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kole-cooler · 2 months ago

Text

Armistice

Irene x m!reader

16k words

It's another wonderful day at work.

You're elbows deep in debugging some absolute spaghetti code left behind by whichever poor soul had this project before you landed here and basically started speedrunning corporate success. Honestly, it's kinda fun, like untangling a really stubborn knot, and you're making headway faster than anyone expected. Again. Which is probably why the person sitting directly opposite you looks like she's plotting your slow, painful demise via a thousand papercuts.

Bae Joohyun. Irene. Whatever. The talented Senior Analyst is glaring holes into her monitor, fingers typing methodically for minutes on end. You've learned to mostly tune out the low-level hum of animosity radiating from her cubicle. Ever since you arrived, the office has become a silent battlefield defined by your special talent for poking her buttons and her exquisite ways of retaliating - it's a private war, just you and her, and if you're honest, which you usually are, (internally at least), you kinda dig having her undivided, furious attention focused right on you. But it's a completely harmless dynamic, of course, mostly fought with weaponized sighs and strategically 'misplaced' documents, so there are no actual injuries... for now.

The scent of mediocre office coffee hits your nose before she even rounds the corner of your sad little grey cubicle wall. You look up, genuinely surprised for a second. Irene is standing there, holding two steaming paper cups like some kind of caffeine-bearing angel of death. She almost never initiates contact unless it's work-related and unavoidable, and even then, it's usually clipped and bordering on hostile.

She thrusts one of the cups towards you, avoiding direct eye contact. Her expression is... carefully neutral.

Red flag number one.

"Here."

Just one word. Wow. Must have taken Herculean effort. Still, coffee is coffee, and you were just thinking about getting some. Maybe she's trying to bury the hatchet? Unlikely, but hey, stranger things have happened. Like you getting promoted twice in six months while she’s been diligently treading water in the same spot for five years.

Okay, maybe not that strange.

"Whoa, thanks, Joohyun," you say, making a point of using her actual name because you know it bugs her when people she doesn't like do it. You take the cup, your fingers brushing hers for a millisecond. Static electricity? Or just wishful thinking? Her hand snatches back like you burned her. Definitely wishful thinking. "Didn't know you cared."

She finally looks at you, a flicker of something unreadable in those dark eyes before it's gone, replaced by practiced indifference.

"Just grabbed an extra."

She turns away before you can reply, retreating back to the relative safety of her own desk. Okay. Weird, but free coffee. You shrug and take a generous gulp, ready for that sweet, sweet caffeine hit to power you through the rest of this coding nightmare...

Motherfucker.

The liquid hitting your tongue is less ‘morning pick-me-up’ and more ‘battery acid mixed with Satan’s ass sweat’. It's unbelievably bitter, acrid, like someone brewed coffee using dirt and pure spite. You choke, sputtering, barely managing not to spray it all over your keyboard. Your eyes water instantly.

Did someone actually try to poison you?

Across the way, a small sound escapes Irene. A choked-off giggle. You whip your head up, eyes narrowed, just in time to see her shoulders shaking slightly. Her head is bowed, but you can see the corners of her mouth twitching violently. Oh, you know that look.

She lifts her head, biting her lip, but the laughter spills out anyway – a bright, surprisingly melodic sound that’s completely at odds with the usual storm cloud hovering over her.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, I am so sorry!"

She’s failing miserably at sounding sincere, gasping for air between laughs.

"That must be mine! I got black, no sugar, extra shot–" she waves her own cup, "–this must be yours. Sorry!"

She pushes her chair back and practically skips over, grabbing the toxic sludge from your hand and replacing it with the cup she was holding. She’s still grinning, a wide, mischievous smile that completely transforms her face. It makes her look pretty, almost playful. And yeah, still really fucking cute. Annoyingly cute.

You take the new cup warily, sniffing it first. Smells like actual coffee this time. Maybe some kind of latte? You take a tentative sip. Ah, bliss. Sweet, creamy, actually palatable. You look back at her, raising an eyebrow.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Her eyes go wide in mock innocence, but the smile doesn't fade. If anything, it gets wider.

"What? No! Why would I do that? It was an honest mistake."

She leans against the flimsy wall of your cubicle, crossing her arms. The pose pushes her chest out slightly against the simple blouse she’s wearing. You pointedly drag your eyes away from that area and back to her face. Liar.

"Because you're an evil, coffee-sabotaging psychopath, Bae Joohyun. That's why."

The use of her full name again makes her smile flicker for a split second, but she recovers quickly.

"I am not a psychopath," she insists, though the laughter dancing in her eyes totally undermines the statement. "It was an accident. Clumsy me."

"Uh-huh. Clumsy you who just happened to give me the cup that tastes like burnt charcoal?"

"Maybe you just have unrefined taste?" she shoots back, tilting her head. "Mine is an acquired taste. Sophisticated."

"Sophisticated?" you scoff, taking another, much more satisfying sip of the latte she apparently bought for you. Wait. Did she actually buy this for you? Or was this also part of the 'accident'? "Sophisticated like licking a nine-volt battery?"

She laughs again, properly this time. It’s weird hearing it directed at you without malice. Mostly.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," she winks, then pushes off the wall. "Enjoy your correct coffee. Try not to spill it, newbie."

She saunters back to her desk, leaving you slightly bewildered and weirdly charmed. Okay, so she's a menace. A petty, coffee-tampering menace. But the smile? The laugh? That was... something. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your own lips as you watch her settle back down, immediately plastering her 'focused professional' face back on, though you think you see her hide another small smile behind her hand.

The next few hours pass in a state of low-grade trench warfare, which is pretty much standard operating procedure for you two. You ‘accidentally’ CC her on an email chain praising your team’s recent (mostly your) accomplishments. She ‘helpfully’ points out a typo in a report you finished ages ago, sending it back with track changes highlighting the single incorrect comma. You change her desktop background to an aggressively cheerful cartoon sloth. She retaliates by ‘accidentally’ dropping a heavy binder near your foot that makes you jump.

It’s childish. It’s ridiculous. It’s also, somehow, the most entertaining part of your workday. You find yourself glancing over at her more than strictly necessary, catching her doing the same. There’s a weird energy crackling in the air between your cubicles today, different from the usual simmering resentment. It’s lighter, almost... fun. She meets your eyes once, a challenge glinting in hers, and you just grin back, provocative.

The fragile détente is broken by the intercom buzzing to life. It’s Mr. Choi, the division head. Your boss. Her boss. The big boss.

"Ms. Bae, could you come to my office, please?"

The shift is instantaneous. Irene straightens up, the playful irritation wiped clean from her features, replaced by cool, efficient professionalism. She smooths down her skirt – a perfectly tailored pencil skirt today, you note distractedly – and stands, grabbing a notepad and pen. She gives you one quick, unreadable glance as she walks past your cubicle, heading towards the corner offices.

Right, so Irene vanishes into the mahogany-lined sanctum of Mr. Choi, leaving you to your devices and the lingering taste of non-poisonous latte. You try to focus back on the code, but your ears are practically straining towards the boss’s closed door. What’s going on in there? Is she getting chewed out? Promoted? Fired and replaced by a more efficient coffee machine? The possibilities are endless, and infinitely more interesting than Javascript errors.

A few minutes crawl by, each one stretching like taffy. Wendy from Accounting sighs loud enough to register on the Richter scale. Someone microwaves fish again – seriously, who does that? You’re just about to give up hope and dive back into the digital trenches when the intercom crackles again, this time, calling your name.

Okay, now things are officially Interesting with a capital I. You quickly save your work, smooth down your clothes (whatever suitably cool-but-casual thing you threw on this morning), and head towards the corner office, a little bounce in your step. Maybe you’re getting praised again. Maybe they’re announcing your joint promotion and Irene will have an aneurysm right there on the expensive carpet. Win-win, really.

You rap lightly on the heavy doorframe.

"Come in!" Choi’s voice booms.

You push the door open and step inside. Yep, there she is. Irene’s standing rigidly beside one of the guest chairs, posture ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly behind her back. Her face is a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but you can see the tension in her jaw, the slight flare of her nostrils. She refuses to look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere over Choi’s left shoulder. Mr. Choi himself is beaming behind his ridiculously oversized desk, radiating the kind of forced corporate bonhomie that usually means someone’s about to get screwed over.

"Ah, here you are, thanks for joining us! Close the door, have a seat."

You flash a quick, confident smile, closing the door and taking the plush leather chair opposite Irene’s stiff form. She still doesn’t acknowledge you.

Choi leans forward, steepling his fingers. "So, I’ve just been discussing an exciting opportunity with Ms. Bae, and I wanted to loop you in."

He launches into it. Apparently, there's this potentially lucrative partnership with an older, established company – Ishikawa Tech or something equally generic-sounding. They're big on tradition, nostalgia, all that crap. Means they want to sign the final contracts in person, shake hands, maybe sacrifice a goat, who knows. The meeting point? Some coastal city known for its seafood and slightly depressing beaches. Not exactly Paris, but hey, it’s not here.

"It's a significant deal," Choi continues, his eyes flicking between you and Irene. "Requires a delicate touch. Which is why I want our best on it." He nods towards Irene. "Ms. Bae has meticulously handled the groundwork, knows the Ishikawa team inside out. Naturally, she’ll be taking the lead on finalizing everything."

Irene gives a stiff, almost imperceptible nod. You can practically feel the 'but' coming.

"However," Choi adds, turning his beaming smile onto you, "this company is also very interested in our recent innovations.”

Oh boy, here it comes.

"You've shown exceptional drive and talent since joining us," Choi continues, laying it on thick. "But client-facing negotiation, especially with... traditionalists like Ishikawa, is a different beast. So, you'll be accompanying Ms. Bae."

He gestures towards Irene, who visibly flinches.

"She'll show you the ropes, guide you through the process. Think of it as a mentorship field trip."

Mentorship field trip. Brilliant. You fight the urge to laugh out loud. This is golden. Annoying Irene and getting a paid trip out of town? Sign you the fuck up.

"That sounds fantastic, Mr. Choi!" you say, injecting maximum enthusiasm into your voice. You turn to Irene, putting on your most earnest 'eager student' face. "Wow, Irene, thanks for taking me under your wing. I'm really looking forward to learning from your experience."

You see her knuckles whiten where her hands are clasped behind her back. Her mask cracks just enough for you to see the fury simmering beneath.

"Mr. Choi," Irene begins, her voice dangerously low and tight, yet somehow still retaining that soft, almost breathy quality she can’t seem to shake, even when she’s furious. It's a bizarre contrast. "With all due respect, I appreciate the confidence, but I really don't think that's necessary."

"Oh?" Choi raises an eyebrow, his smile tightening fractionally.

"This negotiation is at a critical stage," Irene presses on, finally looking at Choi directly, though she still pointedly ignores you. "It requires focus and familiarity with the nuances of the Ishikawa account, which I possess. Bringing someone... new... into the dynamic at this point could potentially jeopardise the deal. It seems inefficient."

Translation: She doesn't want you anywhere near her important project, and definitely not cramping her style on a trip.

"Efficiency is important, Ms. Bae, but so is growth," Choi counters smoothly. "And teamwork." He leans back, his expression turning serious. "Look, let's be frank. We have several key leadership positions opening up next quarter. I'm looking for individuals who not only excel in their roles but can also collaborate, mentor, and lead effectively."

He pauses, letting the implication hang in the air. Oh, he’s good.

"This trip," he continues, his gaze sweeping over both of you, "is more than just signing a contract. It's a test. Can our seasoned veterans work constructively with our rising stars? Can you two," he gestures between you, "function as a team to achieve a critical objective?"

Irene's lips thin into a white line. She knows exactly where this is going.

"Because frankly," Choi adds, his voice dropping slightly, becoming steelier, "if showcasing teamwork is going to be an issue... if you're opposed to this collaborative approach, Ms. Bae... then perhaps I need to reconsider who takes the lead on this trip altogether. Maybe someone else is better suited to represent the company's future direction."

Checkmate. The threat hangs there, unspoken but crystal clear: Play ball with the newbie, or kiss your chance at climbing out of middle-management purgatory goodbye. You watch Irene wrestle with it. Her pride is practically screaming, but the ambition, the years of grinding away hoping for a break just like this? That’s a powerful motivator too. You see the exact moment her ambition wins. Her shoulders slump, just fractionally.

"...No, sir," she says, the words sounding like they're physically painful to utter. "That won't be an issue. I understand the importance of teamwork. We'll make it work."

Choi beams again, all trace of steeliness gone. "Excellent! That's what I like to hear. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?" He chuckles at his own terrible joke. Irene does not. "Okay then! The trip is scheduled for next week. Flights, hotel, itinerary – my assistant will email you all the details by end of day tomorrow. Good work, both of you. Dismissed."

You stand up, practically buzzing. Irene pushes herself away from the wall like she's moving underwater. You walk out together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you in the corridor. You can't resist:

"Well," you say cheerfully, bumping her shoulder lightly. "This should be fun, huh? Team building!"

Irene stops dead, whirling around to face you. If looks could kill, you’d be a pile of ash on the industrial carpet. Her dark eyes are blazing, her pale cheeks are flushed with anger, and her perfectly shaped lips are pressed so tightly together they’ve almost disappeared. She looks like she wants to rip your throat out. And yet… that voice. When she finally speaks, it's incredibly smooth, but vibrating with pure, unadulterated rage.

"Fun," Irene grits out. She prepares to say something else, but gives up halfway. "Just… stay out of my way."

And with that, she turns on her heel and practically stomps back towards her cubicle, leaving you standing there in the hallway, a wide grin spreading across your face. Oh yeah. This trip was going to be anything but boring.

—

Right, so the week before the trip happens is basically a masterclass in passive aggression, mostly radiating from one Bae Joohyun. She communicates primarily through curt emails that somehow manage to sound personally offended by your existence. She avoids eye contact like you’ve got Medusa hair. If you happen to pass her in the hallway, she develops a sudden, intense interest in the ceiling tiles or her own shoes. It’s kind of impressive, really, the sheer effort she puts into pretending you’re invisible.

Naturally, you respond with escalating levels of cheerful provocation. You leave a bright pink sticky note on her monitor that just says "Smile! :)" which earns you a glare so lethal you’re surprised your hair doesn’t catch fire. You hum loudly (slightly off-key) whenever she’s trying to concentrate. You ‘accidentally’ start using the ridiculously oversized novelty mug someone left in the kitchen, the one you know she secretly coveted, for your disgusting instant coffee. Petty? Absolutely. Fun? Definitely. By the time Friday rolls around, the air between your cubicles is thick enough with tension to require a machete.

Travel day arrives, grey and early. You drag your suitcase (packed efficiently, because unlike some people, you don’t need five years to prepare for a three-day trip) towards the designated airline check-in area. The airport buzzes with that unique blend of frantic energy and soul-crushing boredom. You scan the crowds, looking for a small, probably scowling figure radiating waves of displeasure.

Bingo. There she is, standing near the gate information screen, looking ridiculously out of place. She’s wearing tailored black trousers, heels (seriously, heels for a flight?), and a crisp white blouse under a sharp blazer. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek, severe ponytail. Even her small carry-on suitcase looks expensive and judgmental. You, meanwhile, are rocking comfortable jeans, sneakers, and a well-worn band t-shirt under your open jacket. You both have coats slung over your arms – the destination city is apparently known for being chilly, especially at night. You approach her, dragging your offensively non-designer suitcase.

"Morning, sunshine!" you chirp, offering your most annoying grin. "Ready for our big adventure?"

Irene jumps slightly, clearly not having heard you approach over the airport din. She turns, and her expression tightens when she sees you. So much for burying the hatchet.

"Don't call me sunshine," she says flatly. "Do you have your boarding pass? We need to get through security."

"Relax, Joohyun-ah," you drawl, enjoying the way her eye twitches at the informal suffix. "Got everything right here. Plenty of time. Flight doesn't board for another hour."

She just gives you a withering look, checks her watch pointedly, and turns towards the security line without another word. You sigh dramatically and follow her, maneuvering your bag around a slow-moving family. The flight itself is… uneventful. Mostly because Irene immediately puts on noise-cancelling headphones and pretends to sleep, effectively building a wall between you thicker than any cubicle divider. Fine by you. You watch a terrible action movie on the tiny screen and try not to think about how close her knee is to yours in the cramped economy seats.

Hours later, you land. It's dark outside, the runway lights glittering against the blackness. Stepping off the plane, the air feels different – cooler, maybe cleaner than back home. The airport is quieter than the one you left, smaller, with that slightly liminal feel of arrival halls late at night. You grab your bags from the carousel (yours appears instantly; hers takes ages, much to her visible, though silent, frustration) and head towards the exit signs.

Your stomach rumbles. Plane food was predictably awful.

"Hey, wanna grab something to eat before we hit the road?" you suggest, nodding towards a generic-looking cafe tucked away near the rental car area. "My treat. Well, Choi's treat." You dangle the shiny corporate credit card enticingly.

Irene hesitates. You can see the internal conflict. On one hand: dealing with you longer than absolutely necessary. On the other hand: free food and a valid excuse to delay the multi-hour drive she’s clearly dreading. Pragmatism (and maybe hunger) wins.

"Fine," she concedes, sighing like it’s a huge imposition. "But make it quick. We need to get the car and make up some time."

You find a booth in the brightly lit, mostly empty cafe. It smells faintly of stale coffee and disinfectant. Cheerful. You order burgers and fries – comfort food – while Irene opts for a sad-looking salad and black coffee. Because of course she does. While you wait, she pulls out a sleek tablet and immediately switches into work mode.

"Okay," she starts, tapping the screen and pulling up documents filled with charts and bullet points. "Ishikawa's main point person is Kenji Tanaka. He's old school, values formality and long-term relationships over quick wins. We need to emphasize stability, reliability..."

She launches into a detailed breakdown of the negotiation strategy, potential pitfalls, key phrases to use and avoid. You have to admit, she knows her shit. She’s thorough, prepared, and clearly passionate about nailing this deal. It’s almost attractive, seeing her in her element, laser-focused and competent. Almost.

You lean back, popping a stray fry into your mouth while she talks. You nod occasionally, but your eyes keep drifting to the scrolling news ticker on the muted TV above the counter, then to the tired-looking barista wiping down the espresso machine. Irene pauses, noticing your wandering attention.

"Are you even listening?" she asks, irritation sharpening her soft voice.

"Hm? Yeah, totally," you say, turning back to her. "Tanaka, old school, hates fun, got it. So, basically, just be my opposite?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "This isn't a joke. This is important. Mr. Choi put me in charge of this, but your performance reflects on the team effort. Can you please try and take this seriously?"

"I am taking it seriously," you protest mildly, stealing another fry. "I'm seriously hungry. And seriously impressed by your color-coded flowchart, by the way. Very… thorough."

"It's not a flowchart, it's a risk assessment matrix," she snaps, her cheeks flushing slightly. God, she gets riled up so easily. It's ridiculously endearing.

"Matrix, flowchart, whatever. Point is, you got this covered, right? I'm just here for... mentorship," you say, waggling your eyebrows. "And the company card."

Irene makes a strangled noise, halfway between a sigh and a growl. "Just… try not to embarrass me in front of the client, okay? Stick to the plan. Let me do the talking unless Tanaka specifically addresses you."

"Affirmative, commander," you salute lazily with your fork.

She glares at you, takes a vicious bite of lettuce, and pointedly returns her attention to her tablet, effectively ending the conversation. You finish your burger in comfortable (for you, anyway) silence, watching the way the harsh fluorescent light catches the curve of her cheekbone.

Dinner done, card swiped, it's time to face the next hurdle: the rental car. You follow Irene towards the rental counters, her heels clicking purposefully on the linoleum floor. You handle the paperwork at the counter – the agent seems slightly charmed by your easygoing manner, much to Irene's apparent annoyance as she stands off to the side tapping her foot impatiently. Keys secured, you head out into the multi-level parking garage. The air here is colder, smelling of exhaust fumes and damp concrete.

You locate the assigned bay. It’s exactly what you expected: a bland, silver sedan. Practical, boring, utterly devoid of personality. Just like corporate wanted. Before you can even reach for the driver's side door, Irene sweeps past you.

"I'll drive," she states, not a request.

She unlocks the car with a decisive click and slides into the driver's seat, tossing her expensive-looking handbag onto the passenger seat beside her as if claiming territory. She immediately starts adjusting the seat, the mirrors, her hands moving with brisk efficiency.

You shrug, tossing your coat and duffel bag onto the back seat before sliding into the passenger side, pushing her bag onto the floor to make room for your legs. The door closes with a solid thunk, sealing you both inside the small space. Outside, the parking garage is dimly lit and cavernous. Ahead lies the exit, the highway, and hours of driving through the night with Bae Joohyun beside you, radiating tightly controlled hostility. She puts the key in the ignition, the engine humming quietly to life. The dashboard lights illuminate her face, casting sharp shadows under her cheekbones. She grips the steering wheel, knuckles white.

Yeah, this is going to be a long night.

—

The silver sedan eats up the miles, but time seems to stretch and warp inside the car. Outside, it’s pitch black, the kind of dark you only get away from city lights. Rain lashes against the windshield. The wipers swish back and forth, a monotonous metronome counting out the seconds of crushing boredom. Your phone dropped signal about thirty miles back, rendering it a useless brick. Irene is hyper-focused on the road, her small hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two like she’s piloting a space shuttle through an asteroid field, not driving a boring rental on a mostly straight highway.

The silence isn’t comfortable. It’s thick, charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. You fidget, stare out the rain-streaked side window at nothing, try to nap, fail. Finally, you can’t take it anymore. Time to poke the bear.

"So," you begin, turning slightly in your seat to face her profile, illuminated starkly by the dashboard lights. "Ms. Bae Joohyun. When you're not busy being a corporate assassin and terrorizing innocent newbies like myself, what exactly do you do for fun? Collect rare stamps? Practice your death glare in the mirror?"

She doesn't even glance at you. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"I'm focusing on driving."

Her voice is clipped, dismissing you utterly. Okay. Round one to Irene. But you're bored, and honestly, a little curious. What makes the office ice queen tick?

"Right, right, safety first," you concede easily. "But come on, there's gotta be something. Music? Movies? Tap dancing?" You try another angle. "What are you listening to in those fancy headphones when you're pretending to sleep on planes?"

A tiny sigh escapes her, barely audible over the rain and engine hum. Progress!

"Sometimes I listen to music," she admits, her eyes still fixed on the wet ribbon of road ahead.

"Oh yeah? What kind?" you press, leaning forward slightly. "Death metal? K-Pop? Whale songs?"

Another sigh, this one heavier. "Classical. Sometimes R&B. Does it matter?"

"Just making conversation," you shrug. "Long drive. What else? Read? Watch TV? Binge-watch documentaries about serial killers?"

"I read," she says curtly. "Fiction, mostly."

Okay, you're getting somewhere. It's like pulling teeth, but they're coming out one by one. You decide to switch gears, get a little more personal, maybe touch a nerve.

"Alright, forget hobbies. Let's talk shop, but like, real talk. What's your actual endgame at Choi Industries? What's the master plan, Joohyun? You aiming for Choi's corner office? Planning a hostile takeover via impeccably organized spreadsheets?"

That gets a reaction. Her head snaps towards you for a split second, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Why do you want to know?" she asks. "Trying to figure out the competition? Get some inside info for your own climb?"

Bingo. Hit a nerve. You put on your most innocent expression.

"Whoa, defensive much? Just curious," you deflect smoothly. "We're stuck in a car together for hours, might as well talk about something other than the weather. Isn't that what team building is all about? Sharing our hopes and dreams?"

She scoffs, a short, bitter sound. "Right. My hopes and dreams." She turns her attention back to the road, but her grip on the wheel seems even tighter. "I want to advance my career. Build something lasting. Move up. Same as anyone else. It's nothing special."

"Hmm," you hum thoughtfully, leaning your head back against the headrest. "You know, Irene," you say, using her preferred name deliberately this time, softening your tone just a fraction, "you're genuinely really good at the actual work. Like, seriously sharp. Your planning for this Ishikawa thing? Top-notch."

You let the compliment hang there for a second. You see her shoulders relax, just slightly. Hook, line...

"...But," you continue, casual again, "you're also kind of terrifying. You know that, right? You walk around like you expect someone to shank you over the last good stapler. All business, zero chill. It keeps people at arm's length." You pause. "That stuff matters, you know. The connections, the schmoozing, whatever you want to call it. Choi didn't put us on this trip just to sign a paper. He practically spelled out 'networking test'."

Her head whips back around, glare fully engaged. The brief moment of détente is shattered.

"I don't need your advice on how to do my job or manage my career," she spits out, her tone low and tight, that soft quality making the anger sound even more intense. "I've been at this company for five years. Almost ten years years of experience in the field. I know how things work."

"Yeah?" you counter, unable to resist pushing back. The dynamic is just too tempting. "You've been there five years. I've been there, what, six months? And yet, here we are. Same car, same crappy business trip, same potential promotion hanging in the balance if we don't screw this up." You let that sink in. "Seems like I'm learning how things work a little faster."

That does it. Her composure finally cracks. Her face flushes a dark red, visible even in the dim light.

"Oh, that is such bullshit!" she practically yells, hitting the steering wheel lightly with the palm of her hand. Her voice trembles slightly with fury. "It is so easy for you! You just waltz in, young, charming guy, probably went to the right schools, Choi loves you instantly! You think it's the same for me? You think I haven't worked twice as hard just to get half the recognition? You being a man in that office gives you a fucking ladder while I'm stuck trying to claw my way up a sheer cliff!"

Wow. Okay. That was... more raw than you expected. You lean back, genuinely taken aback for a second. She has a point, probably. You don't doubt she's faced sexist crap or had to fight harder.

"Okay, fair enough," you concede, holding up a hand slightly. "Maybe it's not a level playing field. Probably isn't. I get that." You pause, letting the admission settle. "But you can't pin everything on that. You gotta admit, you make things harder for yourself sometimes. You're so damn rigid, so determined to be seen as tough and serious, you shut down any chance for... other things, other opportunities. You push people away before they even get close."

"Oh, other things?" she echoes, and doesn't even try to hide the sarcasm implicit in her tone. "What 'other things'? What 'opportunities' am I supposedly missing out on by trying to do my job professionally?"

You just smile, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips. You meet her eyes in the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second. You don't answer, letting the question hang there, heavy and suggestive, in the charged silence of the car.

Irene lets out a frustrated groan, gripping the wheel tighter. "Ugh, I hate smug people," she mutters, mostly to herself, but loud enough for you to hear. "People who think they know everything..."

She stares straight ahead, focusing intently on the rain-slicked highway. The silence descends again, but this time it feels different. Not just boring, but thick with unspoken arguments, accusations, and that tantalizing, unanswered question. You drove maybe another five, ten kilometers like that, just the sound of the engine, the rain, the wipers, and Irene radiating pure, unadulterated annoyance.

Then, the engine sputters.

It's subtle at first, a slight hesitation, a cough. Irene frowns, glancing down at the dashboard. It sputters again, louder this time, the car visibly losing speed.

"What the–?" Irene mutters, pressing the accelerator. The engine whines in protest but doesn't pick up speed. Instead, it coughs again, more violently. Warning lights you don't recognize flicker to life on the dashboard.

"Shit," Irene breathes, real panic coloring her voice now. "No, no, no, not now."

The car lurches, engine sputtering weakly, power draining rapidly. She wrestle with the wheel, expertly maneuvering the dying vehicle onto the narrow, muddy shoulder of the road as the engine gives one last pathetic cough and cuts out entirely.

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof and Irene's suddenly audible, slightly panicked breathing. You're plunged into near total darkness as the headlights die too, leaving only the faint, eerie glow of the hazard lights she frantically switches on.

"Oh my god," she whispers, staring straight ahead, hands still clamped onto the useless steering wheel. "No. This cannot be happening."

You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Okay. Deep breaths, commander. Let's see what we're dealing with."

You push open your door, the sound of the steady downpour instantly filling the car. Cold, damp air washes over you as you step out onto the soggy gravel shoulder. You squint into the darkness, the rental car looking pitifully small and dead under the vast, black, weeping sky. You're well and truly stranded.

You fumble with your phone, switching on the flashlight app. The beam cuts a weak cone through the driving rain, illuminating the front of the dead sedan. Great. You try to find the hood release lever inside, cursing softly as your fingers brush against unknown sticky spots under the dash. Finally, you hear a clunk from the front. You push your already soaked self further out into the downpour, wrestling with the heavy, wet hood.

Suddenly, a small circle of relative dryness appears above you. You look up, startled. Irene is standing there, holding a surprisingly sturdy-looking black umbrella she must have magically conjured from that Mary Poppins bag of hers. She stands on her tiptoes, struggling to keep the umbrella on top of your head. Rain streams off the edges, but the patch directly over the engine bay – and you – is mostly clear. Her face is pale in the erratic glow of your phone light, eyes wide, looking genuinely worried. She holds the umbrella steady, shielding you from the worst of the deluge.

"Do you… do you know anything about cars?" she asks.

"Define 'anything'," you grunt, finally managing to prop the heavy hood open. You shine the light inside at the bewildering maze of pipes, wires, and greasy metal components. "I know they generally need gas, and that smoke coming out of the wrong place is usually bad news. That's about the extent of my mechanical genius."

You lean closer, phone held precariously in one hand, trying to look like you have a clue what you're seeing. Everything looks… like an engine. Wet, mostly.

"Oh god, we're going to die out here," Irene mutters, sounding genuinely distressed. "Or get murdered by truckers."

"Relax," you say, trying to project confidence you absolutely do not feel. "Let's check the basics." You shine the light on the big square thing with the knobs on top. The battery. "Sometimes these connections just get loose or corroded." You reach towards one of the terminals, the one with the red cap mostly covering it. It looks... wiggly.

"Be careful!" Irene yelps, flinching back slightly as you touch it.

"It's fine," you assure her, though you're mostly assuring yourself. You grab the connector and wiggle it. It’s definitely loose. You try to tighten it by hand, grimacing as your fingers scrape against rough metal and accumulated grime. You push it down firmly onto the post, twisting it slightly. There's a tiny, almost invisible spark, making Irene gasp. "See? Just needs a little push." You hope. "Okay, let's try that."

You slam the hood shut, making her jump again. "Moment of truth."

You both slide back into the car, dripping water onto the upholstery. The relative quiet inside feels strange after the noise of the rain. You take a deep breath, stick the key back in the ignition, and turn.

The engine turns over once, twice... then roars – okay, maybe hums – back to life. The headlights cut through the darkness again. The dashboard lights up, then settles back to normal. Sweet internal combustion.

Irene lets out a massive sigh, the tension visibly draining from her body. She slumps back against the seat, closing her eyes for a second. "Oh, thank god," she breathes.

You put the car in drive, check the mirrors (just blackness and rain), and carefully pull the sedan back onto the highway, the tires sloshing through puddles. You drive in silence for a few miles, the only sounds the engine, the rain, and the rhythmic thump of the wipers. The atmosphere has shifted, though. The earlier hostility is replaced by a weird, shared sense of relief and… awkwardness.

Finally, Irene stirs beside you. She clears her throat quietly.

"Hey," she starts. She’s staring straight ahead, but you can feel her looking at you peripherally. "Um... thanks. Back there. For... fixing it."

"No big deal," you shrug, trying to sound nonchalant, even though you're secretly preening over your unexpected mechanical success. "Thing was practically falling off. Anyone would've noticed."

"No, really," she insists, actually turning her head slightly to look at you now. Her expression is strangely earnest in the dim glow from the dashboard. "Thank you. I... I panicked." She pauses, then takes another breath, like she’s forcing the words out. "And... look, I'm sorry. Okay? For... you know." She gestures vaguely. "How I am. Sometimes. I know I can be..." She trails off, apparently unable to find the right word.

'Abrasive'? 'Hostile'? 'Terrifying'?

You glance over at her, surprised by the sudden apology. This is new territory. Instead of piling on, something else comes out.

"Difficult?" you supply gently, then shake your head. "Nah. You're not difficult." You lean back, thinking for a second. "You're intense. Focused. Driven. Honestly?" You give a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Sometimes I wish I had more of that. Wish I was less... this," you gesture vaguely at your own relaxed posture, "and more, you know, serious. Like you."

You expect a scoff, or maybe suspicion. Instead, she stares at you for a beat, her expression unreadable. Then, a small smile touches her lips, and a genuine laugh escapes her – not the mocking giggle from the coffee incident, but a real, warm sound. It lights up her face in the dim light.

"You?" she says, still chuckling softly. "Serious? You couldn't be serious for five minutes if your life depended on it."

"Hey!" you protest, though you're smiling too. "Okay, maybe not. You're right. Impossible." You grin. "That's why I don't even try. Why fight nature, right?"

Her laughter fades into a soft smile. She turns back to the road, but the stiffness is gone from her shoulders. "I guess not," she murmurs. After another moment of silence, she adds, quieter still, "Things were definitely… less monotonous after you joined the company, though."

Less monotonous. Her version of 'you're loud and annoying, but occasionally amusing'? You'll take it. An image flashes into your mind – bright lights, bad music, the clink of glasses.

"Less monotonous, huh?" you say, a teasing note creeping back into your voice. "Speaking of shaking things up... remember that company Christmas party? The first one after I started?"

You see her stiffen instantly, a dark blush creeping up her neck. Oh yeah. She remembers.

"Don't," she warns.

"What?" you feign innocence. "It was memorable! You were... surprisingly un-serious." You recall the scene vividly – Irene, usually so composed, tie slightly askew (did she even wear a tie? Maybe just metaphorical), laughing loudly at someone's bad joke, swaying slightly on her feet. Definitely holding a champagne flute like it owed her money. "You were actually... fun. Relaxed. Pretty sure you tried to teach someone how to floss dance."

"I did not," she insists, though the blush deepens. "I had... too much champagne. It was embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?" you counter, leaning towards her slightly. "I thought it was great. Honestly? For a second there, I thought that was the real Bae Joohyun. All that fire, but loose, you know? Not so tightly wound." You pause, letting the implication land. "Been kind of hoping Party Irene would make a comeback ever since."

She refuses to look at you, staring fixedly at the road, her lips pressed into a thin line again. Maybe you pushed too far. You decide to dial it back, just a notch.

"But hey," you say, your tone softening slightly, becoming more sincere. "Kidding aside. Party Irene, Work Irene... whatever. I actually do respect you. You bust your ass, you're damn smart, and you clearly care about doing things right." You shrug. "Even if you are scary as hell sometimes."

You offer the truce, the small olive branch. She glances at you, her expression flickering – surprise? Suspicion? Then, the walls slam back into place. Her eyes narrow, the familiar competitive glint returning.

"Oh, don't even try that," she scoffs. "Appealing to my emotions, pretending to be nice... It won't work. You're not getting that promotion by trying to soften me up."

You stare at her for a second, then burst out laughing. Of course. Back to business. The brief ceasefire is officially over.

"Soften you up?" you chuckle, shaking your head. "Please. I'm just trying to be a decent human being before your poor little heart gets crushed next month when Choi inevitably gives the job to me." You wink. "Gotta manage expectations, right?"

She makes an exasperated sound but doesn't retort immediately, a tiny smile playing on her lips despite herself.

The adrenaline from the breakdown and fix fades, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion. Your eyes feel gritty, and the endless stretch of rain-slicked highway seems to go on forever. Just as you’re seriously considering if nodding off and dying in a fiery wreck might be preferable to another hour of this, a flickering neon sign pierces the gloom ahead. ‘EAT’ it buzzes, next to the familiar logo of a gas station chain. Salvation, or at least, caffeine and questionable roller grill hot dogs.

“Pit stop?” you suggest, already slowing down and flicking your turn signal.

Irene just nods, eyes half-closed. “Good idea. And get gas. The hotel should be close according to the GPS, but better safe than sorry.”

You pull up to the pumps under the bright fluorescent canopy. The rain has eased slightly to a persistent drizzle. While the tank fills, you run into the attached convenience store slash diner. It smells of stale coffee, frying onions, and damp travelers. You grab two coffees, a couple of bottles of water, and some bags of chips – gourmet dining. Irene stays in the car, scrolling through something on her phone with fierce concentration, probably work emails. Figures.

Back in the car, coffee distributed, you navigate back onto the highway. You hold up the keys before putting them in the ignition.

“You wanna take over for the last leg? GPS says maybe twenty minutes to the hotel.”

Irene shakes her head, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. “No, it’s okay. You can keep driving. You’re… doing fine.”

Huh. A compliment? Or just too tired to argue? Either way, you’ll take it. You start the car, the familiar hum filling the space. The slightly thawed atmosphere from the post-breakdown conversation seems to linger.

“So,” you begin casually, glancing over at her. She seems marginally less hostile, maybe just worn down. “We established you don’t have any secret hobbies involving taxidermy or competitive interpretive dance. What about the other big time-sink? Boyfriend? Fiancé? Long-suffering husband hidden away somewhere?”

She stiffens slightly, taking another sip of coffee. “No.” Just the one word, flat and final.

“No?” you echo, keeping your tone light. “Come on. Someone as… uh… driven as you? Gotta have someone to share the spoils of corporate warfare with.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she repeats, a hint of irritation creeping back into her voice. “I don’t have time for that.”

Interesting. Very interesting. You file that little nugget away. Before you can probe further, she surprises you by turning the question around.

“What about you?” she asks, maybe a little too quickly. “You never mentioned a girlfriend. Someone waiting up, wondering where her charming, rogueish man is tonight?” There’s a faint trace of sarcasm in her tone.

“Me? Nah,” you answer easily, shrugging. “Single. Utterly unattached. Free as a bird who enjoys microwave meals and questionable life choices.”

She actually looks surprised, tilting her head. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.” She frowns slightly. “I just assumed… you know. Guys like you. Funny, outgoing… you usually have someone.”

“‘Guys like me’?” you raise an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Neither,” she says quickly, maybe flushing slightly, though it's hard to tell in the dark. “Just… an observation.” She clears her throat. “What about Park Sooyoung, then?”

Joy. Of course. Joy, the human sunbeam from Marketing, who laughs at all your jokes (even the bad ones), brings you snacks, and finds increasingly flimsy excuses to swing by your desk. Her crush isn't exactly subtle.

“Joy?” you chuckle. “Yeah, what about her?”

“Well,” Irene says, picking at a loose thread on her fancy trousers. “She seems to… like you. A lot.”

“Joy’s awesome,” you agree readily. “She’s fun, smart, super sweet.” You pause. “But she’s not really my type.”

“Oh.” Irene sounds… thoughtful? Maybe surprised again? “Why not?”

You just shrug, keeping your eyes on the road as a sign for ‘The Whispering Pines Hotel – 1 Mile’ looms out of the darkness. “Just not. Doesn't click like that, you know?” You leave it there, letting the ambiguity hang.

You follow the signs, turning off the main highway onto a smaller, darker road winding through dense trees. Finally, a collection of low buildings emerges, vaguely rustic, with a welcoming (or maybe just lonely) light glowing above the entrance labeled ‘OFFICE’. You pull into the gravel parking lot, engine finally switched off. Sweet silence, broken only by the patter of drizzle on the roof.

“We made it,” you announce unnecessarily, stretching your arms as much as the seat allows.

God, you’re tired.

You both grab your coats and bags, heading towards the office. The lobby is… something. Wood-paneled walls, threadbare carpet, a faint smell of woodsmoke and dust. A bored-looking guy who looks barely out of his teens sits behind a worn counter, scrolling on his phone.

You handle the check-in, pulling out the company card again. “Reservation for Choi Industries,” you say.

The receptionist types lethargically on an ancient-looking computer. He squints at the screen. “Uh… yeah, got it here. Choi Industries.” He slides a registration card and a single old-fashioned key across the counter. “Just need you to sign here. Room 12.”

You stop, looking at the single key. Irene steps forward. “Sorry, there must be a mistake,” she says, her professional tone kicking in despite her obvious exhaustion. “The reservation was for two rooms.”

The kid scrolls back on his screen, frowning. “Nope. Says right here…” He turns the monitor slightly. The information is there: Irene's name and yours, one room, queen bed, non-smoking. Confirmed booking for two guests.

“That can’t be right,” Irene insists, leaning closer to peer at the screen. “Our corporate travel booked it last week. Can you double-check?”

He sighs, clicks a few more times. “Nah, that’s it. One room. Maybe your travel agent messed up?”

Irene pulls out her phone, already dialing. “This is ridiculous. I’ll call the emergency line.” She puts the phone to her ear, listens for a moment, then pulls it away with a frustrated sigh. “Voicemail. Of course.” She glares back at the receptionist. “Fine. Do you have another room available? We’ll pay for it separately.”

The kid shakes his head, looking almost apologetic now. “Sorry, ma’am. Totally booked solid tonight. There’s a big fishing tournament down at the lake, apparently. Everyone’s here for that.”

You quickly pull out your phone, checking Google Maps. “He’s not kidding,” you report grimly, showing Irene the screen. “Looks like the nearest town with another hotel is… yeah. At least an hour back the way we came. Maybe longer.”

You both stand there for a moment, the reality sinking in. Stranded. Exhausted. And apparently, booked into a single motel room with one bed.

This trip just keeps getting better and better.

Irene looks pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She looks from you to the receptionist, then back to the single key lying on the counter. “Well… what do we do?” she asks, sounding genuinely lost.

“Let’s at least see the room,” you suggest pragmatically. You pick up the key before she can protest further.

“I am not sleeping in the same bed as you,” she says firmly, following you as the receptionist points you down a dimly lit hallway.

“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” you reply smoothly.

Room 12 is… a room. Beige walls, slightly musty floral bedspread on a queen-sized bed, a small desk, a tiny bathroom. It’s clean enough, but basic. And dominated by the single bed. There’s a small patch of carpet between the foot of the bed and the wall with the TV bolted to it. Not exactly luxurious floor space, but doable.

Irene stands in the doorway, looking utterly horrified. Before she can launch into a fresh round of panic or objections, you take charge.

“Okay,” you say calmly, tossing your bag onto the aforementioned patch of floor. “Look. It’s late, we’re exhausted, there are no other options. Don’t worry about it.” You point decisively at the bed. “You take the bed. I’ll crash here on the floor. Problem solved. We just need to sleep.”

She stares at you, wide-eyed. Like she’s never encountered basic chivalry before. “The… the floor?”

“Yep. Got my coat, can probably snag an extra blanket from the closet if there is one. I’ve slept in worse places.”

She hesitates, clearly warring with herself. Practicality versus the sheer awkwardness of the situation. “Are you… are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She frowns, looking genuinely perplexed now. “But… why? Why would you do that?”

You sigh, running a hand through your damp hair. “Because we’re colleagues on a business trip, we’re stuck, and it’s the simplest way to solve the problem without resorting to murder or sleeping in the car,” you explain patiently. “It’s just sleep, Irene. We’ll survive one night.”

She looks from you to the bed, then to the patch of floor, then back to you. She bites her lip, considering. Finally, she gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“Okay,” she says softly, avoiding your eyes. “Okay. That… might work.” She pauses, then adds, even quieter, “Thanks.”

You just nod, trying to ignore the sudden, intense awareness of being alone in this small room with her. This was definitely not in the job description.

Irene clutches her overnight bag like a shield.

"I'm going to... uh... use the bathroom first," she announces stiffly, already moving towards the small, closed door. "Change. Brush my teeth."

"Sounds good," you reply, trying to sound casual as you busy yourself unpacking the few things you actually need from your bag – phone charger, toothbrush. You hear the click of the bathroom lock, then the sound of running water. You sit on the edge of the questionable armchair in the corner, scrolling pointlessly through your signal-less phone. It’s weirdly intimate, just sitting here waiting while she’s in there. You can picture her routine – efficient, precise, even in pajamas.

The lock clicks again, and the door opens. Irene emerges, looking… different. She’s wearing simple, dark grey pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved t-shirt. No makeup, her dark hair pulled back loosely from her face, still slightly damp. She looks younger, softer, less like the corporate warrior and more like just… a tired person. She avoids your eyes, scurrying over to the side of the bed furthest from the door and immediately burrowing under the covers, facing away from you. Okay then.

"All yours," she mutters into the pillow.

Your turn. You grab your change of clothes (just sweats and a t-shirt) and your toothbrush, heading into the small, steamy bathroom. You do your thing quickly, splashing cold water on your face, trying to erase the grime and exhaustion of the day. Looking in the mirror, you definitely look like you wrestled a loose battery cable in the rain and lost. Charming. You emerge back into the room. Irene is a still lump under the blankets.

You find the light switch by the door and flick it off, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the faint ambient light filtering through the gap under the door and the thin curtains.

"Night," you say to the lump, trying to sound cheerful.

You hear a muffled "'Night" in response.

You arrange your coat as a pathetic excuse for padding on the patch of carpet, using your balled-up jacket as a pillow. You lie down. It’s immediately obvious this is going to suck. The floor is hard, unforgivingly so. There's a definite draft coming from somewhere near the window, chilling you through your thin sweats. And the carpet smells vaguely of old cigarettes. You sigh quietly, shifting, trying to find a position that doesn't immediately make your hip bone scream in protest. This is going to be a long, cold night. You can hear the gentle sound of Irene breathing from the bed, the occasional creak of the mattress as she settles. Lucky her.

Minutes pass in silence, marked only by the drumming drizzle outside and your own increasingly uncomfortable shifting. Just as you’re contemplating whether pneumonia might be preferable to this, you hear Irene move again, more deliberately this time. The mattress creaks loudly.

"Hey," her voice comes softly out of the darkness, startling you slightly. "Are you... are you asleep yet?"

You exhale, giving up the pretense. "Nope. Wide awake. Currently contemplating the existential dread of cheap motel carpet."

Silence for a beat. Then, she sighs, a sound laced with frustration and maybe embarrassment. "This is stupid."

"What's stupid?" you ask, genuinely confused. "My carpet contemplation? Probably, yeah."

"No," she says quickly. "This." A vague gesture you can't see but can infer towards the general situation. "Me being in this huge bed, and you sleeping on the floor like... like some kind of Victorian orphan. It's ridiculous."

You try to keep your voice light. "Hey, Victorian orphans built character. Besides, chivalry isn't dead, it's just really uncomfortable."

"Don't be an idiot," she snaps, though there's no real heat behind it. More tired exasperation. "The bed is massive. There's plenty of room. Just... get in."

Whoa. Okay. Didn't see that coming. Especially not after the firm 'not sharing a bed' declaration earlier.

"Uh," you stall, genuinely surprised. "No, really, Irene. It's fine. I'll survive.

"I insist," she says, her voice taking on a firmer tone, the one she uses when she's about to win an argument about budget allocation. Actually, it sounds less like insistence and more like a direct order. "Seriously. Get up off the floor. It's cold, you'll be useless tomorrow if you don't sleep, and I feel stupid lying here while you're down there."

You hesitate. The floor is cold. And hard. And the bed sounds incredibly warm and inviting.

"Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure?" you ask, needing verbal confirmation. This feels like a trap.

"Yes," she replies instantly, decisively. "Now hurry up before I change my mind."

Well, can't argue with a direct order from the temporary commander, right? And damn it, you are cold. You push yourself up stiffly from the floor, joints protesting.

"Okay, okay, fine," you concede. "But under strict conditions, right? Like, there's a demilitarized zone down the middle, maybe we build a pillow wall?"

You hear her sigh again in the darkness. "Just... stay on your side. Way over there." A pause. "And don't... you know. Touch me. Or anything."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you assure her sincerely. "Don't worry, you're so tiny you barely take up any space anyway. Pretty sure I could parallel park between us."

"Just get in," she grumbles, sounding slightly flustered.

You peel back the covers on the side closest to you and slide in. Oh. My. God. The mattress is soft, the sheets are cool but not cold, and the residual warmth radiating from where Irene is lying, even a foot or two away, feels like heaven compared to the floor. You pull the covers up, letting out an involuntary sigh of contentment.

"Okay, you win," you murmur into the darkness. "This is significantly better. Thanks."

"Don't thank me," she says quickly. "It's just... practical." There's a rustle of sheets as she presumably turns fully away from you again. "I'm definitely reporting this booking disaster tomorrow. It's completely unacceptable."

"Damn right," you agree drowsily, already feeling the pull of sleep in the newfound comfort. Work talk. Safe territory for her.

More time drifts by. You’re hovering on the edge of sleep, the warmth seeping into your bones, when you hear her shift again, restlessly.

"You okay over there?" you ask quietly.

A pause. "...Yes," she says, but her voice is small. "Just... I have trouble sleeping in strange places sometimes."

"Ah." You hesitate, then decide to push gently. "Or maybe nervous about the big meeting tomorrow?"

Another pause, longer this time. Then, a quiet admission. "...Maybe a little."

"Hey," you say softly, keeping your voice low and reassuring. "You've got this. Seriously. You're ridiculously prepared. Tanaka-san won't know what hit him. You'll charm the pants off him with your risk assessment matrix."

You hear a tiny huff of air that might be a suppressed laugh. "It's not..." she starts, then seems to give up. "Thanks."

"No problem," you murmur. "Seriously though. When – not if, when – you nail this tomorrow, we should celebrate. Proper drinks, maybe find some non-terrible food? I'll pay, of course."

"...I'll think about it," she says, noncommittal as ever.

You smile in the dark. "You know," you say, letting the teasing note return, "heads would absolutely explode back at the office if anyone knew about this. You, me, one bed... The gossip mill would go into overdrive. They'd be planning our wedding by Monday."

Her reaction is immediate and sharp. "Don't you dare," she hisses, rolling over slightly to face your general direction, you can feel the shift in the mattress. "Nobody finds out about this, understand? Nobody. I will report the booking error to HR and Choi, citing 'unforeseen logistical challenges', and that is it. This conversation, this room... it never happened."

"Whoa, okay!" you say quickly, holding up your hands in mock surrender, even though she can't see. "Kidding! Totally kidding. Jeez. Relax. Your secret's safe with me." You pause, letting the intensity fade slightly. "Guess this is our first official secret though, huh?" you add thoughtfully. "Keeping this under wraps... Doesn't that, like, technically make us friends now?"

"Friends?" she scoffs, the sound sharp even in a whisper. "It makes us unlucky coworkers forced into an awkward situation by corporate incompetence."

"Hey," you counter softly, maybe pushing your luck. "Speak for yourself on the 'unlucky' part."

Silence.

You can practically hear her processing that.

"...What's that supposed to mean?" she asks finally, her voice dangerously quiet, curious.

Shit. Opened your mouth too wide. You backtrack quickly, trying to sound casual.

"Nothing... Hmm... Just..." You scramble for a plausible recovery. "Just that, you know. Despite the car dying, the rain, this hotel mess... the trip hasn't been a complete disaster. Getting out of the office..." You hesitate, then add honestly, "Traveling with you... it's not so bad, Irene."

There's a long pause. You wonder if you've finally pushed her too far, if she's going to order you back to the floor or maybe just smother you with a pillow. Then, she lets out a long, slow breath.

"Okay, smooth-talker," she murmurs, her tone laced with exhaustion but maybe, just maybe, a hint of something else. Amusement? "Shut up now. Seriously. Go to sleep."

You let out a genuine yawn this time, the comfort and the late hour finally catching up. "Alright, commander," you mumble, already drifting off.

You close your eyes, acutely aware of her presence just inches away in the shared darkness, the warmth of the bed a stark contrast to the cold floor you escaped. The rain patters softly outside. Sleep, when it finally comes, feels like diving into deep, uncertain water.

—

You drift awake slowly, reluctantly. First awareness: unfamiliar ceiling tiles, definitely not your apartment. Second awareness: a surprising, encompassing warmth pressed against your front. Third awareness, as your brain finally boots up: holy shit.

You blink, trying to make sense of the situation without moving a muscle. Memory floods back – rain, car trouble, motel, one bed, floor offer, Irene's insistence... Right. You're in the hotel bed. But the warmth... the weight... it's her. Irene Bae is currently draped across your chest like a ridiculously high-maintenance scarf, fast asleep. Her head is tucked under your chin, dark hair fanned out across your t-shirt. One of her arms is slung across your waist, hand resting loosely on your side. Her breathing is soft, even, punctuated by the faintest, almost inaudible snore. And yeah, there's definitely a small, damp patch on your shirt right near her slightly parted lips. Charming.

Your first instinct is pure, unadulterated panic. Abort! Abort! How the hell did this happen? Did you roll over? Did she? Did the tiny demilitarized zone collapse under the cover of darkness? You try the absolute minimum possible movement – a slight tensing of your muscles, an attempt to slide maybe half an inch away. Bad idea. She stirs instantly, murmuring something incoherent against your collarbone, and her arm tightens around you possessively. Her other hand comes up to fist lightly in your shirt. Okay. You are officially trapped by a sleeping, possibly drooling, corporate ice queen.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

You lie there, rigid, hyper-aware of every point of contact, the softness of her hair tickling your chin, the surprisingly solid weight of her against you. It’s… not entirely unpleasant, if you ignore the sheer terror of her waking up like this. It’s comfortable. Warm. Weirdly intimate. You stare up at the ceiling, counting the water stains, wondering how long you can sustain this statuesque pose before something gives.

Mercifully, salvation arrives in the form of technology. A jarring, insistent beeping cuts through the pre-dawn quiet – her phone alarm, presumably set for maximum pre-meeting prep time. Irene groans softly, burrowing her face deeper into your chest for a second before the noise penetrates her sleep-addled brain.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. She lifts her head slightly, looking around with sleepy confusion. Where is she? Then, her gaze drops. She sees your face. She sees her hand clutching your shirt. She registers that her head is resting squarely on your sternum.

The transformation is instantaneous and spectacular. Confusion gives way to wide-eyed horror. Her face drains of color, then floods with crimson. With a strangled gasp, she recoils as if electrocuted, scrambling backwards so violently she completely misjudges the edge of the bed and tumbles onto the floor with a muffled thump and a yelp.

You push yourself up on your elbows, trying desperately to suppress a laugh, though a small smirk probably escapes. "Morning," you offer mildly to the tangle of limbs and pajamas on the floor.

She untangles herself, pushing her wildly messy hair out of her face, eyes blazing with mortification and panic. She points a trembling finger at you.

"What–? How–? I didn't–!" she sputters, scrambling to her feet, clutching the front of her t-shirt. "I don't know how that happened! I swear! I must have rolled over! I don't usually– I mean, I move a lot sometimes, when I sleep! And sometimes I hug my pillow, you know? Habit! It was an accident!" The words tumble out in a rush, a torrent of panicked justification.

"Hey, hey," you say calmly, holding up your hands in a placating gesture. "Relax. It's okay." You sit up fully, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. "Seriously. No harm done. Maybe you just recognized superior pillow material," you add, gesturing to your chest with a grin.

That seems to snap her out of her panic slightly, replaced by fury. She glares at you, cheeks still flaming red. "Don't you joke about this! And if you ever," she takes a step closer, lowering her voice to a menacing whisper, "tell anyone – anyone at all – about this… about me…" she gestures vaguely at the bed and your chest, "...I will personally find a way to ruin your career and possibly your life. Slowly. Painfully. Do you understand?"

You meet her glare, keeping your expression neutral, maybe nodding slightly. "Crystal clear. Pillow-hugging is a sacred, confidential trust. My lips are sealed."

She stares at you for another long moment, searching your face for any hint of mockery. Apparently satisfied, or maybe just too flustered to continue the confrontation, she lets out a shaky breath, grabs her neatly folded work clothes from the chair, and practically bolts into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

You exhale slowly once she's gone. Well, that was eventful. You stretch, feeling the slight stiffness in your neck from having acted as an involuntary human pillow. You get up, gather your own clothes. The bathroom door remains firmly shut, the sound of the shower running providing a buffer. Eventually, she emerges, fully transformed back into Irene Bae, Corporate Warrior. Sharp black suit, pristine white blouse, hair pulled back into an immaculate knot, makeup perfectly applied. The professional mask is firmly welded back in place. She completely avoids looking at you, busying herself with packing her overnight bag with brisk, efficient movements.

Your turn. You shower quickly, get dressed in your own meeting-appropriate attire. When you come out, she’s standing by the window, back to you, checking something on her phone. You walk over, stopping beside her.

"You clean up nice, Bae," you say genuinely, appreciating the transformation. Ready for battle. "Look beautiful, actually. Tanaka-san doesn't stand a chance."

She finally turns, meeting your gaze. There's a flicker of surprise in her eyes at the direct compliment, quickly masked by her usual cool confidence.

"I know," she replies simply. Classic.

Checking out is quick and silent. You grab coffee and some cellophane-wrapped pastries from a gas station down the road – breakfast of champions. Back in the car (you slide into the driver's seat again without discussion; she doesn't object), Irene immediately gets on her phone, confirming meeting times, checking traffic, voice crisp and professional. She briefly runs through the key talking points with you one last time, her tone all business.

You drive, the landscape outside gradually changing as you get closer to whatever moderately sized town hosts Ishikawa Tech. Irene is staring out the window, probably mentally rehearsing her opening lines. You glance over at her profile, silhouetted against the morning light. And you see it again.

"Hey, totally random question," you interject, breaking into her concentration. She turns, slightly annoyed. "That little scar on your chin. What's the story there?"

Her brow furrows, and her fingers instinctively touch the point of her chin. "Scar?" she repeats blankly. "I don't have a scar."

"Yeah, you do," you insist gently. "Tiny one. Right... there." You vaguely gesture. "Like a little crescent moon. Barely noticeable."

She continues to feel her chin, frowning in concentration. Then, her eyes widen slightly in recognition. "Oh! That thing! Wow, I completely forget that's even there. Fell off my bike when I was like, seven. Face-planted right onto the sidewalk trying to impress the older kids by riding with no hands." She shakes her head slightly. "It's ancient history. And it's practically invisible."

"Yeah, it's tiny," you agree. "Honestly, probably wouldn't have even registered it if your face wasn't..." You pause, choosing your words carefully, "...you know, kinda up close and personal this morning while you were using my chest as a Tempur-Pedic."

Her eyes widen again, and that familiar flush creeps back into her cheeks. She looks away quickly. "Nobody's ever mentioned that before," she mutters, sounding flustered.

"Guess I'm just observant," you shrug, letting your gaze linger on her profile for a beat longer than necessary.

She recovers quickly this time, though. A mischievous glint enters her eyes as she turns back to you, leaning slightly closer across the center console. "Oh really?" she asks. "Observant? Or do you just spend an excessive amount of time staring at my face?"

Damn. She got you. You can feel your own face heating up now. You stammer slightly, caught completely off guard. "Wha–? No! I mean..." You regroup, trying for nonchalant. "Okay, maybe sometimes. It's a nice face! Kinda hard not to look, isn't it? Probably... probably everyone looks!"

Her eyebrow arches, skepticism radiating off her. That small smirk is back, wider this time. "Everyone?" she repeats, savoring your discomfort. "Is that what you tell Park Sooyoung? That she has such a nice face you just can't help but stare?"

The question hangs there, sharp, direct. And yeah, maybe, tinged with something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy. Interesting.

You meet her gaze directly now. "Nope," you say calmly, letting the word hang there for a beat. "Haven't told Joy that." You pause, leaning in just a fraction closer, lowering your voice slightly. "Just you."

You let that sink in, watching the surprise flicker in her dark eyes before she quickly schools her features back into neutrality. You turn your attention back to the road, pulling into the visitor parking lot of a modern, sterile-looking office building. Ishikawa Tech. Showtime.

You kill the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the low thrum of nerves in your veins. You glance over at Irene. She’s taking slow, deep breaths, eyes closed for a fraction of a second, seemingly centering herself. Then, her eyes snap open, sharp and focused. Game face: activated.

“Ready?” you ask softly, reaching for your door handle.

She gives a curt, confident nod, already smoothing down her immaculate suit jacket. “Born ready. Let’s go nail this.”

You get out, grabbing your respective briefcases/laptop bags from the back seat. The Ishikawa Tech building looms before you – all sleek glass and brushed steel, understated but undeniably expensive. You walk side-by-side towards the entrance, your footsteps echoing slightly on the polished pavement. The awkward intimacy of the car, the motel room, the shared secrets – it all seems to recede, replaced by a shared sense of purpose. You’re a team now, whether you fully like it or not.

The lobby is vast, minimalist, and eerily quiet. A single receptionist sits behind a massive marble desk, looking up expectantly as you approach. Irene handles the check-in with cool efficiency, her voice steady and professional. Passports or IDs are scanned, visitor badges printed. A moment later, a young woman in a similar grey suit appears to escort you.

The elevator ride is silent. You catch Irene’s eye for a split second; she gives you a barely perceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement. We got this. The escort leads you down a hushed corridor to a conference room with a heavy frosted glass door. She slides it open.

"Mr. Tanaka will be with you shortly," she murmurs, gesturing you inside before retreating silently.

The room is predictable – long polished table, expensive ergonomic chairs, a massive screen on one wall, water bottles and glasses neatly arranged. You choose seats opposite the door, setting down your things.

A few minutes later, the door slides open again, and Kenji Tanaka enters. He’s exactly as you pictured – maybe late fifties or early sixties, immaculate dark suit, silver hair impeccably styled, sharp eyes that seem to take in everything at once. He radiates an aura of quiet authority and old-world formality.

Irene is on her feet instantly, bowing slightly. You follow suit.

"Tanaka-san, thank you for meeting with us," Irene says, her voice perfectly modulated – respectful but confident. She introduces herself by saying her name and yours.

Tanaka returns the slight bow, his expression unreadable. "Welcome. Please." He gestures towards the chairs.

The meeting begins. Irene takes the lead, just as planned. She’s incredible. All the nervous energy, the flustered embarrassment from the morning, is gone. She lays out the proposal clearly, referencing data points from memory, presenting charts on the screen with smooth transitions. She anticipates Tanaka’s initial, cautious questions, answering them thoroughly, respectfully, demonstrating her deep understanding of Ishikawa’s needs and history. She’s built a fortress of facts and logic.

Your role is different. While Irene builds the structure, you provide the… ambiance? When Tanaka leans back, looking slightly skeptical about a technical detail, you jump in smoothly.

"And Tanaka-san," you interject with a relaxed smile, leaning forward slightly, "beyond the technical specs, which Irene has covered brilliantly, what this partnership really offers is future-proofing. It’s about ensuring Ishikawa isn't just stable today, but positioned to lead tomorrow. Like tending a prized bonsai," – okay, maybe that one was cheesy, you mentally cringe, but Tanaka’s eyes light up slightly in recognition – "it requires care, precision, but also a vision for growth."

Irene picks up the cue without missing a beat, transitioning back to the long-term benefits outlined in her slides, reinforcing your point with concrete projections. You see Tanaka nod slowly, making a note.

You handle the small talk during a brief coffee break Tanaka insists upon, asking about his recent trip to Kyoto you vaguely remembered Irene mentioning in her prep notes, drawing out a rare smile from him as he talks about temples. It gives Irene a chance to quickly check her notes and mentally reset for the next phase. When Tanaka asks a challenging question about potential disruptions during integration, Irene provides the detailed mitigation plan, while you add a reassuring layer about dedicated support teams and open communication channels, emphasizing the 'partnership' aspect you know he values.

It’s a dance. She leads with precision and data; you follow with charm, intuition, and strategic reinforcement. You find yourselves catching each other's eye occasionally, a silent communication passing between you – 'He’s hesitant here,' or 'Good point, run with that.' It’s surprisingly… fluid. Effective.

Finally, after nearly two hours, Tanaka leans back in his chair, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face. "Your company is fortunate to have such… complementary talents representing them." He looks directly at Irene. "Your preparation is impeccable, Ms. Bae." Then his gaze shifts to you. "And your understanding of… the bigger picture… is also valuable." He nods decisively. "I believe we have an agreement."

A collective, almost inaudible sigh of relief seems to fill the room. The tension breaks. The actual contracts are brought in by an assistant. There’s the formal ritual of signing, multiple copies, the passing of expensive-looking pens, the brief but firm handshakes. Professional smiles are exchanged. Success.

The walk back out of the building feels surreal. The modern lobby seems less intimidating now. The receptionist offers a polite smile as you hand back your visitor badges. You push through the glass doors and out into the surprisingly bright afternoon. The rain has stopped; patches of blue sky are visible.

You reach the rental car, parked innocuously among the much fancier vehicles. Irene stops beside the passenger door, leans her head back against the cool metal for a second, and lets out a whoosh of breath, her shoulders slumping dramatically.

You break the silence, leaning against the car beside her, unable to keep the admiration out of your voice. "Okay, seriously, Bae. That was bloody brilliant back there." You shake your head slightly in genuine appreciation. "When he threw that curveball about the supply chain redundancy? The way you pulled out that specific data point from the appendix? Flawless. You absolutely nailed it."

She turns her head, looking at you. A small, genuine smile touches her lips.

"Thanks," she says softly. Then, her smile widens slightly, becoming almost teasing. "You weren't... completely useless yourself, newbie.

"Gee, thanks," you laugh. "Highest praise."

"No, really," she continues, pushing herself off the car, her tone becoming more sincere. "That… that bonsai tree analogy was the cheesiest thing I've ever heard in a business meeting," she admits, "but Tanaka actually seemed to… connect with it. And you handled his tangents well. Kept him engaged." She meets your eyes directly. "It actually… it worked. Us. Together."

"Teamwork makes the dream work?" you offer, echoing Choi’s terrible line, but this time it feels earned.

She groans, but she’s still smiling. "Don't push it." She unlocks the car doors. "But yeah. Okay. Good teamwork."

You lean against the rental car, the afternoon sun feeling warm on your face after the artificially cool office building. You catch Irene’s eye as she stows her briefcase in the back seat.

"So," you begin, pushing off the car and taking a step closer, lowering your voice slightly with a playful grin. "About that celebratory drink... the one a certain highly successful negotiator promised she'd 'think about'?"

Irene pauses, her hand on the car door. She glances at her watch, then seems to mentally calculate flight times and driving distances.

"Okay," she concedes, the word carrying a lightness that surprises you. "Okay, fine. We earned it. Flight's not till tomorrow afternoon anyway. Plenty of time."

"Excellent." You beam. "Your chariot awaits. Or, you know, this incredibly boring silver sedan."

You slide back into the driver's seat. As you navigate out of the Ishikawa Tech corporate park and back towards the main part of town, Irene pulls out her phone.

"Just need to make a quick call," she murmurs, already dialing. You hear the slightly tinny voice on the other end – presumably Mr. Choi.

"Mr. Choi, good afternoon," Irene says, her voice instantly slipping back into smooth, professional mode. "Just wanted to inform you that the meeting with Ishikawa Tech concluded successfully... Yes, Tanaka-san seemed very pleased... Contracts are signed... Absolutely... Yes, him was very helpful... Okay... Thank you, sir. We'll debrief fully upon our return."

She ends the call, letting out another long breath. "Done. He's ecstatic, obviously."

"As he should be. We were awesome," you declare, already tapping away on your phone's map app. "Right, celebratory awesome juice. Looking for somewhere... classy but not stuffy? Divey but not tetanus-inducing? What's the vibe?"

"Just... somewhere quiet?" she suggests, sounding tired again. "And maybe with decent beer."

"A woman of taste. Okay, GPS says there's a good place a few blocks away. Reviews mention 'good selection' and 'surprisingly clean restrooms'. Sold?"

"Sold," she agrees with a small chuckle.

The place turns out to be exactly as advertised – a cozy, dimly lit neighborhood bar with dark wood booths, a long bar counter, and the low hum of conversation mixed with some classic rock playing softly. It smells reassuringly of beer and slightly greasy, delicious fried things. You snag a booth tucked away in a corner, offering a bit of privacy.

You both slide onto the vinyl benches opposite each other. A waitress appears promptly. You order a local IPA, while Irene surprises you by ordering a whiskey, neat.

"Whoa, playing hardball even after the deal's done?" you tease as the waitress leaves.

"Long day," she murmurs, shrugging off her suit jacket and draping it over the back of the booth. She takes a deep breath, then reaches up and deliberately unbuttons the top button of her crisp white blouse, revealing a hint of her collarbone. The small gesture feels significant, a conscious decision to shift gears.

The drinks arrive quickly. Irene picks up her whiskey glass, swirls the amber liquid, and takes a slow, deliberate sip, closing her eyes for a moment as if savoring the burn. You take a long pull of your beer. The silence stretches for a moment, comfortable this time.

"You know," you say thoughtfully, setting your glass down. "Thinking about that delightful Whispering Pines Hotel... and the distinct possibility of floor-sleeping again..." You lean forward slightly. "What if, instead of driving all the way back there tonight, we just grabbed a place here? In civilization? Somewhere reputable enough to understand the concept of 'two rooms for two people'?"

"I... I don't know," she hedges. "The company booked the hotel..."

"The company also booked us one room," you counter gently. "I think we're allowed to call an audible for the sake of sanity and spinal health. We can square it with expenses later. Come on, live a little."

She hesitates for another second, then gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Okay," she agrees. "Okay. That... that probably makes sense."

"Good." You smile, taking another sip of beer. "So, shifting gears slightly... the promotion Choi was dangling. How do you think he actually decides something like that? Does he read tea leaves? Consult a psychic?"

Irene manages a small smile. "Probably not." She swirls her whiskey again. "Honestly? I think Tanaka's feedback will weigh heavily. What he tells Choi about how the meeting went, how we performed... both individually and as a team."

"Think we passed the test?"

"We got the contract signed," she points out logically. "And Tanaka didn't seem overtly displeased. Especially after your… bonsai analogy." She gives you a sideways glance, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Hey, it worked!" you protest laughingly. "Never underestimate the power of cheesy metaphors with the older generation." You lean back against the booth, feeling relaxed, the beer and the success working their magic. You study Irene across the table. The professional veneer is definitely cracking around the edges. The unbuttoned collar, the whiskey, the slight flush on her cheeks. But something's still not quite right. The hair. Still severely contained.

"You know what else you need to do to complete the 'deal is done, time to chill' transformation?" you ask, gesturing towards her head with your beer bottle.

She looks at you warily. "What?"

"The hair," you say simply. "It's still yelling 'I might audit your expense report at any moment'. Let it down. Literally. Live dangerously."

She touches her hair self-consciously, her fingers brushing against the tight knot at the nape of her neck. "I... I don't know. It's messy."

"Who cares?" you shrug. "We're off duty. Besides," you lower your voice conspiratorially, "I've seen you with your hair down. It's better this way."

She hesitates for a long moment, glancing around the dim bar as if checking for hidden cameras or HR representatives. Then, with a small sigh that sounds like surrender, she reaches up. Slowly, deliberately, she pulls out the pins or elastic band holding the severe style in place. Her dark, silky hair cascades down, tumbling around her shoulders, framing her face. The change is immediate, striking. It softens her features, makes her look friendly, less intimidating, and undeniably more… beautiful.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed. "Yeah. See? Told you. Definitely better." You meet her eyes, holding her gaze. "Looks really pretty like that, Irene."

She ducks her head quickly, a definite blush rising on her cheeks this time. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, avoiding your eyes, but you see the small, pleased smile she's trying (and failing) to hide.

"It's just hair," she mumbles, taking another sip of her whiskey, perhaps a larger one than before.

"Maybe," you concede, still looking at her. "But it's good hair… Anyway: Ms. Bae Joohyun, now that you've successfully negotiated a major international deal and liberated your hair... what other secrets are you hiding?"

Irene meets your question about secrets with a raised eyebrow, a slow sip of her whiskey momentarily stalling her response. A faint blush still colors her cheeks, maybe from the compliment, maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the question itself.

"Secrets?" she echoes. She leans back slightly against the worn vinyl booth, studying you over the rim of her glass. "Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Observant?"

"Okay, maybe I would," you admit easily, leaning forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you just a fraction. "Come on. Indulge my curiosity. Let's start easy. What did you really think when I first swaggered into Choi Industries, all bright-eyed and probably tripping over my own feet?" You grin. "Initial impression. Uncensored version."

She laughs softly, a genuine sound that makes you smile. She tucks a strand of newly liberated hair behind her ear, a gesture that feels strangely intimate. "Uncensored?" She takes another sip of whiskey, considering. "Okay. Honestly?" She leans forward conspiratorially. "I thought, 'Oh great. Another overconfident frat boy type who probably got hired because his uncle plays golf with Choi, going to charm his way up while the rest of us actually work'."

"Ouch," you wince dramatically, clutching your chest. "Frat boy? Harsh, Bae. Really harsh."

"Well?" she challenges, a smirk playing on her lips. "Was I wrong?"

"About the charming part? Absolutely not," you say with a wink. "About the uncle and the lack of work ethic? Dead wrong. I work my ass off. And my uncle plays Bingo, not golf."

"Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little quick to judge on the work ethic part. You picked things up... alarmingly fast." She pauses, swirling her drink. "Which was, frankly, even more annoying."

"Ah, so the core emotion was annoyance. Got it," you nod sagely. "Which brings me to my next question." You lean in a bit more, lowering your voice further. "All the stuff at the office... the banter, the pranks, the constant low-key warfare... You hate that, right? Secretly wish I'd just leave you alone in your meticulously organized corner?"

You watch her face closely. Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. She doesn't answer immediately. She looks down at her glass, then back up at you, her gaze direct, surprisingly serious for a moment.

"Hate it?" she repeats softly. "...No. Not exactly." She hesitates, seeming to choose her words carefully. "It's... distracting. Sometimes infuriating." A small smile flickers back onto her face. "But..." She shrugs slightly, a blush creeping back onto her cheeks. "It's definitely... less monotonous than before you showed up. "Like I said before.”

"Less monotonous," you echo, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the IPA. So she doesn't hate it. Maybe even... likes it? "So, what you're saying is, my particular brand of charming annoyance actually brightens up your otherwise grey corporate existence?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorts quickly. She takes another drink, avoiding your gaze for a second. When she looks back, the playful challenge is back, stronger this time. "Okay, Mr. Observant. My turn."

"Oh?" you raise your eyebrows. "Shoot."

She leans forward now, mirroring your earlier posture, the dim light catching the curve of her collarbone where her shirt is unbuttoned. Her proximity feels electric. "All this 'teasing'," she says, maybe even making subtle air quotes near the table. "This 'banter'. This... whatever it is you do." Her eyes lock onto yours. "Why me?"

"What do you mean?" you ask, genuinely curious where this is going.

"I mean," she says, her voice dropping lower, becoming almost intimate despite the setting, "you don't pull this crap with anyone else. You're friendly with Seulgi, you joke around with Wendy sometimes, but you don't ‘accidentally switch their computer language to Latin’. You don't leave annoying sticky notes on their monitors. You don't engage in... competitive sighing across the cubicle aisle." She tilts her head, her gaze searching yours. "It's always me. Only me. Why is that, newbie?"

You're momentarily thrown. Why is it just her? Because she's the most fun to provoke? Because she actually fights back? Because looking at her, even when she's glaring daggers at you, does something weird to your insides?

You stall, taking a slow sip of your beer, buying time. How honest do you want to be right now, in this cozy, whiskey-soaked booth?

"Well," you begin slowly, trying to sound casual, "isn't it obvious?"

"Humor me," she says, her eyes narrowed slightly, not letting you off the hook.

"Because," you say, deciding to lean into the flirtation, "you're the most fun to tease." You meet her gaze directly. "You actually rise to the bait. Everyone else just ignores me or laughs it off. You? You get that adorable little vein pulsing in your temple." You gesture vaguely towards her forehead. "You plot elaborate revenge schemes involving binders and typos. It's..." You search for the right word, letting a slow smile spread across your face. "...Engaging."

Her breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. She doesn't look away, but the blush deepens again. "So you enjoy making me miserable?" she asks, her voice slightly husky.

"Miserable?" you counter softly. "Is that what I do?" You shake your head. "Nah. I think... I think we're just figuring out our own weird little language." You reach out, letting your fingers brush against hers as you gesture towards her whiskey glass. "And maybe... maybe I just like getting your attention."

The background noise of the bar seems to fade away. Her gaze drops to where your fingers almost touched hers, then flicks back up to your eyes. She bites her lower lip, a gesture that sends a jolt straight through you.

"And what," she asks, quietly so only you can hear, "do you plan on doing with my attention, now that you supposedly have it?"

Instead of answering directly, your gaze drifts downwards, just for a second, to her lips. They look soft, covered in a red lipstick that is doing terrible things to your sanity, slightly swollen too, maybe from her biting them earlier, glistening faintly from the whiskey. Then you meet her eyes again, hold her gaze.

"You know," you begin, "the very first thing I thought? When I saw you on my first day?"

She shakes her head slightly, eyes wide, waiting. "No. What?"

You lean closer across the table, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from her, to catch the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with whiskey. "My first thought," you say slowly, deliberately, "was, 'Okay, wow. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in this entire damn office.' And then I thought, 'Well, maybe this job won't completely suck after all.'"

You watch her reaction. Her breath catches audibly. Her eyes widen further, searching yours for sincerity. A slow, deep blush blooms across her cheekbones, far more intense than before. She seems momentarily speechless.

"...And?" she finally manages, slightly shaky. "Do you... do you still think that?"

You let out a soft breath, maybe a quiet chuckle. "Let's just say... it's evolved." You reach across the table, your fingers brushing against the cool condensation on her whiskey glass before deliberately, gently, closing around her hand. Her skin is cool, her bones delicate, but her grip, when her fingers instinctively curl around yours, is surprisingly strong. "It got... more complicated. More interesting." You squeeze her hand gently. "But yeah, Irene. The 'beautiful' part? That hasn't changed."

Her eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second, then open again, looking directly into yours.

"Should we..." you murmur, still holding her hand, still holding her gaze, "get out of here? Go somewhere else?"

She doesn't hesitate this time. A simple, breathy "Yes" escapes her lips. It’s all the confirmation you need.

You reluctantly release her hand, signal the waitress, and settle the bill quickly, the mundane actions feeling surreal amidst the electric tension humming between you. You gather your jackets, her briefcase, your bag. Standing up, moving out of the cozy intimacy of the booth and into the slightly brighter main area of the bar feels jarring. You walk towards the exit, hyper-aware of her beside you. Your arms brush as you navigate past other tables. You hold the door for her, your eyes meeting again in a silent, loaded exchange.

Then you're outside, it's already night now, time has passed incredibly quickly and you didn't even notice. The parking lot is mostly empty now, bathed in the yellowish glow of a single flickering streetlamp. The relative quiet feels intense after the bar's low hum. You head towards the rental car, parked a short distance away in the shadows.

You're fumbling for the keys in your pocket when she makes a noise – a soft, frustrated sound, almost a growl. Before you can react, she closes the distance between you in two quick steps. Her small hands come up, grabbing the front of your jacket, fisting in the fabric, pulling you down towards her with surprising strength.

And then her mouth is on yours.

It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a collision. Hard, demanding, desperate. There's none of the soft exploration you might have fantasized about; this is pure, pent-up frustration unleashed. Her lips are surprisingly firm, pushing against yours, her teeth scraping slightly against yours in her haste, the slight shock of it sending a jolt straight down your spine. It’s messy, urgent, possessive. She tastes of whiskey, faintly of the cherry notes from her lipstick, and overwhelmingly of her.

Your arms come around her instinctively, pulling her small, solid body flush against yours. Just like you imagined, only more real, more intense. She feels surprisingly strong, wiry, pressing herself against you with a need that matches the force of her kiss.

You kiss her back with equal fervor, matching her intensity, letting the surprise give way to your own pent-up desire. This is Irene Bae? The controlled, cool, professional ice queen? This raw, hungry woman currently trying to devour your face? Apparently so. You deepen the kiss, angling your head, your tongue seeking hers, finding it, tangling in a hot, wet, desperate frenzy.

You break away for a ragged breath, resting your forehead against hers. Her breathing is just as harsh, her chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Her eyes are closed, her face flushed, and her bright red lipstick is completely wrecked – smeared around her mouth, a smudge on her chin, and probably, you realize dimly, all over your own face as well.

"Waited..." she gasps, “so long... for this..."

"Me too," you manage, before pulling her back in, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. She smells incredible – that faint perfume, the scent of her skin, clean soap, a hint of the whiskey on her breath. It's intoxicating. You press kisses against the soft skin there, feeling her shiver violently in your arms, her fingers tightening in your hair.

You pull back again slightly, needing to see her face, needing to process this whirlwind. And that's when you see it. The glint of moisture under the flickering parking lot light. Tears are welling in her dark eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Hey," you murmur, concern cutting through the haze of lust. You reach up, brushing a thumb gently near the corner of her eye. "What's wrong? Why the tears?"

She lets out a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. She shakes her head, looking away for a second before meeting your eyes again, her gaze raw, vulnerable, utterly exposed.

"Nothing's wrong," she says. "Nothing. I'm just so..." She bites her lip, hard, then the words rush out in a torrent of frustrated honesty. "I'm just so fucking horny it hurts, okay? It's been driving me crazy, wanting this, wanting you, and trying so hard not to. And now..." She gestures vaguely between you, tears finally escaping, tracing paths through the smudged lipstick on her cheeks. "...It's just… a lot."

Her raw admission hits you harder than the kiss. The depth of her frustration, her desire, laid bare under a single flickering streetlight. You pull her closer again, holding her tight, stroking her hair, the silky strands cool against your fingers.

"Okay," you whisper against her hair. "Okay, Irene. I get it. Me too." You hold her for another moment, letting her trembling subside slightly. Then, you gently pull back, holding her shoulders, forcing her to look at you. "Okay. Deep breaths. We can't... we can't do this here. Not in a parking lot." Your voice is firm but gentle. "But we are going to find somewhere. Right now."

You keep one arm around her, leading her the last few steps towards the car. You unlock it, open the passenger door for her, making sure she gets in okay, her movements still slightly shaky. You get in the driver's side, the interior of the car suddenly feeling incredibly small and charged. You start the engine, the quiet hum filling the loaded silence. You glance over at her – she’s staring straight ahead, wiping furiously at her eyes and the smeared lipstick with the back of her hand.

You put the car in reverse, pulling out of the parking spot, heading out into the night, destination unknown but purpose crystal clear: find a room, find privacy, and finally unleash the storm that's been brewing between you since day one.

The drive is thick with a silence that screams louder than any argument you two ever had across the cubicle farm. It’s pure, uncut anticipation. You focus on the road, using your phone’s GPS to locate the nearest motel that doesn’t look like it rents rooms by the hour – or maybe one that does, you’re not feeling particularly picky right now. Beside you, Irene is a coiled spring of barely contained energy. She catches you glancing over a couple of times, her dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that mirrors the frantic heat still simmering from the parking lot. You see her pull down the visor, flipping open the mirror, dabbing furiously at the smudged disaster zone her lipstick became, trying to restore some semblance of order to her kiss-swollen lips with shaky fingers. It’s a futile effort, really. The evidence of her desperation, of your mutual desperation, is written all over both of you.

“There,” you say, nodding towards a neon sign ahead that glows a welcoming, anonymous 'MOTEL' with a flickering vacancy light. It looks clean enough, blessedly unremarkable.

You pull into the lot, park haphazardly near the office, and kill the engine. Neither of you speaks. The plan for two rooms feels like a distant, ludicrous memory from another lifetime. Right now, the only plan is proximity, privacy, and picking up exactly where you left off. You get out, grab your bags again and head towards the office. Check-in is a blur. You flash the company card, sign where needed, take the keycard handed over by a profoundly uninterested night clerk. Room 207. Second floor. Doesn't matter.

Finding the room, fumbling with the keycard, pushing the door open – it all happens in a haze of urgent autopilot. The room itself barely registers. Standard motel fare: two queen beds (ironically), beige walls, questionable art, the lingering scent of air freshener failing to completely mask years of transient lives. None of it matters.

The door clicks shut behind you, the deadbolt slides home with a satisfying thud, sealing you inside. Privacy. Finally.

You drop your bags by the door without looking. Kick off your shoes. When you turn, Irene is doing the same, her movements quick, almost frantic. Her jacket is already discarded on the floor. Her gaze meets yours across the small space, and the raw hunger from the parking lot is back, blazing in her eyes.

This time, you close the distance. No hesitation. Your hands find her waist, pulling her flush against you. Her arms snake around your neck instantly, pulling your head down. The kiss is immediate, but different now. The frantic, desperate edge is still there, but it’s tempered with a deliberate slowness, a need to explore, to taste, to finally savor what you’ve both apparently been craving.

Her lips are softer now, yielding against yours. You deepen the kiss, your tongue sliding against hers, a slow, wet exploration that sends shivers down your spine. It tastes like whiskey, lipstick, and pure, undiluted Irene. You groan softly into her mouth, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the surprisingly firm lines of her body pressed against you. Her hands tangle in your hair again, holding you captive, her fingers digging slightly into your scalp in a way that’s more pleasure than pain. Your own hands roam her back, feeling the smooth fabric of her blouse, the delicate shape of her spine beneath.

After a long moment, she pulls back slightly, resting her forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"Better?" you murmur.

"Just getting started," she whispers back, and then her fingers, surprisingly nimble despite their slight tremble, are at the buttons of your dress shirt. She fumbles with the first one, her knuckles brushing against your rapidly heating skin. You cover her hand with yours for a second, a silent encouragement, then let her continue. One by one, the buttons come undone, her gaze fixed intently on the task, a faint blush rising on her cheeks again.

When the last button is free, you shrug the shirt off your shoulders, letting it pool on the floor behind you. You stand there, bare-chested in the dim motel room light. Irene’s gaze drops, slowly taking you in. Her eyes trace the lines of your shoulders, your chest, linger for a moment on your stomach. You see her swallow, her throat working. A soft gasp escapes her lips.

Tentatively, almost reverently, she reaches out a hand. Her cool fingers ghost over your collarbone, then slide lower, pressing slightly against the muscle of your chest. Her touch is light, exploratory, yet it sets your skin on fire. She spreads her hand flat against your abdomen, her thumb brushing against your hipbone.

"You're..." she starts, then seems unable to finish the thought. She just continues her exploration, her touch becoming slightly bolder, less hesitant. It’s driving you crazy.

Your turn. Your hands go to her blouse, still tucked into her trousers. You undo the remaining buttons much faster than she did, your own fingers eager. You push the fabric aside, revealing her bra – delicate black lace, the contrast against her pale, smooth skin is stunning. You hear her sharp intake of breath as your fingers brush the swell of her breast above the cup.

You slide the blouse off her shoulders, letting it join yours on the floor. She stands before you, clad only in her bra and trousers, looking both vulnerable and incredibly sexy. Her arms are crossed loosely over her chest now, a hint of self-consciousness returning, but her eyes hold a defiant heat.

You reach around her, your fingers finding the clasp of her bra. It takes you a second – damn these things – but then it clicks open. You slide the straps down her arms, letting the garment fall away.

Her breasts are just as you imagined from her petite frame – small, perfectly formed, pale mounds topped with tight, rosy-pink nipples that pebble instantly under your gaze in the cool air of the room. She doesn’t try to cover herself now. She stands there, letting you look, her breathing shallow, her lips slightly parted.

You groan, a low sound deep in your chest. You lean down, capturing one taut peak gently between your lips. Her reaction is instantaneous. A choked gasp escapes her, her head falls back, eyes fluttering shut, fingers digging into your biceps. You suck gently at first, laving the sensitive nub with your tongue, feeling it harden even further against your palate. She makes a soft whimpering sound, arching her back slightly, pressing herself against your mouth.

Emboldened, you increase the pressure, sucking harder, nipping lightly with your teeth, eliciting another sharp gasp and a trembling sigh. You switch to the other breast, giving it equal attention, loving the way she melts under your touch, the way her controlled facade shatters into pure sensation. Her hands fist in your hair now, not pulling, just holding on as waves of pleasure seem to wash over her. The taste of her skin, the salty-sweetness, is addictive. You could do this for hours.

But the urgency is clawing back, the need for more. You reluctantly lift your head, leaving her breasts glistening, nipples taut and dark. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, her breath coming in short pants.

"Clothes," you manage. "Off. Now."

It dissolves into a tangle of limbs and frantic hands. Belts are unbuckled, zippers yanked down with more force than necessary. You struggle with her trousers, she fumbles with yours, bumping heads, maybe letting out frustrated laughs that quickly turn back into groans as skin meets skin. Shoes were already off, but now pants are kicked away impatiently, leaving you both standing in your underwear, chests bare.

Then, before you can pull her back into another kiss, Irene takes control again. Her eyes meet yours, blazing with a fierce determination you recognize from the boardroom, but now directed entirely towards you. She sinks gracefully to her knees before you on the slightly scratchy motel carpet.

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch her. Her dark hair curtains her face slightly as she reaches out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your boxers. Slowly, deliberately, she slides them down your legs, revealing you fully. Your cock springs free, already painfully hard, throbbing in the cool air.

She doesn't touch you immediately. She just stays there, kneeling before you, her gaze fixed on your cock. Her eyes are wide, maybe a little awestruck, maybe just hungry. She licks her lips slowly, a gesture that feels both instinctive and incredibly provocative. You see her pupils dilate further. She reaches out a hand, her fingers cool and slightly trembling as they brush against the head of your cock. A jolt goes through you at the contact.

Her touch becomes bolder. She wraps her fingers around your shaft, testing your length, your thickness. Her other hand cups your balls gently, weighing them in her palm. A low groan rumbles in your chest. You watch her, mesmerized by the sight of Irene Bae, the picture of corporate perfection, kneeling before you, utterly focused on your cock.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of torturous anticipation, she leans forward. Her hair brushes against your thighs. She takes the head of your cock into her mouth, her lips soft, wet, incredibly hot. You hiss, your fingers automatically going to her head, tangling in the silky strands of her hair, not forcing, just holding her there, anchoring yourself.

The initial sensation is overwhelming – the wet heat, the gentle suction. She moves tentatively at first, maybe unsure, her tongue flicking against your sensitive frenulum, drawing another groan from you. Then, she seems to find her rhythm, or maybe just gives in to her own desire. She takes you deeper, her throat muscles working, sucking strongly, her tongue working magic along your shaft. She varies the pressure, the speed, sometimes slow and deep, sometimes faster, focusing on the head, driving you absolutely insane.

Your hips start to move involuntarily, a slight bucking motion, pushing yourself deeper into her mouth, chasing the incredible friction. You let out a string of low groans, maybe cursing softly under your breath. Her name might be a prayer or a demand on your lips. She hums softly around you, a sound of concentration, of pleasure, vibrating against your skin. This is beyond anything you could have imagined – her focus, her intensity, the sheer, raw hunger in her touch, in her mouth. The memory of the hard floor, the awkward silences, the professional distance – it all evaporates in the searing heat of this moment, replaced by the undeniable reality of Irene Bae's mouth working expertly on your cock.

Irene's initial tentative exploration gives way to something far more assured, more knowing, as she takes you deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. Her technique is devastatingly effective. One hand stays wrapped firmly around the base of your shaft, creating a tight seal, while her mouth works miracles further up. She slides down smoothly, coating you in saliva, the suction strong and steady, before slowly drawing back up, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head, eliciting a choked groan that rips through your chest.

"Fuck, Irene..." you gasp out, your eyes rolling back slightly, head thudding against the cheap motel headboard you didn't even realize you were leaning against. Your hands fist in her dark, silky hair, not pulling, just anchoring yourself as waves of pure pleasure crash through you. "Where the hell... did you learn to do that?"

She pauses for only a fraction of a second, lifting her head just enough to look up at you through her lashes. Her eyes are dark pools of undisguised lust, her lips wet, kiss-swollen, slightly red from the friction. A tiny smirk plays on her mouth.

"Pays to do your research… I've always thought about doing this,” she murmurs, before dipping her head again, taking you fully back into her mouth with a renewed enthusiasm that steals your breath. Research? Research on what? On you? The thought sends another jolt of pure electricity straight to your groin.

She changes rhythm, sometimes long, slow, deep strokes that feel like she’s trying to swallow you whole, her throat muscles working skillfully. Other times, she speeds up, her head bobbing faster, tongue flicking and teasing, driving you absolutely wild. Her free hand comes up, fingers gently tracing patterns on your inner thigh, occasionally dipping lower to cup your balls, the gentle pressure adding another layer to the exquisite torture. You hear the wet, slick sounds of her mouth working on you, mingling with your own ragged groans and the soft patter of rain that might have started up again outside – you can barely tell, lost in the sensations she’s creating.

"Jesus..." you pant, hips bucking off the bed involuntarily now, chasing the friction. "Thinking about this... you said... you thought about this?" You struggle to form coherent words through the haze of pleasure. "When? While you were... sending me passive-aggressive emails?"

She pulls back again slightly, dragging her lips slowly up your shaft, leaving a wet trail. Her eyes lock with yours. There's a vulnerability there now, mixed with the heat.

"All the time," she admits. "From the beginning. You drove me insane." She shakes her head slightly, hair brushing against your stomach. "Showing up, being so... effortlessly charming, so good at everything without seeming to even try... while I was working myself to the bone."

She leans forward again, pressing a soft kiss to the head of your cock before taking you back into her mouth, sucking gently this time, almost thoughtfully.

"I hated how easy it seemed for you," she continues, her words slightly muffled around you. "Hated how... how you made me feel." She pulls back again, looking up, her expression earnest, almost pained. "God, you have no idea... How hard I tried not to feel this."

"Tried?" you echo, reaching down, gently tilting her chin up so she has to keep looking at you. "What do you mean, 'tried'?"

“The job," she says. "My career. Everything I worked for. I couldn't afford distractions. Especially not... you. The boss's obvious favorite. The competition." Her gaze drops for a second. "I told myself you were just annoying. That the little flips my stomach did when you smirked at me were indigestion. That the only reason I watched you walk across the office was to make sure you weren't slacking off." She lets out a shaky laugh, devoid of humor. "I had to hate you. Or at least, pretend to. Act like you didn't exist, like you didn't..." She trails off, licking her lips again. "...affect me."

Hearing her confess this, seeing the raw honesty, the years of suppressed desire laid bare in her eyes while she’s kneeling between your legs – it’s fucking overwhelming. You feel a surge of something more than just lust – tenderness, understanding, a fierce connection forged in shared frustration.

"You..." you start. You gently cup her face, thumbs stroking her damp cheeks. "You felt that too? All this time? That... pull?" You shake your head, needing her to understand. "Fuck, Irene, I thought I was losing my mind. Your glares could freeze hell over, but then... the coffee thing, the party... little moments where I thought I saw something else." You let out a harsh breath. "I figured I was just projecting because... because goddammit, I wanted you too. So fucking badly. Probably since that first day I saw you chewing out the intern and thought, 'Wow, she's terrifyingly hot'."

"Terrifyingly hot?" she repeats. "Is that how you saw me?"

"Among other things," you admit, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Driven. Brilliant. Prickly as a cactus. And utterly captivating."

That seems to break the dam. She surges forward, her mouth reclaiming yours in a deep, soul-searing kiss, her earlier desperation replaced by a profound sense of release, of acceptance. Her hands cup your face as she kisses you, pouring all that pent-up emotion, all that suppressed longing, into the connection. You kiss her back just as deeply.

When she finally pulls back from the kiss, her eyes are clear, blazing with intent. The vulnerability is still there, but now it's overlaid with pure, unadulterated hunger. She looks down at your cock, still hard and slick in her hand, then back up at you.

She dives back down, taking you into her mouth with a ferocity that makes you gasp aloud. There's no hesitation now, no tentative exploration. It’s pure worship, pure need. She sucks hard, her throat muscles working expertly, taking you as deep as she possibly can, her hand working your shaft in perfect rhythm. She knows exactly what she’s doing, what you need, reading your body with an intimacy that belies the fact this is the first time she’s ever done this. The sounds she makes are louder now – wet sucking noises, occasional choked gasps as she takes you deeper, throaty hums of pleasure.

Your own control is rapidly disintegrating. Your hips are bucking wildly off the bed now, completely involuntary, chasing the incredible sensations. Your hands are tangled tightly in her hair, knuckles white, not pulling, just holding on for dear life. Groans rip from your throat, unfiltered, animalistic. The pressure builds relentlessly, coiling tight and low in your gut. Every nerve ending is screaming.

"Irene... Fuck... Irene!" you gasp out, your vision starting to blur at the edges. "I can't... I'm gonna..."

She makes a low, guttural sound around you, her pace somehow increasing, becoming frantic, pushing you right over the precipice. You feel that tell-tale tightening deep inside, the point of no return hurtling towards you. You're about to lose it, right here, right now, in the incredible heat of Irene Bae's mouth.

Irene seems to sense you're close, impossibly close. Her ministrations become laser-focused, utterly relentless. She tightens her grip at your base, trapping blood, making your already throbbing cock feel impossibly hard, almost painfully full. Her mouth works faster, suction strong, but it's her tongue that sends you over the edge. She finds that hypersensitive ridge beneath the head, the frenulum, and concentrates her attack right there, flicking, licking, swirling with an agonizing precision that bypasses thought entirely.

"Ah... fuck! Irene! Right there!" you choke out, unable to stop the raw sounds ripping from your throat. Your back arches off the mattress, every muscle in your body clenched tight as a fist. The pressure builds, an unbearable, exquisite agony coiling deep in your balls, climbing higher, demanding release.

With one final, expert flick of her tongue against that spot, combined with a deep, powerful suck, the dam breaks. A guttural roar tears from your lungs as your orgasm crashes over you, violent and all-consuming. Your vision whites out for a second. Your hips slam upwards uncontrollably as your cock pulses violently, spasming in her mouth, releasing thick, heavy ropes of cum.

You feel it pulsing out, hot and thick. Through the haze, you dimly register that Irene doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. If anything, she seems to press closer, her tongue still working, deliberately licking at the head, catching the first hot spurts, chasing the sensation even as you come undone.

Your cum wells up, thick and white, accumulating at the tip before starting to run down the shaft, coating the inside of her cheeks. And then, with a decisive, almost greedy movement, she slides her mouth all the way down your shaft again, taking every last pulsing drop deep into her throat, swallowing strongly, her throat muscles contracting visibly. She keeps sucking for a moment even after the pulsing stops, ensuring she gets every last bit, cleaning you with an efficiency that's both shocking and incredibly fucking hot.

Finally, she releases you, pulling back slowly. Your cock slaps wetly against your stomach, slick with her saliva and remnants of your release. You collapse back against the headboard, utterly spent, chest heaving, limbs trembling. You stare at her, kneeling there between your legs, her dark hair slightly mussed, lips plump and glistening, a faint white sheen at the corners of her mouth despite her thorough swallowing.

"Holy... shit, Irene," you manage to rasp out. You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it. "That was... fuck. Best. Ever."

A slow, incredibly sexy smirk spreads across her face. She reaches up, slowly licking a stray droplet from her lower lip, her eyes never leaving yours. The gesture is pure, unadulterated confidence, a world away from the flustered woman in the parking lot.

You reach for her then, needing her closer. You grab her hands, pulling her up from her knees. She comes willingly, rising gracefully. You pull her onto the bed, maneuvering her beneath you so she’s lying on her back, looking up at you with that same dark, hungry gaze. You capture her mouth in another deep kiss, tasting yourself on her, the salty tang mingling with the whiskey and her own unique flavor. It's intoxicating.

You break the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, onto the pale, smooth skin of her neck. You linger there, where you desperately wanted to bite her in the parking lot, sucking gently, nipping lightly with your teeth, rewarded by her sharp intake of breath and the way her fingers fist in the motel sheets beside her hips. You continue your descent, kissing the hollow of her collarbone, your tongue tracing the delicate bones.

Your mouth finds her breasts again. They look even more perfect now, flushed slightly, nipples still tight, pebbled peaks begging for attention. You oblige, latching onto one, sucking strongly, rolling the nipple between your tongue and palate while your free hand gently teases the other, thumbing the peak, squeezing the soft mound.

"Ah... ah, yes... please..." she gasps out, her head thrashing slightly against the pillow, hips starting to lift off the bed in involuntary arches. She sounds wrecked already, her usual control completely dissolved into raw need.

You give her breasts lingering attention, loving the soft whimpers and gasps you draw from her, before continuing your downward path. You kiss the soft skin of her stomach, lingering for a moment at her navel, flicking your tongue into the small indentation, making her giggle breathlessly despite her arousal. Her hands flutter, unsure where to land – sometimes gripping your hair, sometimes clutching the sheets, sometimes hovering just above your shoulders.

Finally, you reach the waistband of her remaining underwear. You hook your thumbs into the waistband, pausing for a moment, looking up at her flushed, beautiful face, her eyes hazy with lust. Then, you slowly slide them down her legs, revealing her completely.

You pause again, taking her in. Her mound is neat, shaved smooth. it's perfect against her pale skin. Her outer lips are plump, slightly parted already, glistening with the clear, slick wetness of her arousal. The air fills with her scent – musky, sweet, utterly female, driving you wild. You inhale deeply, savoring it.

"So beautiful," you murmur before lowering your head between her thighs.

You don’t say anything else. You just slide your hands under her thighs and drag her closer, lifting her hips slightly, angling her open.

Then you kiss her pussy.

She jolts like she’s been shocked, hands gripping the sheets tight as you drag your tongue slowly from the bottom of her slit up to her clit, licking through all that wetness. She tastes incredible - salty, musky, a little sweet. Fucking addictive.

“Ahnn—!” she gasps, biting her knuckle to keep quiet, thighs twitching.

You flick your tongue against her clit, fast little strokes that make her hips jerk. Then you flatten your tongue and lick her deep again, pressing your mouth to her like you’re kissing her lips. Your tongue plunges between them, fucking into her slowly, over and over again. She moans - soft, breathy, helpless. Her hips grind against your mouth now, chasing the rhythm.

You slide one hand up, thumb stroking her thigh, and the other hand slips under her ass to keep her tilted right where you want her.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” you mumble between licks. “I could eat this pussy for hours.”

Her voice cracks. “Sh-shut the fuck up and—ahhhn—don’t stop—”

You don’t. Your tongue works faster now, focused on her clit, flicking it mercilessly while your mouth stays sealed to her. She's dripping so much you can literally hear the wet noises every time your tongue dives back in. Her legs are shaking, stomach tensing, and she keeps whispering something you can’t quite make out between gasps and moans.

“Right there—fuck, right there—don’t you fucking dare stop—ahhh—”

Her hands find your hair, pulling tight, riding your mouth like she’s forgotten anything else exists. You slide a finger up, press it gently to her entrance - and she clamps down, tight, velvet-slick and hot as hell.

You glance up. She’s watching you now, pupils blown, face red, lips parted.

��Please,” she whispers. “I—fuck, I’m close—”

You push your finger in. She screams.

And you don’t stop.

Your finger’s barely two knuckles in before she clenches down on it hard, walls fluttering like she’s already teetering on the edge - and you haven’t even started properly fucking her with your mouth yet. Just teased her, tasted her, dragged your tongue up and down that needy little slit while she squirmed and begged and moaned into the sheets like she couldn’t help it.

But now?

Now it’s game over.

You curl your finger inside her just enough to stroke along her front wall, then dive back down with your mouth, tongue flattening against her clit before flicking in fast, tight circles. Left-right-left again. Her whole body jolts.

“Ahnnnn—fuck, fuck—!” Her thighs clamp in around your head, squeezing hard, and she’s half-pulling, half-pushing at your hair, like she doesn’t know if she wants to run or grind you deeper.

You smile against her, lips dragging over that sensitive nub as you suck it into your mouth. Just a little pressure at first, just enough for her to feel it, then you suck harder, sealing your mouth around her clit and letting your tongue flick-flick-flick until her hips start rolling on their own.

“Fuck, yes—right there, right fucking there,” she gasps, voice cracking beautifully. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare—!”

You moan into her, on purpose this time, letting the vibration hit her right in the sweet spot.

“You have no idea,” you say against her skin, the words muffled by her soaked pussy, “how long I’ve wanted this. Dreamed about this. You, like this. Dripping for me.”

She lets out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob, legs trembling. “I used to get horny thinking about what you’d taste like,” you continue, tongue flicking again. “How your pussy would feel against my mouth. And now?”

You pull back just long enough to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss right against her slit. “Now I finally fucking get to taste you.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes, voice shaking. “Y-you’re disgusting.”

“Yup,” you grin, dragging your tongue up again, this time slower, letting her feel every inch. “And you love it.”

“God—yes—fuck—” Her fingers tighten in your hair again, her body arching off the bed as her thighs start to tremble harder. “You’re so—fucking good at this—Jesus—”

You slip a second finger in, and she clenches even tighter around both, slick and hot and wet as fuck. You pump your fingers slowly at first, then faster, syncing them with your tongue, which is working her clit with ruthless, practiced intensity now—fast circles, hard flicks, messy wet sucks. Her whole body’s thrashing now. She’s right there. You feel it.

“Irene,” you mutter. “Come for me. Come on my fucking tongue.”

She shudders. Her heels dig into the bed, hands fisting the sheets tight enough to tear them, and then she breaks.

“FUCK—!” she cries out, thighs snapping tight around your head. “Oh my god—I’m—I’m—ahhh—ahhnnnn—!”

Her pussy clamps down around your fingers like a vice, pulsing hard and fast, and you don’t let up. You keep your mouth latched to her clit, sucking through it, licking and drinking every drop like she’s your last goddamn meal.

You feel the gush before you taste it. Her cum hits your tongue in a hot, slick rush, and you groan into her, licking deeper, fucking her through every wave. She’s trembling like a leaf, legs twitching, breath coming in short, ragged little whimpers. One hand’s still tangled in your hair, the other pressed over her mouth like she’s trying not to scream the whole hotel awake.

You finally ease off, slowing your tongue, kissing her thighs gently, licking up the mess you made. She’s panting hard, chest heaving, skin flushed from her cheeks all the way down to her collarbones.

You crawl up the bed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, leaning over her like you just conquered a fucking mountain. Irene’s eyes crack open. She looks wrecked, hair stuck to her forehead, lips parted, eyes dazed. You’ve never seen her like this.

“Well?” you ask. “Better than you imagined?”

She lets out a weak laugh, breathless and hoarse.

“Are you kidding?” she murmurs. “I—I thought about it, yeah. Once or twice. But that… fuck.”

You grin, dipping your head to kiss her throat, tasting her skin, her sweat. “I’m not done,” you whisper against her pulse. “Not even close.”

You keep moving up, lips brushing over the curve of her breast, catching her nipple between your lips one more time, sucking slow just to hear her gasp again. She does, hands coming up to grip your shoulders this time, nails biting into your skin like she needs something to hold onto.

By the time you reach her mouth again, her legs are already curling around your waist, like her body’s decided it knows exactly what’s happening next even if her brain hasn’t caught up. You kiss her softly at first - languid, slow, lips parting against hers - and then harder, deeper, tasting her whimper, the desperation in it.

You feel her hips rocking up against you.

“Fuck,” she whispers into your mouth. “I need it. I need you inside me.”

You pull back just enough to look down at her. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lashes wet, cheeks flushed beautifully. She's still wrecked, still riding that afterglow high - but the hunger behind it is real, raw, needier than anything you’ve ever seen on her face.

Your cock is already hard again, thick and aching and pressed up against her soaked slit. It’s almost unbearable, the heat of her skin, the way her slick folds are already parting around your tip, begging for more.

“Condom,” you manage to say, brain barely functioning.

She shakes her head instantly, biting her lip. “No. Don’t care. I just… I need to feel it.”

You blink. “Joohyun…”

“I mean it,” she breathes. “I don’t care. Just fuck me. I need your cock now.”

Fuck. You grab your cock at the base and slide it slowly along her slit, letting her feel the weight of it, the heat, the size. She shivers. She’s so wet you glide right through it, your tip bumping against her clit and making her gasp, thighs twitching on either side of you.

You watch her as you line yourself up, dragging your cock down until it catches against her entrance. Her pussy’s still twitching, visibly soaked, the lips glistening with a fresh sheen of slick. She’s tiny - tight - and you know this is going to stretch her like hell.

“You sure?” you ask one last time.

“Do it,” she says, voice cracking. “I need to feel you stretch me out. Just—fuck, just do it.”

So you do.

You push in slow - just the tip - and the heat is blinding. She gasps sharply, hands flying up to clutch your arms.

“Shit—” she chokes, legs tensing around you. “You’re… oh my god—you’re huge—”

She’s gripping you like a goddamn fist. Her pussy clenches around your head so tightly it’s hard to move, and you groan low in your throat, already struggling not to lose it.

“Relax,” you whisper, rubbing her thigh. “Breathe. Let me in.”

She tries. You see her eyes flutter shut, mouth open, chest heaving as she focuses. You slide in another inch and her body tightens again, sucking you in like her pussy’s never taken anything this big before.

“Holy fuck, Joohyun,” you grit out, watching yourself sink into her. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“I-it’s a lot,” she pants, legs trembling. “I can feel… everything.”

You look down. And there - fuck. You can see it. A bulge under her lower stomach, small but unmistakable, pressing up under her skin when you push in just deep enough. She follows your gaze, then sees it too.

Her breath catches. “Is that… you?

“Yeah,” you breathe, mesmerized. “That’s my cock, baby. Stretching your tiny little pussy open.”

She lets out a ragged whimper, biting her lip hard. “Keep going,” she begs. “I want it all.” You inch in slowly, savoring every second. Her cunt is pulsing around you with every heartbeat, so hot, so wet, tighter than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s like she was made for this, like her body was shaped to take you and only you, and even then, it’s barely handling it. You finally bottom out, fully sheathed, hips pressed tight against hers, and she lets out a long, broken moan.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “It’s so deep—I feel so full—I can’t—fuck—”

You don’t move at first, letting her adjust, letting her feel just how completely you’ve filled her. Her pussy keeps fluttering around your cock like she’s trying to milk it, desperate to hold you inside.

You lean down, mouth right next to her ear.

“You feel that?” you whisper. “That’s me. All of me. Deep in your fucking guts.”

“Uh-huh—” she gasps, nodding fast, nails scraping down your back. “I feel it—I feel everything—please, please move—”

You start slow, pulling out just a couple inches and sliding back in. The friction is unbelievable. Her cunt clings to you like velvet vice, slick and hot and perfect. She cries out again, hips rocking up to meet yours.

“Fuck me,” she pleads. “Harder. I want it—I need to feel it—”

You give it to her. And the way her pussy grips your cock every time you start to pull out? It’s unreal. She’s so fucking tight, slick walls pulsing around you like she doesn’t want to let you go, like her body’s clinging to you on instinct. You’re buried to the hilt, hips flush against hers, and she’s shaking beneath you, gasping into your mouth like she’s already losing her mind from just this slow rhythm.

Every thrust starts controlled, deliberate - your hips rolling against her, cock dragging out of her inch by inch, gliding slick and wet until just the head’s inside, then pushing all the way back in, slow and deep. Her whole body arches, her tits pressing to your chest as she moans into the kiss, voice soft and breathless.

“Oh my god—fuck, fuck—you feel so good—” she gasps against your lips, hands scrabbling at your back. “It’s so much—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you growl, breaking the kiss to mouth along her jaw, your tongue sliding hot over her skin. “You’re taking it so fucking well, Joohyun. Look at you. Taking every inch of my cock in that tiny fucking pussy.”

She whimpers, head tilting back, eyes fluttering closed. You take the opening and kiss her neck, slow at first, then rougher, letting your teeth scrape lightly before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“Hhnnn—ahhh—!” she cries out, body bucking under you.

“Mine,” you murmur against her throat, the taste of her skin salty and addictive. “This body’s fucking mine.”

She chokes on a moan, clenching around you like she’s about to come from just the words.

“Y-yours,” she gasps. “Fuck, yes—I want it—I want it so bad—!”

Your thrusts pick up, pace increasing, hips slamming against hers with wet, obscene sounds. The slick slap of skin fills the motel room, your cock pounding into her over and over, every stroke pushing a new cry from her lips. She’s so small beneath you, tiny frame writhing under each thrust, trying to take it all and somehow still needing more.

You kiss her again, this time messy, teeth knocking, tongues tangled, just trying to devour each other between gasps. Her moans are constant now, desperate, broken little sounds between every slam of your hips.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” you pant into her mouth. “Wanted to feel you wrapped around me, wanted to fuck you till you scream my name—”

“I thought about it,” she blurts out, breath hitching. “In the office—I thought about you—fucking me over the desk—your hands in my hair—ahhhnn—!”

That does something to you. You lose it a little.

You sit up on your knees, dragging her hips up with you, and start fucking her harder - deep, brutal thrusts that make the bed slam against the wall. Her body jolts with every one, her tits bouncing, hair splayed out on the pillow as she cries out over and over, no longer trying to stay quiet.

“Right there—right fucking there!” she screams, eyes wide open now, staring at you like she’s burning alive from the inside out. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop, I’m—”

You grab her thighs, angle her hips up just slightly more, and slam into her so hard she screams, nails raking down your chest.

“I’m cumming—I’m gonna—ahhhhhh—!”

Her pussy clenches around your cock like a vice, spasming hard as she crashes into her orgasm, back arching, mouth falling open in a soundless moan as wave after wave rolls through her. You feel everything - every twitch, every squeeze, her whole body trembling under yours as she soaks your cock, juices dripping down to your balls. You don’t stop. Not yet.

Her body doesn't even stop trembling before you're moving again, hands gripping her hips, thrusting deep into that spasming, soaking heat. She gasps - high-pitched, raw - as you bottom out again, her walls fluttering madly around your cock. She's still cumming, or maybe her body just hasn’t figured out how to stop. Her thighs are shaking, heels sliding uselessly against the sheets as your rhythm holds, slower but deep, like you're trying to reach her soul with every stroke.

"Ahhh—f-fuck—it's still—!" Her voice shatters into a broken moan as you thrust in hard again, burying yourself to the base. She rolls her eyes back, jaw slack, expression completely unguarded - beautiful and messy and real.

You grind your hips at the end of the thrust and suddenly—

"Fuck—fuck, I—I’m—ahhhhhnnn—!"

She jerks under you violently, like she’s been shocked. Her pussy explodes, a gush of warm wetness flooding over your cock, drenching your balls, soaking the sheets. You watch it happen, stunned for a heartbeat as she squirts, shaking and convulsing, her fingers digging into your arms like she’s trying to keep from flying apart.

"Shit, Joohyun—" you groan, staring down at her in awe. “That’s it. That’s it, baby, let it all out.”

She’s still crying out, head tossed back, body trembling as her pussy keeps clenching, fluttering, leaking all over you. You don’t stop, fucking her through it, shallow thrusts that keep the pressure exactly where it needs to be while her body loses its goddamn mind.

The sight of Irene like this: fucked out, twitching, squirting, burns into your brain like the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen. Bae Joohyun, the office’s ice queen, a picture of control and composure, is now writhing under you with her legs spread wide and cum running down her thighs. Her moans are broken, stuttered, barely coherent, and her eyes are glassy with bliss. Finally, the tremors start to fade. Her body goes limp, legs falling open, and she lets out a long, shaking breath. Her arms come up, slow and trembling, wrapping tight around your shoulders.

You collapse onto her chest, still inside, pressed against her like you need her to stay grounded. Your heart’s pounding. She’s breathing hard beneath you, soft little hiccups in her chest like she doesn’t even know how to recover.

“You—” she starts, voice hoarse. “You are… fucking insane.”

You chuckle, kissing her sweat-slicked shoulder. “You came so hard you fucking squirted, Joohyun. I think you broke me.”

She laughs, breathless, hands sliding up into your hair. “I’ve never come like that. Never. That was—oh my god, that was fucking incredible.”

You lift your head to look at her. Her face is flushed, glowing. There’s something in her eyes now - not just dazed pleasure, but something deeper.

“I can’t believe this is real,” she murmurs, fingertips tracing your jaw, slow and delicate like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. “You and me. Here. Like this.”

You tilt your head, studying her. “You sorry it happened?”

She freezes, lips parting slightly. Your eyes lock - and for a second, the silence stretches between you, heavy with whatever the hell this is turning into. “No,” she says finally, and there’s no hesitation in it. “No, I’m not sorry. I don’t think I could be, even if I tried.”

You nod slowly, kissing her again, this time with something gentler behind it. Her hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You feel the shift in her hips even before she speaks again.

“Are you close?” she whispers, lips brushing your cheek.

You groan, grinding your hips into hers. “Yeah. I’ve been holding back, but… fuck, Joohyun, you feel too good.”

She bites her lip, still panting softly. “Then I want to make you cum.”

Her voice is hoarse, but there’s something determined behind it. “Even if I’m sensitive. Even if it fucking hurts.”

“Babe, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” she says, smiling through the flush. “Let me ride you.” She shifts beneath you, pushing at your shoulders until you fall back onto the mattress. She climbs on top slowly, wincing just a little as she straddles your hips. Her legs are trembling, pussy still twitching, but her eyes never leave yours.

She reaches down, guiding your still-hard cock to her entrance. And fuck - she’s still soaking, but sensitive as hell. The moment the head slides in, her whole body tenses.

“F-fuck—” she breathes, gripping your chest. “So full. Again.”

“You okay?” you ask, voice tight.

She nods quickly, face strained. “I’m okay. I can take it. I want it.”

And then she starts to move. Slowly - agonizingly slow - she sinks down on your cock, her pussy stretching around you all over again. She whines low in her throat, legs shaking with the effort.

Her voice trembles. “You feel so fucking deep.”

You grip her hips, watching her ride you, barely able to believe how beautiful she looks like this. Hair a mess, sweat glistening down her chest, legs struggling to keep the rhythm - but she won’t stop. Every bounce makes her gasp, every grind has her whining into the dark motel room air, and you feel it building in you, tightening fast.

The way she moves - rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles - makes your breath catch hard in your throat. She's still so tight, even after everything, and every single motion feels like you're being pulled deeper into something you might not come back from. Her hands are braced on your chest, her thighs trembling slightly with exertion, but her expression? That’s what gets you. Eyes heavy-lidded, flushed cheeks, lips parted in a mix of concentration and something way too raw to be just pleasure. She’s watching your face as she rides you, like she’s trying to memorize the way you fall apart beneath her.

The pace starts slow. Her movements are languid, almost lazy, like she’s savoring it, dragging her slick, aching pussy along the length of your cock with a deliberate grind that makes your stomach flex. Her warmth swallows you, over and over, her body squeezing tight every time she sinks back down.

“You like watching me like this?” she whispers, a little breathless, but with that same venomous sweetness behind her voice. She leans forward, hands pressed flat against your chest now, breasts hanging just above your face as she bounces a little faster, a little harder. The slap of skin against skin returns - softer now, wet and obscene, her cunt audibly swallowing your cock.

“You’re unreal,” you manage. “I can’t believe this is fucking real.”

“Believe it,” she grins, hips slapping down again, making you twitch inside her. “I want you to remember this every time you look at me across the office. Every time you think about me in meetings. That you had me like this.”

“Fuck, Irene—”

Your hands reach up and catch hers, fingers threading together, grounding you both. The shift in angle makes her whimper, head tilting back as her thighs flex, ass slapping against you harder now.

She rides you harder, faster, eyes locked on yours, her moans mixing with yours in a haze of breath and sweat and desperation.

“Gonna cum soon,” you gasp, hands tightening on hers. “Fuck—Joohyun—I’m close.”

Her thighs are trembling, muscles burning, but Irene doesn’t stop - doesn’t even slow down. She’s bouncing on your cock like she’s trying to ruin you, riding hard, frantic, every slap of her soaked pussy against your lap loud, wet, obscene. She’s a fucking mess - hair a disaster, face red and dewy with sweat, tits jiggling wildly with every brutal grind - but she doesn’t care. She’s into it. She’s owning it. She leans forward and spits pure filth, her lips parted in a breathless grin, eyes blazing like she’s high on how deep she’s taking you.

“Come on,” she pants, riding you hard, slamming down over and over, your cock buried so deep it punches the air right out of your lungs. “Fucking cum, baby. I can feel that cock twitching inside me.”

You groan, one hand gripping her hip tight, the other sliding up to her tits, squeezing, watching the soft flesh spill through your fingers.

“Irene—fuck—gonna make me—”

“Yeah?” she cuts you off, her nails raking across your chest as she grinds down hard, clenching around you on purpose. “You gonna cum for me again, huh? Gonna cum all over my body like a good boy?”

You growl, hands snapping to her ass, holding her in place so you can fuck up into her now, hips pistoning into her soaked cunt while she squeals and moans like the dirtiest little thing you’ve ever seen. Her eyes are rolling, mouth slack, and she’s loving it - riding you like a cock-drunk slut with something to prove.

“God—yes—fuck, yes, fuck me—fuck me—harder—!” she cries out, nails biting into your shoulders as she throws her hips down to meet every brutal thrust. “I want your cum—I want to feel it—I want to feel it all over my body; warm, thick, sticking to my skin.”

You snarl something wordless, thrusting harder, faster, deeper, your balls slapping against her ass with every frantic collision.

“You like that?” she gasps, barely coherent now. “You like this pussy? Tight little fucking cunt squeezing your cock like it was made to milk it dry?”

“Fuck—Joohyun—gonna—fuck—I’m—”

The moment she slips off your cock, the heat leaves you with a wet noise and you're left pulsing in the open air, soaked in her wetness, veins standing out along your shaft like it’s straining to explode. Irene falls back onto the bed, limbs sprawled, chest rising and falling with uneven, post-orgasm gasps. Her skin glows with sweat, her thighs slick, trembling, still twitching from how violently she came - and then she looks at you.

And fuck, that look.

Lust-drunk, completely wrecked, pupils blown wide and mouth slightly open like she’s still dazed - but there’s something sharp underneath, something needy, greedy, filthy. She spreads her legs wider, completely unashamed. Her hands slide up her torso, fingers lightly skimming her stomach, then over her tits, which she squeezes softly, pinching a nipple like she’s toying with herself just to keep your eyes locked on her.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Show me. I want to see it.”

You wrap your fist around your cock - slick, hot, twitching - and start stroking, fast and rough, the veins bulging, your tip swollen and twitching with every heartbeat. You’re kneeling over her like it’s ritual, like this is the fucking altar and she’s laid out in front of you, hair a mess over the pillow, chest heaving, legs spread wide, skin glowing with sweat and sex. And she’s just looking up at you like she’s starving.

“Come on,” she breathes, her hands sliding up her own stomach, cupping her tits, squeezing them together. Her thumbs flick her nipples, her eyes locked on your cock. “Cum for me, baby. I want it all over me. Cover me with it—paint me.”

You groan, deep and guttural, biting your lip so hard it stings. It’s surreal—Irene, the same ice-cold, composed, impossible-to-please Irene from across your cubicle, now spread out like a fucking porn star, looking at you with cum-hungry eyes and begging like a slut for your load.

She smirks as she sees the look on your face, teasing you with just her voice. “You like this, huh?” she says, dragging one hand slowly down her stomach. “Watching your coworker get messy? Filthy? Begging to get covered in your cum?”

“Fuck, Joohyun—don’t stop,” you groan, jerking faster now, chasing the tightness building in your gut.

“I want to feel it,” she whispers, her voice shifting, getting rougher, needier. “I want everything you’ve got. Drench me. Make a fucking mess of me.”

She licks her lips as she says it. Her thighs spread wider. One hand cups her breast again, the other trailing lower, fingertips barely grazing her oversensitive clit. And she’s smiling - smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Your cock throbs hard in your grip.

“You gonna give it to me?” she says, breath hitching. “You gonna jerk off like a good boy and give your dirty little coworker what she needs?”

“Fuck—yes, yes—I’m so fucking close—” you pant, jerking harder, faster, your balls tightening.

Her voice drops into a whisper, thick with lust and taunting affection. “Then cum for me. Cum for your little cumslut. I’m ready for it. I need it.”

Your vision tunnels. Your whole body seizes up. And then you’re there. With a broken groan, your cock explodes, the first thick rope of cum shooting out hard and painting her chest, streaking from collarbone to nipple. She gasps, eyes wide, biting her lip, watching it hit her.

“Yes—fuck yes—” she moans, arching her back, offering more skin. “More—give me more—”

Another jet lands across her stomach, thick and white, dripping down between her ribs. Then another hits higher, splashing across her throat and chin, and she laughs through it, twisted and breathless and completely unrecognizable from the Irene you’ve known at work. You’re still cumming, stroke after stroke, your cock throbbing violently in your hand as you spurt again and again - her tits, her belly, the soft curve of her hip, streaks of white everywhere. She writhes in it, moaning, hands smearing it into her skin like it’s lotion.

“Oh my god—look at how much you fucking came—fuck, it’s so hot—”

You stroke the last few drops out, your tip now so sensitive it burns, but she’s not done.

“Come here,” she pants. “One more.”

You blink down at her, chest heaving. “One more?”

“On my face,” she growls, licking her lips again. “Mark me.”

You swear you almost cum again on command. You kneel higher over her, aiming your cock right at her flushed, expectant face. She tilts her chin up, mouth parted, tongue out slightly, eyes fluttering shut like she’s about to get baptized.

You stroke hard - just a few fast pumps - and you feel it hit again, the pressure spiking. A hot, sticky burst lands across her cheek, then her nose, then her lips. She moans, mouth catching a string of it, and another shot hits her right between the eyes, dripping down her forehead.

“Mmmnnhhh,” she moans, lips curling around her tongue as she catches the taste. “Fuck… yes.”

Her hands come up, fingers dragging through it, smearing your cum across her own cheeks, her mouth. You’re trembling, panting, absolutely destroyed, and she still looks hungry.

“Look at me,” she whispers, eyes fluttering open, cum dripping from her chin. “You fucking ruined me.”

You’re about to collapse when she pushes herself up slightly, sitting up with effort. Her eyes drop back to your cock - still twitching, slick and flushed - and she leans in. Without hesitation, she wraps her lips around the tip and sucks.

You almost scream.

Your hands fly to her hair, hips jerking, as she takes the head into her mouth and sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive tip like she’s savoring every drop you’ve got left. Her mouth’s warm and wet and slow, and it’s too much - you twitch, thighs tensing, muscles locking up.

“Holy fuck, Irene—!”

She moans, low and satisfied, as she pulls off with a slow, wet noise, licking her lips one more time, eyes dazed and shining. And then she grins, breathless.

“Perfect,” she whispers.

You collapse on the bed, utterly spent, breathing hard, just watching her. Irene Bae. Your rival, your coworker, the person you spend hours just pranking and annoying. Currently kneeling beside you on a motel bed, naked, flushed, her dark hair tangled, her skin glistening with sweat and drying trails of your cum. Her lips are swollen from kissing and from cleaning you, a faint red smear still visible at one corner. And somehow, despite the absolute messy reality of the last hour, she looks breathtakingly beautiful. More beautiful than you’ve ever seen her. The raw vulnerability, the satisfied exhaustion, the sheer woman beneath the corporate armor – it’s devastating.

You reach out slowly, your hand still trembling slightly from the force of your orgasm. You gently cup her cheek, your thumb brushing away a stray strand of hair plastered there by sweat or... your cum. She leans into your touch instantly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, completely trusting. Then, she turns her head slightly and presses a soft, lingering kiss against the palm of your hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels profoundly intimate.

A small, breathless chuckle escapes you. "Okay... wow," you murmur, shaking your head slightly in disbelief at the whole situation. "Right. Uh..." You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of normal thought. "I think... I think maybe we should attempt some... decontamination? Before we permanently bond with this questionable bedspread." You gesture vaguely at the state of her, and likely yourself. "A shower might be a good idea."

She nods, her eyes drifting open again, soft and hazy. "Yeah," she agrees. "Good idea."

Moving feels like a monumental effort, but you manage it, helping each other untangle limbs and push upright. Standing beside the bed, unsteady on your feet, you get a full view of the beautiful disaster you’ve made of her. You offer her a hand, pulling her gently towards the tiny bathroom.

Stepping into the small shower stall together feels strangely normal after everything else. You turn on the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s comfortably warm, not too hot. The spray washes over both of you, rinsing away the sweat, the slickness, the drying evidence of your climax from her skin. You find a small bar of generic motel soap. Without asking, you start gently soaping her back, your hands moving slowly, tracing the delicate lines of her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine. She leans back against you slightly, letting out a soft sigh of contentment, resting her head back on your shoulder.

She takes the soap from you after a moment, turning to return the favor, her small hands surprisingly strong as she works up a lather on your chest, her touch feather-light but sending shivers down your spine nonetheless. There’s a quiet intimacy in the shared task, the shared nudity feeling different now – less charged with frantic need, more comfortable, vulnerable. You stand under the steaming water. You share another long, slow kiss under the water, tongues tangling gently, a reaffirmation rather than a prelude. Mostly, though, it’s just about getting clean, about the quiet care after the storm.

Finally, clean and slightly less shaky, you turn off the water. You grab the two thin, threadbare towels provided by the motel. You wrap one around her, taking a moment to gently towel dry her hair, her dark strands clinging to your fingers. She does the same for you, her movements efficient but gentle.

Back in the main room, wrapped in towels, the exhaustion hits hard. You both sink down onto the edge of the bed you haven't yet defiled – the one further from the door. You feel clean, wrung out, and suddenly ravenous.

"Hungry?" you ask, glancing over at her. She’s staring blankly at the wall, looking utterly drained but peaceful.

She nods slowly. "Starving, actually."

"Okay." You stand up, resolve firming. Duty calls. Or at least, takeout calls. I volunteer as tribute. What culinary delight can I procure for the lady?" You pause, unable to resist a small jab. "And please, for the love of god, tell me you're not going to ask for a kale salad with lemon vinaigrette right now."

A genuine laugh bubbles up from her, startlingly bright in the quiet room. She shakes her head, meeting your eyes with amusement. "Definitely not salad," she confirms. "Not tonight." She thinks for a moment, biting her lip. "Could you… maybe find a burger? Like, a proper greasy one? And fries? Lots of fries?"

Relief floods you. "An excellent, perfectly reasonable request!" you declare dramatically. "A greasy burger and copious fries it is. I shall return victorious!" You quickly pull on your jeans and random t-shirt, grab your wallet and the room keycard. "Don't go anywhere," you add with a wink, before slipping out the door.

The hunt for late-night, non-salad food takes you to a slightly sketchy but blessedly open 24-hour diner a few blocks away. You return twenty minutes later, triumphant, bearing two large paper bags smelling gloriously of fried onions, grease, and potential cardiac arrest.

You find Irene exactly where you left her, still wrapped in a towel, though she’s now curled up on top of the clean bedspread. You spread out your feast on the small, round table in the corner – burgers, mountains of fries, onion rings, a couple of sodas. You ditch your own shirt again, deciding comfort trumps propriety at this point, and join her, sitting cross-legged on the bed opposite the food table.

You eat mostly in a comfortable silence, punctuated by satisfied sighs and occasional comments about the food ("This is disgustingly good," she declares after her first bite of burger). You catch each other's eye occasionally, sharing small, knowing smiles. The remnants of smeared lipstick are gone, the tear tracks washed away, the drying cum replaced by the faint scent of cheap motel soap and greasy food. It feels… normal. Almost domestic, in a weird, post-apocalyptic-motel-tryst kind of way.

Finally, bellies full, wrappers and cartons shoved back into the paper bags, teeth already brushed, the inevitable question of sleep arises. You look pointedly at the two queen beds occupying the small room. One currently holds the remains of your feast. The other… well, the other holds memories you won't soon forget. Your gaze flicks between the beds, then to Irene, unsure of the next move. Should you offer to take the other bed? Reiterate the floor offer?

Before you can formulate a potentially clumsy question, Irene speaks, her voice soft. She pats the space beside her on the bed they didn't just have incredibly messy sex on.

"Hey," she says quietly, meeting your eyes directly. Her expression is open, vulnerable. "Sleep here. With me." She offers a small, tentative smile. "It's… it's okay. Really."

Relief washes over you. "Yeah?" you confirm, maybe needing to hear it again. "Okay. Good." You start to move towards the bed, ready to slide under the covers.

"Wait," she says quickly, holding up a hand, stopping you. A faint blush creeps up her neck again. "One more thing first." She hesitates, seeming to gather her courage. "Those pajamas I was wearing last night?" You nod, remembering the grey ensemble. "I… uh… I almost never wear them." She looks down at her hands, then back up at you, her gaze steady despite the blush. "At home. Normally. I sleep… naked."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Okay. Didn't see that coming.

"It just… feels better," she continues quickly, maybe rushing the words out now. "Less restrictive. More comfortable." She gestures vaguely between you two, acknowledging the current state of undress beneath the towels. "And… well. Since we've already… you know. Seen pretty much everything there is to see… I just… I was going to anyway. Unless…" She trails off, looking suddenly uncertain. "Unless that makes you uncomfortable? If it bothers you, I won't."

You stare at her for a beat, processing this new piece of information, this unexpected vulnerability mixed with practicality. Does Irene Bae sleeping naked beside you bother you? Is she kidding?

A wide, slow grin spreads across your face. "Bother me?" you repeat, maybe letting out a soft chuckle. "Irene, seriously? Absolutely fucking not." Your grin widens. "Please. By all means. Be comfortable." You can't resist adding, "Though, fair warning… my self-control already took a serious beating tonight. No guarantees it won't snap entirely if faced with naked Irene Bae snuggled up next to me."

Relief floods her face, followed by a genuine laugh this time. She playfully swats your arm. "Shut up," she mutters, but she's smiling. "Okay. Good." Then she tilts her head, looking you up and down, still just in your jeans. "Well?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, a challenge in her tone now. "Same rules apply, right? You too."

Your grin widens further, if possible. "Wouldn't dream of overdressing for the occasion, commander."

The decision is made. Wordlessly, you both stand up. You shed your jeans quickly, tossing them onto the chair. Irene unwraps her towel, letting it fall to the floor, completely unselfconscious now. You do the same. You stand there for a moment, naked together in the dim motel light, the shared vulnerability feeling less charged now, more like a simple, honest truth between you.

You slide into the clean bed, the sheets cool against your bare skin. Irene slides in beside you, pulling the covers up. She hesitates for only a second before rolling onto her side, facing you, even scooting a little closer than strictly necessary. The warmth radiating from her bare skin is immediate, intoxicating. The lingering scents of soap, food, sex, and just her mingle in the air. Exhaustion pulls at you, heavy and insistent, but lying here, naked, beside Irene, feels like the only place in the world you want to be.

—

You wake slowly, pulled from a deep, dreamless sleep by the unwelcome intrusion of pale morning light filtering through the cheap motel curtains. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly sore in ways you haven’t experienced before, muscles aching with a satisfying thrum. The first conscious thought is fuzzy, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke overlaid with something muskier, sweeter... sex.

Then it hits you. All of it. Like a tidal wave crashing over your sleep-fogged brain. Irene. The bar. The confessions. The parking lot kiss that felt like spontaneous combustion. This room. Her mouth on your cock, your mouth between her legs. Her screams, your cum painting her skin. The raw, unbridled need that finally exploded between you after months of simmering tension and office warfare. Holy. Shit.

A slow smile spreads across your face as the memories solidify. You roll over instinctively, reaching out, expecting to find her warm, soft body curled against yours, maybe still tangled together from however you finally collapsed into sleep.

But the space beside you is empty. Cold.

You push yourself up on one elbow, blinking, fully awake now. You’re naked under the thin motel sheet, the faint, sticky residue on your skin a testament to the night's activities. But Irene is gone from the bed. Your eyes scan the small, unremarkable room. And there she is.

Standing by the window, already fully dressed in the crisp, professional attire she wore yesterday – tailored trousers, sensible blouse buttoned all the way up, sharp blazer. Her dark hair is pulled back into that severe, immaculate knot again, not a strand out of place. She’s staring out the window, back mostly to you, posture ramrod straight. The transformation is jarring, almost comical if it didn’t make something unpleasant twist in your gut. The passionate, vulnerable, gloriously debauched woman from last night seems to have vanished, replaced entirely by Bae Joohyun, Senior Analyst.

"Morning," you offer.

She startles slightly, turning from the window. Her eyes meet yours for only a fraction of a second before flicking away, fixing somewhere on the wall above your head. Her face is carefully blank, the professional mask firmly in place, though you notice a faint pinkness high on her cheekbones and maybe, just maybe, the slightest puffiness around her eyes. The dark marks you left on her neck are skillfully concealed by her collar.

"Morning," she replies curtly, her voice cool, clipped. "We should get going soon if we want to make the flight. I checked traffic; it looks okay, but better safe than sorry." All business.

Right. The flight. Reality intrudes with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. You swing your legs out of bed, the sheet pooling around your waist, suddenly very aware of your own nakedness under her studiously averted gaze. You grab your clothes from the floor where they were discarded in a heap last night, along with hers.

The process of getting ready is excruciatingly awkward. You head into the bathroom, showering quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the sudden tension coiling inside you. You brush your teeth, staring at your own reflection – you look tired, maybe slightly dazed, but undeniably satisfied. Is that a smear of lipstick still near your ear? You scrub at it vigorously. When you emerge, towel wrapped around your waist, Irene is meticulously packing her overnight bag, movements precise, efficient, avoiding looking at you entirely. You get dressed quickly, pulling on yesterday's clothes, feeling rumpled and profoundly out of sync with her pristine appearance.

The silence is broken only by the click of her suitcase clasps, the rustle of clothing. No reminiscing sighs, no shared smiles, no acknowledgement whatsoever of the earth-shattering intimacy you shared just hours ago. It’s like hitting a brick wall.

"Ready?" she asks, her voice still coolly professional, turning towards the door, bag in hand.

"Yeah," you grunt, grabbing your own bag.

Check-out is as impersonal as check-in. Breakfast is a quick, sterile affair at a generic coffee chain near the motel. Irene pulls out her work phone immediately, scrolling through emails, making a comment about a report that needs finalizing. You try to make small talk – about the terrible coffee, about the flight – but her answers are short, clipped, deflecting anything remotely personal. It’s like talking to a polite, efficient stranger. The Irene who screamed your name, who swallowed your cum, who confessed her hidden desires, might as well have been a fever dream.

Back in the rental car, the awkwardness becomes suffocating. The confined space magnifies the unspoken tension, the elephant – no, the entire goddamn zoo – sitting between you. You drive towards the airport, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the GPS voice occasionally telling you where to turn. You can’t take it anymore. You stop the car on the highway shoulder.

"Okay, Irene," you say finally, your tone tight with frustration, maybe a little hurt. You glance over at her stony profile. "Can we just stop?"

She turns her head slightly, feigning ignorance, though her fingers fidget nervously in her lap. "Stop what?"

"This," you say, gesturing vaguely between you. "This... pretending. Acting like last night was just... another item on the agenda we checked off. Like it didn't happen."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says stiffly, refusing to meet your eyes. "We finalized the Ishikawa deal, and now we're heading home. That's what happened."

Her denial, so blatant, so deliberate, snaps something inside you. Before you can retort, however, she moves. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she leans across the center console, grabs your face with both hands – her touch surprisingly firm – and presses her lips to yours. It’s a hard, fast kiss, desperate almost, a confusing echo of the parking lot passion but tinged with something else – panic? Regret? Then, just as quickly, she pulls back, retreating to her side of the car, leaving you stunned, tasting her faint lipstick again.

She takes a shaky breath, finally looking at you, her eyes wide, conflicted. "I'm not ignoring it," she says, her voice low, trembling slightly. "Okay? I'm not. I just... I'm trying to process it."

She gestures helplessly. "This is... this is insane, don't you see that?" Her voice rises slightly, laced with panic now. "We work together. We sit five feet apart every single day. People notice things, people talk. What we did... it's..." She struggles for the word. "...Complicated." She takes another deep breath. "And then there's the promotion. Choi is watching both of us. We're supposed to be competitors, rivals! Not... not this."

The fear rolling off her is palpable. You feel a pang of sympathy, but also a sharp sting of rejection. "So," you ask quietly, the question heavy, "what was last night then, Irene? Just... a mistake? A one-time lapse in judgment? Blowing off steam after a stressful negotiation?"

She looks away, unable to meet your gaze now. "I don't know," she whispers, sounding lost. "Honestly? I don't know what it was. It was... incredible. And terrifying." She finally looks back at you, her eyes pleading. "Can we just... not? Not right now? Can we just get on the plane, go back home, pretend to be normal coworkers for a little while?" Her voice drops further. "Maybe... maybe we just try and forget it happened? Just until... until we figure things out?"

“Forget it happened?” The words hit you like a physical blow. After everything? After the confessions, the raw honesty, the sheer intensity of the connection?

"Forget it?" you echo, your voice dangerously quiet now, laced with hurt you can't quite hide. "You really think we can just forget last night? Pretend none of it was real?" You shake your head slowly, a bitter taste in your mouth. "Wow." You take a deep breath, needing her to understand. "Listen to me, Irene. Things have changed. Between us. Everything has changed." You meet her eyes, holding her gaze firmly. "Whether you want them to or not, whether you're ready to deal with it or not. They've changed."

She holds your gaze for a long moment, the conflict, the fear, the lingering desire warring visibly in her expression. Then, she looks away, staring out the windshield, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I know," she whispers. "Believe me, I know." She closes her eyes briefly, letting out a long, slow breath. "And that," she adds, turning her head slightly back towards you, her eyes filled with a deep, unsettling fear, "is exactly what scares the hell out of me."

"Scared?" you ask. "Scared of what, exactly? That maybe... just maybe... it wasn't a mistake?" You lean slightly towards her, forcing her to feel your presence even if she won't look directly at you. "Scared that it actually felt... right? That maybe the 'annoying office clown' isn't so bad when he's got his tongue buried between your..." You cut yourself off with a sharp breath, shaking your head. Too much. But the point hangs there. "Scared that you might actually want this, Irene? That maybe you've wanted it for just as long as I have?"

She flinches at your words, turning her head sharply away to stare resolutely out her side window, presenting you with the rigid line of her shoulder. Her voice, when she speaks, is tight, controlled, desperately trying to rebuild the professional wall you both just obliterated.

"Want what, newbie?" she retorts, the words clipped. "A completely inappropriate, career-destroying entanglement? An HR nightmare waiting to happen?" She takes a shaky breath, trying to marshal her arguments. "We work together. Directly. We are competing for the same promotion, remember? Last night..." Her voice falters for a split second before hardening again. "...Last night was insane. It shouldn't have happened. It was a lapse, brought on by stress, exhaustion, proximity... maybe too much whiskey at that bar." She throws out the excuses like shields.

A short, sharp, humorless laugh escapes you. "Right. Blame the whiskey. Blame the motel booking from hell. Blame the fucking rain." Your tone hardens, losing its earlier softness. "Blame anything and everything except the fact that you kissed me first in that parking lot like you were starving. Blame anything but the fact that you practically ordered me into that bed. Blame anything but the fact that you looked me dead in the fucking eye afterwards and told me you weren't sorry." You pause, letting the words sink in. "Don't you dare try and minimize this, Irene. Don't try and shove it into a box labeled 'drunken mistake'. I thought you were better than this, Irene, now I look at you and see a liar."

She wipes angrily at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing makeup she hastily reapplied earlier, just wiping away fresh tears. "It has to be a mistake!" she insists. "What else could it possibly be? This isn't... us! This isn't how we work! We snipe at each other, we compete, we drive each other crazy! We live in a war. We don't... we don't do..." She gestures vaguely, frustratedly, between the two front seats, unable or unwilling to name the intimacy, the intensity, the raw sex you two shared. "...that! We can't."

You fall silent then, just watching the rigid line of her jaw, the way her fingers are clenched tightly in her lap. The fight seems to drain out of you, replaced by a heavy weariness, a profound sense of disappointment. "But we did, Irene," you say finally, your tone quiet again, flat, devoid of inflection. "We did all of it." You turn your gaze forward, focusing on the road ahead. "And pretending it didn't happen, trying to rationalize it away... it's not going to work. Not for me." You take a deep breath, the silence stretching thick and suffocating between you. "So yeah. Go ahead. Be scared. Maybe you're right to be." Your tone drops even lower, laced with a bitterness you can't quite contain. "But don't you ever try and tell me it wasn't real. Or that it didn't mean something."

Irene makes no reply. She just continues to stare out the window, utterly still, perhaps watching the vehicles go by, perhaps seeing nothing at all. You start the car and get back on the road, the miles ticking by in loaded silence, the unspoken chasm that just opened up between you feeling wider and more insurmountable than any distance you could cover on the highway.

All that raw intensity back there, the confessions whispered against damp skin, her body shattering beneath you, the way she looked at you, held you… you actually thought that meant the stupid office cold war was over. You thought you'd finally signed some kind of truce – hell, maybe even a full-blown peace treaty – right there on those cheap motel sheets, written in sweat and come and desperate need. But listening to her now, watching her meticulously rebuild those professional ice walls brick by painful brick?

Nope. You were kidding yourself. This wasn't peace. It was just an armistice. A really, really good armistice, granted, the kind that leaves you aching and raw and wanting more, but just a temporary ceasefire before the battle lines get drawn all over again, probably colder and sharper than ever before.

Back to square one. Fuck.

#irene smut #irene x reader #irene bae #bae joohyun #irene red velvet #Red Velvet #red velvet irene #kpop smut #kpop gg smut #kpop male reader #male reader #m!reader #Irene red velvet smut

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Paying consumer debts is basically optional in the United States

The vast majority of America's debt collection targets $500-2,000 credit card debts. It is a filthy business, operated by lawless firms who hire unskilled workers drawn from the same economic background as their targets, who routinely and grotesquely flout the law, but only when it comes to the people with the least ability to pay.

America has fairly robust laws to protect debtors from sleazy debt-collection practices, notably the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act (FDCPA), which has been on the books since 1978. The FDCPA puts strict limits on the conduct of debt collectors, and offers real remedies to debtors when they are abused.

But for FDPCA provisions to be honored, they must be understood. The people who collect these debts are almost entirely untrained. The people they collected the debts from are likewise in the dark. The only specialized expertise debt-collection firms concern themselves with are a series of gotcha tricks and semi-automated legal shenanigans that let them take money they don't deserve from people who can't afford to pay it.

There's no better person to explain this dynamic than Patrick McKenzie, a finance and technology expert whose Bits About Money newsletter is absolutely essential reading. No one breaks down the internal operations of the finance sector like McKenzie. His latest edition, "Credit card debt collection," is a fantastic read:

https://www.bitsaboutmoney.com/archive/the-waste-stream-of-consumer-finance/

McKenzie describes how a debt collector who mistook him for a different PJ McKenzie and tried to shake him down for a couple hundred bucks, and how this launched him into a life as a volunteer advocate for debtors who were less equipped to defend themselves from collectors than he was.

McKenzie's conclusion is that "paying consumer debts is basically optional in the United States." If you stand on your rights (which requires that you know your rights), then you will quickly discover that debt collectors don't have – and can't get – the documentation needed to collect on whatever debts they think you owe (even if you really owe them).

The credit card companies are fully aware of this, and bank (literally) on the fact that "the vast majority of consumers, including those with the socioeconomic wherewithal to walk away from their debts, feel themselves morally bound and pay as agreed."

If you find yourself on the business end of a debt collector's harassment campaign, you can generally make it end simply by "carefully sending a series of letters invoking [your] rights under the FDCPA." The debt collector who receives these letters will have bought your debt at five cents on the dollar, and will simply write it off.

By contrast, the mere act of paying anything marks you out as substantially more likely to pay than nearly everyone else on their hit-list. Paying anything doesn't trigger forbearance, it invites a flood of harassing calls and letters, because you've demonstrated that you can be coerced into paying.

But while learning FDCPA rules isn't overly difficult, it's also beyond the wherewithal of the most distressed debtors (and people falsely accused of being debtors). McKenzie recounts that many of the people he helped were living under chaotic circumstances that put seemingly simple things "like writing letters and counting to 30 days" beyond their needs.

This means that the people best able to defend themselves against illegal shakedowns are less likely to be targeted. Instead, debt collectors husband their resources so they can use them "to do abusive and frequently illegal shakedowns of the people the legislation was meant to benefit."

Here's how this debt market works. If you become delinquent in meeting your credit card payments ("delinquent" has a flexible meaning that varies with each issuer), then your debt will be sold to a collector. It is packaged in part of a large spreadsheet – a CSV file – and likely sold to one of 10 large firms that control 75% of the industry.

The "mom and pops" who have the other quarter of the industry might also get your debt, but it's more likely that they'll buy it as a kind of tailings from one of the big guys, who package up the debts they couldn't collect on and sell them at even deeper discounts.

The people who make the calls are often barely better off than the people they're calling. They're minimally trained and required to work at a breakneck pace. Employee turnover is 75-100% annually: imagine the worst call center job in the world, and then make it worse, and make "success" into a moral injury, and you've got the debt-collector rank-and-file.

To improve the yield on this awful process, debt collection companies start by purging these spreadsheets of likely duds: dead people, people with very low credit-scores, and people who appear on a list of debtors who know their rights and are likely to stand on them (that's right, merely insisting on your rights can ensure that the entire debt-collection industry leaves you alone, forever).

The FDPCA gives you rights: for example, you have the right to verify the debt and see the contract you signed when you took it on. The debt collector who calls you almost certainly does not have that contract and can't get it. Your original lender might, but they stopped caring about your debt the minute they sold it to a debt-collector. Their own IT systems are baling-wire-and-spit Rube Goldberg machines that glue together the wheezing computers of all the companies they've bought over the last 25 years. Retrieving your paperwork is a nontrivial task, and the lender doesn't have any reason to perform it.

Debt collectors are bottom feeders. They are buying delinquent debts at 5 cents on the dollar and hoping to recover 8 percent of them; at 7 percent, they're losing money. They aren't "large, nationally scaled, hypercompetent operators" – they're shoestring operations that can only be viable if they hire unskilled workers and fail to train them.

They are subject to automatic damages for illegal behavior, but they still break the law all the time. As McKenzie writes, a debt collector will "commit three federal torts in a few minutes of talking to a debtor then follow up with a confirmation of the same in writing." A statement like "if you don’t pay me I will sue you and then Immigration will take notice of that and yank your green card" makes the requisite three violations: a false threat of legal action, a false statement of affiliation with a federal agency, and "a false alleged consequence for debt nonpayment not provided for in law."

If you know this, you can likely end the process right there. If you don't, buckle in. The one area that debt collectors invest heavily in is the automation that allows them to engage in high-intensity harassment. They use "predictive dialers" to make multiple calls at once, only connecting the collector to the calls that pick up. They will call you repeatedly. They'll call your family, something they're legally prohibited from doing except to get your contact info, but they'll do it anyway, betting that you'll scrape up $250 to keep them from harassing your mother.

These dialing systems are far better organized than any of the company's record keeping about what you owe. A company may sell your debt on and fail to keep track of it, with the effect that multiple collectors will call you about the same debt, and even paying off one of them will not stop the other.

Talking to these people is a bad idea, because the one area where collectors get sophisticated training is in emptying your bank account. If you consent to a "payment plan," they will use your account and routing info to start whacking your bank account, and your bank will let them do it, because the one part of your conversation they reliably record is this payment plan rigamarole. Sending a check won't help – they'll use the account info on the front of your check to undertake "demand debits" from your account, and backstop it with that recorded call.

Any agreement on your part to get on a payment plan transforms the old, low-value debt you incurred with your credit card into a brand new, high value debt that you owe to the bill collector. There's a good chance they'll sell this debt to another collector and take the lump sum – and then the new collector will commence a fresh round of harassment.

McKenzie says you should never talk to a debt collector. Make them put everything in writing. They are almost certain to lie to you and violate your rights, and a written record will help you prove it later. What's more, debt collection agencies just don't have the capacity or competence to engage in written correspondence. Tell them to put it in writing and there's a good chance they'll just give up and move on, hunting softer targets.

One other thing debt collectors due is robo-sue their targets, bulk-filing boilerplate suits against debtors, real and imaginary. If you don't show up for court (which is what usually happens), they'll get a default judgment, and with it, the legal right to raid your bank account and your paycheck. That, in turn, is an asset that, once again, the debt collector can sell to an even scummier bottom-feeder, pocketing a lump sum.

McKenzie doesn't know what will fix this. But Michael Hudson, a renowned scholar of the debt practices of antiquity, has some ideas. Hudson has written eloquently and persuasively about the longstanding practice of jubilee, in which all debts were periodically wiped clean (say, whenever a new king took the throne, or once per generation):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/24/grandparents-optional-party/#jubilee

Hudson's core maxim is that "debt's that can't be paid won't be paid." The productive economy will have need for credit to secure the inputs to their processes. Farmers need to borrow every year for labor, seed and fertilizer. If all goes according to plan, the producer pays off the lender after the production is done and the goods are sold.

But even the most competent producer will eventually find themselves unable to pay. The best-prepared farmer can't save every harvest from blight, hailstorms or fire. When the producer can't pay the creditor, they go a little deeper into debt. That debt accumulates, getting worse with interest and with each bad beat.

Run this process long enough and the entire productive economy will be captive to lenders, who will be able to direct production for follies and fripperies. Farmers stop producing the food the people need so they can devote their land to ornamental flowers for creditors' tables. Left to themselves, credit markets produce hereditary castes of lenders and debtors, with lenders exercising ever-more power over debtors.

This is socially destabilizing; you can feel it in McKenzie's eloquent, barely controlled rage at the hopeless structural knot that produces the abusive and predatory debt industry. Hudson's claim is that the rulers of antiquity knew this – and that we forgot it. Jubilee was key to producing long term political stability. Take away Jubilee and civilizations collapse:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/08/jubilant/#construire-des-passerelles

Debts that can't be paid won't be paid. Debt collectors know this. It's irrefutable. The point of debt markets isn't to ensure that debts are discharged – it's to ensure that every penny the hereditary debtor class has is transferred to the creditor class, at the hands of their fellow debtors.

In her 2021 Paris Review article "America's Dead Souls," Molly McGhee gives a haunting, wrenching account of the debts her parents incurred and the harassment they endured:

https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2021/05/17/americas-dead-souls/

After I published on it, many readers wrote in disbelief, insisting that the debt collection practices McGhee described were illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/19/zombie-debt/#damnation

And they are illegal. But debt collection is a trade founded on lawlessness, and its core competence is to identify and target people who can't invoke the law in their own defense.

Going to Defcon this weekend? I’m giving a keynote, “An Audacious Plan to Halt the Internet’s Enshittification and Throw it Into Reverse,” today (Aug 12) at 12:30pm, followed by a book signing at the No Starch Press booth at 2:30pm!

https://info.defcon.org/event/?id=50826

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for “The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation,” a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It’s a DRM-free book, which means Audible won’t carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/12/do-not-pay/#fair-debt-collection-practices-act

#pluralistic #jubilee #debts that cant be paid wont be paid #Patrick McKenzie #patio11 #bits about money #debt #debt collection #do not pay #bottom feeders #Fair Debt Collection Practices Act #fdcpa #finance #armbreakers

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hivemuthur · 2 months ago

Text

To Be Known - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 7,4K (sorry!)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: attempt at bondage and then light bondage, light verbal degradation, non-permanent marking (light ownership kink), fingering, handjobs, subspace, domspace, aftercare, switch of dynamics (dom/sub Vik + dom/sub Reader), a very very light angst toward the end, YEARNING.

author’s note: This is my take on sub!Viktor. That's it, that's the note :) And as usual, playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor doesn’t know when things settled into a routine, but he is very far from complaining. Even though not everything has fallen into the category of easy, the way his little arrangement with you has begun to take shape manages to keep him afloat—amongst the chaos of the Institute, trouble with investors, and all the side work he has to do with Jayce to prove greedy people wrong.

The last goes as expected—slowly, yet steadily. He and Jayce have managed to gather documentation from work they’ve done more times than it was worth, compiling it into a few neat folders. Having Mel on the back end of the plan has helped too, though not without casualties—Viktor had to not only agree to, but express enthusiasm for, a very pressing invitation to yet another social gathering orchestrated by her hand. With everything unravelling close enough to make him relatively content, he deems it a small price to pay, after all.

Another thing that keeps him afloat is the fact that, over the last couple of weeks, you’ve been coming to his apartment in various states—ranging from absolutely enflamed with anger over drama he doesn’t fully understand (mostly involving actors fighting with directors or patrons backing out), to completely deflated, which usually happens at very late hours when the wise thing to do would be going back to Hackney and getting a proper night’s rest. Viktor has to admit, his chest grows a little wider each time you choose otherwise, just to spend a couple of hours with him. And then, on rare occasions, you arrive positively docile—when your work has gone smoothly and without disturbance.

No matter the state you arrive in, though, the state you leave in is what fills him with something adjacent to pride—light, unburdened, a warm smile plastered across your face. The awkward unease of your mornings has fled, shaping itself into something more natural and bare. You are, of course, still skittish, marking your independence at every possible step, and due to that, Viktor is still very much careful. But whenever the haze of discomfort drops low enough for you to muss his hair and give him a sloppy, impatient kiss before you leave for work again, he allows it—no, he welcomes it.

Little signs of settlement are there, all over his apartment—the most obvious one, your toothbrush. The general bag of essentials, containing your sweatshirt, spare underwear (even though you usually bring a fresh pair anyway), a high-collar jumper in case he gets carried away. In the hallway, your warm socks and a pair of trainers he hasn’t seen you wear once, but they are there. There are also things you refuse to bring, like your own shampoo, but he chooses to think it’s because you prefer to smell of him the next day.

This knowledge, as well as many other little pieces, slowly etch their way into his brain like a map of you he has to build from scraps. Starting with the mundane and obvious—your preferred side of the bed, your insane joint flexibility (though here he’s still not certain whether it isn’t something you should get checked), a very firm resentment toward breakfasts, the fact that all your tights get mysterious runs the second you put them on, and the fact that what makes you blush most aren’t the filthiest remarks he gives you but the ones he himself would deem sweet.

Then, sometimes, he gets a glimpse into more serious areas—mentions of your parents and hometown, your firm position on equal chances you try to give theatre creators across the country, the way your social class impacts everything you do, little quirks of your accent when you let it slip into an unguarded tone—those are the tiniest, yet most precious, crumbs he gets given. And day by day, he puts them all together, gluing them into one, while a profound truth shapes somewhere in the periphery of the lie you both have been living in. The lie being: this is all still very casual.

There are moments when he gets to see through the cracks. All of them involve you being at least partially naked—or rather, exposed in a way that leaves the best hidden part of you bare in front of him. From those moments, Viktor has learned the most. And these are the moments when he is not afraid to ask.

Everything he’s learned, he remembers as diligently as his scientific knowledge. Both of them, he’s worked equally hard for. The things you like: cocksucking and cockwarming, thankfully, at the very top of the list—one of the things Viktor is perhaps most grateful for. Light choking, also very high. This provided him insight into the fact that you have no issues with recognising a playful threat as an invitation and a serious one as a warning. Fast learner—that Viktor appreciates as well. Your heart-melting need for handholding once all your guards are down is his utter undoing, and he takes advantage of it shamelessly. He’s also learned that praise mixed with slight mockery can work wonders for your brat-like behaviour. The list remains open and growing.

Then, the things you are not fond of: distance, which you absolutely hate, and have enough nerve to sulk about. Being made to wait also triggers the brat-point meter into dangerously high numbers. Crying, you still perceive as a weakness—you wipe the tears away as soon as they prickle your eyes, much to Viktor’s disappointment. Being told to make a decision, you treat as an absolute chore and sometimes have the audacity to openly whine about it. That, Viktor is not surprised by in the slightest, but he comes back to it occasionally, just to tease you.

At the very far, very well protected end, are the things you don’t want him to see—but he notices anyway. The way you inspect the marks he leaves on you with a lingering smile, fingers ghosting lovingly when you turn in front of the mirror and twist your spine to get a full view of your ass. This he only gets to observe through bathroom door, left ajar. The way you are equally curious about him but refuse to admit it—picking up the books he’s just put down and opening them on the bookmarked pages. The way you no longer ask what some Czech phrases he mutters to you mean—the ones that slip when he’s blissed out beyond control—because you’ve clearly managed to translate them yourself. The way your shared high wears off at similar intervals, so neither of you drops too hard.

These make his heart flutter with something entirely unfamiliar, yet not unwelcomed. As promised, Viktor takes only as much as you grant him, and it feels like enough, so he tells himself it is.

It would be greedy to think otherwise, he believes. It would be greedy to demand more, when—as soon as you see him in the doorway—you obviously force your steps to be dignified, only to let that fake dignity melt away in the first kiss. And the first one is always his dearest, the one you pour all your longing into. It’s the only moment he knows, without question, that you’ve truly missed him through those three, four, at worst five days you two haven’t seen each other. He already associates the thud of shoes being dropped to the floor with something pleasant.

It does inch toward unbearable when it’s five days, but the kiss he gets then is possibly the best. Unhinged. Absolutely greedy. Your hands become greedy as well, usually grabbing his and guiding them to your favourite places—his favourite places. And Viktor doesn’t need to be told twice to undress you.

All of this is why, right now, on another blissful Saturday, his back and forehead are sweaty and he’s growing increasingly frustrated. The entanglement of ropes becomes less and less organised the more he tries to make them form the pattern you both chose. Your sighs, drawn out and distinctly theatrical, are nothing short of unhelpful. He cannot believe that he—possibly a genius, definitely a man who understands geometrical patterns without breaking a sweat—finds the act of rigging not at all exciting. On the contrary, it reminds him of work in a way he would rather not explore during sex.

“Are you alright in there?” you throw over your shoulder, twisting your neck to glance at him from where you're sat in the middle of the bed, arms loosely bound behind your back. He’s certain you’re doing him a mercy; any minute now, you could likely untangle yourself with ease.

“I… yes, I’m just—” he pauses mid-step, rubbing the back of his neck. “Regrouping.” Then, after a beat: “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m just—” your voice cuts in again, dry and amused. “Bored?”

“Oh, thank God,” Viktor exhales, laugh escaping before he can help it, and slumps onto the bed beside you with dramatic relief. “I’m bored out of my mind,” he whines, flopping backward and stretching his arms above his head. The look on your face makes him cackle outright.

“What? It was your idea!” you say, exasperated.

“Well, it seemed like a good one,” he admits, sheepish, flashing you a small smile. “Forgive me.”

“Outrageous,” you huff, freeing your hands with one skilful tug. Viktor’s brows shoot up with incredulity as you toss the rope aside and climb into his lap with the intention of continuing your complaint uninterrupted. “You made me sit here—far from you, I will add—for nearly an hour, and I am the one who has to admit I’m not feeling it?”

“What can I say,” he shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows, “we get to kill our darlings.” His fingers trail apologetically up your thigh, touch feather-light. “At least we can cross it off the list.”

“You can toss these as well,” you mutter, lifting a discarded rope between your thumb and index finger like it stinks.

“Oh no, no, I think I’ll keep some,” Viktor hums, voice dipping low. He leans in and plucks it gently from your hand, eyes not leaving yours. “They can still be useful,” he murmurs. His hands slide behind your back, guiding your wrists together, and you feel the soft pull of rope again, this time with more purpose. He wraps it a few times and secures it with a knot that feels significantly tighter than before. “See?”

“But I can’t touch you,” you pout, twisting a little.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” he says, deadpan, clearly enjoying himself.

“Viktor.”

“All this time and you still think sulking will get you places?” he muses, almost fond. Then his mouth quirks as he adds, “But what am I expecting? You’re just a silly girl after all, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you whisper, rubbing your nose against his cheek, so fast in your surrender. Viktor’s cock already hardening in his pants below you—fully naked. “Please,” you say again, nipping at his lip.

He groans, the sound quiet but unmistakably desperate, and cups your ass with one hand, guiding your hips against his with the kind of pressure that leaves no room for misinterpretation. His other hand snakes up your spine, fingers dragging over the ropes binding your wrists, until he can bury them in your hair and tip your head just enough to claim your mouth fully.

The kiss starts deep—no teasing, no gentle edge to ease into it. It's hunger, plain and simple, drawn out of him like you’ve been waiting with your mouth open since you walked through the door. His tongue meets yours with intent, not chasing but holding, anchoring, coaxing. He breathes you in fully, starving and restless.

Your hips roll down on his, unprompted, and he’s there to meet them, dragging you forward with a firm squeeze of his hand. His cock nudges between your legs, through fabric, and he swallows the whimper you let out. You grind again—instinct, need—and Viktor shudders under you, the kiss breaking just long enough for him to whisper against your lips, “I missed you.”

His voice is hoarse, low, like gravel rubbed between fingers. Your wrists flex behind your back, useless now, and he takes your gasp as invitation to tilt your head again, kissing you harder, this time slower. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth and sucks gently before letting it go, his mouth hovering just an inch from yours.

“And I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something molten, made to be obeyed.

You hum against his mouth, a spark of troublemaking sliding under your skin like it’s always been there. “Missed me?” you ask, breath audible as you grind down again, harder. “Or just missed this?”

Your wrists tug instinctively at the rope. His grip on your ass tightens.

Viktor leans back just enough to look at you properly. His hair is a mess, lips wet, eyes steady and burning through you. “You’re getting cocky,” he says, voice still warm, but laced sharper in the edge now. “Is it the rope making you bold? Or the fact I let you speak without asking?”

You smile, crooked and lazy, hips undulating in slow rhythm over him. “I’m just trying to make sure your brilliant mind stays… stimulated.”

His brow twitches up at that, and he huffs a laugh through his nose. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, slanting his head as if observing a particularly insolent experiment. “You’ve been here,” he says pointing to his lap with a tilt of chin, “five minutes and already you’re trying to get yourself in trouble.”

“Am I succeeding?” you murmur sweetly.

“Absolutely.” Viktor’s smile is all teeth now. He lets go of your ass only to drag his hands slowly up your sides, over your ribs, watching you squirm at the drag of his knuckles. Then he taps your cheek, not hard, but enough to make your eyes snap to his. “You think you’re so clever. You think I won’t leave these ropes on and make you beg properly.”

“I am clever,” you reply, challenging, breath catching when he shifts beneath you again. “You like that about me.”

“I do,” he agrees, lips brushing yours again, cruelly soft. “But I also like when you remember where clever little things like you belong.”

His fingers curl under your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Say it,” he breathes. “Tell me where you belong.”

You hesitate, just long enough for his expression to darken. He leans forward, mouth to your ear now, the heat of his breath enough to make you tremble. “Say it, or I’ll show you.”

You swallow, pulse kicking up against the rope at your back. Frightening, the first thing that comes to your mind, rotten with need. “With you,” you whisper, despite everything you believe. “I belong with you.”

Viktor hums, but doesn’t look satisfied. He leans back again, just enough to run his eyes down your body—his body, his rope, his girl, sitting there with the audacity to provoke him and the gall to think he’d let it slide.

“No,” he says softly, like he’s correcting a student and your heart sinks—both at being incorrect and the fact that now he’s the one denying something you had such a difficulty to admit. “Not with me.” His hand ghosts down your stomach, his fingers resting just above where you’re starting to ache. “To me.”

Your lips part, but he’s already shifting—pushing you gently back onto the mattress. The rope holds your arms behind you, tight enough to bite a little as you land, spine arched to keep balance. He moves slowly, dragging open the drawer of the bedside table, and pulls out a black sharpie.

Breath lodges in your throat, eyes wide. Not fear—something deeper. Heat.

“You think you get to play games with me?” Viktor murmurs, thumbing the cap off with a little pop. “You think you get to run that mouth and stay untouched?” He climbs over you, straddling your thighs, the pen poised in his hand. “You want to be marked, my girl?” His other hand cradles your face now, thumb pressing against your cheek, making you look at him.

“You’ll wear this until it fades,” he says. “And if you smudge it, I’ll do it again. Bigger. Higher. Until the whole city knows what you are.”

His hand slides over your chest, your ribs, your stomach. Slowly, precisely, he starts to write. You can’t see what it says yet—he’s crouched in concentration, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth, focused like you’ve only seen him during catching up with work in your shared downtime.

When he’s done, he leans back slightly, his palm still resting warm on your abdomen. He shifts you just enough so that you can catch a glimpse of the dark lettering across your skin.

MOJE DĚVČE. My girl.

Below it, in smaller, slanted script:

Patříš mi. You belong to me.

“You know what it means, didn’t you?” he asks, eyes back on your face now. “You knew what I was saying every time I whispered it into your skin.”You nod, and he shakes his head.

“Now—say it.”

“Yours,” you rasp. “I’m yours.” And it’s crushingly soul-baring to you, to admit it, but it does feel right in the moment. You decide you will face the consequences of this little indulgence later, later when your brain is back in the boss state of mind, in the put-together state of mind, the I’ve-worked-too-hard-to-distract-now state of mind. Temporary ownership you can handle.

Viktor smiles then, slow and devastating. “Good girl.” He sits behind you, and the solid warmth of his chest hugs your back. You lean in and rest your head on the slope of his shoulder, your hips cradled between his spread legs. His hand comes down to smooth over your stomach, his breath is a hot whisper in your ear. “Now I get to play with what's mine.”

His hand moves lower, pushing your legs apart, and his calves come to hook over yours, locking you in place. A simple adjustment, yet it makes you feel completely restrained—anchored, tethered to him. Safe and cradled against Viktor’s stomach, his inner thighs, his feet. You exhale heavily as his palm flattens over your leg muscle, warm and slow, drawing unhurried patterns onto your skin.

The first brush of his fingers between your legs is maddeningly soft. Barely there. You tense, seeking more, but he holds you in place, a scold hanging on the tip of his tongue, but instead, he only hums behind you. Lips graze the side of your throat, and you feel the faintest curl of his smile as he begins to circle.

Bordering between gentle and cruel, above all it’s purposeful. Covering as much skin as he can, it’s three fingers flattening over your sex, dipping lower to gather your slick.

“You’ll have to speak,” Viktor murmurs, his voice low, threading its way through your spine. “You know that, yes?”

You nod, but his touch stills. His hand is there, pressed flat to where you keen for him, the tension in his thighs pinning yours in place. “Words,” he reminds, a hoarse whisper. “Your hands are no use right now.”

“Yes,” you breathe, the answer caught somewhere between need and obedience.

A pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good girl.”

His hand resumes, fingers finding rhythm again—slow, firm strokes that keep you just on the edge. His free hand rises, settling first at your jaw, then slipping up, thumb and forefinger curling around the sides of your throat. Your breath stumbles in anticipation, something that could be mistaken for fear, but it never is. You fear nothing with him.

It’s a loose necklace of his fingers around your neck, long enough to reach past the borders of your sterno muscles. The weight of his hand is enough to have your head tipping backward, resting on the slope of his shoulder with your throat exposed. His mouth hovers near your ear, breath warming your skin. “Say ‘stop’ at any time and I will hear it.”

You suck in a breath, your bound wrists press into his abdomen, reminding you again just how little space you have to move. But your voice, at least, is still yours. “I know,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

“Mm,” he exhales. “Brat, but obedient when it counts.”

Then his fingers press deeper, precise and unrelenting, drawing wet sounds from you that feel too loud in the quiet. He applies the smallest amount of pressure to your throat—just enough to still your breath, never enough to cut it off. Just enough to make you feel the sharpness of every pulse, every twitch, every sensation pooling low and fast in your belly.

You try to hold back, but he knows your tells—how your hips twitch when you’re close, how your breath hitches just before you try to outlast it. “You don’t get to hold it,” he says, low and firm into your ear. “This one is mine.”

Truly, it’s not only this one. It’s all his, singed and marked and he can’t wait to untangle you and have your arms come and drape around his shoulders, you climbing onto his lap and pushing your face into his neck. It’s the most anticipated moment for him—when you are needy and spent and exposed, and he can see the side of you that nobody gets to see. The part that doesn’t have it all as together as you made the world believe, the part that remains after you shed your burdens. The you that he gets to disassemble and put back together two—three times a week when he’s extremely lucky, pure and beautiful and soft, so you can be hardened and strong and relentless when you both say goodbye in the morning. And so he can be patient and kind without feeling weak.

It builds up so thoughtfully with Viktor’s eyes fixed on your mouth, ready for your surrender. As if he’s prepared to read the potential ‘stop’ from the movement of your lips but it never comes. Instead, your thighs flex against his and your back arches, creating a space between your loins and his stomach. Your feet curl and you push against the bindings on your wrists, the burning sensation bleeds, adding to the pleasure between your legs.

The world feels thin when it spills over into a long wave travelling in all directions across your body and has you gasping against him, thighs trembling under the weight of his. He doesn’t let you shy away. Keeps you spread, keeps his hand moving until your moans melt into whimpers, until you sag fully against his chest, spent and breathless.

His hand leaves your throat last, trailing upward into your hair. “There she is,” he says softly. “My girl.”

His girl—tugged safely under a bell jar, where all sounds are muffled, and all worries bounce off the glass surface. He slips the rope off your wrists and closes your legs, rubbing up and down your thighs. You, as on cue, turn in the cradle of his body, climb onto his lap and hug his ribs with your knees, ankles coming to cross on his lower back. Hands tingle once freed and you use that freedom to wrap yourself around him, press your torso into his and rest your nose in the hollow of his shoulder.

Viktor hums, pleased and gentle, when a flat palm travels up and down your spine and another comes to tug at your hair. He kisses your face—your nose, cheeks, jaw, eyes get spattered with soft pecks, slow and kind. He’s always kind, even when he’s mean. Even when he mocks, when he calls you silly, when he calls you a slut, it’s entirely unbelievable with all the affection seeping from his tone.

His warm hands lift the jar and slowly you come back to yourself. One last ounce of neediness, vulnerable and raw tugs at the corners of your consciousness and the words just slip. “Am I yours now?” you ask, quiet and half-submerged, the question sliding out before you can stop it.

There’s a pause. Just a breath, but it stretches.

Viktor stills in front of you. His hand in your hair, his chest against yours—all of him holds perfectly still, save for the way his heart thuds against your heart. He wants to say yes. It's there on his tongue, immediate, instinctive. Yes, of course. Yes, mine, always.

But he knows what that might mean. He knows how far and fast you'd run once you came back to your usual self.

So instead, his hand moves. Down your side, unhurried and grounding. One of his fingers finds the curve of your stomach where the black ink still marks you, and he smears it with a lazy stroke of his knuckle—pulling the words into blur, as if softening the claim itself.

“Here,” he murmurs. “For now. Temporarily.” His voice is low and measured, even as something trembles faintly beneath it.

You shift in his arms, not pulling away but not moving closer either.

Then, quieter still: “But you still belong to yourself. You know this, yes?”

The words are kind. They’re careful. They’re exactly what he thinks you need to hear. What he’s telling himself you want to hear. But they land soft and sad in your chest, blooming just beside the warmth.

You nod. You’re too good at nodding.

And Viktor makes it even worse by explaining, “It’s easier to lose something once it’s yours.” It’s quiet and shy, like a confession he hadn’t meant to make aloud. The notes he made on his copy of Baal ring in your ears—He who demands all is left with nothing.

Then, he cradles you in silence. He even dozes off at some point, head slanting against the bed’s backrest, lips parted in that barely-audible way he breathes when he's too tired to guard it. His arm stays around your waist the whole time, a loose but constant loop. Only when your body cools down enough for Viktor not being sufficient to warm you up anymore, you shift carefully next to him.

He inhales, blinking back to wakefulness. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as his thumb rubs your cheek. “All good?” he murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.

“Yes, I’m just cold,” you mutter, reaching for your sweatshirt and pulling it over your head, then stepping into a pair of soft cotton pants.

“It’s Saturday,” he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, and the rest of the meaning hangs suspended in the room. You know what he’s asking. “Stay?”

“I would like to,” you say, then glance at your bag. “I have some screenplay reading to do though, if you don’t mind.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Not at all. I have to go through documentation for Jayce.”

“Perfect,” you say, offering a timid smile, and he nods.

You both drift into the living room, quiet but oddly comfortable. You settle on opposite ends of the couch—Viktor with his legs neatly crossed, pen in one hand. You sprawl across the rest of the cushions, your feet propped against his thigh. He doesn’t complain. He just rests a hand lightly atop your ankle and returns to his pages, redlining and humming when something catches his eye.

You, as always, pop your fingers while you read. You murmur lines under your breath, eyes glazed as you stare past him, watching the imagined scenes play out in your head. Viktor never interrupts. He glances at you sometimes, faintly amused, then goes back to his work.

But it’s not enough to quiet the restlessness in your chest. Once the big emotions wear off, all that’s left is cold, meticulous analysis. Dissecting everything. Every word, every look. And Viktor, in your periphery, is too calm for how raw your nerves still feel.

So you stop pretending to look past him. You gather the courage, then ask. “What is it like?” The question leaves you soft, uncertain. Almost naïve. “To be the one in control?”

Viktor’s head tilts. His pen stills in his hand, and he regards you for a moment. Measuring something. “I have a feeling you might know,” he says, thoughtful. Then, after a beat: “But would you like to… see for yourself?”

His voice is soft, almost shy, but it betrays him—he is excited. Curious. His eyes, wide and shining, drill into you expectantly. Then, a thought strikes him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather try that with someone else.”

“No.” The word leaves you quickly, instinctively. The idea of sharing yourself like this with a third party is almost more frightening than baring yourself to him. He does, of course, see right through you but spares you the indignity and only nods. “No,” you repeat, calmer this time.

Viktor tries to smother his triumphant expression, but he’s almost sure he fails. With a smile that feigns encouragement, he shifts on the couch, bringing his foot to rest against the arch of yours. Looking down, he reaches out to hold your palms in his—warm and heavy. You can feel his pulse beneath your touch.

“You can try with me, then,” he murmurs.

Slowly, you rise, your hands still cradled in his. He follows, standing at arm’s length, the two of you facing each other. Then, he steps closer, his hands glide up to your shoulders before giving them a firm squeeze.

“What should I do?” you ask.

“Anything you want.” His forehead presses to yours as he comes closer, his breath warm against your lips. “I will do anything you want,” he whispers—and oh, he means it there and beyond, and hopes that you know.

The golden rim of his eyes is nearly entirely eaten by the black, wanting pupils. His breath trembles as he mutters, “Touch me.”

He guides your hand to his crotch, where he’s already half-hard. Your mouth falls open, eyes dropping to follow the slope of him beneath his clothes. A promise of submission lingers between you—both terrifying and thrilling.

“Tease me,” he breathes, rolling his hips subtly into your palm. “Praise me.”

He rubs his nose along your cheek, his lips brushing yours with every word. Then, in a whisper that feels like surrender—like devotion—he says, “Use me as you please.”

Finally, he takes your other hand and places it at his throat. “I trust you.”

And you are fucking smitten. Breathless, standing there—his cock in one hand, his throat in the other—offered to you freely. He looks at you with nothing but hope and willingness. Gears grind against each other in your head until they stop. Your brain shuts down. All that’s left is the overwhelming need to give him what he’s asking for.

With a steady hand, you undo his belt and tug his pants down, palming him through his underwear. He rewards you with a groan, so sweetly hoarse that it rings in your ears, making you dizzy. Then his eyes roll back as your touch meets the moist tip.

Higher up, your hand cradles the side of his neck, where every open-mouthed swallow flexes his tendons against your skin. Your thumb props his jaw, ensuring he won’t look away. You hold him so dearly he almost melts. A heart hammers in your ears, and you don’t know if it’s yours or Viktor’s.

“Please, talk to me,” he begs, making your breath hitch. His hips stay fixed in place as you tease him gently through the cotton of his underwear, growing more and more damp under your caress.

You yank your hand beneath the waistband and let him rest in your palm for a beat. He twitches and gasps, and you want to freeze this moment—to have it dipped in resin, pressed into an ammonite, carved onto a cave wall on the side of a mountain, known only to you. Possession seeps into your consciousness, wraps itself around your heart, and you wrap your fingers around his cock in tandem with it.

“My sweet thing,” you say. It feels awkward before it leaves your mouth, yet as soon as it’s out, it falls right where Viktor needs it.

“You look so pretty like this.” And he immediately looks prettier—his jaw slackens further, lids grow heavier, and you admire the row of long, dark lashes fanning slowly as he gets progressively more and more drunk on you with barely a touch. Your fingertips brush his balls, and Viktor steadies himself on your shoulders. His lovely weight grounds you, and the moan he spills into your lips tastes almost like love. You wonder briefly if your moans taste the same to him.

More of this, you think.

The temptation to look down is overwhelming, but to lose even a second of those expressions would be a sin. So you fix your eyes on his face, memorizing the arch of his scrunched brows, the wrinkle between them, his parted lips. Emboldened by his need, you move your hand, fingers encircling his head, and Viktor gives you a sound so filthy it has your insides clenching. He is obediently still, yet from the strain in his neck and the grip he has on your shoulders, you can tell how much he’s holding back from rutting into your hand.

“Don’t move. Can you do that for me?” you ask kindly. Something strangled escapes his throat, but he nods.

“You’re doing so well, Viktor,” you coo, trying to mimic everything he usually gives you. Finally, you tug his briefs down, and his cock springs free, slapping against his thigh crease heavily. Another heavenly sound you have to remember.

“Would you like to help me?” you whisper, presenting him with your palm under his chin, and you don’t even have to specify what it is that you want from him. He spits and looks up at you, waiting for praise. It’s there at the tip of your tongue. It’s there—you can hear yourself saying it—it fights to get out, and you don’t have the strength to keep it in.

“My good boy,” you say softly, thumb brushing his lip, gathering the string of drool still connecting his mouth to your palm. And oh, Viktor moans, his eyes flutter, and you have to resist resting your forehead on his.

Your hand comes down to slide across his cock, and you can feel the jolt of pleasure that travels all the way from his stomach muscles to the tip. He’s so painfully hard, so untouched, the underside vein pulsing under your fingers each time you brush it on your way up to smear the precum, mix it with his spit, and give him a teasing swipe on the sensitive spot under the head.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when you pick up the pace and stroke him in steady, measured passes, mapping every twitch, every quiver under your fingers.

“Please,” he moans, hot and needy.

“Please what?”

“Please, talk to me more.” A whine, so sweet. So warm in your ears that you blank out and don’t notice when his face comes close and loose lips kiss you clean.

“Please,” he whispers again against your mouth.

How can you say no to him? “Look at you, such a pretty mess,” you mutter, caressing his cheek. His skin is painted pink all the way to where your eyes can reach, and you can only guess it’s the same below. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he looks at you so adoringly it pumps affection into you. Fucking infectious. It swells in your chest, between your legs, spills back from you when you whisper, “So needy.”

“F-fuck,” Viktor stutters when you start to pump him harder. The slide is easier now, the rhythm sinfully smooth. He bites his lip so hard it pales. He’s trembling—shoulders taut, thighs flexing. His cock feels silky in your hand, your thumb fitting perfectly into the little pool at the base where it grows out of his groin.

“Would you like to come, Viktor?” You roll your wrist, coaxing another sharp breath out of him, this one rougher. His lashes fan. His hips jerk into your palm before he catches himself, thighs taut and hard.

“Yes, God, please,” he whimpers, and his head lulls back on his shoulders, exposing his beautiful neck to you. You need no further invitation.

Your mouth leeches to his skin, sucking and biting, making him struggle to breathe evenly. “Will you be good and fuck yourself into my hand?” you ask, licking over the mark you gave him.

“Yes.” A wrecked sound spills from his lips, strained and low, the kind of noise that coils hot inside you. “Yes,” he exhales when you still your hand. “Oh, fuck,” comes next when his hips jolt forward, his cock sliding seamlessly in and out of the circle you made for him from your fingers.

“You are doing so well,” you praise him. And truthfully, he’s so wonderful it almost slips out. The one thing you shouldn’t say—it’s there, ready to escape—when you stop yourself.

“I—I—" you start and swallow it down. He looks back at you, almost daring you to say it. Almost as if he wants you to say it. Almost as if he knows what it’s like to not be allowed. Or it’s just your drunk mind playing with you.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper instead. “Be good and come for me.”

Viktor’s hips stutter, losing rhythm as desperation overtakes him. His fingers come to clench around your wrist, urging you to stay steady while he fucks into your palm, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tightening your fingers just a fraction. “You’re so good for me.”

A shudder wracks through him, his whole body trembling as he chases it. He comes back to brace on your shoulders, his grip almost clumsy, as though he can’t decide whether he’s holding himself up or holding onto you. The weight of him, the way his forehead presses against yours—hot, damp, pleading—makes you ache between your legs.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice breaking, and you have to hold back a whine. You feel it again, the crushing wave of devotion, you just don’t know who it’s coming from, him, or you.

Your hand on his cheek slides lower, fingertips ghosting down the damp line of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, breath catching when your fingers flex, wrapping firmly around the slender column of his neck. Not tight—just enough to make him feel it, to remind him of your touch, your presence, your control.

Wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your hand fill your ears, when you hear it again. “Thank you,” he breathes, barely more than a whimper, and then he’s gone—

His body tenses, shuddering violently as he spills his hot cum over your fingers, gasping through it, his hips rocking helplessly into your grip. You stroke him through it, smearing some of the seed on his stomach, coaxing, soothing, feeling every twitch, every pulse, as he unravels against you.

“That’s it,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his fluttering pulse. “Just like that. So good for me.”

His breath, a calour against your skin, his fingers gripping your shoulders like he needs something not to fall over. And as his body slackens, the aftershocks still trembling through him, he lets out a soft, breathless sigh—

“Thank you.”

And with this last acknowledgment, you enter the space that is familiar and alien all at once. If you were to name the feeling, it’s like knocking on the back of a mirror pane until it gives way to a water-like surface, and you can finally slide your hand through. On the other side, your fingers are dry. You step out to envelop yourself in warmth, and it’s all coming from him—trustful and pliant as he allows you to kiss him sloppily, with his eyes closed, utterly and entirely surrendered. Made yours.

On instinct, you help him step out of his trousers and drape his arm over your shoulder before guiding him to bed. Hands cling to you when you reach for the bedside table for water, and you know he won’t let you go to fetch a towel to clean him up. So you make do with a box of tissues, convinced that he doesn’t give a flying fuck if the cum on his belly will dry out and crust over the trail of hair encircling his cock. You know he doesn’t—because when you are in the space he is in right now, all you can think of is your lover’s body pressed to yours so tight you merge into one.

“Will you drink some water for me?” you ask, threading your fingers through his hair and holding a glass under his chin. He drinks without complaint, passes the glass back to you, and looks at you pleadingly, tired of waiting.

It hits Viktor so heavily, he almost wishes he could take back time and never have offered this to you in the first place. It’s frightening to feel so much at once, his chest wide open for you to peek inside, and he is so afraid you are going to see the way his heart thrashes around in there.

His only hope—even though you can surely see it, the way he can see it every time you break apart and he puts you back together, piece by piece—is that you won’t be able to recognise it. The attachment that lingers beyond this sacred space, the one that will keep him longing for you days after you leave, until your next meeting, when he will be able to pour a bucket of cold water over the fiery embers by painting your ass the nicest shade of red.

“What do you need?” Your voice reaches him on the wet side of the mirror, under the comatose, stagnant waters of compliance. He blinks slowly and shakes his head, reaching back for you. Nothing but you, Viktor imagines himself saying, but he is too wrecked.

Thankfully, you know. You slide next to him, keeping your arms open so that he can wrap around you. Viktor’s hands cling to you needily—one squeezes between you and the mattress, fisting into your sweatshirt, while the other sneaks underneath to rest on your ribs. He noses into your neck and throws a leg over yours, trapping you completely. Your fingers return to thread through his hair, and he sighs, the first long breath he’s taken since he came.

And Viktor feels the water slowly draining. It’s at his neck, where you brush your fingers over the love mark you left. Then it levels with his chest, where you rest your hand to check his heartbeat. It goes lower, beneath his waist, where you pull the covers up to shield the naked lower parts of his body from the cold, until it drains completely when he hooks his cold foot into the crease under your knee.

Silence, for a while. Filled with breathing and sighing, until Viktor shuffles his arm out from beneath your waist, rises slowly, and props his head on one hand.

“How are you?” you ask him, and he nudges your cheek with his nose. Lips come to yours in another thank-you. “What do you need?” you try again, mumbling against his mouth.

“You,” It’s so quiet you almost have to read it from his lips. “I only want you,” he says.

Your face goes blank with shock. Completely drunk on Viktor’s sacrifice, it eludes you to stick with your common sense, and you nod faster than you can think.

“You have me,” slips past your mouth. You cradle his cheeks, run your thumbs through the hollows and Viktor breathes heavily through his nose. He wraps himself back around you, exactly the same as you tend to do, catching you in his love trap.

When he rolls off to his back, blissfully fucked out, you sneak for a shower. You just stand under the hot stream, cleaning the essentials, mindful not to touch your belly. Once out, you tap it gently with a towel, trying to not smear any of the letters he’s left on you. With a certain sadness you notice that some of the writing has already faded.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #to be known

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buckets-and-trees · 4 days ago

Text

Point of No Return [Fine Line Collection]

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 4.5k Summary: Bucky has continued to honor your tentative new arrangement, allowing your presence while he conduct business, this time with the men he's selected to be part of his inner circle. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse: scenting, alpha-omega bond, attention to bond mark; power dynamics; some manipulation; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, male ejaculation/insemination; beefy and voracious Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: I thought I'd be writing something else for this week of HBS, but here we are! Tried two other ideas, but this was what the muse wanted to work on! So this is my offering for WEEK THREE of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "Now now!" and exhibitionism.

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The first thing General Levinson does, upon entering Bucky’s office, is drop an unsealed manila envelope on the desk and say, “You’ll want to see page five.”

Bucky only briefly glances up. He flips the envelope on one corner and extracts the neatly typed dossier, his thumb running briskly through the pages until the one marked “5.” He scans it in silence, eyes flicking left to right so fast you’d swear he wasn’t reading at all, but you know better.

You watch Bucky’s face for the telltale sign of news—amusement, irritation, the faintest raise of an eyebrow. But he betrays no reaction until the very end, where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and he hums, “Interesting.”

Levinson sits—slouches, almost—legs crossed at the knee, hands steepled. He seems as comfortable behind enemy lines as he does in a penthouse drawing room. You remember, from your father’s own muttered warnings, that this was always the most dangerous sort of man: one who didn’t believe in sides at all, only outcomes.

“Page six will interest you as well, but I’ll save you the suspense: your favorite little mayor has someone feeding her intel, and it’s not any one of the council rats who pissed themselves at last week’s performance.” Levinson flicks his gaze to you, but not in the way an alpha looks at an omega, or even a man looks at a woman. It’s a look of evaluation, the kind you’d give a high-value asset in an unreliable package. His gaze slides off you as quickly as it landed, but not before you register the calculation there: a curiosity about what you might know, or be, that no one else does.

“Apparently, there’s enough chatter on the localized bands that she pulled at least three standing council members out of the territory before your men locked down the southern highways,” Levinson continues, voice bone-dry. “They’re regrouping in the Crescent District. Not an organized counter-offensive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Bucky closes the folder and drums his vibranium fingers against the lacquered desk. The sound is sharp, metronomic. “Who’s on the bankroll?” he asks.

Levinson smirks, the barest twitch of his mouth. “If this were the old territory, I’d say probably Gowan, but the new seat of operations is running leaner than you’d think.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence expand—punctuated only by the measured taps of blue steel. Then he turns the folder so it faces you. “Tertiary sources?” he asks you, almost bored.

You take the folder, or rather accept it as he slides it closer with one finger. The spine of the document is still warm from his touch, and as you begin to read, you’re aware of both alphas regarding you with identical, flat attention.

The information is better than you’d expected: Cross-referenced wiretaps, heatmap overlays of encrypted comms, some social engineering so careful it could only be Levinson’s hand. You can feel your pulse quicken as you recognize names of old allies, family friends, people you thought had been cowed into irrelevance. But it’s the pattern of communication that draws you in—the subtle signals, the breadcrumbs of a resistance effort so careful it would have gone unnoticed had someone not been looking for precisely the right thing. There’s a kind of taut, ugly hope that blooms behind your ribs when you realize some of your father’s most trusted advisors are not dead, nor in exile, but embedded, alive, already building something.

You bite back your reaction, keep your posture slack and your expression politely inquisitive. “If these contact points are accurate,” you say, tracing a column of numbers with your finger, “they’re not just regrouping. They’re triangulating.”

Levinson raises his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “Exactly my thought. Most of the signals are low-velocity, until about two days ago. Then it’s all careful relays, little jumps from node to node, but always returning to one locus.”

“The Ridge Market,” you say without thinking.

“Bring in the others,” Bucky says. “We clearly have some priorities to discuss.”

General Levinson stands and moves to the wide double doors, opens them with a casual, proprietary ease.

Nick Fowler, head of intelligence, is first through the door. He wears a perfect three-day stubble and a suit that, for all its perfection, appears to have never known a tailor. His eyes, pale as melting ice and twice as quick, land immediately on the folder in your hands, then flick to Bucky, who gives him a single, shallow nod.

Andy Barber, the new attorney general, lingers just behind him, hands deep in his pockets.

Press secretary Ransom Drysdale rounds out the pack, today in a powder-blue blazer and gold watch, mouth already twisted into the preemptive smirk of a man who plans to lose no argument.

The chairs scrape, the men settle, and Bucky—who does not stand for ceremony—simply waits them with a lazy crook of his finger. Levinson remains at his shoulder, half a shadow, half an extension of will.

"First order," Bucky says, his voice a weaponized monotone, "is this." He lays his palm over the folder. "Fowler, you’re lead on the Ridge Market situation. Devote as many assets as you need. Don’t burn them. I want to see what it grows into."

Fowler nods, already two moves ahead in his head. "Soft touch, then. You want the inside of it, not just the edges?"

Bucky glances at you. "She’ll consult on this. Knows the players and enough of their communication patterns." It is not a request.

Fowler’s eyes slide to you, and there is a visible recalibration, the shift from considering you a liability to seeing you as an asset.

“So, Governor,” Drysdale says, “what’s our position, and has anyone told you lately you really need a chief of staff?”

Barber grunts, “If you ask me, that’s the real fire under your ass. Not the mayors or the market or even the threat of a counterforce. It’s the day-to-day. Things are running fine, but you will be able to do more with a chief of staff who can carry out your campaigns and keep things moving.”

Bucky gives Drysdale and Barber a look so flat and cold it would stop the hearts of lesser men, but these are the alphas Bucky has hand-picked to surround himself with particularly to have an inner-circle of strength. They wait for him to speak.

“I already know who it’s going to be,” Bucky says, voice low, “I simply need him to agree to it.”

He doesn’t say the name, but you see the flare of amusement in Drysdale’s eye, the slight tic at the corner of Barber’s mouth. Whatever this private joke is, you are not yet party to it.

“There’s a bigger issue, though,” Levinson says, already on to the next battle. “With the territory stabilized, you need to address how people see you. The people expect the typical paradigm—Alpha as strongman, Omega as well-bred ornament. Half the territory saw their Omega heir offer herself up to you to save the people, and some of them liked the idea of her defeat. Some of them are angry as hell. Some of them don’t know how to read the new developments over the past few days with her by your side. If you want to keep the next wave quiet, you have to set the expectation of what an Omega is, and what a bonded pair looks like.”

Fowler, who has been intermittently sketching something on his notepad, looks up and says, “He’s right. You can rule by fear, but you won’t get loyalty unless you give them something aspirational. The last three takeovers we’ve seen overseas, the territories that survived were the ones that adapted the fastest.” He glances at you, then at Bucky. “If you’re not going to put her in a box, you have to sell her as a new kind of asset. Otherwise, you’ll get the worst of both worlds. Everybody’s anxious.”

“We need to reshape what they aspire to, we need to make being an omega in this territory - this administration - look like a privilege. We need people to hunger for it, even as they fear it.”

Bucky’s metal hand opens, closes. The sound is like a slow gun cocking. "You want to sell her," he says, voice so mild you almost miss the threat. "As what?"

Fowler shrugs, a minimalist gesture. "The First Omega becomes an asset to the sitting governor. The only one with a real voice. You give her just enough leash that she’s not a hostage, but everyone is always watching for when, or if, she’ll snap it. This is how you recruit the next generation of loyalists."

Drysdale jumps in, "We can script it. It’s the oldest playbook in the world: dynasty, virtue, the taming of a prize. Public appearance with the both of you, minimum three minutes of live footage, no scripts. Let them see the bond. Touch her.”

“We do know,” Barber adds, “that the public display of her bonding initially and then the double bonding ceremony sent powerful ripples of perception through those who saw and additionally those who heard of it. The whispers about your recent council meeting are equally as alluring.”

The muscles in your chest are tight as you sit just off to the side of the circle, but you try to project as much impassivity as possible as Fowler, Barber and Drysdale discuss your fate like it’s any other marketing campaign.

Bucky leans back, the sound of his chair creaking the only sign of his tension. "We'll do it. Schedule the public engagement for tomorrow at noon." He turns to you, a question in his eyes so brief only you catch it: Are you ready to play this part, or will you try to defy him with the world watching?

Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer. He crooks two fingers, summoning you to his side. The men around the desk barely pause. If anything, their attention sharpens, as if this, too, is part of the brief.

You stand, approach, and he pulls you onto his lap without ceremony. You land astride his thigh, skirt riding up, the bare skin of your legs pressed against the wool of his suit. Bucky’s flesh hand settles on your waist, his vibranium palm spanning your entire upper thigh. The heat of his touch is a warning and a promise.

“This is what they’re talking about,” he says, not to you, but to the room. “The public doesn’t care about my policies or security protocols. They want to see us. To see her.” He runs his hand up, up, until his thumb is nearly under the hem of your skirt. “They want to see the bond. They want to see an omega who can take what’s coming, and stay hungry for it.”

You sense the performance in his touch. His hand trails even higher, the blunt edge of his thumb now grazing so close to the apex of your thighs that you hold your breath, waiting.

Bucky’s voice is slow, deliberate, as he continues. “We learned something in that first week,” he says, his hand moving with lazy certainty ever closer, but not touching your clothed cunt yet. “She likes an audience. I like her like this. Everyone gets what they want, but, gentlemen, if we are smart, we figure out how to use it beyond the two of us. We need something for the masses, but we cannot be on display so freely, we have to be the rarity.”

His hand slides under the edge of your underwear, the pads of his fingers merciless as they slip under the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt, already slick and growing wetter by the second. The cool vibranium of his thumb settles on your hipbone, pinning you in place, while his two flesh fingers part your folds and begin to stroke, slow and unhurried, both a violation and a benediction. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush, and your other hand grips his shoulder, clinging to composure.

The scent of your arousal blooms in the room’s warm air, and the men around the desk catch it. You register it in the minute adjustments of posture, the softening of conversation, the way Fowler’s lips part and Barber looks away and then back, unable not to.

You can feel how Bucky registers their reactions to. He noses at your throat, his breath hot against the mark at the base of your neck. You feel the wet drag of his tongue as he licks it, sending a pulse of heat through your body. There’s a deliberate showmanship in the gesture; he holds your eyes for a fraction of a second, then flashes his gaze around the table, daring anyone to flinch.

He finds your clit and presses, circles, until your hips twitch against his hand in a silent plea. His lips graze your ear, intimate and low for you alone: "Good omega."

He doesn't slow, doesn't shield it from view. The men around the table do not look away. The pull of what's happening is gravitational, inescapable. You become the locus of the room, the axis of power and desire, as he works you with an exquisite, infuriating patience.

"The new order," Bucky says conversationally, as though he is discussing the weather, "is not about fear or brute force. That's old thinking. It's about making something so compelling no one wants to tear it down." His fingers move more insistently, and you bite your lower lip to keep from whimpering. "You put a real omega in the public square, bonded to the Governor, not just a trophy but a weapon. You show them a pair as volatile and as bound as any mythology. They watch for the cracks, for the moment she breaks, and it never comes. The absence of failure is its own propaganda."

"You want her to be a martyr," says Barber, his tone flat.

"Not a martyr. A miracle," Bucky corrects. "She survives everything. Every humiliation, every pleasure, every blow. That's how you teach a territory to crave order. You become their darkest appetite."

Levinson studies the tableau, his head tilted. "No other region has ever pulled that off, not for a generation. Old world, maybe. Here? It's a dangerous bet."

Bucky's hand never leaves your cunt. By the way he holds you, you think he could make you come right here, right now, with the whole room watching, and all you'd be able to do is arch against his hand, because your omega instincts purr with satisfaction at being so thoroughly possessed, at being the focus of such raw, possessive desire. There's power in this submission, you realize - in knowing that the most dangerous alpha in the territory wants you so badly he won’t wait for privacy.

“We are the bright opening, but we manufacture this,” he explains, ”rarity. A singularity. You make it clear the only way to aspire to what we have is through total loyalty to order. To me. To us.”

He slips his fingers out, and you whine at him leaving you empty. Then he brings his wet digits to your lips as though offering communion. “Open,” he rasps, and you do, parting your mouth so he can swipe your essence across your tongue in full view of the assembled men. Your taste is sharp, salt and want, and for a queasy instant you wonder how it must feel to be the living center of a cult, adored, sacrificed, remade again and again.

His hand rests heavily at your throat. “This is how we win forever, not just for a year or a decade,” Bucky says. “We reprogram the appetite of the territory until even our enemies cannot imagine another way of wanting.”

Drysdale leans back in his chair, and for the first time since he entered, he looks you straight in the eye. “You’re going to make her the center of envy.”

“Not just envy. Obsession,” Fowler says, untwisting his pen and rethreading it in slow, thoughtful turns.

Bucky locks eyes with you, and you feel the raw current of his need, not just to possess you but to make your bond an epoch. “This is about the animal in everyone. Give them something to fixate on, and their unrest will stay all teeth and no bite.”

You feel a spike along your bond, some mixture of anticipation and heat, and you realize Bucky is as close to the edge as you are. He wants to push you, to make you shatter, but to do it in a way that will become legend, a story retold in every district until even the most resistant omega dreams of being you.

He stands with abrupt, predatory grace, lifting you with him. Your skirt is bunched at your hips. He slips out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the gleam of vibranium and the roped muscle of his right arm. His flesh hand presses your chest down onto the lacquered wood, pinning you with the effortless strength of a war god. The cool air hits the exposed backs of your thighs.

You sense every eye in the room: the generalized hunger, the predatory curiosity, the inescapable knowledge that you are about to be shown, again, exactly whose you are.

He doesn’t bother with your underwear; he simply rips it, the elastic popping against your skin. His hand spans your lower back, pinning you down, and without warning his cock—already hard from the spectacle—pushes between your legs, breaching you in a single, blinding thrust. A cry wrenches from your throat, sharper than anything you’ve made for him before, and the men around the table shudder in answer, an audible ripple of breath and muscle contracting.

He fucks you at a brutal, unhesitating pace, each drive of his hips jarring your body forward, forcing your abdomen against the unforgiving edge of the desk. There is no gentleness, no pretense; he is using you, claiming you in an act of pure theater, and you sense the precise calculation in every movement. You are a weapon and a message. You are his.

Your eyes blur with the force of it, pleasure already cresting inside you, and somewhere in your mind you feel the atmosphere in the room change: a tightening, a collective focus that neatly telescopes down to the hinge of his hands at your hips and the point of his cock spearing you open.

There’s a howl somewhere—it takes a moment to realize it’s your own voice, torn raw as he pounds into you. There’s nothing left of the careful, self-possessed woman who started this meeting. You are shaking on the edge, bent to the shape of his will and the angle of the desk. Every thrust drums the breath from your lungs, every wet slap of skin is punctuated by the guttural rumble of his satisfaction.

He doesn’t break rhythm as he twists your head to the side—his vibranium fingers gentle for only this, maneuvering your face so you look out, directly at the audience of men with their masklike faces, their barely leashed hunger. Some of them have their hands fisted in their laps, cocks swelling obvious behind the thin wool of their trousers. All of them are breathing too fast, eyes wide.

You come, and it’s not quiet, not contained, not modulated for the benefit of civilized company. It’s a noise from the animal core of you, a breaking of all protocol, a shudder that garlands the room with the velocity of your need. You think you might black out for a second, so total is the pleasure, so shocking the shockwave as your inner muscles seize and clamp around Bucky’s cock.

He does not stop. If anything, he intensifies, using the leverage of his hands to wrench you against him, an exultant violence that makes your soul shiver. You are aware, distantly, of the men at the table, how their rigid silence has given way to a kind of seizure—rubbing, shifting, the rasp of wool and the pop of a button as someone’s restraint shreds under the force of what they’re seeing.

You’re still spasming when Bucky slams in, his cock driving so deep it feels like he’s fucking the soul out of your body. You are nothing but light and wetness and his name scraped raw from your lungs.

Bucky spends himself in a handful of punishing thrusts, hips bucking against your aftershocks. He empties inside you, the heat of it flooding you so suddenly you groan, and the sound is so feral, so lost to dignity, the men in the room instinctively look away.

He stays inside you for a moment, cock still twitching, his hand never leaving your nape, as if anchoring you to the desk is now a metaphysical rather than mechanical need. Then he draws your back against his chest. You’re reeling, legs unsteady, vision swimming. His mouth finds your ear. “Remember this,” he says, low and soft so only you can hear.

Then, to the men, he says in a cool voice, "You saw what I wanted you to see. Go figure out how to manufacture it for the public."

There is a scrape of chair legs, hands smoothing down pant legs, a flurry of wordless compliance. Levinson is the last to linger, studying you where you sprawl, debauched and splayed, equal parts ruined and remade. His eyes flick to Bucky’s; there is a nod, the simplest of compacts between predators, and then the office empties.

You can’t move for a long minute. Bucky does not speak, does not offer you comfort or reproach. Instead, he gathers the slack of your body up in his arms and sits you on the edge of the desk, your skirt bunched at your hips, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks.

You study each other for nearly a full minute of silence. Then, finally, you say, “I don’t know what to think.”

Bucky, eyes still glazed with the aftermath of violence and pleasure, says, “For now, that’s the point.”

Then Bucky pushes your knees apart and drops to his haunches, mouth level with where you leak his come onto the polished wood. His hands are on your thighs, pinning you in place, but it's not necessary—there is no possibility of you moving, of protesting, of wanting anything else.

He licks you as though nothing and everything is at stake. Slow, deliberate, the broad plane of his tongue scraping up every trace of his last act of dominance, tonguing his own saltiness from your folds and then deeper, insistent, flattening you against the desk with the weight of his hand on your sternum and the brutal pressure of his lips at your core. The office, the world, the entire narrative curve of history, narrows to this: the cool afterglow inside you, the hot abrasion of his mouth as he eats you out with the same focus he brings to violence or governance. You are nothing but pleasure, raw nerve and wetness.

He doesn’t just tongue you to another orgasm—he makes it a series, each one more fractal and helpless than the last. By the fourth, you are wrecked and the wood under your back is slick with sweat and your own slick and tears you didn’t know you’d shed. Bucky is merciless in this too, his hands mapping every inch of your thighs, your sides, your breasts still clothed in the blouse you’d chosen for this day and now ruined, buttons pulled askew, your bra wrenched above the bruised arch of your nipples so you spill heavy and trembling for him.

He feasts on you. There is no other word for it. He unravels you, makes of your body a single, quivering animal moment, repeatedly tasting himself in you, letting you hear it—the wet, obscene melody of his wanting—until you can’t contain the noise in your throat.

And when you come yet again, you muffle the scream in the crook of your arm, sobbing out the last of your composure to the empty office. You have no desire to stop him, and you can feel through the bond how insatiable he is for you, in return. It feels at the same time more feral yet more concentrated than it did before, and you wonder if it’s possible that he’s becoming as lost in you as you are in him.

There’s a short knock at the door, and Bucky barks, “Not now!”

But the door hisses open anyway. Nick Fowler enters, phone jammed to his ear, voice urgent but composed.

“Sorry, Governor, but it’s Curtis is on the line, says they’ve gotten a positive. He found our man.”

For a moment, Bucky does not move, does not even look up from where he still holds you pinned to the desk by one trembling thigh. You see the flicker of calculation in his eyes, the split-second assessment of whether to finish what he started—whether to drag you through one more climax, to show Fowler that there is no force in the universe that can interrupt the Governor’s pleasure—or to pivot, to let the moment stand as a promise of what you will return to, and answer the call of power instead.

He chooses the latter, or maybe only delays the former. With a last, bruising kiss to your cunt he stands and quickly, adjusts his tie, then efficiently rearranges your skirt and blouse so you’re somewhat decent. Bucky hoists you off the desk and onto your feet. He moves you with so little warning that your knees try to buckle, but his hands are sure and unyielding. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his vibranium palm up your thigh one last time, a silent claim.

"Give me the phone," he says, his voice clean, crisp, as if the past ten minutes never happened.

Fowler hands over the cell, glancing at you only once, then looking studiously at the floor.

"This is Barnes," Bucky says, and his eyes flick to you as if daring you to turn away before he's ready.

The voice on the other end is tinny but urgent. "I've got him, sir. Overnight, he cut through the northwest perimeter, he didn't know about the new surveillance we installed at the borders. He’s holed up at the freight depot, just over the border. Visual confirmation says he’s armed. Likely has a support crew of two, maybe three. Window’s closing before he moves again."

Bucky’s eyes flash in satisfaction, the momentary glaze of pleasure replaced by diamond-edged focus. He says, "That’s why I sent you, Everett. Bring him in. Discreetly.”

Who has been the target of the manhunt Curtis has been on?

And what will the inner circle propose to manipulate and seduce a society to bring them fully to submission?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #marvel omegaverse #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #aspen wrote something #alpha bucky barnes #fine line collection #female reader #alpha bucky #hotbuckysummer2025

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creamyhoneycookie · 2 months ago

Note

Ok, but what about a yan!reader? Someone who was interested in history and found document of the Beasts back when they were still the virtues. Becoming absolutely obsessed until realizing that they're still alive?!! Even if they've changed, that doesn't mean anything to our dear little yan!reader! They'll love the Beasts all the same!

(Preferably dif scenario's with all three but if I can only do one than shadow milk :3 )

These are going to be a little shorter, but this kept me UP last night thinking. Thankfully, espresso!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Obsession, stalking, predator/prey dynamics, unhealthy relationship dynamics

Regardless of who you fall for, it starts the same: research in a library so old, the statues of grand Witches still have faces. Legends tell of great heroes- a woman so kind and gracious that she grants the wishes of those who come to her, a general who revolutionized the lands he visited, the scholar who created magic itself... All across the darkest seas. It's such a hard journey, but... doesn't love persist?

Mystic Flour Cookie doesn't know what brings this strange cookie to her pagoda, but she does not care. Not until Cloud Haetae Cookie comes to her, reporting- you have no desire, no wish to ask of her- no greedy heart to tear into her heart, but you've spent all day sweeping the grounds, dusting and repairing the pagoda. Even if you're actually very bad at it. Eventually, she descends from her chambers, watching you quietly- she does not expect the adoration in your eyes, she soft flush of your cheeks.

"My Lady... I've journeyed far to join you...! You don't have to worry. I'll help from now on. You've done so much, you can rest- oh, but, I made tea! Won't you join me?"

... Strange. Mystic Flour Cookie isn't sure why... but despite this pure love... something weighs heavily from your words. But she cannot give it a name.

Burning Spice Cookie you find at his army encampment, and he takes you as just one of many followers easily... either you serve him as one more soldier, or you die in these conquests. He does not care. Except... once you arrive, he feels your eyes on him, constantly. Being watched, even when he's alone- it shouldn't unnerve him so, but it does.

And it thrills him. He has always been the hunter, the beast- for something, someone to make him feel like the prey? It's... EXCITING. He throws himself into figuring out who his hunter is- and when it's you? Oh, it's incredible. The dynamic shifts, cat and mouse constantly, and you both know it. This is love! It must be love! No one else can get each other's heart racing like this, and when you have him cornered, crawling into his lap like a lion about to strike, he adores it.

Shadow Milk Cookie isn't sure where you came from. First you were in the town outside the Spire. Then you were at the gates. And then- then you were making your way inside. He's hostile at first, prickly- one bitten, twice shy, you might say. (Nevermind the fact that he bit first, more often and refused to believe Pure Vanilla Cookie when he actually did tell the truth.)

He bullies you, toys with you, puts you through all kinds of tests: but every time you speak the truth:

I really do love you!

... And if he knows lies, he also knows truth. Eventually, he'll have no choice to believe you. ... Aaaaaaat which point, he's delighted, actually! He's terribly lonely, you know. Once he knows that you're the real deal, he'll accept your twisted love with glee; so long as you stay with him, he'll accept it all. ... Even if he gets a little snarky about it sometimes. Like, he already had Candy Apple Cookie, and now there's you? --Please don't kill each other he loves his minions.

#ask honey #yandere tag #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #mystic flour cookie x reader #mfc x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #bsc x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #smc x reader #... not gonna lie #switching the predator/prey dynamic on burning spice is like. Choice.#might come back to that once i review more.#i'd love to hear which of these you liked most also!

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nikkento-writes · 11 months ago

Text

Rub You the Right Way - Part 2

Part 1 | Part 3

Pairing: Choso x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Word Count: ~3.7k

cw: female reader, 2nd-person POV, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut – oral sex (cunnilingus, fellatio, 69 position), mutual masturbation, face-riding, face-fucking, use of sex toys, cum eating, multiple orgasms

Summary: You can’t stop thinking about your adorably sweet and shy next-door neighbor, especially after your very eventful night with him just two days ago. Lucky for you, Choso can’t stop thinking about you either.

Author’s Notes: I initially planned for this to be a one-shot, but I love the dynamic of these two awkward dorks so much that I turned this into a three-part mini series! I hope you enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are not expected but always appreciated. Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

Two days following your risqué rendezvous with Choso, you find yourself standing in front of his door once again, a tad nervous to knock. It’s Sunday night, just past dinnertime, and you finally finished all the extra work you had taken home with you for the weekend. With hours spent pouring over documents, straining your eyes at a computer screen, all you want is to relax. And based on Friday night’s festivities, your shy and surprisingly sexy neighbor can help you with that.

You’re not here explicitly expecting sex. Sure, maybe you’re hoping for it to some extent. It was incredibly hot, so much so that you’ve masturbated yourself to sleep every night since, replaying it in over and over in your head. The fucked-out gaze in his eyes as he watched you play with yourself. His mouth pressed deliciously to your cunt, sucking and slurping on your swollen clit. That huge fucking cock deep down your throat. Most of all, you adore that swoon worthy smile of his as he caressed your cheek, thanking you oh-so-sweetly. What you really want is companionship, to be wrapped in his big, strong arms, so warm and comforting around you, completely at peace in the world. His lips soft, kisses careful, hands gentle on your body, like he truly cherishes you. You want that again. You want it all the time.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you knock, holding your breath in anticipation. Yuji is the one to answer, equally as surprised as you. He says your name, staring at you curiously. “Is everything okay?”

Of course he’s reacting this way; you’ve never visited, especially not at an odd hour like this. You didn’t even consider that his little brother would be here, even though he’s here basically all the time. You dumb idiot! Thinking quickly, you spit out the most generic and phony response that comes to mind. “Can I borrow some sugar?” Sugar? Really? That’s the best you can come up with?

He doesn’t seem fazed by the bizarre request, though you sense he doesn’t buy it, given the twitch in his lip, hiding his smirk. Still, Yuji, much like his brother, has a kind heart, so he plays along. “Hey bro,” he calls out, looking to his right.

Choso walks over from the kitchen, his eyes widening upon seeing you. He utters your name quietly, soap dripping from the gloves on his hands, in the middle of washing dishes.

“She wants some sugar.” Yuji has a cheeky grin on his face. “Think you can spare her some?”

Choso swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing apprehensively in his throat. “Sugar?” he repeats, an uncertain tone in his voice.

“Yeah,” you confirm, giving him an innocent smile. “I’m trying to bake some chocolate chip cookies and I have everything except sugar. So silly of me, right?” You’re not baking anything, but you can’t take it back now, not with Choso’s full attention on you.

He nods with a serious expression on his face, holding his arms up like a surgeon who just finished a procedure, suds slowly dripping down his forearms. “How much do you need?”

“Just a cup. That’s all the recipe calls for. It’s a batch of a dozen, so I really don’t need much.” There is no recipe, the lie keeps getting more and more elaborate, your voice getting squeakier and less convincing every second you speak. You really can’t help yourself when you’re put on the spot like this. Why must you be so goddamn awkward?!

He nods once more before disappearing back into the kitchen to retrieve the sugar you actually don’t need. Yuji continues to grin at you. “Choso bakes a lot, so he’s always got ingredients on hand.”

You’re relieved to change the subject in a slightly different direction. “His cookies are always so yummy.” All of the times Yuji has hand-delivered his brother’s wonderful treats to you flash in your head, making you smile.

“He’s a real sorcerer in the kitchen.” Yuji leans in a bit closer, voice softer now for only you to hear. “You know, he’d be more than happy to teach you a few of his recipes, if you want. He’s shy at first, but he is a really great guy.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, he is.” It touches your heart how highly Yuji speaks of his older brother. Under the guise of cooking lessons, he’s implying that he wants the two of you to be together, as friends, cordial neighbors, possibly even potential lovers. Maybe he doesn’t want his brother to be so lonely anymore.

Choso returns, two zipped plastic bags in his hands. “If you’re baking chocolate chip cookies, you’ll need brown sugar too. So, I packed you both, just in case,” he explains, dropping them into your open palms.

You accept, too shy to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the newly acquired goods. “Thank you, Choso. I really appreciate it.”

He bows, stiff and formal, while Yuji waves. “You sure you don’t want any more of Choso’s sugar? He’s got plenty to give!” he adds, definitely trying to instigate.

Turning on your heel to retreat into your apartment, you squeak, “I’m good, thank you!” without sparing them another glance. In the safety of your home, you lean against the door, burying your face in your hands. so embarrassed at what just transpired, mentally beating yourself up for being so ridiculous. With all this extra sugar so graciously given by Choso, you end up baking cookies, pretending for your own sake that this was part of the plan all along.

~~~

Choso sits on the couch, hugging his knees, staring blankly at the empty TV in front of him. He’s muttering the word “sugar” over and over to himself, mind racing with all kinds of ridiculous thoughts. Two days after the most amazing night of his life and all you want is sugar. Sugar! And for cookies? Cookies for who?! He’s completely aware that you’ve been busy with work, but he can’t stop his insecurities from rattling him. The two of you didn’t really discuss the status of your relationship. For all he knows, you could have hated the entire experience all together. Though, he has a hard time believing that, not with the way you looked at him, so full of warmth and adoration, even with his cock throbbing inside your mouth…

He physically shakes his head to rid the impure thoughts, the same ones that he’s touched himself to since that night. His vast collection of toys are no match to the real thing, to you. And he may never get to feel that ever again. Because you’re disgusted by him. You hate him. It’s all over between you two before it even began.

Whelp, back to freaking out.

“Choso?” Yuji’s voice finally snaps him out of his trance. His younger brother approaches him carefully, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, unconvincingly.

Yuji raises his brow. “You sure? You’ve been sitting here, mumbling ‘sugar’ for the past fifteen minutes.”

Fuck! He heard that? Choso blushes, embarrassed to have been caught in such a sorry state. He stutters, making a poor attempt at explaining himself. “Well, you see…I’ve been…I have a…I think that – ”

Yuji laughs, taking a seat beside him. “If you want to talk to her, just do it! I already put in a good word for you,” he says with a wink, giving him a playful nudge.

Choso gapes at him. “You…what?”

He beams, pleased with himself. “Yeah, I said you could teach her a few things in the kitchen and I think she’s interested! I mean, she did want your sugar, if you know what I mean.” More nudging and ribbing while Choso buries his face into his hands, horrified. “She’s really nice and super easy to talk to. I’m sure the two of you can become really good friends.”

Friends. Sweet baby Yuji doesn’t even know the half of it. Choso sighs, finally straying from the path of an existential crisis. “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself,” he says quietly.

Yuji puts his arm around him, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “You won’t, I promise you. Just be yourself.”

He meets his gaze, giving him a half-hearted smile, genuinely feeling a bit better after that little pep talk. They watch a movie together, temporarily taking Choso’s mind off the whole ordeal. He tries not to think about you or the cookies you’re currently baking, or that he’s totally jealous of this new imaginary love rival of his that will be the recipient of said cookies.

Yuji leaves at eleven to catch one of the last busses back to his university. Choso decides that he’s sick of sulking around and tormenting himself with outrageous theories. He puts on his best sweats and fixes his hair so that slightly less strands are sticking out from his poofy buns. Back straight, chest puffed out, and all the confidence he can muster, he marches next door, determined to tell you exactly how he’s feeling.

~~~

You’re sitting at the kitchen table in a bathrobe, having just finished eating one of your freshly baked cookies. You decided during your shower to finally give one of your newer gadgets a try, a sleekly designed vibrating dildo made from the softest silicone material you can imagine. The toy and a bottle of lube are set up on the nightstand beside your bed, ready to use along with the memory of riding Choso’s gorgeous face. While you wish you were actually with him instead, your efforts from earlier didn’t go the way you were hoping. This will have to do for now, at least until you gather the guts to approach him again.

Just as you’re about to retire into the bedroom, there’s a knock on your door. To your surprise, Choso stands before you, stiff and very obviously nervous. “Hi,” he says, giving you an awkward wave that you find absolutely adorable.

You smile, opening the door wider for him to enter. “Hi. Come in.”

He shuffles through, pausing at the kitchen table to observe the plate of cookies you made with the sugar he gave you. “So…cookies,” he mutters.

You bite your lip anxiously. “Yeah, cookies.”

There’s a heavy pause, the both of you trying to find the right words to say to one another. You decide to be honest with him, but it comes out the same time he asks you the question that’s been gnawing on his mind all night.

“I want be with you.”

“Who are they for?”

You stare at each other, confused. Taking a step towards him, you explain, “I came over to see if you wanted to hang out, but I chickened out when I saw your brother. I made up some dumb excuse, hence the request for sugar. I ended up baking cookies anyways to make myself feel better.”

His expression softens, sighing in relief. “I freaked out not being able to see you all weekend. And when you came over asking for sugar, I got jealous that you were baking for somebody else.” He rubs the back of his neck timidly, a small grin on his face. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

Another step and you’re close enough to touch him, but you don’t. “Not at all. I’m the one who came up with the lamest lie ever. Your brother probably thinks I’m a weirdo.”

He chuckles. “He definitely doesn’t.”

You’re only an inch apart now, enough to feel his body heat. “I meant what I said. I want to be with you.”

His eyes wander to your chest, your robe loose and barely clinging to you. He swallows hard and you can tell that he’s losing his composure too. “You do?”

“I do.” You peer up at him with a smile, wanting so badly to hug him, to kiss him.

His voice is quiet, but the surest you’ve ever heard it. “I want to be with you too.”

Your chest swells with happiness, ready to burst and shoot out confetti all over his pretty face. He’s staring at your lips now, licking his own when he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You grin at him, tugging at the collar of his sweater to pull him towards you, pressing your mouth to his. He holds you in a warm embrace, kissing you gently, one hand on your lower back, the other spread across the nape of your neck. “You taste so good,” he whispers, sucking on your bottom lip.

“That’s because I just ate a cookie,” you giggle, nuzzling your nose to his.

“Nah,” he smirks, licking into your mouth. “You taste good everywhere.”

You let out a moan, leading him straight into your bedroom where you untie the knot of your robe, revealing your bare body. He slides the rest off, watching you lie on the bed, legs spread wide, pussy on display for him. His kisses start at your ankles, then slowly up your legs, where he sucks on the plush skin of your inner thighs. You let him ravish you, toes curling in pleasure with his tongue flat on your clit, lapping you up hungrily. “Choso,” you whine his name, gripping onto his hair, bucking against his face to feel him even deeper.

He hums into your skin, his lips puckered tight around you, tongue flicking your sensitive bud. He looks up at you, enjoying your fucked-out expression. Something beside you captures his attention for a moment, distracting him. “What is that?”

You’re too caught up in the pleasure that you don’t register what he’s asking you until he pulls off to investigate, laser focused on the object on your nightstand. You quickly grab it from him, horrified when you realize what he’s so fixated on: the dildo. “It’s just one of my toys. I thought we wouldn’t hang out tonight, so I…” your voice trails off, noticing the intensity in his gaze. Hot, flustered, and not keen on elaborating any further, you comment, “Anyways, I’ll just put this away now – ”

He stops you. “No. Don’t. Don’t put it away.”

“Don’t…?”

A little too Intrigued, he scooches closer to you, studying the device in your hand. “Can you show me how you use it?”

You’ve already demonstrated the vibrator for him. For some reason, you’re shy to show him this. Maybe it’s because of how intimate it feels to have something inside you, to be probed, penetrated, filled. But as he looks at you so sweetly, eyes filled with genuine curiosity, you find yourself giving in. “Okay,” you oblige hesitantly, reaching for the lube bottle, your entire body tingling. You pump a small drop of it on the tip, using your fingers to coat the rest on.

He watches you, mouth hanging open, drool leaking from one side of his lips, mesmerized by the way you rub it up and down your cunt, teasing yourself with it. “What do you think about when you use it?”

You giggle, pressing the toy to your clit. “Do you really have to ask?”

“You think about me?” The surprise in his voice is endearing; he has no clue the effect he has on you, how badly you want him, how incredibly fucking hot he is.

“Of course I do,” you answer, gaining some of your confidence back. You pull him towards you, kissing him fervently, sliding the tip to your entrance, slick with arousal. “Look at what you do to me.”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, growing erection bulging in his sweatpants, eyes glazed over as he ogles your wet cunt. “Fuck.”

“Like what you see?” you goad him, readjusting your grip on the base so that your thumb is set on the button.

He nods, kissing you along your neck, then up to your ear, his voice a sultry whisper. “I want you to squirt all over it. Want to lick it up and make you come again and again and again on my tongue.”

“Oh fuck, Choso. So nasty,” you moan, easing it inside you, pussy gradually adjusting to the size. You bite your lip at the tight fit; it’s been a while since you’ve used this, and even longer since you've been penetrated by anything, or anyone. “So tight.”

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” His genuine concern is too cute. He’s too cute.

You give him a reassuring smile, shaking your head. “No, it’s just been a while since I…y’know.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He grazes your forehead with his lips, giving you a soft peck. “I don’t want you to be in any pain.”

You grin wider, finding him so adorably sincere and sweet. “I’m sure, Choso.” With the dildo nestled comfortably inside you, you reach for his hand, resting it on the base. “Can you fuck me with it? Please?”

This spurs him on, a guttural groan escaping him, eyes wide and pupils dilated, completely captivated by you. You cup his cheek, tracing his upper lip with your thumb. He opens his mouth, chasing any taste of you on his tongue. “You’ll really let me?”

You gaze down at his lap, a small spot of precum leaking through his grey sweats. “Only if you stroke yourself while you do it.”

Choso is feverishly turned on right now, face flushed, his entire body scorching hot, cock throbbing in his pants. Your fingers brush his navel on your way to his waistband and he nearly combusts just thinking about your fist wrapped around his shaft, stroking him. He shimmies out of his bottoms, shrugging them off from his ankles until he’s naked from the waist down, rock hard erection flopping against his abdomen.

“Big boy,” you tease him, nipping at his ear lobe, drooling at the sight of him. “You’d fill me up so good.”

“God, I want to so bad,” he grunts, stroking himself with his left hand as his right fucks you with the dildo. Even without the vibration on, it feels amazing, the way he flicks his wrist, pumping the toy in and out of you. He times his thrusts to match the pace in which he strokes himself, wishing he was inside you instead. But he resists the temptation, knowing there’s all the time in the world to explore each other. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the two of you, enjoying one another at whatever pace feels right.

Wanting to check out all of the features this toy offers, he pushes the button, causing it to vibrate inside you. You gasp at the sudden sensation, squirming as he ramps it up two more levels, sliding it even deeper to stimulate your g-spot. It doesn’t take much longer for you to come like this, buzzing inside and out with ecstasy, the toy absolutely soaked down the base with lube and your slick. He pulls it out of you, tossing the dildo aside to marvel at the mess you made. Before he can make his next move, you roll over on top of him, straddling his lap to rub your wet pussy along his shaft. You rock yourself on him, sleek folds gliding up and down his cock so smoothly, just one move and he’d been in heaven.

He’s a stuttering nervous wreck when he asks, “Should we…should we try it, baby?” He knows the two of you shouldn’t; despite all that’s happened in just the past two days, this is a big and monumental step, especially for him, a borderline shut-in with intimacy issues that shouldn’t be resolved from a rash decision. But if you want it, he’s more than willing to give it to you. That’s just the kind of guy Choso is, putting others before himself.

Luckily for him, you see that. You see him. “Not yet,” you say, caressing his face. “We’ll wait until we’re both ready, okay? There’s no need to rush.”

He smiles, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding waiting for your response. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him softly. “I really like you, Choso. I don’t want to mess this up by going too fast.”

“Me too,” he kisses you back, nearly in tears at how perfectly this is going. “I really like you, too.”

He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing you passionately while you grind yourself on him until the both of you come, out-of-breath, sweaty, and in total bliss. His cum pools on his abdomen, some of it dripping down the side of his stomach onto the sheets below you. You relax on top of him, spent and satiated, but your little rest doesn’t last for long as he lifts you up by the hips, wiggling down the bed so that his face is pressed to your cunt, mouth eagerly lapping at your clit. “Just a little more, sweetie. Just a little more for me,” he urges you, unrelenting and determined to fulfill his promise from earlier. Want to lick it up and make you come again and again and again on my tongue.

So you let him, moaning his name wantonly with his lips puckered around you, drinking every drop of you up until he’s had his fill, which is three more orgasms later. He starts stroking himself on the last one, a big smile on his shiny swollen lips as he kisses your clit. You whimper his name for the umpteenth time tonight, hips stiff from constantly grinding against him. Still, you think you could go longer, you want to, despite how exhausted you are. And while you know there’s more to look forward to with Choso, you don’t want this to end. You pull of him, readjusting yourself so that you’re facing the other way, in the perfect position to suck his cock. He growls beneath you, sloppily eating you out while you deep-throat him, hungry for his cum.

~~~

The two of you finally settle down for the night, cuddled in new blankets and bedsheets to replace the ones soaked with the aftermath of tonight’s lovemaking. Choso spoons you from behind, his face nuzzled to the nape of your neck, inhaling your comforting scent. He rubs your belly soothingly, voice a soft whisper on your skin. “Are you feeling okay?”

You smile, turning around to face him, snuggling into his chest. “I told you, I feel amazing. You don’t have to keep worrying.”

He kisses your forehead. “I just want to make sure you’re not sick of me yet.”

This time, you can’t help but laugh. “That’s impossible.” You listen to his heartbeat carefully, trying to memorize the steady rhythm of it. “I can’t get enough of you.”

#choso kamo #choso x you #choso fluff #choso smut #choso x reader #jjk smut #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x you #choso kamo x reader

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kaijutegu · 1 year ago

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Happy Valentine's Day! When you think about love and the animal kingdom, are alligators an animal that comes to mind? No? Well, they should be, because they have some of the most interesting courtship behavior of any non-bird. (Bird displays are something else entirely.) I think it's time that you all are introduced to the Big Gay Alligator Sex Study, more properly known as Courtship Behavior of American Alligators (Alligator mississipiensis), written by Kent Vliet. You can get the paper at the link below!

This was a study done over a 3-year period in the 80s with a population of captive American alligators to look at how they interacted. Alligators are incredibly social and have complex behavioral dynamics, and their courtship rituals and routines are pretty dang interesting. In general, crocodilians spend a great deal of time interacting with each other when compared to other reptiles, and the courtship behavior of a few species is well-documented. But in this post, I'm mostly going to talk about the American alligator (with a quick detour into Cuban crocs).

Why Do We Care About Courtship?

So before I dive into talking about this study, let's talk about why we care about courtship (the social behavior that leads to mating) and mating (sexual interaction that could, hypothetically, lead to reproduction). Courtship and mating are extremely important when studying animal behavior- honestly, they're extremely important when studying zoology in general. In some cases, understanding this behavior actually a major conservation concern! For example, the Cuban crocodile is an endangered species. They're largely constricted to two swampy areas of Cuba, both of which also have American crocodiles present. And unfortunately, the female Cuban crocs find the male American crocs really, really sexy. This is a big problem, because with only about 3-4,000 Cuban crocs left in the wild (possibly even fewer), they need to be breeding with their own species to make more Cubanitos.

These. Make more of them.

But what scientists have found is that not only are there hybrid crocs in the wild, the Cuban population of American crocodiles is more closely related to Cuban crocodiles than other populations of American crocodiles, suggesting this has been going on for a very long time.

You can read more about that here if you want, but back to the gay alligators.

Alligator? More Like Alli-GAY-tor, amiright?

(actually that IS wrong it's more like alli-bisexual-tor, but that doesn't sound like alligator)

So how does a study like this happen? Back in the 80s, the American population was Feeling A Way about alligators. Something that you gotta understand when you're doing any kind of conservation is that people protect what they love, and they love what they understand. Alligators are a major conservation success story today- there's millions in the wild- but they were in serious danger of extinction in the 1960s, and it was a combination of legislation, awareness campaigns, and captive breeding at both zoological parks and commercial gator farms that helped bring them back. As a result, they were one of the first species to be de-listed from the ESA!

All of this attention meant that alligator science was flourishing in the late 70s and 80s, and that's where this study comes into being. This post is long enough so I'm not gonna go into all the details and methodology- you can find that in the paper I linked up top!

However, there is one piece of methodology we should talk about, and that's the choice of study population. It's part of what makes this particular study so interesting!. See, in a lot of cases, captive behavior really differs from wild behavior. This can be impacted by captivity conditions- what other animals the study animal has access to, what behaviors the animal has learned in captivity, even down to things like how the animals are fed. For example, some courtship behavior in captive animals can be the result of unnatural habitat conditions or limited social groupings. If you only have access to a couple of conspecifics, you don't have the same choices that you do if you have access to something closer to a wild population. If you've got a breeding group with one male and a handful of females, you can't ask or answer any questions about male/male interactions! Crowding is also an issue- too many animals in a space can be stressful, and lead to atypical sexual behavior.

But that's one of the cool elements of this study: the alligators in question live in a large social group in a lagoon that's basically just natural habitat with a boardwalk going around it. It's about as close to studying a wild population as you can get, with the advantage that it's far more accessible. And what this leads to is that that the researchers were able to see a really wide range of behavior, because all of the alligators had lots of access to lots of different mates. They were able to make choices that you wouldn't see in a smaller group. There's a trade-off that Vliet notes, and that is the population density and captive situation means that results might not quite work out the way they do in the wild- but in the years since, the results of the study have been vindicated with research into wild populations.

So, what are alligators into? Gay sex, group sex, yelling real loud, and lots and lots of... gentle caressing.

that's not a euphemism they spend a lot of time gently rubbing each others' faces

So first things first, it turns out that the vast majority of alligator mounting, which occurs after courtship behaviors like jaw rubbing, bellowing, head rubbing, and swimming together is male/male. Over the three year study period, an average of 68% of all sexual interactions were male/male. However, what they don't really notice is exclusivity, because when it comes to the sex of their sex partner, alligators... well. They aren't all that picky.

Another fascinating aspect of alligator courtship is what's called courtship groups. These are readily observed in captive settings (and in the wild, too, as mentioned in Dragon Songs), and are mixed-sex groups that spontaneously form. As other alligators approach a mounting pair, the original pair will happily split up and switch partners. Usually what happens is that the alligator on top slides off to initiate courtship with a newly-arrived individual. What's really interesting here is that, as the author notes, "males engaged in courtship with a female readily terminate that interaction and initiate interactions with males." Another fun element of alligator courtship is that while in most vertebrates, males approach females, alligator females often approach males. Usually it's the males approaching, but for many crocodilians, courtship initiation is an equal-opportunity affair.

Alligators are also really vocal during courtship! This is pretty unusual for a reptile- usually they're a quiet bunch. But crocodilians are pretty chatty. And during the breeding season, something pretty spectacular happens: infrasonic communication, better known as bellowing. This is sometimes called water dancing, due to the ripple patterns it makes. It's a loud, low-pitched rumble that conveys information about size and location, and is used for territorial displays and as a mating call. During the not-breeding season, a bellow means "stay away!" During the breeding season, it means "HOT ALLIGATOR SINGLES IN YOUR AREA."

Here's some pretty spectacular videos showing you what this looks and sounds like. The vibrations make the water above their backs splash up.

youtube

Alligators are also extremely tactile during courtship. The study has detailed analysis of touch in specific tactile zones along the head and neck of the alligators. Vliet notes "These sites have increased numbers of swollen pustular scale organs, the function of which is unknown."

What's kinda funny about this to me is that now, the functions of these organs are known- they're highly innervated tissues that help alligators detect prey in murky water. An alligator's jaws are more sensitive than a human fingertip due to the sheer number of nerve endings! So of course these areas are going to be highly sensitive, and to me it makes perfect sense that they feature so heavily in courtship.

So what can we take away from this 40-year-old study? Quite a bit! First, it's a great reminder that humans aren't special. We see same-sex mating behavior in pretty much every species we look at. We see it in cockroaches, spiders, and butterflies. We see it in sheep. We see it in alligators. We see it in every other species of great ape. Of course we also see it in humans! There's nothing that special about same-sex sexual behavior. It's a part of... pretty much everybody's evolutionary history.

Another thing I think is really important is that while this is an old study, it was absolutely pivotal as a turning point in helping people understand alligators. Remember how I said earlier that we protect what we love, and we love what we understand? This study showed the world that alligators weren't just mindless eating machines. They're socially complex! Understanding alligator sociality and how they choose mates and interact helped us care for them better. It told us more about how to keep them happy in captivity. Alligators are smart, communicative creatures. They don't always get along, but they don't always fight, either. (Don't get me wrong: they will fight each other, and they've actually evolved some pretty specific anti-other-alligator defenses... but they don't always fight, even during the breeding season.) This is interesting to me because in mammals, it's hypothesized that same-sex sexual behavior may have evolved for prosocial reasons; that is, it helps reduce conflicts. Perhaps it does the same for alligators.

In conclusion:

If you want to know more about alligator courtship and mating rituals, I can't recommend Vladimir Dinets's Dragon Songs: Love and Adventure Among Crocodiles, Alligators, and Other Dinosaur Relations highly enough. I know I talk about this book all the time, but it's easily the most accessible writing on crocodilian social behavior. It will change the way you think about and understand these animals.

Another phenomenal book is Alligators: The Illustrated Guide to Their Biology, Behavior, and Conservation by Kent Vliet. (Hm, wonder if he's written anything else...) This is basically the Bible for gator behavior. The photographs are absolutely gorgeous, too.

#alligators #reptiblr #reptile #long post #Youtube

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mahowaga · 6 days ago

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WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT III

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 10.8k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

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🌸 ACT III – THE CROWN ASCENDS

THE CAPITAL OF THE IMPERIAL DISTRICT – MEMORIAL OF THE NORTHERN CAMPAIGN

The sun crests low over the capital, casting long, honey-colored shadows over the tiled rooftops and curved eaves of the imperial district. The sky is too still–washed in pale gold and streaked with threads of pink, like silk stretched too tight across a frame. It is beautiful in the way all things nearing dusk are: solemn, finite, heavy with meaning unspoken.

From where Nanami stands–just behind the palanquin, slightly to the left–the capital looks like a painting rendered in gold leaf and soft charcoal. Stunning. Precise. Unreal.

But nothing in the air feels still. The city is holding its breath.

The Emperor is dying.

The court has not said it–not in words. But the truth clings to the palace like a thick fog. The servants carry it in their downcast eyes. The ministers huddle closer, their robes hissing conspiracies against the floor. The scribes write faster, and the scrolls disappear from shelves before dawn. Stewards dart between wings with sealed documents clutched tightly in hand. The guards’ rotations shift subtly, without being announced. Old alliances begin to tremble.

The center of power is sagging, and everything around it leans in, ready to collapse or consume.

And in the midst of it all–you are being paraded.

They called it a symbol. A comfort. A gesture of continuity.

“Let the people see the Emperor’s youngest daughter,” they had said, behind screens lacquered with dragons and storm clouds. “Let her remind them of the Empire’s elegance, its grace. Let her distract them from their fear.”

But symbols, once loosed, have a way of becoming something else.

You were meant to be ornamental. But the people, it seems, have taken to you.

Not because you offer charm or warmth. Not because you flatter them. Not because you wear beauty like a veil, though you could.

They admire you because you do not lie.

You do not promise bountiful harvests or victories already lost. You do not wrap the Empire’s pain between prose, in poetry. You speak in clean, pared words, like a blade drawn without flourish.

Nanami sees it in the way they look at you–being able to lay eyes on the enigmatic princess of the Empire, who they’ve only ever caught glimpses of during imperial events.

The way the farmers and soldiers listen when you speak. The way the merchants bow–not with fear, but with respect. The way mothers lift their children just slightly higher, as if to let them see you better.

They’ve begun to give you names, whispered between stalls and down quiet alleys.

The People’s Princess.

The Silent Flame.

The Daughter of the Still Winds.

He has heard them all, and he cannot decide whether it warms something inside him, or if it terrifies him.

Nanami shifts slightly, his boots creaking faintly against the cobblestones, a motion so subtle it would escape all but the most trained of eyes. His arms remain folded behind his back in the formal stance of an imperial guard, but his right thumb moves, brushing again and again over the edge of his left knuckle–his unthinking tell, one that betrays tension no matter how stoic his face remains.

They are at the eastern sanctuary today, standing before the towering memorial of the northern campaign. The limestone wall is carved with the names of soldiers lost, polished smooth by wind and time. Nanami can recognize some of them, men he’d stood beside as they fought together, steel against steel.

The crowd has gathered at the foot of the steps. Some hold incense. Some kneel. Some merely watch.

You stand at the top of the platform, light striking you from behind, turning your figure into a silhouette framed in gold.

You speak. Your voice is clear and low, meant not for applause, but for remembrance.

“You are not forgotten,” you say. “We burn incense, but we remember your names.”

That is all.

No epithets. No praise of the Emperor. No tales of glory.

It is not the speech you were given–Nanami knows this, because he had read it with you. He had stood behind you in the study, watching your eyes flick down the length of the scroll, your face a mask of indifference as you folded it carefully and set it aside.

You had said nothing at the time, but now, here, beneath the open sky and the gaze of the people–your people–you rewrite your place in the empire.

And the people see you.

A woman in the crowd bows. A weathered man–an old soldier with whom Nanami had trained with–lifts his hand to his brow in a slow, deliberate salute. A palace attendant beside Nanami fidgets. The steward shifts on his feet.

Nanami does not move. His eyes remain fixed on you. Not as your shadow. Not even as your sworn guard. But as a man standing at the edge of something vast, wondering if it will collapse or crown you.

You descend the steps without looking back, your gait fluid, the sleeves of your robe brushing softly against your sides. Your face betrays no satisfaction. No triumph. Only resolve. Self-possession.

And beneath that, perhaps–weariness.

He joins you without a word, his footsteps matching yours precisely. He takes his place to your left as you move toward the open gates.

The rest of the guards fall in behind you, forming a protective ring–but the crowd does not surge. No one pushes. No one shouts. They watch. Not as subjects watch royalty.

But as people watch a future they did not know they could believe in.

You both walk for some time in silence.

The avenue beyond the plaza is long, lined with high walls and weeping trees. The leaves shift gently above. Shadows stretch across the path, wrapping you in shifting fragments of light and shade.

You speak first. Low, quiet, just enough for only him to hear.

“They like me.”

He glances at you. Your profile is as calm as ever–lips composed, gaze forward.

“Yes,” he says.

“They’re not meant to.”

He lets the silence elongate, unable to come up with anything productive to say. Nothing that wouldn’t betray where his heart lies. But his right hand flexes again behind his back, a slow curl of gloved fingers and thumb.

Once. Then again.

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t need to. Because you already know.

You were never meant to be seen.

You were meant to stand behind your father. Behind your brother. Behind the history carved in stone and steel.

But the people are not blind. They see you. And he does too.

Not as the Emperor’s daughter. Not as a risk to be monitored. Not even as a duty.

He sees you as something else entirely. Something he does not yet dare name, though his chest aches at the thought of speaking it.

EASTERN WING – BETWEEN THE HALLS AND CORRIDORS

The palace swallows the both of you whole.

You pass beneath the carved arch of the southern gate, its twin dragons coiling into the sky, their open jaws forever fixed in an expression of silent judgement. The sun no longer follows you. The world behind the wall–its warmth, its clarity, the people’s eyes and voices–is gone.

Inside, it is all shadow.

Your footsteps echo across the polished stone, smooth from centuries of tread. The corridors rise high around you both, vast and quiet, the ceilings stretching into darkened beams etched with gold. The air inside is cooler, but it carries its own weight: the scent of burning incense, old paper, and something deeper–the smell of secrets held too long.

You walk in silence. Not the comfortable kind. Not yet.

Nanami follows at the appointed distance. Three steps behind. Just close enough that if danger struck, he could intercept it. Just far enough that the space between you and him might still be called professional.

He no longer feels like a soldier, however. Not when you walk in front of him like this.

You move with composure, but there’s a tightness in your shoulders–a wire pulled taut beneath silk. Your robes ripple as you walk, the layered fabric swishing at your feet, across the dark stone. You do not look back. You do not ask if he is still there.

You don’t need to.

He always is.

You pass through a side corridor lined with paper screens. Painted cranes fly across the panels in delicate brushstrokes, their wings frozen mid-beat. Light filters in through latticed windows, carving golden patterns across the floor like the bars of a cage.

Your voice breaks the silence–quiet, even, but close enough to catch him.

“You’re silent.”

Nanami’s eyes flick toward you. He hesitates. Then answers, low and controlled. “Only listening, Princess.”

You turn slightly–not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to tilt your head in his direction. “To whom?”

He looks at you then. For a moment too long.

“To you,” he replies.

You don’t smile, but the air shifts between the both of you.

The silence that follows is thicker now. Denser. Like velvet held too tightly in the throat.

Your voice changes–drier, amused in that sharp, quiet way of yours. “Then you know I didn’t recite a word of their speech.”

“I noticed.”

“They’ll be furious.”

“Yes.”

That’s all he says. Not a word more. But the corners of your lips twitch–not in mockery. In approval.

You start walking, and for a while it is calm, but threaded with tension. You finally slow near a carved column, letting your fingers trail along the edge of the marble, tracing the grooves absentmindedly.

“And you?” you ask.

He pauses, startled by the question’s softness.

You don’t clarify–he knows what you mean.

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. His hand flexes behind his back–right thumb rubbing slowly over the knuckle of his left hand, once, twice, again–his oldest tell.

“I think,” he says finally, “they forgot the difference between a voice raised for applause and a voice that matters.”

You stop. Your hand stills against the column. Your eyes find his.

He sees it happen. The flicker. Recognition.

And something almost like warmth. Like water pooling just beneath ice.

The moment stretches–precarious, probing, delicate.

Then you blink, and the shutters fall back into place. Your gaze slips away, but not before he catches a glimpse–you heard him. And worse: you believed him.

He walks with you until you reach the corridor leading to your quarters, where few others walk, where the light fades faster and the hush feels sacred.

The air feels quieter here, as though sound has been asked to wait outside.

You slow, and so does he. Then you turn toward him. Fully now. Not with half-angled glances or oblique gestures. You face him–spine straight, hands folded at your front, your robes shimmering likes smoke. The lantern light catches on your cheekbones, on the subtle red that rims your eyes, a regal echo of fire. Your mouth is unreadable. Your eyes, far less so.

There is no softness in your gaze. No cruelty either. Just clarity. The kind that makes men confess. Or fall to their knees.

“Do you think I’m dangerous, General?”

You do not ask it gently, but with the edge of something sharper beneath–something forged, not fragile.

Once again, the question halts him. Not because he doesn’t have an answer. But because he has too many.

You watch him. Still. Patient. That patience is more unsettling than any of your demands could be.

He breathes once through his nose–an attempt to regain control.

“I think you are…” he begins, then stops. Adjusts. “Capable.”

Your eyes narrow.

“That’s a soldier’s answer,” you say flatly.

A pause. You don’t move, don’t blink. You keep your eyes pinned to him like a knife driven into flesh.

He softens his voice. Minor. “I think you see more than most,” he says. “You speak less. You feel deeper than you let them see.”

You say nothing, so he continues, voice lower. Intimate in its restraint.

“I think the men who call you dangerous are the ones who know you see them too clearly.”

This invokes a reaction.

Your breath catches–barely. A flutter in your throat. Your lips part slightly, then press together again. You do not look away.

Neither does he.

Something passes between you both then, yet again, unspoken and undeniable. But too tangible to ignore. It’s been building for too long to pretend otherwise. Not tension. Something deeper. Thicker. Like oil waiting for a flame.

Your next words are soft, but not gentle.

You step forward. It is not a misstep. Not an accident. You choose the space between you both, and narrow it.

He doesn’t retreat. Can’t.

“I wonder sometimes,” you murmur, your voice softer, not to soothe, but to strike more precisely, “if you’re here because they trust you…”

Your gaze drops–not coyly, not shyly–but like a hand checking the weight of a weapon. Your eyes flick over the broad line of his shoulders, drift down the slope of his chest, to his belt, to the curl of fingers at his side. One hand is clenched–the skin whitening beneath the pressure.

You see it. He knows you do.

Your eyes return to his.

“Or because they know I would.”

The words bloom in the space between, opening like a wound. It is devastating.

Nanami stops breathing completely. He stands so still that even the soft rustle of your sleeves feels louder than his pulse. The air presses in so hard that his lungs burn. But he does not move.

You don’t flinch. And for one impossible moment, it feels as though you’re seeing him fully–not as a soldier. Not even as a man. But as something in between. Something caught.

Because you don’t know the truth. Not yet. But you’re standing on its edge.

And the worst, most damning part of it is that you’re right.

They did choose him for this. He was sent because they knew you might look at him and not see the blade in his silence. Because you might trust him. Because you might lower your guard and speak and come to believe that he was yours.

And he let you.

His hands twitch at his sides. His knuckles tighten against the leather. There is a scream somewhere deep in his bones, muffled beneath years of command, but rising regardless.

He wants to tell you. That you’re right. That he was sent to watch you. To control you. That every conversation, every walk through the garden, every unspoken glance across silk and stone and dusk–was not allowed, not earned, but engineered.

That he was the leash.

Still is.

He wants to explain. To defend himself. To say that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That it began as a task. That it should have stayed a task. But that something inside him broke the day you asked if he would stop you from falling.

And yet–his voice does not come. The words turn to ash in his throat, and in his silence, you find the answer.

It cuts across your features with slow, surgical grace. Not anger. Not betrayal. Not yet.

Just understanding.

And behind that, something worse: disappointment. Hurt, in the way people do when they realize they were right to guard themselves all along.

You watch him a moment longer.

You step back. Smoothly. Without drama. Without scorn.

Just enough to remind him of what you’re retreating into–distance, decorum, walls.

The same walls you had started, slowly, painstakingly, to lower.

“I’m going to change,” you say. Your voice is neutral, lacking warmth now. Lacks invitation. Lacks everything that had been there seconds ago.

“Wait outside.”

Nanami bows his head. Stiffly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You turn, the sweep of your robes brushing across the polished floor, a rustle of silk and unspoken betrayal.

The carved doors ahead of you part easily. They do not slam. They close slowly, almost respectfully. But the click as they shut is deafening.

He remains, staring at the door long after it has closed.

He feels the hush return to the corridor like a pressure. The foxes painted on the nearby screen stare back at him through inked fire. The incense in the hall has long since burned away, but he smells it anyway–like memory, sharp and lingering.

His chest rises slowly. Then falls. He presses the pad of his thumb against the bone of his knuckle, harder now. The pain anchors him. The ache tells him he is still standing.

He closes his eyes.

He can’t stand here much longer. Not like this. Not in the shape of the lie you almost uncovered.

You are dangerous.

Not because you conspire. Not because you stir rebellion.

No, you are dangerous because he loves you.

And that is something he can neither name–

–nor survive.

NORTHERN WING – 断ち音の間 (THE CHAMBER OF SEVERED ECHOES)

The chamber is cold.

Not the cold of weather, but of something older–something institutional. The kind that lives in stone. In walls that have seen too much and learned never to speak of it.

The hearth, unlit. The air dry. The curtains drawn tightly closed. There is no draft, no breeze–yet the chill moves through the room like a presence, a quiet sentinel breathing down the back of Nanami’s neck as he kneels.

He is dressed for formality today, forgoing his uniform of sky blue–he is dressed in crimson and black, gold trim glinting faintly where the lantern light finds it. The folds of his cloak settle around him like blood that’s already dried.

He kneels with one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed low, spine straight, shoulders still.

Tension coils beneath the surface of him, belying his facade of calm.

He can feel it. His body is betraying him in small, silent ways.

The quiet shifting of his jaw. The flex and curl of his right thumb, pressing against the bone of his knuckle again and again beneath the concealment of his sash. The slow ache behind his eyes–not from pain, but from the weight of holding back everything he is not allowed to say.

The Emperor has not spoken yet. Nanami does not look up.

The silence stretches. It always does. That is part of the theatre. A blade is sharpened by waiting.

And then, at last, the old man speaks.

“She is drawing too much attention.”

Nanami still does not lift his head.

The words come not as command, not as curiosity–but as condemnation. Quiet and bitter. An accusation carved into the bones of the room.

The Emperor’s voice continues, thinner than before but no less sharp. “When we sent her to the people, it was to reassure them. Not to elevate her.”

His breath catches before he speaks. Not from uncertainty, but control.

“She speaks carefully,” Nanami says evenly. “She has never implied–”

“Don’t play the fool.”

It is the Crown Prince who interrupts.

His voice is smoother than his father’s–younger, silk instead of gravel–but it cuts just the same. Laced with a different kind of venom. Colder. More polished. The tone of a man used to hiding knives behind wine and ceremony.

“You’ve heard what they call her.”

Nanami does lift his head now–slightly. Just enough for his golden eyes to rise, to meet the Prince’s.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch as he meets the Prince’s eyes.

“They call her what they see.”

It is not defiance. It is the truth.

The Prince’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns away. The movement is fluid, but it’s a retreat, in miniature.

The Emperor breathes again. A shallow, wheezing inhale.

“She will not be adored,” he says. His voice is like ash now. Bitter, brittle. “It must stop.”

Nanami’s shoulders tense, barely visible–but it is enough to pull faintly at the fabric of his uniform. He can feel it: the sweat cooling at the back of his neck. The burn of restraint behind his ribs.

“She is not defiant,” he says again. “She speaks plainly. She comforts without flattery. That is not sedition.”

The Prince steps closer. His steps echo–slow, deliberate. He circles behind Nanami like a lion might circle a chained dog, watching to see if the beast will snap its leash.

“You will curtail her appearances,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with weight.

“She will not speak without approval. She will not visit the barracks. She will not walk the gardens unless summoned. She will not attend another ceremony unless instructed.”

Each command hits Nanami like a blow to the chest.

Not because it’s hard to carry out, but because it means he’ll have to look you in the eyes when he does.

“She will remember,” the Emperor says softly, “that she is not to be worshipped.”

Not to be worshipped.

The words reverberate, low and cruel, like a sneer wrapped in silk.

Nanami’s hand clenches beneath the folds of his sash. He can’t help it.

The phrase lands on his skin like poison. And what’s worse–he knows why it unsettles him.

Because he has seen the people bow lower to you than to their ministers. He has watched farmers press their fingers to their brows in silent salute when you speak. He has felt the stillness that falls across a square when your voice carries across it–not because it’s loud, but because it’s true.

You don’t speak to be heard.

You speak to mean something.

And the people have noticed.

So has he.

And now they fear you for it.

They want you silenced not because you rebel, but because you resonate.

“She is your daughter,” Nanami says quietly, unable to stop himself.

The Crown Prince halts behind him. The air stills. The Emperor does not move.

“She is not my heir,” he replies.

There is no fury in the words. Only finality.

The Crown Prince steps forward, closer now. “You were placed at her side for this reason,” he says. “We trusted you to keep her within bounds.”

His tone is calm, but Nanami can hear the underlying tension. The dormant threat in the word trusted.

He remembers your voice–cool and low, just days ago:

I wonder sometimes, if you’re here because they trust you, or because they know I would.

The words cut through him all over again. He remembers the look in your eyes–the first flicker of betrayal. The soft wariness behind the shield.

He remembers that you are starting to suspect. And he remembers, too, that he has no defense if you ask outright.

His is your shadow. And your spy.

The thought coils through his gut like iron heated too long in the fire.

“You will obey,” the Emperor says at last.

And then, after a beat:

“Or you will be removed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. It is only for half a second, but in that half second, he sees you. Not as the Princess. Not as his charge, but rather as you are, the last time he walked behind you through the garden, your voice soft as the wind:

They heard truth. That is all.

And beneath it: the ache in your shoulders. The way your fingers brushed the petals of a blossom you would not let fall. The quiet hunger in your eyes, not for power–but for agency.

He opens his eyes again.

The room is still cold. His thumb presses once more against the bone of his knuckle, hard enough now to leave a faint ache.

And he speaks. Level. Controlled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The orders still echo in his ears as he walks.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

She will not speak without approval.

She will remember she is not to be worshipped.

You will obey.

His body carries him through the palace corridors, but his mind lags somewhere behind–dragging through the dust of that cold chamber, where two men who share your blood plotted to silence you like you were nothing more than a flame grown too tall in the wind.

His heart pounds louder with every step.

He tells himself to breathe. It doesn’t work.

By the time he reaches the east wing, the last of the sunlight has fled the windows. Only lantern light remains, flickering low along the corridor walls, bathing the tapestries in uneven shades of copper and shadow.

Your door is already open. That in itself is strange.

You never leave it open–not without cause.

Nanami approaches slowly, his boots nearly silent on the polished floor.

And then he sees you.

You stand just inside, beside the low table, dressed not for court but for evening–the gray robes again, soft and plain, bound neatly at your waist. Your hair is pinned loosely tonight, a single silver ornament glinting where the light touches it.

You turn when you hear him. Carefully.

Your expression is calm. But it is a crafted calm. Deliberate. Distant. As if you already know what he’s come to say.

“General Kento,” you greet, voice steady.

He bows his head. “Your Highness.”

You study him, not for the first time. Your gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on his face, then on the tension in his shoulders, the slight curl of his gloved fingers. Your eyes flick to the door behind him.

Then, with a breath softer than silk:

“Escort me to the garden.”

The request is quiet, but it’s not tentative. You aren’t asking for his opinion. You’re telling him what you want.

And until today, he would have obeyed without hesitation.

His throat tightens. The orders return like iron pressed to the back of his neck.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

His silence stretches.

You lift an eyebrow–slightly, elegantly. “General?”

Nanami breathes in, and the words burn on their way out. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

You don’t blink. He can feel your stillness intensify.

“I wasn’t aware I required your permission,” you reply.

Your voice isn’t sharpened, but the temperature of the air seems to drop around you all the same.

Nanami straightens. “It’s not a matter of permission, Your Highness. I have been instructed…”

He trails off.

Coward. Say it.

Your eyes narrow. “By whom?”

He hesitates. “The Emperor. The Crown Prince.”

A beat. Then another.

He watches it happen. The exact moment your suspicion becomes certainty.

Your chin lifts slightly, not in pride, but in that particular kind of restraint you wear when you’re swallowing something bitter. Your fingers curl at your sides–not in anger, but in calculation.

“I see.”

You turn away from him, walking toward the window. Your movement is graceful, unhurried, but there’s a coldness in the sweep of your robes, in the silence you drag behind you like a shadow.

You do not speak for a long time. Neither does he.

He can feel the entire weight of the space between you both widening like a chasm. Not in distance. But in silence. In what isn’t being said.

When you finally speak, your back is still to him.

Your voice is quiet. Almost too quiet.

“You used to tell me when something changed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough for guilt to fill every hollow place inside him.

“This change wasn’t mine to share.”

You turn to face him again. The lantern light catches your eyes. They shine like glass held over embers.

“I trusted you,” you say.

Three words. Nothing more. Not even a tremble in your voice, but he feels them like a sword to the gut.

He takes a half step forward before he realizes what he’s doing. He stops himself. His hands clench.

“I still protect you,” he says. And it sounds pathetic. Even to him.

Your lips part. Then close again. You don’t answer. You don’t have to, because this–this betrayal–isn’t about protection. Not anymore.

It’s about containment. And you know it.

“Is there anywhere I can go?” you ask, not looking at him now, but past him, toward the shadowed corridor.

Your voice is cold. Not cruel. But cold in a way he’s never heard from you before. It feels like ice filling the space where something used to be warm.

“Only within the east wing,” he says quietly. “For now.”

A pause.

You nod. Once. As if memorizing a fact you intend to use later. “Then I’ll remain here.”

Nanami doesn’t move. “Do you need anything?” he asks.

You turn back to your window. “No.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bow. He only turns and leaves.

The door closes softly behind him. And he does not return to his post immediately.

He leans against the outer wall just beyond your chamber, on hand pressed flat to the cool stone again. His breathing is ragged. Controlled. But only just.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t accuse him. That’s what made it worse.

Because silence, from you, was never apathy. It was final.

He slides down to sit just beneath the window where you still stand, listening to nothing and everything. Light flickers faintly through the paper panes above his head.

He hears no sound from inside. Only the wind outside, curling around the courtyard. And his own thoughts, loud and merciless.

She trusted you.

And you kept her caged.

Not with walls.

But with silence.

He closes his eyes.

He loves you. He knows that now.

And when you find out what else he’s kept from you–when you realize what he was sent to do–

You will never forgive him.

And he will not deserve it if you do.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

For three days, they do not speak unless required. And even then, it is never more than necessary.

Your voice, when it comes, is precise and polite. “General Nanami, the scrolls, please.” “You may inform the kitchen I’m ready.” “Escort me only to the corridor.” Each word clipped clean. Not cold. Worse–distant. Formal. Detached.

You say his title as if it were a stranger’s name. He does not correct you. Because he has no right to.

You have not asked what you suspect. You do not confront him. You do not press.

But that is your way. You do not speak until the blade is already at the throat.

You are quieter than usual, and that silence hangs between you both like smoke in a closed room–thick, invisible, and impossible to breathe around.

He watches you with care. Too much care. The way you avoid his eyes when you speak. The way your footsteps echo sharper on the stone. The way your hands, always still, now twitch ever so slightly when you are left alone too long in thought.

You are unraveling.

And it is his fault.

Not because you know it yet, but because he can no longer lie to you without trembling.

He moves like a man condemned.

Each morning, he wakes knowing he is the blade they placed behind your ribs. And each night, he dreams of your eyes the moment you will finally see it.

Still, he stands outside your chambers. Still, he walks three paces behind. Still, he listens for your breath when you fall asleep, so low and slow that only someone who listens because he loves you would notice.

He watches you guard your heart again.

And this time, he is not the one protecting it. He is the one it is being protected from.

It begins, as these things always do, in silence.

Not absence of sound–but the weight of sound unspoken. Of words withheld too long, stretched too tightly between two people who have stopped pretending not to know what’s coming.

The sun has already slipped beneath the spires of the palace, casting its final haze across lacquered rooflines like blood fading into silk. The air hums faintly with the heat still clinging to the stone, but it’s cooler here in the east wind. The wind picks up now and then, tugging gently at the banners above the arched walkway, making the garden lanterns tremble in their hooks.

Nanami steps from the outer corridor into the courtyard, boots landing soft as breath on the polished stone.

He sees you instantly.

You stand near the far edge of the garden, half in shadow, your robes tied high and tight at the waist–not for ceremony, but for movement. Your arms are crossed, sleeves gathered, your silhouette etched sharply against the fading gold of the sky.

You don’t move when he enters. Don’t move. But you know he’s there.

Everyone knows when Nanami enters a room. Not because he draws attention, but because he pulls it away–silence gathering around him like gravity, steady and still. And yet now, here, in this particular silence, he feels incredibly exposed.

Like a blade drawn too long from its sheath.

You turn. Slowly.

Your eyes find him at once. No hesitation. No warmth. Just clarity, and something far more dangerous beneath it.

Not suspicion. Certainty.

“General,” you say.

The title should be a tether. It feels like a sword at his throat.

“I’d like to walk.”

Your voice is soft, but deliberate. Your tone is the kind that offers no room for interrogation.

He opens his mouth.

The words come unbidden–you’re not permitted, it’s against orders, please don’t ask me–but they die before they can even reach his tongue. Because the way you look at him–the stillness of your body, the sharp set of your shoulders, the pale flame burning behind your eyes–

You are not asking. You are daring. And he cannot deny you.

Not here. Not now. Not with the edge of your trust already bleeding.

“I’ll escort you,” he says quietly.

The words taste like ash.

You turn and begin walking before he finishes.

He follows. One pace behind. Always behind.

You walk with him through the Garden of Tranquility, and it has never felt less deserving of its name.

The gravel path crunches softly beneath his feet, lined with wind-swept pines and ancient plum trees, their heavy blossoms falling like snow. Lanterns sway in the breeze, their light scattered across the stones like the shimmer of broken glass.

Nanami’s steps are steady. Trained. But inside, his heart slams against his ribs like a fist trying to escape. He wants to speak. To say something–anything–that might pull you back from the cliff you’re standing on.

But he knows better. This is no moment for half-truths.

You will not be softened.

You walk ahead, your back straight, head high. You don’t look at him. Don’t speak. But your silence is louder than any scream.

She knows.

And still, he cannot speak. Because what would he say? That he never wanted to be your leash? That he followed orders because he didn’t know he would fall for you? That he lied to protect you and now it’s too late to untangle the truth from the betrayal?

You would see through it. Of course you would.

You reach the koi pond–the same place where you had once asked him to pluck a blossom for you. Where your fingers brushed his hand and he felt, for one fleeting breath, like he was more than steel and silence.

Now, the pond lies still. The water is dark. The blossoms have begun to fall.

You stop at its edge. Nanami halts behind you.

You do not speak at first.

The air stretches taut between you both.

Then, finally:

“Tell me something, General.”

Your voice is low, even, but it cuts straight through him.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. His hands flex at his sides. He can already feel the shape of your next words.

You turn your head slowly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“Were you always meant to be at my side?”

His breath catches.

There’s no way to lie gently. Not now. Not with the fury already behind your question. And still, he remains silent.

You face him fully now. Moonlight casts pale silver across your cheekbones, your mouth, the line of your brow. Your eyes shine–not with tears. But with heat.

With rage.

The kind of rage that simmers not from hate, but from heartbreak.

“A guard,” you say, voice trembling now–not with weakness, but with force held back, “does not keep secrets from the one they protect.”

Your gaze sharpens.

“A spy does.”

The words strike. He flinches. Just barely, but you see it, and your voice sharpens in turn.

“You knew,” you breathe, stepping forward, “when they sent me to speak in the square. When the people began to listen. When my brother smiled too much and the ministers whispered behind curtains. You knew I was being used.”

He opens his mouth again. Still nothing.

You step closer. The distance between you and him is but a breath now.

“And all that time, you stood beside me. Said nothing. Watched.”

The fury is rising now. Your composure is cracking. Your control slipping.

“You let me trust you.”

Your voice falters. Breaks.

Nanami’s throat clenches. He steps forward. You see it. You react like he’s drawn his sword, and step back. Quick, sharp, deliberate.

“Don’t.”

One word. It stops him dead.

“Don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not if you’re going to lie again.”

The tremble in your voice is no longer hidden.

“I asked you once,” you say, your tone like splintered glass. “If you would stop me from doing something reckless. If I ordered you to let me go.”

Your eyes meet his–and they burn.

“You didn’t say then,” you whisper, “that you already had.”

The silence afterward is too long. Too loud.

Nanami wants to speak. He has to. But nothing he says will change what’s already happened.

You stare at him. Fury twists your shoulders tight, chin high, fingers curled in the fabric of your robe like you’re holding yourself together by will alone.

“I want the truth,” you say. Steady. Devastating.

And then, slowly–coldly:

“Tell me what I was to you, General.”

Not who.

What.

The garden holds its breath.

The koi pond ripples faintly, the surface catching fragments of moonlight, warped and trembling. Lanterns sway, their dim flames reflected in your eyes.

You stand before him like a blade–poised, honed, and finally unsheathed.

“Tell me,” you repeat, “what I was to you, General.”

Your voice is sharp as silk torn cleanly down the middle. Not soft. Not cold. Fatal.

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know how. Because if he says what’s true–that you were supposed to be a risk assessment, a liability, a volatile variable to be watched and restrained–he will kill whatever thread remains between you both.

And if he says what he feels–

It will come too late. Too hollow. Too selfish.

You stare at him, your hands now tighter than ever at your sides. Your fingers are shaking. Just barely, but he notices. It’s the first sign of breakage. Not weakness, but impact.

“You stood there,” you say, voice rising, “every day. You watched me breathe. You watched me bleed. You–”

Your words catch. You close your mouth, swallow hard, and speak again. Louder. Faster.

“You stood beside me when they sent me to speak to crowds I didn’t want to face. You stood behind me when they dressed me up and pushed me forward like a puppet. And when I asked you–when I begged you for the truth behind their silence–”

You stop again. Your eyes close. Just for a second.

When they open, they burn like fire trapped in glass.

“You said nothing.”

Nanami’s voice finally comes. Low. Hoarse.

“I wanted to protect you.”

Your breath stutters. “Protect me?”

“I never meant–”

“Never meant what?” you snap. “To deceive me? To report on me behind closed doors? To be the hand that held the chain around my throat?”

He flinches like you struck him. And in a way, you have.

“I never wanted this,” he says again, softer now. “I never wanted to be a part of what they–”

“But you were,” you spit.

The sound of it hits like thunder in the still garden.

“You were, Kento.”

He flinches at the name. Not because you say it–but because you use it now.

Weaponized.

“You knew what they feared,” you say. “You knew what they planned. And you said nothing.”

“I tried to keep you safe.”

You laugh. A single, bitter exhale. No humor in it.

“You tried to keep me quiet.”

The words strike deep. Not because they’re cruel. Because they are true.

Nanami’s hands clench at his sides. His chest feels too tight. His throat aches with all the things he never said, never let himself feel.

He looks at you now–not as a Princess. Not as his charge.

But as the woman he loves.

Your face is pale in the moonlight. Your eyes are fierce and wounded, rimmed in tears that haven’t yet fallen. Your jaw is clenched, proud. Unyielding.

She is beautiful.

And she is breaking.

Because of me.

“I didn’t want to report on you,” he says, each word pulled from his lungs like wire. “I didn’t want to contain you. I–”

Your voice cuts through his yet again.

“But you did.” Then, quieter, “You still do.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

“I disobeyed them,” he says slowly. “Every day, after I began to understand who you were. I lied to the Emperor. To your brother. I told them you were passive. Obedient.”

“And that makes this better?” you snap.

“No,” he says.

The word hangs in the air. Simple. Final.

“It doesn’t.”

You look away, shaking your head slowly, your hands still clenched.

“I trusted you,” you murmur again.

“I know.”

“No–you don’t,” you say, your voice rising again. “You don’t know what that meant.”

The air between the two of you is thick and unbearable.

“Do you know how many people I’ve trusted in my life?”

You hold up your fingers.

“Two.”

A beat.

“My mother. And you.”

Nanami sways. Just slightly, but he feels it. Like the ground has shifted underfoot.

You step forward again–not to close the distance, but to end it.

“You were supposed to be mine,” you say. “The one thing in that palace I didn’t have to question. The one person I could speak to without watching my own words.”

“I was,” he whispers.

“No.” You shake your head. “You were never mine. You were theirs. You were always theirs.”

Your voice is trembling now. Cracking. “I looked for you. When I didn’t trust the others. When I needed to feel like I wasn’t losing myself.”

“I saw you,” he says, desperate now. “I still do.”

You go still. “That’s what makes it worse.”

The silence that follows is absolute. No birds. No breeze. Only the soft plink of water at the koi pond behind.

He steps toward you. Very slowly. Your breath catches. You don’t move.

He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch you. He stops just short, because he knows–

If he touches you now, you will break in two.

And he might never forgive himself.

Instead, his voice drops, soft as crushed velvet. He says your name.

You close your eyes. When they open, they shine with unshed tears.

“I will never forgive you,” you whisper.

Your voice is soft. And final. And true.

Then you turn, and walk away.

Nanami doesn’t follow. He cannot. Not this time.

He stays in the garden long after you are gone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

The koi stir in the pond. The lanterns burn low. And behind his ribs, the ache blooms.

She trusted you.

And you destroyed her.

The part of him that was once only duty is gone.

Only love remains.

Too late. Too broken. Too silent.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

You do not summon him. Not that morning. Not the next. Not the one after.

And yet, he comes. Dressed as always in the azure-and-silver uniform of the Imperial Guard, his cape trimmed in gold, his sword polished, his gloves tight against his skin as if to contain everything he cannot.

He takes his place at your door at dawn, as he always has.

But this time, the light doesn’t reach him. He truly is a shadow.

The corridor outside your chambers is long and still. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and old parchment. Dust hangs unmoving in the sunbeams pouring through the high lattice windows. Servants pass him in silence, their eyes lowered. None dare to ask why the Princess has not stepped outside.

But they all feel it. That the air has changed. Not with noise. With tension. With silence sharpened into a deadly blade.

He does not knock. He does not ask to enter. He simply waits.

And behind the door, behind the carved lacquered panels, he knows–you are there. Awake. Alive. And keeping every breath from him like a secret.

It is the afternoon before the spring rains when you reappear in public.

You do not tell him you are going. The steward delivers the order in writing:

The Princess will make her appearance at the Temple of the Nine Banners to offer incense for the dying Emperor. She will wear silver, and she will not speak more than is required.

Nanami dresses for ceremony. He says nothing when he meets you at the gate.

You wear pearl-gray silk and a comb of white jade in your hair. Your sleeves trail like mist behind you as you walk, head high, eyes forward, a marble figure draped in the shape of poise.

And you never once look at him. Not as you walk the path lined with red-lacquered columns. Not as you kneel at the altar. Not as you rise, your offering made, the incense smoke curling like ghosts toward the temple eaves.

But he watches you.

Every step. Every twitch of your fingers. Every breath held just a moment too long.

You don’t falter. But he knows where to look now. He knows how to see you. And what he sees breaks him.

Not because you are angry. Because you are still. Because you have taken the pain he caused and locked it deep behind your ribs, behind a wall even he cannot scale. And you will carry it there, wordless and alone.

That night, the lanterns outside your quarters flicker in their brass hooks, dimming with the wind.

Nanami stands at his post, as he always has. But this time, he leans–just slightly–against the carved stone that frames the doorway. Not from fatigue, but from something heavier.

He cannot breathe the same way anymore.

Not here. Not knowing you are inside, one wall away, and will never ask for him again.

The old rhythm is broken. You used to step to the threshold before retiring, say his name low and quiet, ask some hypothetical question as if you weren’t speaking of yourself.

He used to wait for it. Used to watch you linger, your hand brushing the doorframe, as if considering something before retreating into the safety of silence.

But now? Now there is only distance.

The candlelight behind the paper screen is faint. He stares at it like he could will you into speaking. Into forgiving.

You do not come.

The silence that follows him is not empty. It is punishment.

Two days later, he escorts you to the Hall of Imperial Petitions for an audience.

Your steps are precise. Your hair is swept up in intricate coils held with ornate pins. The soldiers salute as you pass with him.

You return none of it.

You say nothing as you pass through the winding halls, past corridors lined with ancient murals, the tapestries whispering in the wind from the courtyard beyond.

Nanami walks behind you.

The space between you and him–always the same three paces–has never felt so far.

You do not falter, but your silence presses against his chest like a weight. Each step forward feels like an echo of the last time you turned your back to him–that final burning look in the garden.

He wonders if you will ever look at him again. Not with love. Just recognition. He wonders if you see him now the way you see the marble statues along the colonnade: unmoving. Unforgivable.

He returns to the barracks that night after midnight. The walls there are plain. Unadorned. The small oil lamp flickers in the corner.

He doesn’t remove his armor. He sits on the edge of his sleeping platform, still in full dress, the weight of it pressing into his spine.

He is not tired. Not even angry. He is–empty.

Like a blade that has snapped mid-swing.

His hands rest on his thighs. He stares at the floor for a long time. Then, finally, slowly, he pulls of his glove. His right hand. The one you touched first.

He stares at the creases in his palm, the slight ache in the knuckle from when he used to press it too hard out of habit.

It looks the same. He knows it’s not. Because you held it once. And now, he will never know if it could have meant something more.

He curls it into a fist. And bows his head.

He will not beg. He will not speak. But if you ever call for him again–just once–he will come.

Because the only thing left of the man they made him to be is the part of him that still kneels when you enter the room.

SOUTHERN WING – 昇旗の庭 (COURTYARD OF RISING BANNERS)

The bells do not ring when the Emperor dies.

There is no toll to mark the end of a reign. No voice raised in sorrow. No black banners descending like silk from the towers. No procession to march his body through the avenues he once claimed as arteries of divine rule.

Instead, the silence comes first. Not the reverent kind reserved for death. Not mourning.

The other kind. The kind that creeps. That folds into the stone.

The kind of silence Nanami knows from battlefields–when the wind dies before the arrows fall, when the enemy holds their breath just before they breach the walls.

He stands at the edge of the lower courtyard, beside the central plum tree, when he hears it.

Not an announcement. Not a whisper. Not even words. Just the absence of sound.

The servants that pass move too quickly. Too quietly. A steward drops a scroll and does not retrieve it. Two guards adjust their spears but avoid meeting each other’s eyes. The courtiers that were laughing in the shade an hour ago now speak in clusters, backs to the wind, heads bowed not in reverence but in calculation.

Something has ended, and no one dares be the first to name it.

The message finally reaches him by way of a junior officer from the western barracks. The boy is pale, breathing too fast.

“The Emperor,” he says, struggling to take a breath, “has passed.”

Passed. Not died. Not collapsed. Not gasped his final breath in the warmthless dark of his golden bed.

Passed. As if he drifted. As if power had not just been torn from the body of a dying god and given to something much colder.

Nanami nods once. There is nothing to say.

He watches the officer leave, vanishing into the turning tide of the court. Then, he looks upward, past the flowering trees and tiled roofs, to the upper balcony of the Tower of Jade, where he sees the Crown Prince–no, the new Emperor–draped in black and gold.

He is not weeping. He is not bowed in grief. He is standing at the edge of the railing, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the courtyards as if this had always been his palace, his court, his sky.

And perhaps it had.

Perhaps, Nanami thinks, this was always the ending the old Emperor was too proud to see.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE)

By the time Nanami returns to the eastern wing, the palace is no longer the one he knows. The very air feels heavier, like storm clouds pressing down, as if the palace itself senses the shift in power. The corridor–once echoing with laughter and the soft rustle of silk–now feel hollow, vast, and waiting.

He walks past columns carved with phoenixes, their eyes seeming to watch his every move. The scent of sandalwood is stronger here, laced with something bitter beneath it. Fear, perhaps. Or something like it.

The guards outside your chambers are no longer the same men. He notices immediately. Their stances are too sharp. Their gazes flick to him with veiled suspicion. He knows these are not your guards. They are not loyal to you. They are loyal to the new Emperor.

The lacquered doors are closed.

He does not knock. He waits, silent in the golden hush of evening, the lanterns painting the hallway in long strips of amber light. His heart beats slowly but heavily, like a drum sounded underwater. He doesn’t know what he wants from this moment. Not forgiveness. He does not deserve it. But perhaps acknowledgement. A glance. A word.

The hinges finally groan. The door eases open with quiet precision. You step out.

You wear ash-gray silk, unembellished and heavy. The fabric falls in clean lines, severe and cold, save for the single silver pin anchoring in your hair–a willow branch, delicate but unbending. Your eyes are lined not with kohl but with shadow. Your posture is flawless. Your presence, formidable.

To anyone else, you might look like a woman deep in mourning. But Nanami sees you clearly.

You are not broken. You are braced. You are a blade being unsheathed.

And still–god help him–he finds you beautiful.

Not the type of beauty spun from gold or draped in silk, but something truer. Elemental. Your silence is no longer passive. It is a choice. A weapon.

You meet his eyes. And he sees nothing there. No welcome. No fire. Not even anger. Only distance.

He bows low, lower than he has for anyone. He would only do it for you.

“Your Highness. The Emperor has summoned you to the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate.”

You step through the doorway, the scent of plum blossoms clinging faintly to your robes. Your movement is as fluid as always, but there is something much harder beneath it now–an edge that had not been there before.

“So he has,” you reply, your voice cool, each syllable shaped like glass.

He walks at your side, but every step feels like a widening chasm. The space between you is not physical. It is everything said and unsaid.

He wants to speak. God, he wants to say something. Anything to close the distance. To offer you a piece of the truth you can hold onto. Something to soften the shape of what he has become in your eyes.

But nothing comes. His mouth is full of ash.

He shakes his head slightly, not enough for you to notice. He must try.

“You should not be made to face him alone.”

You don’t look at him. “I am not alone. I am merely surrounded.”

The words strike deep. So precise. So sharp. You always knew where to aim.

Perhaps you do mean it. Perhaps you don’t. Either way, it lands the same.

You pass beneath the arch of the inner cloister, its painted dragons coiled in endless battle across the ceiling. The floor glows with the light of low lanterns, their flames flickering as you walk through, Nanami following, obedient.

You do not look up. You have seen these dragons all your life. You know exactly what they protect. And what they don’t.

Nanami’s voice is quieter now, heavy with the ache of words long held back. “If he speaks to you of marriage, or exile, or restriction–”

“He will,” you interrupt.

He stops walking. You don’t.

“Princess,” he pleads, the title feeling wrong on his tongue now, too formal, too far. His voice drops to something raw. “There are things I wish you would let me say.”

You slow, your profile cut in the flickering light. Then you turn your head, just enough to let your words slip free without the courtesy of a glance.

“Then you should have said them before.”

And you walk ahead, your silhouette stretching long and thin across the stone, haloed by the warmth of flame and the bite of silence.

He follows. He always does. But every step is agony now, each footfall echoing like the toll of a bell that marks the death of something too quiet to be given a name.

Ahead, the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate towers over you both, its gilded doors carved with phoenixes in flight, its high eaves braced against the sky.

It does not feel like a place of judgement. It feels like a place of endings. And the throne behind those doors–the one that once belonged to a dying man–is no longer empty.

The Hall of Heaven’s Mandate yawns open before you, vast and echoing, it’s gilded doors parting like a mouth preparing to swallow you both whole. Light streams through the high windows, stained crimson and gold, casting warped patterns across the polished floor like fire crawling up from the underworld.

Everything is still. Not reverent. Not quiet. Expectant.

Nanami steps in behind you, his boots soundless against the marble. You walk forward with the poise of a woman born to walk through fire. Each step is deliberate. The silk of your robes hisses with the movement, sharp as blade being drawn.

The new Emperor sits upon the throne. He is dressed in mourning black trimmed with imperial gold, a polished circlet resting on his brow like a cage. He lounges as though born to the seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest–not with impatience, but with calculation.

There are ministers arrayed along the sides of the hall. Silent. Watching.

You stop at the prescribed distance, and bow–just enough to be correct. Nothing more.

“Your Majesty,” you say.

Nanami remains a step behind you. His hands are folded behind his back, his gaze forward. But his focus is on you. Always you.

The Emperor smiles. It is a thin thing, lacking charm. “Sister. You are pale. Does grief weigh heavy upon you at last?”

“Grief,” you say, “is not a cloak I wear for display.”

The room does not move. Rather, it tightens.

The Emperor leans forward slightly. “Then let us speak plainly. The old world is gone. I am its successor. And you, sister, must now serve it.”

Your chin lifts. Barely. “Have I not always served the Empire?”

“You have served yourself,” he replies, a hiss. “And it has been tolerated. Because our father–for all his flaws–was patient. I am not.”

The words land like stones. Nanami does not move. But his jaw tenses. His thumb presses against the inside of his glove.

“You will be married,” the Emperor says. “The northern alliance demands it. The agreement has already been written. The envoy arrives within the next two weeks.”

You do not flinch. “To whom,” you ask, “am I being sacrificed?”

The Emperor smiles again. “To a man of title. Of strength. And of hunger. He will put a son in you by winter. And he will keep your tongue where it belongs.”

The room holds its breath. Nanami’s hand curls into a fist behind his back. Every instinct in him screams to move. To speak. To act.

But he cannot.

You do not look back at him. Your voice is steady.

“You will not live long enough to see that son born.”

A silence deeper than death spills over the hall. The Emperor’s gaze sharpens, but he says nothing. And Nanami, beside you, breathes in deeply–because in that moment, he realizes that you will never submit. Not to the Empire. Not to fear. Not even to him. And god help him, he loves you for it.

The Emperor does not rise. His hands–adorned with the fresh symbols of coronation, rings of authority pressed too tightly onto aging fingers–grip the lion-carved armrest of the throne with the weight of performance. The flick of his fingers is casual. Dismissive. Dripping with the confidence of a man who now believes himself untouchable and his sister nothing more than a broodmare.

“You may go,” he says, his voice calm. Too calm. As though you have already ceased to matter. As if you didn’t just tell him he would meet his undoing soon.

You incline your head, your composure absolute. There is no tremble in your hands, no flicker in your gaze. You are every inch the daughter of an emperor–even one now gone to ash. But beneath that veil of restraint, Nanami sees it. The steel. The fire carefully banked. The blade kept sheathed, for now.

You do not turn to him. Instead, your gaze shifts–sideways.

And then he sees the other guard. Not your attendant. Not your man. A stranger in imperial black, trimmed in gold. A Crown loyalist. One of the Emperor’s chosen shadows.

Nanami’s replacement.

“He will escort you back,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with the sound of metal drawn across cold marble.

Nanami doesn’t move, but something inside him fractures. Not with a sound, but with a certainty.

You offer no protest. You don’t question the command. Your silence, as always, is a deadly thing. You simply turn. Walk.

Past Nanami. Without a glance.

Each step is flawless. Fluid. This shimmer of your robe is like wind across frost. You walk like you have already buried every illusion you once held. And you do not look back. Not once.

The guard followed you like a shadow born from a different sun.

The doors close. Their great weight echoes through the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate, reverberating through stone and silence like a slow heartbeat.

Nanami stands alone, the ministers having filed out after the princess.

The quiet that follows is profound. It is not peace. It is aftermath.

The room is too bright. Too polished. Every gilded edge shines like a lie.

The new Emperor does not rise immediately. He watches Nanami with the faint smile of a man who believes himself already victorious. When he finally stands, he descends the dais slowly, like a man descending from divinity to offer wisdom to a lesser being.

“You care for her,” he says. Not a question.

Nanami remains motionless, staring straight ahead. He does not speak. He does not need to. The absence of a response says everything.

The Emperor circles him now, like a wolf circling a tethered beast. “You were placed at her side to report, to restrain, to remind her of her limits. Not to fall under her spell.”

His voice lowers, dripping with distaste. “Not to watch her like she was something sacred.”

Nanami breathes in. The air tastes wrong.

The Emperor stops before him, just shy of confrontation.

“You disobey in silence, General. In stillness. In all the little ways you think go unnoticed. But I notice.”

Nanami’s fists curl behind his back, beneath his cape. His shoulders are tight, rigid with effort. The fabric of his gloves strains against the pressure of his grip. He holds every breath in his chest like a dam.

“She will be married,” the Emperor says, more softly now, but no less threatening. “To a man with teeth. A man who will make her pliable. Who will teach her the humility our father failed to instill.”

The words are meant to provoke. They succeed. Nanami’s jaw tenses. His eyes narrow, fractionally.

But he does not speak. Because if he speaks now, it will not be words. It will be war.

The Emperor leans in. “And if you interfere–if I catch even a whisper of hesitation in you again–I will have you executed. Quietly. Without spectacle. You will vanish like smoke. And she will never even hear your name again.”

Nanami does not flinch. He bows. But it is not submission. It is ritual. It is armor. It is the final breath before battle.

He turns and leaves.

Each step is deliberate. Controlled. Every footfall echoes louder than the last, because something in him is shattering.

No. Not shattering–changing.

The oath he took to the Emperor died with the man now buried in a sealed crypt. He does not serve this new tyrant. He does not serve this court of jackals and parasites.

He serves the Empire. And you–

You are the Empire.

In your silence, there is vision. In your poise, there is power. In your defiance, there is a future worth bleeding for.

He will not let you be dragged away, married off, shackled like livestock sent to secure borders.

You are not a pawn. You are the blade. And he is no longer the leash. He is the shield.

Even if it costs him his life.

A/N: we love a yearner in this house (art by ykRRR23 on X)

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