just be ramen, nothing serious. Come on, just give me ten minutes.” 

His begging for a sliver of emotional affection isn’t new, but it usually isn’t so blatant. Then, your eyes wander, wondering if those ten minutes would be worth your time. 

No, you have a train to catch. A one-way ticket out of here. 

“I’ll let you know how I’m feeling later.” You nod, smiling softly as you dodge that falling stare settled on you. “I-I’m just… I’m tired.” 

“It’s okay.” He replies, whisper-soft. He’s trying to hide it, but the shine in his eyes falters for just a second, the only hint you get to his disappointment. 

When you see him off that morning, your stomach hurts. 

There’s an ink-black, bitter pit there as you watch him jog down the pavement in his endearing little Professor's Aide sweater vest uniform. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, packed with a Bento you made for him in case you couldn’t see him for his break. 

“Bye, love! I will text you!” 

You’re silent, passing him a kiss you press to your fingers. Your stomach hurts, and now your heart aches – it burns, you’re on fire, soles of your feet scalding on coals fueled by guilt. That blue glimmer in his eyes is so oblivious to the obvious that it hurts. 

If you could help it, this was the last time Satoru would ever see you, and he waved you goodbye with the sweetest smile on his face. 

“I love you,” You call back weakly once he’s comfortably out of earshot. Then he turns the corner, and he’s gone – just a lingering presence in the air that only affects you. If you could cry right now, you would. But, you’ve cried enough this last week – more than you ever have with him. Everything was just so terribly bittersweet. 

When you made your decision, it didn’t feel real. Somehow, it does now. You wonder how your friends will take it and if you’ll see them again. Sure, they’re your friends, but they’re Satoru’s too. You wonder if you’ll see his family, his mother took you in and doted on you when her son pushed her away. His father gave you advice and priceless memories. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Kin – all of them. You knew all of them. 

Being a Gojo was so deeply rooted in your life that you’re not sure it’s possible to change your name. They’ve truly made you feel like one of theirs, as deafening as that sounds. 

A minute in the doorway, and you’re turning around to finish out the rest of your morning. All of your bags were packed and stowed away with the laundry, where Toru never treks. It’s just one suitcase – half of your wardrobe. You’re sure you’ll be back to collect everything else. 

In any case, you wouldn’t miss anything with his lingering scent on it, so you stare longingly at your art on the walls – the blankets on the couch and the crystal sitting on display in the cabinets. 

And just before you’re about to leave, you stop at the counter and rip off a piece of a napkin on display. You brought out a pen from the study, hands shaking as you pull the cap. 

Satoru,  Keep whatever, or you can sell it. Just don't reach out, i’m leaving you I’m sorry and i really really do love you

A small, wet teardrop lands on the dingy napkin, and it’s the first sign of crying. You’re surprised you still have it in you after so many rivers you’ve wept. Writing his name carried a terrible feeling, scripting out the letters to tell him you were leaving was like bricks falling from your pen. 

Shaking hands, you let it drop on the counter beside your note. If this is the last thing you give him, you want it to be candid. Just like your relationship – winging it all until the silence grew inescapable. 

You call a cab, heading downstairs with your bags in hand. It’s a conscious decision to leave the door unlocked, but you have the keys stuffed in your pocket. You’re not really thinking about it or anything at all. You’re focused on not falling on your face as you jog down the steps, breathless without a cause. It feels like fire is burning hot in your tracks. 

Your suitcase slides into the back, the city breeze rolls your hair back, and a chill envelopes your face. The entire time, you’re silent, bowing for your driver and showing manners, but silent and dreary nonetheless. 

The ride is shaky, music drowns out the noise, and emptiness fills the void. 

It’s all you can muster up the courage to feel right now, as the city passes you by. It’s an odd kind of comforting melancholy, like when you know the storms have faded and all that’s left is the rebuild. 

You have your family waiting at home. A room with a view of nothing but countryside and rolling rivers. You’re giving yourself four weeks to get back to yourself, two to file the divorce properly, and one without any work before returning to just virtual meetings in your childhood bedroom. 

Morning jogs, bike rides down the riverside, fresh delicacies to buy – yes, your life would be too rich to worry about Satoru. You feel like a caterpillar slowly slinking towards its cocoon with the joyful unease of what's to come. But you’re still so sad. 

It’s hard to believe that anything can feel as good as the way Satoru made you feel, even when his tendencies made you want to pull your hair out. In the end, you made your decision. You slept on it, stewed over it, cried about it, and now you’re living through it. 

Reality hits when you’re stepping out at the station. Bodies are everywhere, making it easy to pay your fee and slip into the chaos. You lose your sense of self walking against the foot traffic of the busy morning commuters, sucking back even more tears as you crawl the descending stairs. 

Once you reach the bottom, you’re alone enough to breathe, luggage firm at your side as you dig for your phone. You’ve been meaning to do this forever — actually tell your closest friends about your decision. All they know is what you let them see. The second you and Toru start arguing in front of them, you’re walking away. It’s all smiles and love when they bring him up, even after that day you kicked him out of the apartment and made him get a hotel. Lying about your relationship is your forte, but you couldn’t lie anymore. 

Shoko picks up two rings deep, bored but aware. ‘What’s up?’

“Hey, I know you’re at work… Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out for about a month.” 

There’s shuffling on the other line – the echo of familiar voices. You can guess she’s walking down the lecture hall during the transition; it was around that time. ‘You’re such a slack. And guess whose gonna be stuck doing all your work? Me.’ 

“I mean, I’ll be out, but I’ll still be working.” Intercom, robotic voices control the flow as a train departs before you, sending a noisy rush of air into your face. 

‘Are you going on vacation or what?’ 

“Visiting family.” You reply, no emotion. 

Shoko silences for a moment, humming under her breath. ‘Without Jo?’ 

“Yeah… I’m leaving him.” 

More silence. You expected nothing less. 

“Shoko?” 

‘Dude, what? Why?’ 

“He didn’t… cheat or anything, we just haven’t been happy for most of our marriage. It’s like people want to see us together more than we want to be together.” 

‘Okay, coming from the outside — No, you guys are so obviously in love, I mean… All he does is talk about you, it’s genuinely the most annoying thing ever.’ You can see her now in your mind's eye, jaw working a piece of fruit gum between her teeth, talking with her hands. 

“Yeah… well… you’re not trapped inside four walls with him once the sun goes down.” 

‘That’s so fucking sad, I- wow.’

“I’ve made peace.” 

‘-And I don’t even blame you, because I wouldn’t touch him with a long, long stick. He’s too annoying, and that’s just the least of it. So arrogant, too. He’s not as sexy as he thinks he is.’ It’s like once you pull the bandage off, it gave Shoko ample room to talk shit. Yes, she loves Toru – she loves you more. It’s always going to be you that she defends. 

“Yeah, but it’s more just, like – he knows what buttons to push and makes pushing them a game. The only time we talk… like, actually talk,  is when he thinks I’m mad at him and rushes in for damage control… then, it’s all like, ‘well, baby, if you would talk to me and tell me how you’re feeling, I’d understand.’ – But, whenever I tell him how I’m feeling, he fucking invalidates it like I’m the crazy one! Why am I still begging to pay some bills five years into the marriage?! He doesn’t listen to me.” 

‘Let that man pay the bills.’ 

“It’s the principal-

‘I know, I know.’ She sighs, chuckling softly before she continues. ‘I’m not going to hear the end of this – does he know you’re gone?’ 

“No… and don’t tell him. I want him to find out for himself.” 

‘Harsh.’

“It’d be harsher coming from you.” 

The announcement comes from your train, the rush of wheels skidding against tracks inches closer, you’re stepping back from the platform. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go. Don’t really want to be on my phone this week, so I’ll probably turn it off. Call my sister if you need anything.” 

‘I’ll be thinking about you – stay busy.’ 

“I will.” You reply, voice bittersweet in your chest. Shoko goes away, and you’re alone again – thoughts rush to the front of your mind. You’re staring at the lockscreen of you and Satoru in Kyoto when things were still good; a friendly stranger took it. Your arms are slung over his neck, and you’re smiling in his face. You remember that day so well – he was all over you and made the sweetest love to you that night. It was all so good back then. You never wanted for anything. Not space, touch, emotion, or love. Satoru gave you everything you needed, including some. 

Then, the feeling finally, truly settles. 

You miss him. 

From: Satoru No news on lunch?  Don’t worry about it, baby. Thank you for my bento, I’ll make sure to return it empty.  From: Satoru On my way home! Running real fast to you Had the shittiest day, gotta rant when I get back From: Satoru Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe?  [incoming call]

You glance down at your phone, grunting as you swing your suitcase over your small childhood bed. 

You made it back home a little less than three hours ago – just as your sister left for class and your father for work.  Stepping out of the cab, your mother was the one waiting for you with a solemn look in her eyes. 

Breakfast was waiting, traditional, just like always. Natto, fish, rice, soup – she stuffed you full. Now, you’re finally getting a chance to settle in and unpack, staring down the room that faced the worst of your teenage angst. 

When Satoru’s name flashes over your screen, bile rises in your throat. Immediately, you turn it back over, your finger finding the power button, and rid yourself of the stress. You’ve just glanced at the string of messages – he’d been sending them all day, which isn’t unlike him, but it felt wrong. 

You two would hide phones under desks and banter on and off all day. In the same room, you two would exchange playful glances like he wasn’t describing every lewd thing he wanted to do to you that night. It’s just a habit; he doesn’t mind when you don’t text him back, but hates when you ignore his calls. 

You’re sure it’s how he realizes you’re actually gone – that one missed call. 

Then you’re trying to distract yourself from crying by unzipping your case, pulling out shirts, tears flooding in your eyes. But it’s too much to handle. 

You collapse next to the suitcase, pulling your knees to your chest, and sob. 

It burns so hot in your body, your cries sound like they’re breaking through the barrier, eating you alive. Your open-mouthed sobs are akin to the sound of prey being gutted alive – it’s piercing and raw, cutting your vocal cords. 

It’s like you can’t stop. You let it all out, here – fingers bunched in the sheets, drawing blood in your palm from the strength of your nailed grip. The pain goes unnoticed because the aching in your chest is so cruel. Your mind is screaming at you, damning you to fiery hells and telling you to go back. 

Go back and deal with it, it’s what you deserve. 

You know you’re too weak to be alone. 

Suck it up. Just like you always have. 

Numbness sets in with time. You watch the neighborhood kids run down the cracked road through your small window, never shifting from the position you cried in. The sun travels through the sky, and late morning morphs into afternoon, afternoon to evening. 

Downstairs, the home lights back up from everyone’s departure this morning, but you want nothing to do with it. You’re sure your mom has been home this entire time – most likely heard you crying and decided not to intervene. You’re glad. You didn’t want comfort. 

Now you’re staring at the sky as it morphs into grey, and rain begins. You feel lonely. 

Grey turns to black, you’re tired. 

As blackness settles in, so does sleep. Right in that same position. Nobody bothers you. 

Until you’re cracking open your eyes, it’s daytime. 

You sit up immediately, regretting your choice as a mean wave of dizziness falls over you. Your stomach aches with hunger, breath ripe, and skin swollen from the tears. You’re still in your clothes from yesterday, the button of your pants digging into your soft skin painfully. 

You breathe out a yawn, grimacing at the feeling before looking around for your phone. 

It’s precisely where you left it, face down and completely off. You didn’t want to see Satoru’s messages right now. You just wanted to check the time. The house is quiet. 

From: Satoru I wish I could kneel at your feet and emphasize just how sorry I am. I can’t believe how stupid and selfish I was when I had you, but I see it now.  I could see that you were hurting for a while, but I assumed it would just pass in time.. I don’t know why I assumed, but I regret it so much.  Take your time, my love, but don’t forget about me. Please, let’s talk this through before you make any hasty decisions. 

You can feel the tears – they’re there before you even skim over the message. 

With Godly timing, the softest of knocks fall to your door. It’s the only thing keeping you from breaking down again. There’s no real privacy here; you’re lucky your mom even knocked before slowly pushing it open. 

“I figured you would be awake by now.” She smiles at your ruffled reflection – bed head everywhere, sleep lines on your face, drool on your lips. “Would you like some food?” 

“Please.” You nod her in, dragging your arm across your face to wake yourself up. “Thank you, Mama.” 

She has a tray of the same spread she served you yesterday in her familiar, comforting hands. Green tea steams wantonly at the corner, flailing in its porcelain confines when she lowers it before you. “Didn’t want to bother you much yesterday…” 

“Thank you for that.” 

“Your father peeked his head in last night.” She continues, reaching out to stroke your hair as you reach for the tea you’d been eyeing. There’s just something about crying that dehydrates you to the bone. “Said you were sleeping so hard that you were snoring.” 

“Probably. Hadn’t had a good night's sleep in a while.” 

“You can do better than sleeping on top of your bed in all your clothes.” 

“Wasn’t really worried about that.” You can tell she wants to bring up Satoru – ask how he is, just out of force of habit. Maybe she wants to ask you about your divorce plans, but she stays silent, nodding slowly. “Thank you for the food.” 

“Bring it back down when you’re ready. Take your time.” Her gentle tone is welcomed, but so is her departure. The door clicks shut, and you’re taking a slow, deep breath, suddenly overcome by the burning of oncoming tears. You thought you had expelled them all last night, but Satoru’s message hung over your head like a dark precipitating cloud. It’s all flowing over you like hot rain, downpouring over your mental clarity. 

You’re drawn to deep, soulless staring at the poster-covered wall before you as your tea warms. Hunger is lost on you, you reach for the short ceramic cup and bring it to your lips with shaking hands.

You just can’t understand how you can miss someone so much after envisioning life without them – welcoming it, yearning for it. Your heart and mind are tugging you across two playing fields, never letting you get an ounce of rest or peace. 

~

Satoru has been staring into space for far too long, blinking at the wall like it’d somehow make you appear before him again. The note you penned is sitting on the counter, cursing him silently, pulling him to its angsty whims. He can see the small tear stain – can read the shake of your penmanship in the sloping letters. For once in his life, Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. 

This has to be a joke. 

He steps away for a second, staring unblinkingly at the floor as he reaches for his phone. It’s in his back pocket – he has to shuffle blindly. 

Now he understands why you haven’t been responding. 

To: gojo 💍 Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe? 

He gives it a second – that’s all he knows he needs. If you don’t answer in a second, you’re really gone. 

His heart burns when you don’t answer at all. He’s paralyzed as the thought of being alone rushes over him. Just like you, he doesn’t understand what went wrong. Yes, you two fought often, but doesn’t every couple? The fighting always led to something better – deep discussions or love-making. He made sure to cover his bases every single time. He even found himself cooking and cleaning for you with a guilty conscience. So much of himself is rooted in you and how you loved him; he’s not sure he knows how to be without you by his side. Of course, it’s more than the money, sex, or power. It’s the fact that your lives are completely intertwined. There is no Satoru without you – there’s no you without Satoru. 

That’s what eats him alive. 

It’s what makes him stumble to the couch you picked out, head in his hands as he collapses into the downiness. He wants the cushions to swallow him whole – maybe then he can get lost in the wealth of your scent and sincerity. So many times you two have found yourself here, kissing the night away, hands under clothes. Movie marathons that led to falling asleep on shoulders, deep conversations that made him actually crack a tear. It’s all embedded in the upholstery, and he can’t even move. Satoru just feels so pathetic – it’s a new feeling for him, a disgusting one. 

“Oh, fuck.” He states as if reality just washed over him. Now, all Satoru can do is sit with everything. He keeps rereading the note he memorized in his head, like there were hints as to where you were hidden behind the script. You told him that you loved him, and as good of a sign as it looks like, it feels counterfeit. 

He loved you more than he loved anything – including himself, and he’d never leave you. He has to know why you felt the need to leave him so easily, and it’s not like five years is a long marriage in any form of the term. Satoru wanted a family with you. He wanted to see you swollen with his baby, ripe with hormones, and caring with a blue-eyed infant. It’s all he yearned for – stability, endless, overflowing love, and mutual support. 

He’s almost… mad that you gave up. 

No, not almost. He’s mad. 

Not even thinking, knowing his efforts are for naught, he snatches up his phone and dials you with scary precision. A piece of him knows that you won’t answer, but his hands are shaking. He just needs to try. 

He counts – the line rings six times. 

Then, it clicks, a stupid robotic voice telling him you’re unavailable. Yes, he fucking knows you’re not available. Or, maybe you are. Perhaps you’re just watching your screen as his name brushes against it. Satoru hates when you let your cowardice take over, and he knows that’s what you’re doing. 

In a sudden fit of rage, he takes his ringing phone and throws it across the room, hearing it shatter on impact as it hits a window. As satisfying as it feels, he feels more like a dunce. If he waited a second longer, maybe your sweet voice would brush the rusty, waiting dial tone. He wants you in his arms, but this feeling is so unfamiliar and nasty that he doesn’t know what to do or what to think. He knows he wants you back, he just can’t fathom what he did wrong.

At work the next day, Satoru doesn’t feel any better. In fact, he feels worse. He didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, scared and cold as he tried to hug himself to rest. He hasn’t been in a bed without you since he was a teenager, and he doesn’t think he could exist without your body heat safe in his arms. 

The lack of sleep is making him irritable, it’s wafting off of his body as he walks down the hallway to his lecture hall. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to teach anything, but he’d have to sit and annotate – he’s not sure he can keep his mind straight long enough to pen an entire two-hour Sociology lecture, let alone stay awake. That scares him – he’s letting his personal life seep into the fabric of his work, but it’s impossible not to when this is where he met you. 

Sweet and young, shy as all hell, too. Satoru would make excuses and drag his friends to the admin office on bullshit bases, all to see your little smile when he complimented your outfit. You were always right there next to Shoko, using her long hair as a security blanket. Everything was good back then… everything was sweet. 

Satoru can’t believe he’s fighting back tears as he steps into the vast, vacant hall, bag slung over his shoulder. He must be a walking ball of bad vibes, because his professor is noticing immediately, commenting on it, too, which is supremely unlike him. 

No, Kento Nanami was much more of a don’t ask, don’t tell, zero-bullshit type of instructor. Him and Satoru often butted heads, but butting heads was more like purposefully ignoring the other – their relationship is far too compliated for him to dwell on for too long. 

“You look like Hell.” 

“My wife left me last night.” Satoru finds no need to lie. Yes, he’s struggling. He needs grace; the only way he’d get it is to let Kento know he’s distracted. 

Kento turns slowly, watching Satoru move in front of his desk to settle in the front row of chairs. When he’s still, Kento can see the darkness around his usually perky eyes, but he doesn’t know how to feel. “Well… I am sorry to hear that. If you need to take the day off, I unders-

“-just need to distract myself.” Satoru cuts him off like he doesn’t want to talk, sucking his cheek as he pulls out his work laptop. “I forwarded those papers you sent me the other night. Everything’s looking good. From my initial glance at the collection of scores, it looks like this period is sitting at 83% accuracy. Pretty good.” 

“I didn’t need those scores until the end of the week.” Kento turns back around to his board, propping himself against the desk he’s occupying. He’s been sketching out the lesson plan against the chalked surface for most of his morning. Traditional for the introduction to a new unit. “But, I’ll start putting them in. Thanks, Gojo.” 

“Sure.” Satoru swallows as he types out his password to get into the device. It’s your birthday. His heart hurts. His wallpaper is you at the zoo, holding a little lion cub, totally fearless with the biggest smile on your face. The way the sun touches your features – God, it just makes him weak in the knees. That era of your relationship is so well documented because you two were on cloud nine. He wants it back – he wants you back. 

“Satoru,” that familiar, whiny voice is just what he needs right now. It’s the only thing that can pull him from the depths your pretty face dragged him to. “I’ve called you like ten times, they won’t even go thro- hi, Kento.” 

“Geto… hello…” Nanami mumbles, not even looking at the visitor, because he knows who it is. The five of you are like a clique, and he hates it. Not because he’s not in it, but because they’ve definitely tried to rope him into the madness, but he’s just in a different league. All he thinks about is work, not friends. 

“Sator-

“Gojo left me last night. I broke my phone.” Satoru spits out like it's the easiest thing ever. He’s hiding his emotions like he always does, and he knows Suguru is due to find out at any moment. “Reckless, I know.” 

“What?” Suguru walks up to him, long hair pulled back in a low-hanging bun. They’ve known each other damn near since childhood – completely inseperable, face-deep in platonic love. Right now, Satoru knows that Suguru would be the only human capable of picking up the pieces you shattered. 

“Packed some clothes, left me a note, and skipped town.” 

“That’s crazy – it doesn’t make any sense.” Suguru plops down right next to him, entire body turned at attention, only for Satoru to pour every vapid thought into. He’s not supposed to be in this hall, but he’s friendly enough with Kento to skate by during the last half hour before lectures start. “I just saw her the other day with Shoko and Utahime. They… didn’t invite me to lunch, but I understand the whole girls’ day aspect of it all. She just… I’m sorry, she seemed so at ease.” 

“Because she was with Shoko.” 

“Does Shoko know where she is?” 

“If I asked, she’d just lie for her.” 

“Where could she have even gone?” 

“Probably back home.” Satoru’s sucked into something on his laptop, opening a new document and labeling it under todays date and the topic Kento wants to cover. If he wasn’t going through a breakup, he’d be excited for this new unit, though he’s experienced it year after year. “Been saying she misses her family a lot.” Then he thinks about it, sitting forward with his chin pressed into a closed fist. Satoru has never barred you from doing what you want – staying out all night with your friends? Of course, he didn’t care. He welcomed it. Solo trips back home? Oh, Satoru encouraged it. 

He was the perfect husband – what happened?

At his side, Suguru watches him stew over the matter, thin brows knitted in pity. He reaches out, hand smoothing over Satoru’s shoulder. He shakes him softly. “If you don’t want to be alone, my guest bedroom is empty. There’s probably still traces of you in there – not like anyone else uses it.” 

Satoru hesitates, knowing that a night with Suguru would lead to little sleep just because they have everything in the world to talk about. They have the same favorite shows, movies, foods, and conversations – it’d be a perfect distraction, but Satoru just wants to get you back. 

“Or, we can go to a bar. I know you don’t usually drink, but it is Friday, I’m sure if we bribe Shoko with free drinks, she’d help you find her.” 

“I really shouldn’t…” The sane part of his mind is telling Satoru not to seek out one who doesn’t wish to be sought, but he wants to. He knows Shoko knows where you are – Hell, Utahime probably knew, too. You’re surprised Suguru’s seemingly the only one in the dark. “But, I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

Suguru nods slowly, not pushing Satoru for eye contact when he knows he’s sensitive to the touch. “We don’t have to get drunk and emotional if you don’t want to.” He continues dropping his hand to cross them in his lap. All Satoru looks like to him is a shell. He’s staring at his screen like it’d tell him what he needs to know, and Suguru finds himself, for the first time ever, genuinely worried for him. 

“I’ll… uh— I’ll text you about it later.” 

“Sure.” 

“Are you going to sit this one in, Geto?” Kento turns around, snatching up a beige rag from his desk to dust his hands. “Bells about to hit.” 

Satoru feels both of their stares zero in on him, and he knows he’s not hiding anything. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and flat over his head. Feeling some kind of insecure, he reaches into his bag and slides on a dark pair of square glasses. 

Suguru sighs. “Nobody would blame you if you went home.” 

“She’ll come around.” He whispers, pursing his lips as he leans back in his chair. His hands are shaking, so he tucks them close to his chest. “She always does, doesn’t she?” 

-

Doesn’t she?

Two weeks down the drain, completely wiped from your memory. Sober days and sleepless nights – that moody in-between when you’re gasping for air. Still, you battled it through in your childhood bed.

You got over it, just like you knew you would. 

Work started again last week. You’ve been slowly scouring through emails, working your way forward by combing through backlogs. Most of the time, your job falls to scheduling Dean meetings, prospective professor interviews, and prestigious tours, but it varies. Without you, all of this work would have fallen onto Shoko, but you can’t feel bad. She’s been doing this way longer than you and is ten times more efficient. However, she liked to complain. You let her have it this time. 

Now, you’re planning your trip back to the City. The apartment you’d been keeping an eye on since the marriage had just closed with the money you saved, and you’re finally confident. 

Rather, confident enough. 

You will definitely have to see Satoru when you go back to work, but it’s just something you knew you’d have to deal with. It’s the unfortunate downside to working with your partner, and you think that’s what did it in. 

You’re sitting at your family’s dinner table, bags packed all around you as you wait for your ride to the station. You’re sawing your lip in concentration, pen scribbling messily in your lax grip. 

It was an exercise you’ve been putting off since you left the city – writing Satoru a note letting it all out, and then freeing yourself from the burden by throwing it away. His eyes would never lie upon these scribbled words, so you let it out. You’re not sure what you’re even writing anymore, your wrist is moving at its own accord. 

Satoru, I love you.  It might not seem like it right now, but I love you to the ends of the Earth and back again. Being married to you felt like a dream in more ways than I can fathom, but I’d wake up at night, and that bliss fades into loathing. You have no problem sticking up for me in front of your friends, so why, when I’m faced with impossible decisions from your family, do you go radio silent? We agreed it’d just be us. We decided we’d focus on each other and our work, not on family nonsense that drains my psyche and leaves me exhausted. They want something from me that I can’t give, and I didn’t know how to tell them no - everyone is so pleasant to me.  That being said. It’s not why I left… I’m actually not sure why I did it, or I just don’t want to see things for what they are. Every time we’d see each other for over an hour, we’d fight. I admit that I was the catalyst for most of the arguments, but you never reassured me. I’d fall asleep next to you afterwards, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, and you would just turn around and pretend not to hear. Why?  I guess that’s all I want to know, now. Why? I’ve always given you everything you needed without a question – why was it so easy to push me to the wayside? Why is it so easy to ignore me to my face for days on end? And why can’t you see me as more than an incubator for your unborn children?  I just can’t help but wonder… 

As you’re writing, the car your family called for you pulls up outside. You wanted to leave while they were all predisposed with work and school because you know you’d cry and cave if you saw their pitiful goodbye faces. They insisted on the fare, you’re insisting that you’ll be back as soon as you can. You take the half-finished note, folding it lax in your fingers as you stand and grab your bags. 

You’re leaving with more than you came with. Typical. 

And you’re leaving like you were never here, with the wind peeking through the front door and the sun on your skin. 

You thought you’d be more excited to get back to your life, but there’s an invisible feeling of longing planted deep in your chest that’s making it hard to swallow. The letter you penned to Toru is balanced between your fingers as you swing your heavy bags into the vehicle. This time, the driver watches you from the side with a cigarette between his teeth, mentioning your destination softly and how the fare was already pre-paid. You nod the older man along, giving him a phony smirk when the boot closes and you’re stepping into the backseat. 

You don’t care that he’s still lingering outside. It gave you time to settle in, rustling the soft paper, trying not to give the flustered words your attention. All this note is is a weak attempt to try to understand where things went wrong. Satoru was never unhappy in the relationship, not like you were; he just didn’t know how to approach your angst without being struck in the crossfire. He exercised the same cowardice he condemned you for, and now you two exist worlds apart. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder where he is… What he’s doing. 

Around this time of day, he’d be wrapped up in lectures. You can almost see his slumped figure over his laptop, typing without giving the keyboard a second glance. Toru’s always been an overachiever – too good at his job. Too good to still be an aide, but waits patiently for his time to come as a professor. 

It’s always been his goal to buy you a big house that you two could grow old in together. You can close your eyes and hear his sweet voice lost in your sheets, whispering every detail about your future in your ear. But when you open them again, it disappears. 

The car door slams on the rest of your shriveled sanity, and you’re standing in front of a home that wasn’t yours… Yet. 

You just signed papers online, carrying cold, hard cash in your bag that’d leave you with virtually nothing once you hand it over in exchange for keys. It’s like being in a wind tunnel – feeling the city pulse and move around you as you drag your measly two suitcases against polished concrete. You didn’t know what time it was – your phone is too buried in your luggage, but you know you just got off a nearly four-hour bullet train, and your ears rang. 

Luckily, the property owner isn’t too far behind you, and you can exchange cash for keys within two minutes of your arrival. 

You thought once you had a place to call your own, that you’d feel completely comfortable, but standing in the echoey, semi-modern space, you feel devoid of life. You don’t even own a speck of furniture – this is not your home. 

So, you leave your bags at the locked entryway, sliding off your shoes out of habit as you head to the back wall of covered windows. Your apartment is on the ground floor, and humans walk by, not knowing you’re looking over them. You take your time, pulling each curtain so the sun can bleach the wooden floors in gold. 

Right there, under the sun like a contented cat, you pull your knees to your chest and sit… for hours, just grounding yourself. Losing time as the sun floats through the sky. 

All you can do since the separation is to sit with the pain and waste time. It’s the only thing that keeps you sane. 

You can’t recall what time exactly you stood to relieve your throbbing bladder, but when you’re walking back into the empty expanse, your phone is dinging from the confines of your bag. Sighing, you lean down to flush it out. 

From: Utahime Are you back in town!! Suguru invited us out for free drinks  From: Shoko Don’t worry, i told him to fuck off if he already invited Gojo He said he didn’t To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t really think I’d be good company  From: Shoko One drink and you’ll forget about that maniac.  From: Utahime Please!! We miss u To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t trust Suguru. There’s no way he didn’t invite toru From: Shoko Okay, well i trust him enough. If we see him, it’s no big deal we’ll just leave From: Utahime You know he doesn’t drink anyway From: Shoko Tired argument, babe. He’s wherever Geto is To: Utahime, Shoko Yeah, well maybe he should marry suguru next.  From: Shoko Girl…  To: Utahime, Shoko I told you i wouldn’t be fun to be around right now. Enjoy your free drinks, you two deserve them 

The group chat goes silent enough for you to tuck your phone away, breathing in deep through your nose as you watch evening set in outside your windows. 

You’ve been putting it off since you returned, but there isn’t a speck of anything in this space, and you were exhausted. In some form of the phrase, you’d have to pick up your feet and carry yourself to the store to get an air mattress. 

That ten-minute walk felt like a marathon in your exhausted mind. But like everything in adulthood, you must be uncomfortable for twenty minutes to be comfortable for eight hours. You peel your body into action, rubbing at your eyes until you see stars. 

You’re only bringing your phone in case of an emergency. You didn’t want to see it – you didn’t want to see the lockscreen picture of you and Toru that you didn’t have the guts to delete. It’s better not to look because you can’t delete him; it just didn’t feel right yet. Somehow, someday, strength will take over, and you can rid your life of his shadow. One day, you’ll fall out of love and stare at someone else with the stars you’re rubbing into your eyes. 

It’s all you can hope for. It’s the only thing that keeps you warm and sane as you leave your apartment. 

You moved to a new neighborhood, and although you’re not unfamiliar, it’s different. The alleys are darker on this side of the city – street lights flicker, but you welcome it. Nobody is really around; convenience stores light up the area in neon, but that’s not where you’re headed. The local department store is just down the street. Foot traffic gets heavier as you approach the business district, which is still booming with the promise of night. 

Your one-track mind gets you in and out of the stark-white space in less than ten minutes. Your feet are moving so fast that your legs are numb, and you can’t see anything that’s not shrouded in inky blackness. If you cared to see anything for what it truly was, you’d notice just how depressed you are. You’re in pain – full, bodily pain like you’re recovering from an injury. 

It hits you all at once, and you’re almost back to your apartment. 

Then, you make a decision that doesn’t fully set in until it’s finished – you slide into a 7-Eleven, air mattress tucked under your arm, and pick up two cans of dangerously strong mixed drinks. You’re lying to yourself, thinking that they’d just be a vehicle for sleep so you can start work with a full night. 

You’re an incredible liar – even you believe the nonsense your brain is pushing. 

As you make it back into your door, bags hanging from your fingers and yawning sleepily into the night, you can hear your phone ping quietly in your pocket. Once you step inside and place your loot at your feet, you shrug to grab it. It’s the group chat again. 

From: Shoko

[1 image attachment]

Geto said hiiiiiiii

The picture is of the three of them, side by side at a bar table. Suguru’s in the middle, cradling a frosted pitcher of beer with the biggest close-eyed grin on his face. Utahime is behind him, peeking from around his back, sending you a friendly, stoic wink. Shoko’s barely in frame, but her smudged eye makeup and gently smoking cigarette between her teeth is undeniable. 

You crack a smile and send back a quick message. 

To: Shoko, Utahime Love u guys ♡ have fun From: Shoko Goodnight, we love you! Missing you like hell

That’s the last of it. You turn your phone off again. 

Before you can even set up the mattress, you’re cracking into your first drink, taking a deep breath to keep your taste buds at bay as you swallow the entirety in just under a minute. 

Thank god you can’t taste it, because you hated drinking like this. It’s pointless and depressing, but you were feeling so much that you had to numb it out. If Satoru could see you now… You don’t even want to know how he’d react. 

You drink more to chase him away. 

Uncoordinated and dizzy from the mixture of alcohol on an empty stomach, you drag the air mattress box into the middle of the open room. You didn’t want to carry it all the way to the bedroom, so you kneel, manicured fingers sharp as you rip into the tape and cardboard. 

You’re half-awake, blinking drearily as you throw the empty box behind you, crawling over the tufted, flat expanse to spread it out. You splurged on a bigger bed, needing something to roll in without fear of falling onto cold, hard flooring. It’s so big that you have to stand up, hiccuping softly as your feet spread it to full size. 

You stand over it, out of breath with your hands pressed to your hips. You can’t really see clearly through this drunken haze, but it dawns on you that you don’t have an air pump. You forgot to buy one. 

“Fuck.” You whine, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You’re seeing splotches of white – they dart across your sight like scurrying mice, driving you into a feeling so sick that you’re almost anxious. 

Not thinking twice, you sit back on your knees, crawling to the air hole, and giving it one last push. You bring the nozzle to your lips, taking a deep breath before blowing. It’s weak, comically so. You can’t hold a stream for less than half a minute, and your head is already spinning. You’re whining again like a tired child, thoroughly beaten down and hopeless as you size up your situation. 

If only Toru were here… He’d make it all better. 

You’re standing on shaky feet, peeking around the darkness for the promise of your phone. It’s right where you left it, completely off and face down on the kitchen counter. Dragging your bare feet, you go to grab and turn it back on. 

You call him. All inhibitions are lost. 

He answers… right away. The phone doesn’t even ring twice. 

The line clicks, but he doesn’t speak–not yet. His breathing is shallow. 

“S-satoru?” 

More silence. You want to sob. 

“Toru, I jus- I know I’m the last person you want to hea-

‘You sound like you’re going to cry.’ He blurts out suddenly, voice so familiar it makes you sick. There’s no animosity when he’s talking to you; he just sounds worried. 

“I’m back in the city and I… I just – I don’t have any furniture at my new apar-

‘Come home. If you want to sleep in the spare room, it’s fine, I’ll let you have it. Just stop this madness and come home. I’m waiting for you.’ 

You have to hang up before you can respond, because the tears are coming and they’re disgusting and heavy. You’re sobbing into your hands, feeling so overcome and pathetic with yourself and this turn of circumstance. Of course, Satoru is being nice about it – he loves you and you blindsided him, he’ll take any grasp at you that he can get. 

You sob as you slip on a jacket and your shoes, tears and snot dripping onto the floors and leather. You’re shaking as you reach to wipe it away, unable to look at yourself in the reflection of your lock screen as you glance at the time. 

There are no trains running at this hour. The only things that lit up the streets are twenty-four-hour convenience stores and old, late-night family restaurants that make most of their money from the after-bar crowd. Your friends are likely tucked behind one of those doors, laughing, living, and feeding off the dopamine they pour into each other. You belong with them, leaning drunkenly into your husband's chest as he dotes on you. So many sleepless nights were spent in that spell. No cares in the world. In love. Young. You want to go back. 

So you walk that twenty-some minutes back home – Satoru’s home, now. Yes, you picked it out. Yes, you decorated it, but you had to be okay with letting it go, so you are. You just have to lie to yourself a little more every day, and hopefully, the breakup will morph into reality. You just don’t want to suffer anymore. 

In your daze, the front door code is still etched into your memory. So is the way to the fourth floor – you climb the steps, breathless by the time you get there. 

Your and Toru’s apartment was nothing less than luxurious with the money he poured into it. Though he promised that you two would split bills before you agreed on getting the place, that quickly fell by the wayside when he looked at you with those bright doe eyes, mentioning he’d love nothing more than to take complete care of you, so all you had to focus on was your work and sanity. He also had a mind to make you a mother, but he conveniently didn’t add that to his point that night. 

You hold your breath as you reach to knock on the door. Before your knuckle even hits wood, it’s swinging open. All the lights are on – you squint. 

Satoru is on the other side, loose shirt hanging from his shoulders, bone-white hair all ruffled with relaxation. Seeing him again after all this time nearly kills you. Of course, you can’t look him in the eyes. “Hi. Come on.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” You start, just protecting your heart from his musings before anything could transpire again. “I don’t want to fix things, I just want to sleep.” 

“Okay.” He mutters, standing off to the side so that you could step in. “Okay, come on. We don’t have to talk.” The door opens wider, and light spills across your face. It takes you a minute to gather strength to step inside, but when you do, rivers of ease flow over your shoulders. You sigh. 

“Your hair is longer.” He mentions in passing, catching himself as he goes out to touch you. Stagnant – midair, he hovers, telling himself no. He respects your space. “I changed the sheets in the room for you.” 

You ignore him, shouldering past his hard body with a singular goal in mind. Your stomach is in knots – your head lighter than air. Everything is fuzzy, and if you didn’t fall into the warmth of a bed right now, Toru would have to carry you to his. 

“Or you can sleep in our bed and I’ll take the spare room.” 

Again, no answer. He follows behind you loosely as you stumble down the hall. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Leave me alone, just stop talking.” You slur, stupidly thinking that not giving him any of your attention would make him stop trying to squeeze words out of you. 

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. You’re the one who left.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, turning into the cracked doorway of the spare bedroom. He’s still hot on your trail, sleepy eyes begging for more where you couldn’t see. 

“We can fix this if you just tell me what I did wrong-

Before he can finish, you’re turning around in the doorway, not giving him any mercy as you slam the door on his face. It locks shortly after, just rubbing salt in his festering wound. At least he didn’t lie about switching out the sheets – the whole room smells fresh, like comfort materialized. You’re fumbling with your pants as you lumber to the warm, soft expanse, exerting as little effort as you can before collapsing into bed. 

You don’t have the energy to flip the lights off, so they stay on as you roll around in the sheets, trying to swallow down the oncoming doom of nausea and dizziness. You know Toru is still standing outside of the door, you can see the shadow of his feet under the crack, but he can’t come in – or, he doesn’t want to break the lock out and piss you off even more. 

After a few silent minutes, he shrugs off, and you fall in and out of consciousness. Sleep doesn’t come – not for real, at least. Whenever you think you’re getting there, you’re startled awake with your vapid inner thoughts. His pull is supernatural; it’s like you’re struggling to cope with being so close, yet so far. Right in the other room, you can hear Satoru moving around restlessly – shuffling in and out of the bathroom, talking to himself. 

He’s alone, you’re lonely. 

You blame it on the alcohol wearing off in your blood. That’s what gives you the push to roll out of bed and stumble to the door. Satoru stills in the other room right as the lock clicks – you know he hears you. He knows you’re on the way. 

It’s why he’s not in the bedroom when you crack open the door. It’s like he tucked off to the bathroom on purpose, using the shower as a distraction while you fall into your old side of the bed. It’s made neatly – your throw pillows are fluffed, and you’re succumbing to your weakness again. 

You dozed off for about ten minutes before you heard the door creak softly. Satoru’s footsteps are featherlight, and he knows you’re awake. Your breathing isn’t as shallow as it is now when you're sleeping. He doesn’t say anything about it–not yet. 

Satoru waits for you, gathering the towel wrapped around his waist as he sits on the bed. He knows you too well. 

So he doesn’t flinch when he feels the bed tremble beneath him. Sheets ruffle around your knees as you rise blearily. He hums when your arms wrap around his hard, broad shoulders, then mumbles, “You’re predictable.” 

“I’m burning up, I need help.” You plead weakly, lips focused right above his sharp collarbone. His skin tastes like it always has – sweet, for some reason. Like he was sculpted out of sugar. 

“Have you been drinking?” 

You pause right at the stubble of his undercut, the translucent shag tickling your nose. “I don’t need to be scolded.” 

“Well,” he peeks over his shoulder, pulling your chin close. The glow of his eyes amongst the darkness of the room is frighteningly familiar. You can’t look away. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.” 

You’re waiting for him to do something – to take control of this situation and steer the reins in your favor. Right now, you want him to annihilate you in the gentlest way only he can. Touching yourself will never be enough now that you’ve tasted him. It hits you like a craving. 

You’re left flicking between his eyes and his shiny, pink lips. They’re drawing you in like a siren song, weaving incantations that only your drunken mind would bend to. And finally, he kisses you. Something inside of you shrivels up and dies – your pride. 

Now, you’re shedding everything for him, gentle grip turning into claws in his shoulders. His skin is soft after his shower, leaving bright red marks against the pale ocean. Toru grunts into your mouth, shifting over to his knees as he crowds you against the mattress. Big arms cage you in – your back is lodged in the sheets, you’re reaching to pull him closer. 

Through it all, you don’t talk. When you’re needily grinding up into his thigh, he’s silent. Reaching down to your core, he doesn’t say a word. 

Lips hot and panting into the hard skin behind his ear, hands clawed in his hair, you don’t whisper his name. 

Your legs open for him, thighs parting like the Red Sea. He’s so hard for you, twitching against the towel he rips away and abandons somewhere in the room. Right now, every single move mattered. There are no words to dull your mood – nothing for him to say that hasn’t already been said. 

Satoru’s spent a short-lived lifetime telling you how beautiful you are, how well you’re taking him, how sexy your body is. You know that’s what he’s thinking; he just won’t waste his breath telling you again. 

After all, you couldn’t be bothered to waste yours, telling him that you were leaving to his face.

To you, this hot, grinding silence is deafening. Toru’s biting at your neck, kissing you holy, but it’s so foreign that you couldn’t really focus. You bite down a plea. 

But he hears it. When he kisses you, he can taste the desire. His naked body is so pressed to yours that there’s no room to exist outside of it – you pull him closer. 

Somewhere in the headiness, Satoru works a hand between your soft, stretchy waistband. He knows you’re ready for him, and he knows he’s ready for you. This moment might have been the perfect opportunity to prove devotion to each other. What a shame you’re so caught up in your head, worried about losing more of yourself to morph into the reality of who Satoru needs you to be. 

He tugs your thin pants down your legs, staring down at the quivering flesh that blooms with irritation against the harshness of the fabric. You’re seething into his skin, hips lifting from the bed so he can take you quicker. 

The issue is, he wants to see you. Toru wants to dip his head between your thighs and devour your cunt until you’re screaming his name, but you don’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it. 

The most you two could chew off without burying yourself in grief was wordless, raw sex. That’s all there is to it – Toru wants to fuck you, get his rocks off, then sleep like a baby. Sure, he’d care in the morning, but you’re presenting yourself to him with armor stripped. He’d be a fool to pass it up. 

When he sits up, you’re scrambling. The air is too cold, his height is too brooding. He’s staring down at you, pearly chest rising and falling in the nightlight, but the gaze isn’t really there. One hand works at his erection, thick fist wrapped around the base of his cock as he coaxes it to full hardness. 

You’re staring at his body, swallowing down gobs of want as you flick past his waistline. Your neat, mindful Satoru – he always trimmed his body to exactly what you wanted. The soft patch of hair that gathers under his belly button makes you crazy. The neat trimming of his pubes makes your mouth water, and you’ve been holding back for so long. 

If you could tell him anything right now, it’d be just how much you need him. It was eating you alive at this point – all this cruel buildup. 

You bring your hand to your lips, taking to biting down on the length of your thumb while he settles back against you. Any more sober, you’d stop him and tell him to wear a condom, but of course, you’re silent. 

He mounts you again, pressing two big hands on either side of your head. Your free hand reaches up, holding his wrist gently as he slowly eases himself inside of your hole, stretching you out like he never left. 

You take a second to focus on the feeling, eyes falling shut as the stretch engulfs every single one of your nerves. It’s so thick – drilling deeper and deeper inside of you until there was nothing left to give. All the way inside, Satoru nuzzles against that uncomfortably sensitive point inside of you, kissing it like he was proud of the pain. 

You open your mouth to praise him – to whine about how deep he is, but all that comes out is a soft, strangled moan. He grunts again. 

Then, he cuts himself loose, fingers working at the sheets as he pulls out halfway, pretty face screwing up as he fucks back into you. 

You’re moaning, crying, rejoicing, living for everything in this moment. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and your thumb-gag breaks through. Satoru fucks you with an unnatural, mean precision, drinking up the sound of your skin slapping into each other. With this fervor, you’d be bruised tomorrow, but it’s too good. You love it when he’s rough – it’s just what you needed after sustaining for a month. 

Your throat burns with the need to scream at him – to tell him to take you harder, to kiss you stupid, but you don’t. Satoru buries his face in your neck and gives it to you. Over and over, thrust after thrust. It hurts, but it’s so good.

Time creeps and crawls through the ordeal. Your belly is numb and raw, legs shaking from the tight strangle they have across Toru’s waist. He hasn’t moved an inch – letting himself plank over you, plowing into your weeping cunt with no mercy, and no end in sight. Veins bloom like red-hot wires in his neck, sweat beads like water in his collarbone, and he’s so hot that the humidity gathers in his still-damp hair, rolling off the strands and onto your skin. 

Thirty minutes roll by – he’s still going. Everything hurts. 

He doesn’t have your loving voice egging him on, drawing him closer and closer to the release he needs. You don’t have that loving, sweet touch toying with your clit that leaves you gushing and gasping for air. You both are trying to make do with the bare minimum, not even looking at each other. 

You’re shaking. 

Satoru sits up, a detached, manic look in his eyes as he breathes heavily through his red-stained lips. He stares down at you, searching your expression for everything. You’re not telling him how you feel, but your face is screwed up so much that he knows it’s not the best feeling. He hates that he enjoys the thought of that. He hates that he needs to push his pain onto you – in fact, he feels monstrous, but it doesn’t will him to stop. 

Instead, he slows his mean fucks, dragging his hands to your waist where he turns you over like a limp, freshly caught fish. You fumble at the stark change, coughing softly, eyes flying open. Under your breath, you cry. “Mmfmf.” 

“Shh,” he bites back, all sharp and unfriendly in the base of his chest. Hands still stuck in your hips, he pulls you exactly where he wants you, chest pressed to the bed, behind on full display – full mercy. Your skin is so inflamed, he takes a second to drink it in. 

Then, he slaps you right on your left cheek. You chew on a surprised yelp. Something slips. 

“Tor-

Another slap. You swallow down your protests. 

Behind you, you can feel him dragging his cock against the hot sensitivity hidden between your labia, dripping with the newfound touch Satoru is working himself up to give you. 

Again, at your prime, he’d take this moment to completely dive in. He’d lose himself in the warm tears you’re excreting, lapping up the fluids like it’s his only nourishment. He’d worship you – now, all he does is cup his hand against your embarrassingly wet cunt, longest fingers working at your clit. His palm rubs harshly against your quivering hole, and you use the mattress as a screaming pillow, finally letting it out. 

Tears come, now. They burn and ache because they know whatever sacred intimacy you shared with Toru before is long gone. He’s fucking you, now. If you closed your eyes and wiped your memory, this would all feel like a stupid, drunk hookup. 

That’s all you are, now. 

You don’t even make a sound when he starts to bottom out inside of you again. You feel like a statue on display with the way Satoru spreads you open, both hands grabbing at your stinging ass. He watches the way you swallow his cock like a delicacy, gulping down want. Now, he’s dangerously close. He knows this was what he needed – this lewd visual. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t have been further away from release, and it’s tearing you apart. You need to tell him – scream at him and curse his name, but you can’t. 

You let him make a mess of you, flooding your cervix with his sticky, fluid seed. He comes so hard and you can feel it – it’s so deep that you swear you can taste his desire bubbling in your throat. It’s acidic and raw, but it tastes like him, so you love it – you miss the taste when you swallow it down. 

He’s pulling out once he’s empty and satiated, come planted so deep inside of you that it doesn’t even slip out in his wake. He steps away, your hips fall on the bed, and you’re limp and unsatisfied. All you can do is blink. Satoru rolls away. 

You don’t know what he’s doing, or where he’s going, but when you fall over to your side, tears dripping into the mattress, you’re overcome. 

You’re crying, croaking weakly, “c-can you-

The sound of your voice stops Satoru in his tracks. He was heading back to the bathroom to clean himself up, but he thought you had dropped off to sleep immediately. 

“What?” 

“Can you… J-just try?” 

“All I wan-want to do…” You stop again, swallowing salty tears. “Please, all I want to d-d-do is come. P-please…” You feel so pathetic – and you are. You feel like the worst person ever born. 

If you could see his face, you’d see the speck of emotion that runs off his crystalline, flushed features. He would feel terrible if you cried like this to him a month ago. Now, he just feels something like an obligation to turn around and stalk back over to your side of the mattress. 

You’re still crying into your arms when he approaches, hiccuping softly as he lowers to a squat. 

Like this, he finally talks. “Swing your legs over, I’ll clean you up.” 

The smoothness has your eyes flying open, heart doing a billion jumping jacks all at once. Limbs shaking, you struggle to sit up. 

Satoru notices, knowing he has to retake hold of these reins. He reaches out for you, big hands closing around your thighs as he pulls you to the side of the bed. There’s nothing gentle about it, now. He licks his lips. 

Both legs hooked over his shoulder, your back falls back onto the mattress, and at the first flick of his tongue prodding at your quivering entrance, you’re crying again. But he’s good at this part. He doesn’t stop. That licks turns into sensual drags of the tongue, scraping against your sensitive slit, easing over your clit. You finally moan for him – real moans. Pleased moans. 

He presses a kiss to your hole. “Push it out on my tongue.” He demands, those few words feeling like acid on the tongue. It’s fucking filthy, but nothing out of his ordinary, deranged mind. You take a breath and tense your body, working on easing all of the deep come right back to him. 

Satoru is licking it up like an eager dog, slurping and sucking obscenely as his grip gets lost in your pillowy thighs. Now, he’s working you over like he’s chasing your release, knowing your body just like a doting husband would. It would only take him a few minutes of tongue-work before you’re coming for him, but now, it only takes a single one. 

You’re coming before you can even focus on the feeling, and it hits you like a brick to the skull. Your spine bends, bones creaking, blood rising to insane temperatures in your body as sweet, sweet bliss meets you once more. 

It’s all you wanted – this feeling has been the singular thing you’ve been chasing at Toru’s side. He gives it so well and so selflessly that he’s still lapping up mess when he feels you coming undone around him. He carries you through it just like he always has – thick, plush lips sucking at your insanely sensitive bud like he’s trying to receive something as collateral. It drives you crazy – you reach out to push him away. 

The job is done. Satoru rises to his feet. 

He heads off again to finish what he started, wiping your taste from his lips, back into his mouth as he gets lost behind the bathroom door. He leaves you on the bed to come back to your senses, fully sobered up and slightly sick from the onslaught of physicality. You reach into your matted hair, screwing your eyes shut in shame. Every time you move, your core trembles and cries. Everything hurts. 

In the bathroom, Satoru flicks on the lights and doesn’t recognize the face he sees in the mirror. He’s blown red, scratches all over his arms and back. His hair is everywhere, eyes beet-red and sensitive. He leans forward and spits in the sink. 

The faucet creaks as he turns it on. 

Everything washes away.

[dunham-doodles]

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

Remmick x fem!reader

2k words | Pure fluff

Summary: (AU - Remmick survived the juke joint.) It’s 1964 and you’re an artist who decides to draw the handsome stranger who keeps turning up at your door every night.

Tags: yearning; soft and sweet; lingering gazes; touching scars; 1960s music; puppy!Remmick; touch starved!Remmick

A/N: I wanted to borrow an idea I’ve seen used with Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3. I love love love the idea of an artist drawing the face of a vampire who hasn’t seen their reflection in God knows how long.

“Hold still,” you ordered, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“This ain’t gonna hurt, is it?” Remmick said playfully.

“It will if you keep moving,” you shot back, only half joking. “Eyes on that horizon, boy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes lightly. He tilted his chin in the direction of wherever horizon meant. Although his tone was sarcastic, a grin curled at the ends of his lips.

The night air was crisp. It was the beginning transition of spring into summer where the days warmed the skin like an embrace from a loved one but the nights remained cool like a reminder of their absence. The town had eased into sleep around you.

You thought the best thing about living out in the middle of nowhere was that there was no light pollution. Despite the dark, the sky was alight with hues of deep purple and blue like an ocean dotted with pinpricks of multicolored stars. In school, they taught you the names of each and every constellation that rotated with the seasons.

You found him right under Polaris. You had been awake after losing track of time. You were locked into your paintings so intensely, you didn’t see the sky turn. The ashtray was loaded with burnt out cigarettes, remnants of smoke curling in the warm glow of the single lamp glowing on the end table. You kept the window open to air out the smell, the soft trickles of a sad guitar playing through your stereo speakers filtering through the pane.

He stood at the end of the dirt path that served as your driveway, hands in pockets, curious, as if he were contemplating going up and installing himself into your life. You weren’t going to get a say in when or how.

You turned down the record as he got closer.

“There’s no need to do that,” he said, hands stretching out in the open air, “I came up here to ask what you was playin’ is all.” His blue eyes pleaded innocent.

“Lonnie Johnson,” you stated, an edge to your words.

He hummed low in his throat. “She sure knows how to play.”

“He,” you corrected, “Lonnie’s a dude.”

“H-He,” the stranger repeated, “He sure knows how to play.” A beat of silence strung between you awkwardly. He shuffled his feet underneath himself. “You wouldn’t mind if I sat and listened, wouldja?”

You chuckled to yourself. A strange white man asking you if you minded if he sat and listened to your records in the dead of night? Your eyes took a precautionary glance over where the trees met the boarder of your land for any sign of unsavory movement.

“You alone?” you asked finally. He nodded his head. You pursed your lips, weighing your decision in your mind. You turned on your heel, away from the window. You crossed to your record player, moved the needle to the beginning track, and turned the sound up a little louder.

You met the eyes of the stranger’s once more. His features reflected his gratitude. He leaned against the strong post of the porch landing and closed his eyes, taking in the music.

You shook your head. What a weird man.

He kept finding his way to your home every night after sundown.

“Whatcha got spinnin’ tonight?” he’d ask you without fail. You’d tell him anything from Etta James to Freddie King and he’d happily sit his ass down on your porch no matter who poured through those speakers.

Some nights he came with some 45s he thought you would like.

“The guy on guitar has to be one of my favorites from this decade,” he said, pushing the small disc into your hands. To be honest, you thought his music tastes were a little too old. Nothing he gave you was dated past the forties. But still, you admired the gesture. In return, you gave him a more modern musical education, opening his ears to the sounds of the 60s. He was floored the first time he heard Hendrix.

“Find a new favorite guitar player, did ya?” you teased.

It was nice having him to share your nights with. He didn’t make too much of a fuss; didn’t ask for anything to eat or drink, despite your offerings. He was perfectly content listening to your music and asking questions about your art. He praised the paintings, kept saying they belonged in the Louvre rather than hidden in this small town. You shooed away his compliments like water off a duck’s back but you couldn’t stop the blush creeping into your cheeks.

One evening, you decided you were gonna join him out on your porch. Armed with your drawing pad and a tin of charcoal sticks, you rocked yourself gently on your porch swing with your big toe. You had tucked yourself into an oversized crochet blanket, preserving your warmth as you waited for the sky to dim. You had the radio on instead of playing a record to save yourself from having to leave your seat. The tinny voices crackled over the sounds of the crickets singing.

“Evenin’ Remmick,” you called when you saw him crest your driveway. He told you his name some nights ago and you kept it on your tongue whenever he was near. You just liked the way his face lit up like Christmas whenever you said it.

“You waitin’ for me?” he asked, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Sure looks like it,” you replied. He crossed over to your place on the swing but leaned against the post of the porch landing instead. “You ain’t gonna sit by me?”

Remmick jolted like he touched an electric fence. “I didn’t know you were offerin’.”

You scooched over to make room for him and patted the empty space. “I don’t bite,” you winked. A smile tugged at his lips as if he were keeping down a really good joke.

The swing groaned under his weight. Your heart flip-flopped at the proximity of him. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, grown too shaggy. His face was pocked with unkempt whiskers and a white scar cracked the left side of his cheek. You wanted to trace that scar with the tips of your fingers.

His blue eyes watched you carefully. Watched for any indication that his nearness was offensive somehow. He kept himself small, not daring to brush your skin. He moved as if you were on fire and he was trying very hard not to get burned.

“You’re gonna be my muse,” you declared.

“That’s the first time I’ve been called that,” Remmick smirked, “What do I gotta do?”

You picked up a charcoal stick and told him to face forward, keep his eyes on the dirt path ahead. The charcoal scratched the surface of the paper, debris crumbling onto your lap.

Santana crooned over the speakers on your radio lying on the kitchen counter inside. Remmick shifted under the weight of your presence.

“I think I like your music better,” he mumbled.

You breathed out a small laugh without looking up. “You’re too kind. Your taste isn’t too bad either. You just got an ol’ soul.”

Remmick pursed his lips. “You could say that.”

“Did you grow up here?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No,” he sighed sadly, “You?”

“Nope. I moved out here a few years ago.”

“How come?”

“Just wanted a change. The city was too loud.” Your eyebrows knit together in concentration. Remmick took this moment to steal a look at you.

Your eyes flicked up at him through your eyelashes. The tips of your ears turned crimson. “Eyes forward, Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy?” he tossed the name around his mouth like a shiny token. You bit your lip to keep from saying much else.

You twisted the length of your charcoal stick to match the angle of his nose before copying it onto your page. His shoulders slowly began to relax. His hands brushed down his thighs, right where your knee almost touched him. He curled his fingers as if to check that they were still operational.

“Can I look yet?” he asked tenderly. His pinkie stretch precariously, bridging the gap between you two. You could feel his nail ghosting on your bare skin. Your heart leapt into your throat, the lightest of touches already turning your nerves into an inferno.

“Just gotta work on the shading,” you replied meekly. He nodded, correcting his head. His finger never dropped. He began to soothingly stroke your knee back and forth, keeping time with the new song that played. It tickled you.

It was harder to concentrate now. From the briefest of looks, you noticed his jaw clenching and unclenching, chewing on words he almost felt ready to say. And what would those words be? What could he possibly say to make your heart race any faster?

To ease it along, you pushed your knee further into his touch. Remmick inhaled sharply in response. He closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to melt.

“Okay,” you said after a while, “I think I’m done.” You pressed the pad of paper to your chest before revealing it slowly to him. He cradled the pad in his calloused hands like it was a newborn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, “This is me?” He asked the question like he wasn’t sure what he looked like.

“It’s a rough sketch,” you admitted, “If I gave it more time, I could clean up the lines and be more precise with the shadows.”

“When did I-?” he wondered under his breath. His fingers brushed the hair curled around his ears to the hair on his chin, trailing all the way to the scar that marked him. His brow furrowed as if remembering the fresh wound marring his face and the blood and pain that came with it. He covered it fully with his hand, ashamed to have you look upon it any longer.

“How’d you get that?” you asked tentatively.

His eyes tore reluctantly from his portrait. “I, uh…” he paused, “The war.” He locked back onto the sketch, studying it as if he hadn’t seen his own face in centuries.

“Is… Is everything okay?” you whispered. You gently pressed yourself into his side.

“Yes,” he murmured. He straightened his back and finally met your gaze again. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

“Y’know, you can tell me if you hate it,” you chuckled, trying to make it light. “Don’t gotta spare my feelings.”

“No, I love this! I love—,” he started. “You did an amazin’ job.”

“You can keep it,” you said. Your hands met his and you lightly pushed the drawing pad against his chest. You leaned into his space, your touch lingering on his. Your thumb rubbed the side of his hand, returning the gentleness he showed you. Remmick’s lips parted slightly, exhaling a shallow breath.

“Thank you,” he spoke. His voice frayed like he hated that he broke the silence. You smiled softly at him. Your fingers reached and stroked the angry crevasse on his cheek.

He looked so fragile being held. His eyelids fluttered as he bathed in the warmth of your hand. He winced like it hurt but his head leaned into you instinctively. A soft trembling sound slipped past his lips.

“You are a wonderful muse,” you said. You leaned in and planted a delicate kiss on that scar. He dipped his head slipping past your ear before nuzzling in the crook of your neck. You gathered him into your arms, wrapping the blanket around his broad shoulders. Your fingers stroked the relaxed curls of his dark hair. His arms lifted with difficulty, still unsure if he was allowed this much, and rested around your waist. When you didn’t fight him, he pulled you in closer. You began to hum along to the song that wept from the radio.

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was the steady rocking of the porch swing on the light breeze and the feathery trail of kisses tied with promises of everlasting happiness.