#invoice reader

[thetorturedpoetsdepartment]

hey guys. what the fuck.

[lazyjellyfish300]

that o was crazy where am i 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

@sugurusangxl 💕

⋆˚࿔ OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR — artist! geto suguru

SUM. Going from being your lover last week to not knowing your name this week.

CONTENTS. 18+ contents, MDNI. 7k words. x fem! reader. non canon compliant/au. smut. angst. amnesia. lovers to strangers. inappropriate use of paint. 69. cunnilingus. face fucking. spanking. unprotected p in v. fingering. missionary. doggy. cum eating. creampie. switching. use of pet names.

A/N. twas truly on a geto run last year. positive comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

Almost every artist's dream is to create a piece that resembles one that stands proudly in museums, the one bewitching masterpiece that garners the attention of everyone around it. That attracts attention the way a light beckons a moth.

Or at least, that's what Suguru had been trying to achieve through the countless doodles and paintings that he'd made throughout college. Using cheap colors that he'd bought at a bargained price after working too many hours at a job that paid too little.

A number of sketchbooks stuffed into a drawer, each of them offering a glimpse into what lingered behind his subconscious. The gorgeous aspects of life that he could only hope he was able to encapsulate through his work and the more.. nasty aspects.

And now that Suguru had all the art supplies that he could dream of (and more), he couldn't bring himself to actually draw something. The cabinets in his office were filled up to the brim with different pigments, oils and watercolors, blank canvases. All just simply begging to be used as the days passed by. "I'll do it tomorrow," he assured himself every time throughout the week after when after that he passed the closed office door.

After many many tomorrows, Suguru finally decided to step into the room. His movements were slow and deliberate as he prepped his workspace, adjusting all the brushes to be lined up against each other uniformly. As if the slightest displacement of his brushes would be enough to get him to mess up the work he'd been planning to do. After rearranging for what seemed to be the hundredth time, Suguru decided to pick up one of the brushes.

Just to firmly grasp it in his hand, the plastic digging into his palm. Standing completely and utterly still.

Suguru could feel himself slowly start his descent into madness the longer that he stood in front of the empty canvas with a paintbrush in hand, his paints starting to dry out with every minute that he was still. He'd been stuck in a creative rut for the past couple weeks, wanting to put one of the many ideas that roamed freely in his head onto the canvas without actually being able to. It was like his mind went black the second he was ready.

The once bright sunlight that'd been peering in through the windows had now started to dim down, leaving behind a shadow that covered a majority of the room. A shadow that would surely ruin Suguru's work if he were to get started now. Surely. That's what he told himself when he decided to call it quits for the day, untying his apron and hanging up on the coat rack at the back of the room.

Even so, he couldn't help himself from walking back over to the canvas. Hoping that some surge of inspiration would come to him—the same inspiration that he'd sacrificed nights of sleep long ago just to be able to create a piece to his liking. The type of inspiration that deeply embedded itself into his brain, begging to be put onto the canvas. Begging to be executed. Begging to be seen.

You stood by the door, quietly making your way into the room to where he stood. "What're you up to?" You whispered, your lips hovering above his ear while your arms were wrapped around his lower stomach from behind. Suguru melted into your touch automatically, his eyes fluttering shut. You'd distracted him—that much was certain. But that seemed to be exactly what he needed right now. Allowing himself to get out of his head.

"Staring at an empty canvas and hoping it magically turns into a masterpiece. You, pretty girl?" Suguru turned to face you, his hands instinctively resting on your hips. "Staring at an artist hoping he magically makes a masterpiece."

"With you in the room, it'd be a hard task not to create a masterpiece."

"That's what I was going for. Been told I'm an excellent muse."

"My excellent muse." Your lips connected with Suguru's in a span of seconds, your eyes fluttering shut as the taste of him completely invaded your seconds. One of your hands reached back to the mess that he'd raked his fingers through countless times, holding a fistful of his hair to pull him closer to you. The exchange was something like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.

And in the midst of kissing you, a lightbulb went off in Suguru's head. The first bit of inspiration that he's gotten since entering the room nearly three hours ago. "There's something in that big brain of yours?" Your question drew out a laugh from him, the small huff of air hitting the side of your neck. "Something like that, yeah. I need your help with it, pretty girl."

Suguru taped piece after piece of white paper together—completely covering the pristine brown floors of his studio. He knew damn well he wouldn't hear the end of it from you if he ended messing up the floors with the little experiment that he had in mind. You could only stare from the doorway with your arms folded, trying to decipher what he was hoping to achieve.

"Come here, please," Suguru gestured for you to join him once the pieces were secured onto each other. You joined him once the floor, watching as he slipped off his shirt with ease. Your clothes ended up on the floor in record time, watching as Suguru grabbed some acrylic paint bottles from one of the overflowing cabinets. "Normally acrylic's a pain in the ass to work with since it dries so fast but it should be fine."

"Should be fine for what, exactly?" Your head cocked to the side, watching as he took off the plastic wrap around the cap. Suguru looked over at you with a sheepish expression, hesitating before answering your question. "Just hear me out," Suguru's hands ran down your bare thighs in some half-assed attempt to soften the blow, "I was thinking we could put some paint on us and y'know.. have sex on the canvas."

Oh.

"That's it?" You retorted, having to stifle a laugh.

Suguru's hands stilled on your thighs, looking over at you with a half glare on his face, "I nearly had a heart attack trying to ask you that and you're laughing?"

"Well, yeah. I was expecting something worse, to be honest," Before the laugh you were holding it in escaped your lips, a spurt of paint landed on your stomach. A small gasp left your lips, grabbing the nearest paint bottle and aiming straight at Suguru. "Not the h-"

"Yeah, yeah, not the hair," you finished for him, covering a majority of his chest and neck in green paint. You weren't sure who even ended up winning the fight between the two of you, the two of you nearly covered from head to toe in several layers of drying paint. "Ready to admit defeat?" You prodded with a teasing smile on your face, hovering just above him.

A teasing smile that was wiped from your face within a span of what seemed to be two seconds. "I thought you were the one about to admit defeat."

Suguru rested above you, his hair tickling the sensitive skin of your neck when he lowered himself down to press sloppy kisses in whatever spots he could reach. In whatever spots he could leave a hickey only for his eyes to see. His teeth nibbled at your collarbone, his lips enclosing around the skin and sucking. Treating you like his very own canvas, painting your skin in a mix of small bites and his teeth marks.

"Get on top of me, pretty girl," Suguru's hair splayed out against the canvas, the golden hue of the sunset hitting him perfectly from the window when he laid down. You were about to sit down on his lap when he cleared his throat, "Not like that. Turn around for me."

"Su-Suguru," your breath hitched when you felt his teeth bite down onto your inner thigh just as you barely adjusted, his lips wrapping around the supple skin to leave a mark on you with something other than paint. Suguru kissed his way up to your clit, giving it a chaste kiss before moving back to your inner thigh. Repeating the process until a soft groan left your lips, your hips wiggling back against his mouth.

"Doesn't this defeat the purpose of the paint all over us?" Your words came out in a breathy whisper, suddenly becoming hyperaware of the drying paint on your skin. Suguru squirted some of the paint onto his hand, bringing his hand to your ass cheek. Squeezing the flesh in between his fingers, a sharp SMACK following. Leaving a yellow handprint behind.

"Are you complaining, princess?" Suguru asked in a taunt, the tip of his tongue tracing against your folds, "Plus, we're mixing the colors together. Variety and all."

Couldn't really argue with that logic. Not that you'd even begin wanting to argue—the tip of his sharp tongue rolling against your throbbing clit.

Suguru's lips enclosed around one of your slick folds, his eyes shut in bliss as he gave it the sloppiest French kiss that you'd seen in your life. "So good, wanna stay like this forever," Just one taste of you had the man intoxicated. Suguru spat up into your cunt, his tongue mixing it in with your slick.

"Wanna fucking drown in your pussy, lemme do that. Please, please," incoherent babbles spilled from his lips, begging for.. you weren't even sure what. "Sugu, don't stop," your moans only encouraged him, your nails digging into his thighs when he pushed a thick digit inside of you. Slowly pushing it in and out of you, his tongue swirling around your clit just as slow. "F-Faster, baby. Please."

The baby was almost enough to get the last bit of his remaining composure to crumble—another one of those sweet whines escaping his lips. Even so, he was determined to tease you, "You sure you can take it?"

"Y-Yes, yes, fuck yes, faster," you felt like a bobblehead with the way you were nodding. Suguru's finger curled inside of you, hitting your g-spot when he pulled it out of you. "Since you were nice about it," Suguru's lips wrapped around your cunt, his tongue swirling against the nerves while another finger pushed inside of you. He moved the two in a scissoring motion, working your walls open slowly.

Your thumb and pointer wrapped around the tip of his cock, your other paint stained hand wrapping around the base. Just the slightest bit of contact and Suguru was already bucking his hips into your hand, a groan leaving his glistening lips. "Please, need you," he babbled, pulling away from your sensitive cunt. You simply traced one of the veins on the side with your fingertip, your touch featherlight.

"What do you mean? You have me, with my hand wrapped around your cock. Be more specific," you executed the clueless act almost perfectly, a borderline whine leaving Suguru's lips. From desperation. From need. From how much he was starting to like when you teased him like this. "Need your mouth on me, pretty. Your teasing's too much."

"Your fault for making it so easy," you drawled out, your tongue darting out. Tasting the precum that leaked out his reddening tip. Your thumb swiped against his cockhead, smearing the mixture of his pre and your spit around it like makeshift lube.

"F-Fuck, just like that," Suguru let out a groan into your cunt, the vibrations shooting up all the way up your spine. You slowly began bobbing your head, your cheeks hollowing out as you tried to take more of his thick cock in your mouth. Drool leaked from the corners of your lips, some of the paint that managed to get onto your chin dripping onto the paper underneath. "Lemme fuck your face, princess. Please, please."

"Just. Like. That," his words were punctuated with his hips snapping up into your mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You were left a gagging mess, your eyes starting to water from the sting. If Suguru could see you, you were certain he'd make some stupid comment about how good you look.

And almost as if he'd read your thoughts, "B-Bet you look so pretty gagging. So so pretty taking my cock."

"And I bet you'd look better with your mouth on my pussy instead of teasing," you clicked your tongue, your lips wrapping around the sides of his cock. Slowly rubbing them against his shaft, your hand going down to his balls.

Suguru had been putty in your hands long ago—but the feeling of your hand on his balls only reaffirmed that fact. Your fingers gently rolled against his sac, each of your movements completely in tandem with your mouth. Almost like a synchronized dance. "S-shit, pretty," Suguru's moans were muffled, his nose deep inside of your cunt.

Suguru's balls started to grow heavy underneath your fingertips, strained gasps coming out of him. "S-Stop," you pulled away when you heard Suguru's words, your brows pulling together.

"You okay? We can stop if you want," you assured him, moving to get off him. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you still against him. Suguru didn't move from his spot, his head laying back against the paper in some attempt to catch his breath.

"No, no, nothing like that," Suguru let out a shaky laugh, his words making relief crash over your body like a wave. "Just- You almost made me cum."

"Is that a bad thing?" While your words were innocent, you looked anything but. Looking at you was akin to looking at a succubus incarnate. A succubus that Suguru wouldn't necessarily mind submitting to if it came down to it.

"No. Just wanna do it inside of you instead."

"A true poet. You should consider that as a career," a short laugh left your lips. The sound turning into a moan when Suguru smacked your ass again—this time with red paint. The previous yellow on his hand mixed in, leaving an orangey red tint behind. "And you should consider being a comedian."

Suguru shifted the two of you, having you underneath him yet again. His hand wrapped around his cock, pressing it against your cunt and swiping his shaft up and down your folds. He looked over at you—seeing the way you bit down on your lip to keep yourself quiet. Not that it'd mattered, your pussy couldn't exactly lie the same way that you could.

Your walls clenched around pure air—your dripping pussy coating his shaft with each and every swipe. One of his hands moved to cradle your cheek, tenderly. He moved his thumb to where leftover tears remained, wiping them away with one shift motion. The action was meant to be sweet, loving—and yet it was completely betrayed by the shit-eating grin on his face.

Suguru was completely shameless in sticking his thumb in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it while he licked away your salty tears. All the while he maintained eye contact with you.

"O-Oh fuck!" Suguru reveled in the sharp gasp that left your lips when he pushed the tip of his cock inside of you, your mouth left agape. He leaned down, pressing his lips against your own. Unlike the other kisses, this one was more desperate. More needy. His teeth clashed against your own, your tongue moving against his own messily. Just needing to have him close to you.

"There we go, that's it," Suguru purred in your ear, studying each one of your reactions. Watching as you squirmed the further that he pushed his cock inside you. He stilled his movements, your walls tightly clenched around his cock. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't.

"Take it so well, you were meant for me. All of you," Suguru's lips moved down to your breast, his paint-covered hands staining the skin even further. His tongue swirled around your nipple, the tip prodding against the hardening buds. "Could never get enough of you. Never want to get enough of you," his babbles served to distract you from the slight sting between your thighs, your hand intertwining in his hair. Getting paint on it despite your previous promise.

"You can move," you assured him, his hips snapping into you almost immediately. Suguru's head hung low, already getting lost in your cunt one thrust in. "So good, so perfect," He panted, his thrusts starting off slow and shallow. Getting you more and more comfortable with each one. One of his hands reached out to grab your own, calloused fingers intertwining with your own. He brought your hand to his mouth, gently pressing a kiss.

Suguru's thrusts began to grow faster—meaner. "S-So deep, Sugu," you breathed out, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "Yeah? You can take it, though. Can't you?" He repeated the same words from earlier back to you, watching your eyes glaze over with lust. Rolling back with each punishing thrust. The sound of skin against skin resounded throughout the room, paint splashing against each other.

"Take it so well, knew you could," Suguru disentangled his fingers from your own, moving his hand towards your clit. He slowly began rubbing circles against the bud, your legs starting to quiver from the overwhelming stimulation. It felt like too much, it didn't feel like it was enough. You didn't know what to ask for. "Please," you managed to get out, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

"I know, I know. I got you," and even though the ask didn't seem that coherent to you, Suguru seemed to have gotten it immediately. His fingertips sped their pace up on your clit, your walls clenching around him. Your toes curled against the paper, that all too familiar coil building up in your lower tummy. "Close, close," you chanted like a mantra. Suguru's fingers continued, pushing you towards your orgasm.

Your walls clenched around his shaft, your orgasm hitting you like a wave when you unclenched. Your release covered his shaft, your folds, and some of it managed to drip down to the canvas. Messing up the messy artwork even further. Suguru pulled his fingers away from your clit, bringing them up to his lips with your slick glistening against his digits.

And just like he'd done with your tears, Suguru completely licked his fingers clean. "Fuckkk, you're so good to me," he groaned out, the taste of you immediately infiltrating his taste buds. The only thing left when Suguru pulled his fingers out was his own spit.

"Come on, get the canvas all nice and covered," Suguru helped you get on your stomach, your back arched and your ass up in the air. Your pussy still wet from your previous orgasm. You rested your elbows onto the paper below you, supporting your weight while Suguru smacked your ass with the tip of his dick. "Got so lucky with you," He mused out loud, sounding completely entranced.

Suguru pushed his cock inside of you, filling you up inch after inch. "That's my little Picasso," he teased, watching you put some more paint onto your hands. His hands gripped your hips, his cock pushing deeper inside of you from this angle. The ridges on his shaft brushing up against your g-spot, brushing up against every right spot. All you could feel was him, him, him.

Your fingers laid across the paper, tainting the white paper below you in a mixture of colors. Drip. Drip. Drip. You weren't sure if that was the paint or your pussy at this point. Probably both. "F-Fuck Suguru, don't stop," you moan out, your cheek resting against the paper underneath. Suguru's grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing sloppier and sloppier by the second.

"N-Not gonna stop until my cum's dripping out of you," Suguru practically whined, completely and utterly pussy-drunk. Your walls clenched involuntarily, something Suguru couldn't have missed even if he wanted to. "Tightened up so fucking much. That's exactly what you want, my cum filling you up?"

"Mhm, please. Fill me up," your whines sounded like a melody in his ears, a melody that he'd never grow tired of. Your tight cunt was milking his cock for everything it had, gripping around him tightly like a vice. Suguru's balls twacked against your cunt with each mean thrust, each thrust sloppier than the last. Like he just needed to be inside you—no matter how.

Ropes and ropes of cum painted your cunt white as he came, his breathing ragged. You felt so full. It was so much cum—the sticky substance dripping down your thighs. Suguru's mouth instantly went to your pussy, licking away his cum that dribbled down your folds. Pushing the remainder in with his fingers before allowing himself to lay down next to you.

The two of you laid still on the canvas with dry paint coating the two of you from your cheeks to your other set of cheeks. You'd ended up splattering more paint on each other than on the paper below you. The sun outside had set, leaving only the sound of cicadas outside and moonlight filtering in through the window. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you albeit for the sound of your quick breaths.

Suguru had been to copious amounts of art showings and galleries throughout the course of his career—seen all different kinds of things. Sculptures, oil paintings, photographs, etc. Some of them taking him a second glance to try to see the meaning while some were effortless in the way that they presented their beauty. But somehow all those paintings seemed to dim in comparison to you in this moment.

You in all your post orgasm glory—with beads of sweat dribbling down your forehead, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, your inner thighs shaking from the after shocks and covered with his semen. A view that he couldn't begin to replicate even with the world's most expensive paintbrushes, the most expensive canvas.

No matter how many times you told Suguru that a painting he'd done of you was nothing short of extraordinary, he couldn't help but feel as if something was missing. As if he couldn't capture your beauty in all its essence. Whether it be that your nose ended off balance by one half-inch, one of your eyes ended up slightly more crooked than the other. Nothing seemed to really encapsulate what he wanted to portray onto the canvas.

But the work that lay below you almost expressed you in a way that he could only dream of achieving in this lifetime—expressing you in one of the rawest forms possible. In pure bliss and ecstasy. Pure bliss and ecstasy that he'd been responsible for.

Suguru was nothing short of gentle, reverent when he swiped the washcloth across your paint covered skin. Wiping away all the dry pieces that started to flake off. "Nothing short of being the perfect muse," He spoke in a way that made it seem like the words were meant just for your ears. Suguru pressed a kiss on your shoulder, his lips trailing a path down to your back.

"All I did was have sex with you on top of a piece of paper," you responded, turning around to face him. His hands immediately found your waist, pulling you all that much closer to your body until you were chest to chest. "Maybe. But I've never felt this surge of inspiration before. All because of you, beautiful."

Seeing the final piece hanging up on the wall of his studio, you almost couldn't help but think that it was disorganized chaos. That it was just splatters of paint showcasing what the two of you had gotten up to just the night prior. "I know what you're thinking, but y'know how art critics are. Chances are that they'll enjoy this piece more than any of the others I've done," Suguru spoke up, standing next to you as he looked up at the painting.

"Even if they don't, thank you for indulging me. Don't think I could forget about this painting even if I tried," Suguru wrapped his arms around your waist from behind you, resting his head on your shoulder. You leaned back into his touch almost instinctively, staring at the painting for a bit longer. All the nonsensical shapes and splatters on the wall slowly starting to become something beautiful—something made out of love.

And enjoy it they did. Not one day passed by since Suguru submitted the painting to be hung up in several art showings where he didn't get a call with some offer. Each of them going higher and higher, each caller trying to outbid the last. Coming back to him with a bigger and better offer, all for the chance to see the painting the two of you made. Nothing at all like the days of being a starving artist, living off ramen and a dream.

Suguru's career had been built from the generous donations from coffee shops around the Tokyo area that were willing to pay for a couple of his pieces, of maintaining relationships with artists he didn't talk to for more than once in college to gain some kind of connections. It felt bizarre—having people practically want to display his work for the equivalent of a down payment on a house. Not only from the Japan area, but a couple galleries from overseas.

"I'll see you when I get back, okay? I love you," You were barely half awake, barely registering Suguru when he moved to press his lips against your forehead. He'd barely gotten of the shower from what you could tell, wet hair strands tickling your face and the smell of amber cologne filling up your nose.

"Love you too. Fly safe," you mumbled back in response, or at least you'd made the attempt to do so. Hopefully he heard. In a span of mere seconds, you'd pulled the blankets back over your body and went back to sleep.

For the second time that morning, you were woken up from your sleep. Only this time it wasn't the feeling of Suguru's lips against your skin, rather the shrill sound of your phone beside you. A rather rude awakening. You rubbed your eyes, sitting up in bed and clearing your throat in all attempt to make it sound like you didn't wake up two seconds ago. Picking your phone up, you were met with the sight of an unknown number.

You'd grown wary to answering unknown numbers—whether it be from a multitude of spam calls throughout your day or one of Suguru's fans that found your contact information. You couldn't really begin to explain it, but something, something, compelled you to answer the call at the third ring. "Hi, we're calling from Tokyo General Hospital. You were listed as Geto Suguru's emergency contact."

If you weren't awake before, that greeting was enough to wake you up. "That's me. Is everything okay?" You felt goosebumps all over your arms, a bad feeling sinking down into your very bones. The person on the other line kept talking—the words not registering inside of your head just yet. He was supposed to be on a plane, maybe on his layover. Throughout the call, you could only pick up certain words. Accident. Critical condition. Stable for now.

Rushing over to the emergency room in nothing but your pajamas and a pair of bunny slippers. "H-Hi, I got a call," you took a moment to catch your breath, your knuckles gripping the front desk. Forcing yourself to try to calm down somewhat. Trying to inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Despite that every breath only seemed to be wearing you down even further.

"I'm here about Geto Suguru. You just brought him in," you managed to get out, your fingers anxiously tapping against the counter. Every second that the nurse spent typing on the computer felt like a second too long.

"He's currently in emergency surgery. The waiting room's in the fourth floor," the nurse finally spoke up after what seemed to be an eternity. "Thank you," your words came jumbled up in a rush, turning around and speed walking towards the elevator. The stench of antiseptic filled your nostrils as soon as you stepped out into the fourth floor, a grim feeling settled into every crevice of the halls.

The clock on the wall ticked by slowly, marking each second almost painfully. Each second marking someone being brought into the world, someone being taken away from the world. Marking tears of agony, dispair, joy, and relief. Your brain continued to spiral every time a doctor came out of the surgical wing—giving you the briefest glance before going over to talk to someone else.

A wisdom teeth removal without anesthesia would've been a more welcome thought than the unbearable waiting.

Despite his farewell, the next time that you saw Suguru wasn't at the airport after the art show that would make his career skyrocket. With a smile on his face when he looked at you, like you held the universe in the palm of your hand. Like you were the only thing really worth looking at. But instead, you had to settle for seeing him in a hospital bed.

You could practically see the gears turning in Suguru's head in some attempt to recognize just where exactly he knew you from, where he'd seen you before. Almost like one of the statues that were around his studio, you stood completely still. You gave him your name after a nod from the doctor and crossed your fingers in the pocket of your pajama pants, waiting for some kind of sign that he knew you.

That he remembered the hour long conversations between you, the feeling of your skin underneath his own, that he at least knew he loved you. The action was for naught, however. Panic slowly began to settle in Suguru's features, his arms straining against the needles attached. His face was cold, detached, his finger pointing towards the door. "Leave!" even with the breathing tube down his throat, you at least made out the command.

Before Suguru ended up ripping all the different IVs out of his arm, you made your way out of the room. Standing by the door, almost like a puppy who'd just been kicked out to the curb. Looking through the small window, you could see that Suguru was still on high alert. His eyes darted around the room, the two nurses attempting to restrain him starting to visibly struggle.

His shouts bled through the thin walls, "Leave! Leave!" Until the room went completely silent in a span of seconds, his panicked breathing starting to even out on the monitor. "You're free to come at another time," the doctor offered a sheepish smile, handing over a guide. How to deal with a family member with amnesia. The smiles on the front page only served to mock you even further.

You opened up the door to his side of the closet when you got home, the silence of the room almost overwhelming. It was never this quiet. You'd grown used to hearing Suguru's footsteps echo in his office while he paced around—convincing you that it got the ideas flowing (spoiler alert: it rarely did). The scent of his body wash and cologne covered the room like a thick blanket from his shower this morning.

Looking around the vast space, you could see a couple of his shirts with the color faded out with years and years of use, of wash, and of love. And with that, you noticed a couple shirts hanging up with the tags still attached to them. Shirts that he'd probably been intending to wear for future art showings. Would he even dress the same? Smell the same? The uncertainty chipped away at your composure, leaving you gripping one of his old band tees at the back of his closet.

You sprayed his cologne first thing in the morning throughout the following week, something that you could hold onto for the time being. The thought of packing up his clothes was one that persisted the longer you kept staring at the untouched articles, yet you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Every time you set out with a box on the floor—you couldn't muster to even get his shirts off the hangers.

It felt wrong, in a sense. To almost be mourning him despite that he was well in the hospital. Doing better than expected, even. You couldn't help but feel like you've lost him completely, though. That Suguru Geto was completely gone after that accident. You recognized his body, the one who'd held your own during cold nights. But you weren't sure who he was, not like you used to. You didn't know who he was going to become.

You willed yourself to keep the same enthusiasm as the doctors had been trying to instill, deciding to pack a couple of his essentials in a bag before visiting him. If he was anything like the Suguru you knew, he was probably desperate to wash his hair with something other than cheap travel sized shampoo.

After days and days of avoidance, Suguru finally stood in front of the mirror and looked into it. At first, all he could see was just how weak he looked. How sickly pale he looked against the bright fluorescent lights, how sunken his cheekbones were, how tired he looked. Even if he didn't know who he was supposed to be—the sight was anything but welcome.

And then Suguru looked at the mirror. Really looked into it. Desperately seeking for some kind of hint of the person that people were expecting him to be. The one he'd seen various art critics write about in overlooked magazines that were around the hospital lobby. Only to come up completely and totally empty. With not one single recollection of what happened before the car accident.

Staring at himself in the mirror was like staring at a hollow shell of himself—a corpse with his face, his body, his hair, his voice, that held no memory of the person that he was used to be. A body without a brain. Who and what was he supposed to be acting like? As much as Suguru stared at himself in the mirror, he couldn't find the answer that he so desperately craved.

The canvas and paint set that you'd left behind nearly a week ago remained untouched in the hospital bed stand, still in their original package. Suguru reluctantly pulled it out, setting it down on his lap. "Stupid thing," he muttered to himself, prying open the plastic and looking over at the palette of colors. After facing the same four grey walls of the hospital room, he found himself staring at them for more than necessary.

But even while Suguru held the paintbrush in his hand, the thought that he was even doing that wrong lingered in the back of his brain like a plague. Every line that was sprawled onto the canvas felt like a mistake, the smallest divergence in between the two points almost made him throw out the canvas out the damn hospital window and never paint again. Everything that he was supposed to be, he simply was not.

A deep breath left his lips, forcing himself to calm down before he went through another spiral in less than ten minutes. Suguru's grip on the paintbrush was unsteady, unpracticed, each of his strokes either coming out too wet or too dry. Lighter colors were starting to mix with the darker colors, turning into a shade of mud brown. And yet, this was the calmest he's felt in a while. The calmest without any sedatives, anyways.

The painting didn't come out to be anything significant—anything that he deemed worth putting into an art museum. But the process of making his splotch of colors was an escape from trying to force himself to be someone he wasn't sure he could ever return to. The one time he didn't feel like he was disappointing someone since waking up. The short moment of bliss was broken when Suguru heard the door knob jiggle, his eyes darting around the room.

Looking for any place where he could hide the canvas. Anyplace where the poor excuse of his work couldn't be found—where he wouldn't get someone's hopes up. Opening up the drawer next to him, he decided that was a decent enough hiding spot. Suguru turned the canvas to face down, the paint smearing down onto the scratched wood when he placed it down. Completely ruining the worthless piece.

"You can come in," Suguru called out, watching as you came in with the grocery bag in tow. Looking at you was nothing less than looking at another stranger—nothing different than one of the nurses who came in to poke more needles into his arm.

"Hey Suguru," you popped your head in through the door, almost expecting for him to have that sudden moment like they did in telenovelas. That just one look, one kiss, one touch would bring back the man that you loved. Waiting for a moment that didn't come no matter how much or how many times you wished for it. He gave a nod, simply just acknowledging your presence.

Everyday that Suguru didn't recognize you just felt like one more stab to your bleeding heart. You could see the way that he slightly inched away from you whenever you got too close. Conversations didn't flow the way they used to—you'd learn to measure your words so you wouldn't upset him. To only ask about how he was feeling, what he ate for lunch even if the nurse gave you the report earlier.

"Can you tell me some things about me?" Suguru broke the silence after you'd taken a seat, his attention solely on you. How would you even begin to address that can of worms? What even was the best way to begin describing him without sounding like a romance novel?

"As I'm sure you're probably aware by now, you were an artist. You were dedicated, not just in that, but in everything that you did," you started off, your fingers tapping against the side of your leg. "Your perspective on the world was interesting, a bit nihilistic though."

"You keep saying were. You don't have the same hopes as the doctors?" Suguru asked almost immediately after you finished speaking. Leaving you completely and utterly speechless. You refused to look over at him, staring at the floor with a newfound interest. Without saying anything, you essentially confirmed the question that lingered in the air.

"Can I see some of the works, then?" Suguru tried his luck with that question next. The tension disappeared from your body almost immediately, a breath leaving your lips. "You're free to look around at a couple of the pictures on there," you handed your phone over. Most of them were just off-guards you'd captured when he was sleeping or cooking, really. A couple of his works thrown in between.

Suguru scrolled through your phone for a bit, bringing one specific work to your attention. The last work the two of you had made before he landed in a hospital bed. "Looks like a bunch of paint thrown on there. What made me do that?" The same piece that he swore to never forget was the same one he was criticizing now.

"You made that piece with me," you had to will yourself to blink back a couple tears that were threatening to spill, keeping your voice steady. "I guess you can just call it a product of love. We basically just covered ourselves in paint and had sex on the canvas."  The explanation definitely sounded better in your head. Suguru simply looked at you with his mouth slightly agape, probably trying to figure out how.

"Was.. that comfortable?" A tamer question than you'd been expecting.

"As comfortable as the floor can get. It was messy in the end.. but it was pretty fun,"  you willed your voice to remain steady as you spoke, only to have the smallest of cracks at the end. You'd never expected the painting you once thought of as nothing but a splatter of paint would be making you this sentimental. Suguru had more questions, if his expression was anything to go by.

But you didn't get the chance to elaborate more on the painting when the door hinges creaked, the door swinging wide open.

"Oh good, you're here," the doctor you'd seen on your first night here greeted you, a clipboard resting on his arm, "So, we have the latest results from Geto's scan and they show no improvement. While he does seem to be recovering without any problems, chances are that the damage can be permanent." The rest of the doctor's words dimmed down into a ringing noise in the background.

You forced yourself to nod along when you deemed fitting—forced yourself to pretend like your hopes weren't just killed within two minutes. "Well, let me know if you have any questions," the doctor finished up, looking between the two of you. "Nothing here," you responded, glancing over at Suguru. When the doctor received nothing in response, he simply nodded and left the room.

Thick silence weighed in the room—the realization that Suguru would never get back to who he was, to what he enjoyed doing, slowly starting to settle in.

Just a week ago, Suguru was scheduled to go to the biggest art show of his career and now he was looking up at you like you held all the answers in the world. And maybe, in his opinion, you did. The only guide that he had through the unknown. Tears of sheer desperation dribbled down his red stricken eyes, tainting his pale cheeks as he babbled, "I don't know how to be who you want and need me to be. I'm sorry."

[cumironi]

A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

and when he comes?

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

[fazcinatingblog]

a doctor could easily dissect everything i eat and be like "well, it's definitely caused by all this chocolate" and i'll still die on the hill that my stomach cramps were due to the entire pack of hot dogs consumed this week (some of those were on BREAD which i also blame)

[goldenhourology]

SLACKING OFF.

pairing: jeon wonwoo x f!reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff, coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers

summary: being technologically averse, yet a complete control freak to your core, you tend to annoy senior IT specialist, jeon wonwoo, to no end. but after an apology brings you two closer together, wonwoo finds himself reaching out to you more often than not. on and off slack. despite what you two had originally perceived, you find yourself thrown into feelings that neither of you could've ever prepared for.

warnings: handjobs, fingering, oral (f!recieving), unprotected sex, missionary position, belly bulge, grinding, praise, wonwoo is a service top!!, multiple sex scenes, jerking it in an corporate office bathroom lol, drunk horniness, miscommunication, reader is learning how to open up<3, mutual pining. nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).

word count: 19.2k

note: hello new ppl, welcome to the first goldenhourology one shot ✨ I've written things in the past, but this is my first really long one shot. the longer it got, the more I stressed out lol. but I've seen a lot of people do this 20k word one shots, so I thought I'd try my hand at it! also idk much about tech, so if I got anything wrong in this, pls ignore it. thank you to anyone who gives this a read!!

in rotation: picture you, chappell roan / dress, taylor swift / valentine, laufey / diamond boy, sza

Some said your late 20s were the last few years of fun before you fully allowed yourself to be an adult, so why were you always drowning in work?

It didn’t help that you were an executive assistant in one of the biggest software companies in the U.S. When you took the job, surely, you should’ve known that you’d be signing up for an exorbitant amount of work, ranging from invoice management, planning travel for your boss, to even research for senior managers. Despite the constant stress you were under, you liked this job. You liked the trust that your boss had in you. You liked that they let you be independent and figure things out on your own.

And when you couldn’t … you simply contacted IT.

It helped that a senior IT specialist sat right across from your cubicle.

Jeon Wonwoo wasn’t the most talkative cubicle buddy, nor was he the most pleasant. He did his best to give you a smile every once in a while, but he had to fight the urge to throw his head in his hands whenever you send him a message on Slack. You didn’t typically need help with anything, except in the area of tech. You were so organized and incredibly smart – it didn’t take an idiot to see that – but god forbid, sometimes … you could be so technologically averse.

Maybe he just had too many years of schooling under his belt – he was 28 now with both a Bachelors and Masters in Software Engineering – but you surprised him with some of your requests. Sometimes, you’d delete files by accident, need to renew your subscription to important apps, even locked yourself out of your own computer once. He had interns underneath him that could be available to help you, but you had consistently messaged him. And he sat directly across from you. No matter what, it was always going to be Wonwoo that had to help you. Fate had made sure of that.

There were times that you realized you were bothering him. Either you heard him curse from behind his extremely large monitor or he adjusted his glasses so much that you thought he might break them in half. And to be honest, you liked being in control of your own work, so you’d try to find a solution. Typically, solving your own tech problems left your computer in more disarray.

And there was Wonwoo to save the day yet again.

You [10:58 AM]: Morning, Wonwoo!

You [10:58 AM]: I screwed up

You [10:59 AM]: Boss sent me some documents that were password protected, but he’s away for the next two days and not answering his phone

You [10:59 AM]: So I might’ve downloaded some software to help me unlock it and I think it’s attempting to hack my email as we speak

You [11:01 AM]: I’m so so sorry! I didn’t want to bother you

Jeon Wonwoo [11:01 AM]: I’ll be right over.

Luckily for you, Wonwoo was able to fix the problem and stop your email from getting hacked. Whoever was the owner of that virus-filled program you tried to download didn’t gain access to those password-protected documents before Wonwoo secured your computer. But it was close. Too close.

Not only that, but he had a multitude of other projects today. He had to train two new interns … have one of those annual performance reviews with the head of IT … change over a dozen new passwords for people … and then he found out that they’re changing servers. Which meant everything backed up on their former server had to be transferred over to the new one. Fucking great.

He wasn’t sure how many times he sighed today, but it had to be over a hundred. When he couldn’t stand to be sitting anymore, he stood up and paced around the third floor of the building. Today felt like the longest day of his life. And there was a mustard stain on his green sweater vest. And he got a shitty haircut a few days ago. And he probably needed new glasses because he was getting headaches. 

It was time for a coffee. As well as a day off.

Coincidentally, you were also headed to the break room that afternoon in need of a green tea. You were about to walk in when you heard your cubicle mate letting out a frustrated breath while talking to another IT specialist. He was clearly fed up about something, or maybe just tired of this day. You hid next to the doorframe, and just when you thought it was safe to step out, you heard your name fall from his lips.

“I don’t understand how she does it,” Wonwoo complained, hands smacking against his sides. “Seriously, it’s mind boggling. I’m pretty sure she has her Masters in Business Administration, but she does this shit that just makes me … Oh my god, she literally tried to download some faulty software off the internet today, instead of just asking me or someone else for help.” 

“Oh, yeah, everyone wants to turn to you when you got that attitude, man,” someone – Lee Seokmin, maybe? – joked.

“You get what a mean.” Wonwoo watched the first couple drips of shitty office coffee fill his cup. “I was able to save her computer, yeah, but it would be nice to avoid an emergency for a day.”

Seokmin slapped him on the back. “The joys of working in IT.”

You huffed, stalking away from the break room and back to your desk. There was only so much office gossip you could take, especially when it involved you. As soon as you sat down, you finished typing up an email at the loudest volume possible, your fingers basically punching themselves into the keys. You heard Wonwoo slide back into his desk chair, the fresh smell of burnt coffee wafting across to you, and he didn’t say a thing. Not that he would ever know you had eavesdropped. But not a “hello” or “how has computer been after this morning?” He went back to work, burning his tongue on the overly hot liquid.

Maybe Wonwoo was right; maybe you did need to just stop overthinking and ask for help instead of figuring stuff out on your own. Or maybe this asshole needed an attitude check.

You decided to not bother him for the rest of the week, complaining to your friends that Friday night about your shithead of a coworker. They said he might be looking out for you in his own fucked up way. You said he might just be an asshole.

Come Monday morning, you had realized your ignoring hadn’t effected him at all. He still sent you the same small smile as he walked in and sat down across from you. Could he really not see how pissed you are, or had the facade you’d crafted for so long as the perfect corporate employee work too well?

You should just be upfront with him, take control of the situation. Like always. 

You [9:44 AM]: I heard you in the break room a few days ago.

You [9:44 AM]: I just didn’t want to bother you. That’s why I had tried to figure out the issue on my own. Didn’t realize that was a crime

Jeon Wonwoo [9:46 AM]: Crap.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:46 AM]: You weren’t supposed to hear that.

You [9:47 AM]: Well, I did

Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: Listen.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: Not that it excuses anything, but there’s so much going on at work. It wasn’t all about you. I was complaining just to complain and I didn’t mean any of it.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: I’m sorry.

You [9:51 AM]: Wow

Jeon Wonwoo [9:51 AM]: What?

You [9:51 AM]: You’ve never come across as someone who can apologize well

Jeon Wonwoo [9:52 AM]: Are you sure you aren’t projecting right now? We sit across from each other. I’ve seen how stubborn you are.

You [9:53 AM]: I thought you were apologizing to me????

Jeon Wonwoo [9:56 AM]: I’m sorry. Again.

You [10:01 AM]: Okay, you’re forgiven

Jeon Wonwoo [10:09 AM]: Can I make it up to you with a coffee?

You didn’t go out on dates. The last one you went on was … years ago, probably in undergrad. Once you go for your Masters, all energy to date goes out the window.

Not that this was a date. This certainly was not a date.

This was an apology coffee after work, since the two of you seemed to have an affinity for caffeine at late hours.

Even if, per chance, he thought this was a date … you’d eventually have to let him down easy. It probably wasn’t in your best interest to date someone like Jeon Wonwoo, but you’d also closed yourself off from love for far too long. It wasn’t that you didn’t get lonely – you did, very much, especially on late nights where it was just you and your favorite vibrator – but it was just … scary. Opening yourself up. Losing just a small semblance of control. You weren’t even sure you could physically allow yourself to do that after being alone for so long. 

Your heart had been tucked away so many years ago, locked inside a box, and then in another box, and so on. With the final lock being so complicated that only someone who knew the last four of your social security number could answer. No one was opening up that box. Your heart was safe from the outside world.

You were independent, reliant on only yourself, and you liked it that way.

Once he had gotten both your coffees, he sat down next to you at a hightop table, folding his winter coat over the back of his chair. He had managed to remember your latte order and it tasted perfect. Your eyes flitted up, ogling him for a moment. When you’re not under the fluorescent lights of the office, Wonwoo was … attractive. To say the least. Maybe he always had been and you were too blind to see it. Maybe his face was perpetually hidden by his monitor.

His hair was tousled in the way that it looked effortless, even if he hadn’t brushed it after rolling out of bed. He had a tendency to wear sweater vests with white t-shirts underneath, or button-downs with jeans. But it was only when he showed off his forearms that you realized he was surprisingly built underneath his oversized clothes. He was tall and his shoulders were broad. You liked his glasses too; they always sat on the edge of his nose. A thin line was etched into both lenses, suggesting age, but they framed his face well.

Yeah, you thought to yourself, he is handsome.

“Why are you staring at me?” He asked, knocking you out of your stupor.

You blinked and looked down at your coffee, removing the lid. “Oh, I … uh … good question.”

“Listen,” he started, eyes flickering to his hands, “I’m really sorry about what I said –”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“– And I understand if you want to go to HR about this –”

You shook your head. “Wait, what? Why would I do that?”

He glanced around, until finally, his eyes were on you again. And suddenly, you were wondering if his eyes were dark brown or the color of cinnamon. “Isn’t that what any rational person would do?”

He had you stumped there. If this were a different situation … you probably would do that. “I’m not going to tell HR about this, Wonwoo. You apologized and said you didn’t mean it. I have to trust that.” And you didn’t trust lightly – hardly at all – but something about Wonwoo made you feel like it could be easy with him.

“We all have shit days,” you added, taking a sip of the scalding hot latte. “You have a ton of stuff on your plate. Doesn’t give you an excuse for what you did, but we all say things in the heat of the moment that we don’t mean. I have so many things to organize throughout the day, and sometimes it gets the better of me. Remember when I had book that last minute trip for our CEO and I was on the phone for hours with Delta and Suzanne in finance had the nerve to start bothering me about some invoice? I lost it on her for a straight minute.”

“Oh, my god, yeah,” he chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose as the memory resurfaced. “Her eyes almost came out of her skull at your reaction. To be fair … Suzanne needs to be knocked down a peg sometimes. She always blames IT when she can’t get into her email, but it’s because she’s constantly typing her password with one letter off.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. Your hand hit the tabletop a few times as you let your workplace personality fade in front of your coworker. “Those new IT interns don’t know what’s coming once Suzanne comes for them,” you joked.

“The IT interns don’t know anything. Period.” He jabbed his finger onto the table. “I mean, they’re interns, but it takes so much time to train them. If I have to teach them JavaScript one more time …”

“Say it, Jeon Wonwoo,” you egged him on, a chuckle filtering at the end. “What will happen if you have to teach those good for nothing interns JavaScript?”

A slow smile made it’s way onto Wonwoo’s face, and … damn, you were actually a really cool person. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I’ll tell you what will happen …”

Jeon Wonwoo [12:13 PM]: Did you bring lunch today?

Jeon Wonwoo [12:13 PM]: I just found this new cafe down the street and was thinking about grabbing something there in a few. Did you wanna come?

You [12:14 PM]: Do you think they have a chicken salad sandwich on the menu

Jeon Wonwoo [12:15 PM]: I can only assume so?

You [12:15 PM]: SOLD

You both go out for more coffees, before and after work. You found yourself excited to wake up early, to meet up with Wonwoo at the coffee shop located in the lobby of your work building. Always getting there before him, you typically ordered two coffees – remembering his order to a T – and when he walked in five minutes late, he promised to buy the next round. You never let him.

You began planning lunches over Slack, discussing what was on special at that cafe he found last month. In fact, you two talked most of the day on Slack. A message from you had once gotten on his nerves, and now … he was eager for it. Eager to hear your thoughts throughout the day, excited to talk about what new dumb question an intern asked him today or to see more pictures of your grandma’s cats.

And Wonwoo … Wonwoo was easier to get along with than you thought. You just had to peel back the layers before he finally got comfortable, and honestly, you could relate. To be fair, you had a few more layers than he did, but he was slowly learning that you were more than what he perceived. After that first coffee, he realized how funny you were, and then a couple lunches later, he learned you were an avid romance and thriller reader – and nothing in between. It wasn’t until last week that he finally cracked you open enough to learn about your love for Elder Scrolls Online. He was sure you were joking at first, but when you clarified how serious you were, he almost fell off his chair.

“I’m not shocked that you play it,” he said over coffee one morning. “What I’m shocked at is that you’d rather play Elder Scrolls Online and not Skyrim.”

“Of course, you would say that,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I don’t really have an interest in the game universe. I started playing Elder Scrolls Online to relieve stress while applying to colleges, and then I just … didn’t stop.” You shrugged.

Much to his own surprise – even with your take on Skyrim – Wonwoo thoroughly enjoyed your company. It was insane that you both had spent almost two years sitting across from each other before realizing how much you liked each other. Words always left unsaid. Eyes staying glued to computers. It had been a routine for you both that you had never strayed from – until now. So many tech requests over Slack … and now he was actively looking forward to work everyday. To seeing you. To talking with you. 

You.

Jeon Wonwoo realized how much he liked stockings. Specifically, he liked the way you looked in them.

And that’s when things got dangerous.

He started to notice the days you would wear them, and then concluded which day you did laundry. You liked wearing blouses with a pencil skirt and stockings on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Those were now his favorite days. 

Wednesdays you’d wear dress pants and maybe a sweater, whereas on “Casual Fridays,” you were clad in a t-shirt with a cardigan layered and jeans. You always looked nice at the office, but those stocking days … they were getting to him.

Sometimes, he’d watch the way you walked away from your desk – either to the Boss’ office or to the finance department – and he couldn’t help but let his eyes trail down your legs. You had these stockings that had a slight tear in the back, and he wondered if you realized, or was he just too much of a perverted loser to be the first person to notice? He wanted to purchase a new pair for you. He wanted to replace all your stockings and buy you enough that you could wear them with a skirt everyday, just so he could see you in them.

Maybe he was a loser.

You looked up at him, even in heels, and you had this way of smiling at him that left him questioning why you liked hanging out with him in the first place. His personality couldn’t be that charming to warrant your attention. But you were warm – even when your hands were perpetually cold – and kind, never straying once he was in front of you. And you had this lip gloss that stained your lips magenta and made them shine. Even in the dim fluorescent lights. When his chair turned just slightly and he let his eyes glaze over you, one finger rubbing at his top lip, he couldn’t help but be curious if the gloss had a flavor to it … and then, he’d get distracted by your legs again. And your blouse, and your hair. 

Don’t even get him started on the way you smelled.

Maybe he was a loser. No, he was most definitely a loser. 

It was a Thursday night. Almost 7 PM and you were still at the office. You had plans to go out tonight to celebrate your friend’s new job, but you ended up having to cancel when the Boss placed a stack of paperwork on your desk before leaving the building at promptly 6 o’clock. Why he couldn’t have given you all these invoices and memos hours ago was beyond you, but you weren’t even halfway through this stack and the janitor was now mopping beside you.

When a Slack notification appeared on the side of your monitor, you didn’t even read it before spinning around in your chair. There Wonwoo was, leaning back in his own chair while a progress window ticked on one of his dual monitors. You raised a brow. “I didn’t even hear you over there,” you commented. “Why are you still here?”

“A month or so ago, the IT head told me that we’d soon be transitioning servers, so all of our backups and data need to be transferred over to this new server.” He explained, adjusting his glasses and glancing over at the progress window. It changed from 23% to 24% finished. “Someone had to be the lucky person to stay after hours and make sure it all went smoothly.”

You twirled a pen in your two fingers and crossed your legs. “Oh, that sucks.” Your skirt hiked up a little, and just that small flash of exposed skin had Wonwoo averting his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m assuming you’re still here because of that.” He nodded towards the pile of paper.

“No, no, obviously I love being here after hours with you,” you replied, sarcasm dripping from your tone, but it still ignited a short spark of hope within him. (Wonwoo, can you chill the fuck out? He chastised.) “You know the Boss has a penchant for letting invoices pile up. He just so happened to let that pile end up on my desk before he left today. And some of these needed to be filled out …” Your eyes skimmed the first paper on your desk. “Oh, yesterday!”

Wonwoo offered to help you while also keeping watch of his computer – 28% finished – but you insisted you could handle it. “I already bother you enough during work hours,” you said before turning back to your desk. He knew by now that you were simply too stubborn to give up control of the project. Once you had started it yourself, you needed to see it through. He wasn’t sure if you two were close enough that he could be completely honest, that he could tell you that it was fine to let go this independence that you kept on a tight leash. He was willing to help. (God, was he willing.) 

But he chocked it up to telling you once that you were “so fucking stubborn.”

Your reply had come in the form of a swift kick to his knee.

Wonwoo glanced at his monitor. 67% finished.

It was 10 PM and you were just about finished with the paperwork, but you were running on fumes. Just a few memos left and you’d be done. To get you through the next hour, you needed something. So you headed to the break room, suddenly craving some burnt workplace coffee. (What was it about this coffee maker that gave it such a distinct burnt flavor? You’d never know.) After placing the pod of coffee grounds in the slot and filling the water, you pressed the start button, turning around with a huff to see Wonwoo striding into the break room. A crushed, styrofoam coffee cup was clutched in his large hand before he tossed it in the barrel beside you. 

“How’s your transfer going?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. Coffee had started to pour from the machine and into your cup.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s at 88% now. Hopefully should be done in the next hour.”

“Me too, if all goes well.” A sigh escaped your lips. “I still have a few more papers to fill out. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour, but I haven’t looked through them all yet.”

Wonwoo stepped forward, reaching in the direction of the styrofoam cups. “If you had let me help you –”

You tried sidestepping out of the way to give him some room, but his hand brushed against your arm anyway. Your chin tilted up as your eyes met his, back pressing against the counter. “It wouldn’t have helped,” you finished for him.

His arm paused mid-air, and he looked down at you. Eyes narrowing, he replied, “You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. You have this desperate need to be in control of everything.”

“And why is that a bad thing?” Your tone took a hard edge. The last thing you wanted right now was to put effort into arguing, but you were tired and already on the edge of a breakdown. “I’ve relied on myself for as long as I can remember. I like being in control. I like being stubborn. If I didn’t do most things myself –”

“You ask me to fix something on your computer at least once a day.”

“That’s different.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, and you noticed then just how close he was. Your chests were practically touching. “Sometimes you do try to figure things out yourself and almost break your hard drive.”

His progress window was probably at 93% finished now. He should head back to his desk, but his feet stayed planted right where they were.

“Why does it matter?” You exhaled loud, your hands slapping against your hips. “Do you want an award or something? You have your way of doing things, and I have mine. I’m not perfect, but I … I like things the way they are.” Change is scary, you thought to yourself, but didn’t dare voice it out loud.

He was so close that he could smell your perfume. The scent of lavender mixed with orange blossoms and vanilla filled his nostrils, swirling around his brain. He could get addicted to this smell, to you. Maybe he already was. When his eyes roamed down to your legs and he saw his favorite pair of stockings on you, he damn near collapsed. In fact, he hadn’t even realized the soft groan had left his lips until your gaze found his, your pretty irises growing wide.

You were just so … captivating.

His hands were on both sides of you, pressing your back further into the counter. Your black coffee steaming and fully abandoned in the coffee machine. He was holding himself back, his knuckles going white with restraint. But he wasn’t like you. He could only keep himself in control for so long. And with you here right now, your perfume surrounding him, your stockings-clad thigh brushing against his leg, your a hand placed on his chest … he was a goner.

“Wonwoo,” you whispered, palm still resting on his shirt, “we …”

When your voice trailed off, Wonwoo’s instincts got the better of him. “Please, just …” One hand came up to smooth against your cheek, and he was almost out of breath as he pulled your face to his. “Let me do this.”

He gave you enough time to shove him back, to yell at him, to tell him you didn’t like him in that way. But your neck was craning towards his, and he took that as a sign to crash his lips onto yours. They were softer than he expected, and the taste … your gloss tasted like – well, like nothing. But if he pretended, he could’ve sworn there was a slight cherry aftertaste. His glasses bumped into your nose, but he’d been too overwhelmed to remember to take them off. Mouth moving against yours, his hips crammed you more against the counter, hard enough to leave a bruise on your spine. You didn’t care though. His shoulders were so wide that they shielded you, inviting your body into his, and your fingers fisted into his button-up. Tongues tangled, eager to taste more and more of each other. 

Wonwoo could kiss you forever. You didn’t want him to stop.

But all good things must end. Because when he instinctively placed his leg between yours, he knew this was going too far. Especially because you two were still at work. In the break room.

He instantly removed his leg, his lips breaking from yours. Your eyes connected, the room filled with only the sounds of heavy breathing, before you wiped a trail of spit from your chin.

Wonwoo’s head spun behind him. Thank god, there was no CCTV camera by the coffee maker.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:09 AM]: Good morning.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:09 AM]: I shouldn’t have done that last night.

Jeon Wonwoo [9:10 AM]: Still friends?

You [9:14 AM]: We probably shouldn’t be talking about this on Slack

You [9:15 AM]: Here’s my number: 855-777-0821

You [9:18 AM]: But yes friends :D

Wonwoo did not want to be just friends. But he was utterly terrified of what you would say if he voiced that. You had kissed him back, yes, but … hadn’t you agreed to be friends far too quickly? You had both hung out post-kiss – he liked to call this period of time A.T.K. (after the kiss) – and you didn’t seem to be ruminating on it like he was. Of course, he didn’t know what you were thinking, and you could be so hard to read sometimes when your layers weren’t stripped back enough. But …

Could it really have meant nothing to you?

If that were the case, he didn’t know how it was possible for you. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss even if he tried. When he saw you the next day – Friday, January 9, A.T.K. – the first thing he noticed was your lip gloss and all he wanted was to have it smeared over his mouth again. He noticed the way your hair fell over your shoulder, remembering how soft the strands felt when his fingers had slipped between them. He noticed that you were wearing those jeans that hugged your ass just right, and – god, now he was wishing that he had touched more than just your cheek. Wonwoo wanted to touch you everywhere. And vice versa. He didn’t care if your hands were constantly freezing or if they were dry during the winter. He wanted you to touch him however you pleased. He wanted to grab you and kiss you and hold those cold hands in his warm ones –

Oh, my god. He had a boner. At work. Just the mere memory of a kiss had him shifting himself in his pants underneath his desk, hoping no one noticed.

Eventually, he stood up, trying to keep a casual hand over the bulge in his pants as he fast walked to the bathroom. Nobody batted an eye, but you did steal a glance over at him once his back was turned. Your brow raised at the way he was practically sprinting for the elevator, not realizing that he was heading for the second floor restrooms. He must be excited for something. Probably a package, you thought before turning back to your computer.

Wonwoo felt like he could finally breathe once he was inside a stall. He rested his head against the cool tile wall, feeling the ache start to settle in his groin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way. What 28-year-old gets a boner from a kiss? You had him acting like a goddamn teenager.

What had you done to him? Just one kiss and he was completely under your spell.

(Or maybe he’d been this way all along.)

His fingers fumbled with the zipper on his jeans as he finally pulled himself out of his jeans, stroking from base to tip. Thankfully, no one was in the bathroom. He couldn’t believe his life had come to this. The last thing he ever wanted was to be that guy who jacked off in the bathroom. But you had to wear those goddamn jeans –

Wonwoo wasn’t good at hiding his feelings, but he was doing a pretty good job even as this was killing him inside. He wasn’t like you; he found it hard to restrain himself, to ignore everything that was bubbling up inside him. He could feel himself cracking. What would be the thing that finally broke him?

The answer was simple: alcohol.

Lee Seokmin [11:26 AM]: Dude lol. Why’d you run away from your desk like that

Lee Seokmin [11:26 AM]: I think you could win the Olympics with that kind of sprint!

Jeon Wonwoo [11:39 AM]: Don’t ask.

Lee Seokmin [11:40 AM]: Alrighty then ;)

Lee Seokmin [11:41 AM]: On another note … you free next Thursday? My buddy in the marketing department, Josh, finally has a night off from his kid so we were thinking of getting a group together for drinks after work. Interested?

The last thing you ever expected was to be invited to drinks with Seokmin and some of the managers in marketing, but Wonwoo said you should come. “In fact,” he had clarified, “you should come so I don’t have to deal with DK’s drunk antics all night.” Who were you to deprive him of your presence when he was that desperate? Plus, there was a nice girl in marketing that was also invited; maybe tonight was the night to befriend her.

But the marketing people knew how to party. You were only halfway through your second beer whereas the rest of your group was on their fourth. And three tequila shots deep. Wonwoo, seemingly, had an affinity for tequila, unlike yourself. He was able to throw them back like it was nothing; he didn’t even need a chaser. When Seokmin had requested they all get a fourth, he was met with a round of cheers, and even Wonwoo – quiet, introverted Wonwoo – threw his hands up with excitement. You placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, “Are you sure about that?”

Wonwoo felt his whole body freeze when your hot breath reached his ear. A pale, pink flush appeared on his cheeks, but you chocked it up to how drunk he was. Eventually, he waved away your worry with his hand. “I’m fiiiiiiiiine. Hey, how about I get you another beer?”

“Are you even coherent enough to get me another –”

“HEY! Bartender! Can I get one more of these?!” He shouted, waving your empty glass in the air. “Oh, and more tequila!”

Seokmin slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, laughing along with him. As you made friends with the rest of the marketing department, you found yourself glancing at Wonwoo every so often. His cheeks were so rosy now, and his glasses kept slipping down his nose. To be fair though, everyone in this dive bar seemed to be in the same state of mind. Seokmin was singing along to the Sabrina Carpenter song blasting through the speakers. Josh was so drunk that he was crying about how much he loved his friends. They had even gotten Suzanne in finance to come out, and she was making friends with everyone for once. And Wonwoo … oh, god, Wonwoo’s head was now on the bar top and he was closing his eyes –

You abandoned your beer and walked over to your friend, shaking his shoulders. His eyes instantly opened, expecting to see Seokmin, but when his gaze met yours, he instantly felt all warm and fuzzy. “Okay,” you said, trying your best to hoist this 6 foot man off the barstool, “you’ve had enough. I’m taking you home.”

It was like pulling teeth to get him to tell you his address, but you guessed you shouldn’t be surprised when the man on your arm was blackout drunk. After flagging a taxi, you shoved him in the seat next to you and rubbed your hands together to get them warm. Wonwoo’s head was on your shoulder the second you sat down, his eyes fluttering closed as the taxi sped off into the night. You watched his fingers twitch on his thigh as he whispered sleepily, “I think my family would really like you.”

“Is that so?” You chuckled, squeezing his arm for reassurance, but little did you know just how much your touch effected him. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re you,” he replied, and then yawned. “Only you and Mingyu would do this for me.”

Your brow furrowed. “Who’s Mingyu?”

The taxi pulled up to a brick apartment building then, and your cold fingers struggled to get cash out from your pocket while Wonwoo was practically laying on top of you. Finally, you did your best to haul him out of the seat, thanking the taxi driver before gathering an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders. The building was definitely old with vines of ivy crawling up one side. There was a dead tree with snow covering it’s branches directly by the door, spilling snowflakes on your head as you struggled to input the code Wonwoo managed to remember. And then, you were pulling him up two flights of stairs, which took far longer than you estimated. You had basically ripped his keys from his hand once you reached his apartment and continued to drag him inside, laying him on the old couch that was conveniently right near the door.

Wonwoo grumbled as soon as his head hit the armrest, and he almost fell off the couch if it weren’t for you catching him and rolling him back onto the cushion. “I’m going to go get you a glass of water,” you said, quickly rushing off to his kitchen. “Please, for the love of god, don’t fall off the couch again.”

He whined for you to come back, but you pretended you didn’t hear it, because if you did, you’d have to reckon with the tingle that bloomed between your legs at the sound of his desperation.

The entrance of his kitchen was right in front of a small hallway that sectioned off two ways. There was a bedroom door on each side of the hall, and once you walked inside the kitchen, you found a tiny table from the 80s and the dishwasher currently running. You didn’t have time to contemplate that now, and instead pilfered through his cabinets until you found a glass and filled it with tap water. Rushing back to his side, Wonwoo was already laying halfway off the couch and you sighed.

You set the glass of water on his coffee table and lifted him back up. With a little bit of help from you, you both managed to shrug off his winter jacket and you tucked a throw blanket over him to prevent him from falling off again. A heavy exhale slipped past your lips as you knelt by his side, and you couldn’t help but reach out to pushed back his hair from his forehead. His eyes were closed, but you knew he wasn’t sleeping. You smiled to yourself.

Were coworkers supposed to show this much affection for each other?

“Wonwoo,” you said softly, and he cracked one eye open. “Do you want some water?”

He shut that eye again, grimacing at the thought of anything entering his body right now. “Ab…absolutely not.”

“It’ll make you feel better,” you persuaded, but he still shook his head. “Okay, so what do you want right now?”

His breath stilled for a moment. “Can I be honest?”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“I …” No, he couldn’t be that honest. “I want you to … keep p–pushing back my hair. It’s … relaxing.”

You chuckled, “Okay, you got it.” Your fingers were at the crown of his head again, smoothing back the strands. You hadn’t noticed until now that he had a freckle on the left side of his forehead; maybe you’d just never been this close to notice. Well, actually, you had. There was this thing you two did called a kiss –

“If you’re going to fall asleep, I’m going to take off your glasses,” you informed him, slipping his glasses off and setting them by his glass of water. It was late, much later than you anticipated on staying out, and you both still had to go to work tomorrow. 

But then his hand was grabbing your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm for how intoxicated he was. “Can I b–be honest again?” He slurred, his eyes half open to meet yours.

You sighed, placing your hand on top of his, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Just know whatever you say will be used to make fun of you tomorrow –”

“I can’t … I haven’t …” He took a breath to formulate the words in his head. “… Stopped thinking about our kiss.”

You blinked down at him, watching the way his eyes began to close again as he relaxed into the old couch cushions. “You can’t just say shit like –”

He scoffed dramatically. “I’m noooot,” he defended, his hand slipping off your wrist to curl underneath the blanket.

“Wonwoo …” Your voice trailed off, the words dying on your tongue.

“Who the hell are you?”

You immediately got to your feet at the sound of another person’s voice behind you. Eyes growing wide, you took in the sight of the man in front of you wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his chiseled abdomen as he shook a smaller towel through his hair. He might’ve been taller than Wonwoo, only by a little bit, and his skin was a golden tan that reminded you of summertime even in this harsh winter. Why was Wonwoo hiding handsome men in his apartment? The man looked at you, waiting for an answer, his brows raised.

“Oh,” you cleared your throat. “Um …”

“Leave her alone, Mingyu,” Wonwoo groaned from the couch, turning away from them to lay on his side.

So this was Mingyu, you concluded. This slightly god-like dude that looked like he walked straight out of a porno was the only other person who’d help Wonwoo when he was blackout drunk. Interesting.

Mingyu raised his hand awkwardly for you to shake. “His roommate,” he clarified.

“Oh,” you replied, grasping his hand for a moment and telling him your name. 

Mingyu instantly grinned, laying the small towel over his neck, holding both ends. “So you’re her.”

You blinked, not knowing how to respond to that. Perhaps there was no way to respond; the silence was comfortable enough. You decided to keep that in mind for later though.

“He’s … well, he got very drunk,” you informed Mingyu, gesturing to a now-sleeping Wonwoo with both thumbs. “I wanted to make sure he got home okay.”

Mingyu nodded, and then sighed. “I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry,” he promised, opening up the door for you. “Get home safe, okay?”

Wonwoo: Sorry about that the other night. I won’t get drunk like that again. It doesn’t happen very often

You: it’s okay! I’m used to handling drunk people

You: don’t get me wrong, I like to have my fun but it’s easier for me to take care of other people than like … be incoherent and anxious lol

Wonwoo: By the end of the night I was starting to feel that way. Not fun

You: DRINK WATER

You: your roommate is hot btw. does he always walk around without a shirt?

Wonwoo: Of course, he didn’t have a shirt on when you met him

Wonwoo: Everyone likes Mingyu

You: well, I like you [UNSENT]

The bi-annual sales meeting was started to boost morale and talk with other departments that you didn’t see as often. It was typically held at a hotel in the downtown city, with the company flying in all the sales reps from across the country. There were even a few from overseas. In reality though, this was usually the week where coworkers made mistakes. At least one person was let go after these sales meetings, and HR had their eyes peeled for an entire week.

You never made a mistake at one of these. And you didn’t expect to any time soon.

This was a week of rubbing elbows with slimy sales reps and making sure some old man hadn’t spiked your drink. For most, this was a week to slack off, but a woman working in corporate couldn’t relax in these settings. You’d been making corrections to your boss’ presentation for the entire company for what felt like forever. (Realistically, it’d been almost two weeks.) You probably went through the 50 slides at least twice as much, checking for spelling mistakes and making sure it was in the right place on your desktop. Not on some random external hard drive. Not in the trash. 

But it was finally the day you’d been dreading. Presentation day, and everyone at the company was eager to hear the Boss reveal if they hit their goal for the year, amongst other things. You checked the slides another time, and then made sure no one would trip over the HDMI cord connected to the projector. The Boss gave you a reassuring smile, and then it was go time.

Your boss could be a shit bag – what CEO wasn’t? – but he had a way of speaking that made everyone so excited for the future. He was probably the reason why morale was always so high, and everyone looked forward to his presentation at these meetings. Your finger hovered over the right arrow button as he went through his speech, pointing out company statistics and what he wanted them all to accomplish this year, before finally getting to the goal reach. And his answer was nothing short of what the audience wanted to hear. He congratulated all of them, and everyone clapped together at the good news.

When you looked out at the crowd that had gathered, you realized almost every seat in the ballroom was filled. Some were even standing near the door and – wait, there was Wonwoo, leaning against the wall in the back. IT didn’t need to be here for this presentation. In fact, they were encouraged to be doing other things, like manning a table near HR and offering on-the-spot tech help. A smile made it’s way to your lips, watching the way Wonwoo was listening intently.

Once the presentation was over and the room erupted in small talk, your boss came over and thanked you for helping out yet again. “Of course,” you replied, as if there was anything else to say. He gave you a comforting squeeze of the hand before walking off to talk to some of his favorite sales reps.

As you shut your laptop and began to place your things in your backpack, Wonwoo slipped into the chair beside yours. Just the sight of his grin set you at ease, but also made you nervous at the same time. Why were you suddenly so nervous? This was just Wonwoo.

Just Wonwoo. Just Wonwoo. Just … your Wonwoo.

“Congratulations,” he beamed, giving you a high five. “I know you’ve been working on this all week, but you did it!”

You always stressed so much about this presentation, but at the end of the day … “All I did was press a button,” you shrugged.

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, but you didn’t accidentally delete your file like every other time you’ve messaged me on Slack.” He chuckled, and you scoffed at his teasing. “I’d call that a win.”

The second to last night of sales meeting week was the longest night of the year. It was a tradition for everyone to go out to a bar the company rented out, drinking whatever alcohol they could get their hands on while celebrating a job well done. You only saw half these people twice a year, and half of the time they’d have a beer in their hands. 

You did your best to ignore every sales rep that tried to speak with you without slurring their words, but that was damn near impossible when some were already on their second cocktail. However, no matter how embarrassing it was, you did allow them to compliment you and your hard work. Who were you to turn down the validation? And when the time came, even your boss came over to compliment you again, and you realized there was truly nothing like being good at your job. 

Just for a moment, everything felt okay. It was like the loneliness dissipated, the sting of years without pleasure or having someone by your side … it all faded when you were rewarded for your hard work.

Maybe tonight was the night you had fun for once.

When you finally found Wonwoo later that night, he was surrounded by a few younger members of the IT team, debating what computer language everyone should be obligated to learn. You waved to him from where you stood by the bar top, and that was all it took to have him walking away from his team and towards you. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders, insisting to buy you drinks for the rest of the night, and you didn’t hesitate to agree. If there was anyone here you trusted enough to hand you a drink, it was Wonwoo.

Just Wonwoo.

The hour was reaching midnight now, and you weren’t sure how many martinis you had, but you were hiccuping a storm. That was a telltale sign that you were totally, thoroughly drunk. Wonwoo was only drinking beer and pacing himself, unlike that night at the dive bar, but he was enjoying the sight of you finally letting loose. You hung on his arm, staring up at him with your big eyes, glazing over from all the alcohol coursing through your system. He didn’t like how this effected him; he shouldn’t be attracted to the way your gaze looked while you were intoxicated. But he couldn’t help but wonder if your eyes held the same shine while your lips were wrapped around his –

No, this was too much. He should take you back to the hotel.

The two of you glanced around the bar, realizing it was mostly cleared out. You definitely needed to leave now.

He tugged on your arm, wrapping one of his around your waist to support you. “C’mon now,” he grunted, helping you walk out. “Let’s get you back.”

“I didn’t f–finish my drink thoooooough,” you argued, despite letting him lead you out of the bar. “And I can walk … on my own. Swear!”

“Listen, you took care of me once,” he said as you two walked into the brisk cold air. The hotel was, thankfully, only a block away. “Let me take care of you.”

Even with the alcohol pumping in your veins, just the sound of those words falling from his mouth made you grip him tighter. You felt like your bones were made of jelly, and it wasn’t just from the vodka. It was him, and the way he made you feel, and how secretly warm he was, and the way he took care of you as you took care of him, and – oh, god, you wanted to cry because you liked Jeon Wonwoo so much.

So, so much.

It was much easier to get you back to your hotel room than his apartment, seeing as this hotel had a working elevator. You slumped beside him, tripping over your feet every so often, as he hauled you down the hallway to your room. You gave him your keycard easily, and once the door was open, he squeezed your hand to silently let you know it was time to move again. He helped you into the room, shutting the door behind him, before laying you down on your bed with the clumsiness only he could have. 

You were laughing now, hiccuping from the alcohol, but laughing nonetheless. And he was laughing at your hiccups. Or maybe he just liked the way you grinned at him.

He assisted with taking off your boots and jacket, too embarrassed to remove anything else. And it definitely wasn’t appropriate to either. Tearing back the covers, he nestled you underneath them, and said, “You got everything, right? I’m a call away if you need me.” He grabbed one of the small trash cans in the room and placed it at your bedside. “If you need to vomit and can’t make it to the bathroom, just use the trash can here –”

You hand came out to wrap around his forearm. “Stay, Wonwoo.”

Your sleepy eyes were killing him, making his inhibitions melt and his cock throb at the same time. He sighed, sitting on the side of the mattress, and before he could stop himself, he was tucking hair behind your ear. “You know I can’t do that,” he said, his voice like a caress. “You know how it would look if someone saw me leave this room tomorrow morning. HR is on all our asses this week.”

“I know,” you slurred, and then pressed your flushed cheek into his palm. “I j–just thought you … were taking care of me thoooooooough …”

His resolve crumbled into a million pieces. This was complete, utter torture. You had to know how you effected him, but of course you didn’t, because you were stretching under the covers and yawning like you didn’t just make his heart stop. 

That’s how he ended up in your bed, shutting off the lights and settling underneath the comforter. Until you came closer and rested your head on his chest. Despite how fast his heart was beating, he felt so at peace, and you both fell asleep in the clothes you wore out tonight.

Only a few hours later, you woke with a clear head and the beginning of a hangover. Your head was pounding like crazy, and it took everything in you to slip out from the comfort of your bed and pad your feet over to the bathroom. The bright light was burning your eyes, but you needed it to find the Tylenol you left by the sink. Filling a cup with water, you took the medication and prayed it worked sooner rather than later.

You squinted at yourself in the mirror, realizing you were still in the outfit you wore yesterday. With a sigh, you picked up the big t-shirt you left on the floor yesterday morning and stripped yourself until you were in nothing but your underwear. You pulled the t-shirt on and slumped against the wall, pressing your forehead against the cold tile. Now this felt like heaven for your headache.

It took a couple of minutes to get yourself to move again, feet slapping against the floor as you walked out of the bathroom. You noticed Wonwoo was awake too, in the midst of slinking back under the covers, and you saw his jeans abandoned by his bedside.You crawled back to your cocoon of blankets, and he instantly wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. And you … you didn’t move away. In fact, you pressed yourself closer, finally hearing how his heart raced. Wonwoo didn’t care if it was probably 4 AM and he probably had to leave in a few hours – before anyone else woke – because he was holding you and smelling you hair. You smelled … god, you smelled so good that it made him hard almost instantly.

You felt his hand splay against your spine, as if trying to hold himself back, and it was then that your eyes opened. The room was dark, but you knew when his gaze was burning into yours only seconds later. You slipped one hand out from the covers, cupping his cheek as your thumb brushed over his lower lip. Under his breath, he muttered a soft, “Shit,” because you both knew where this was going.

You agreed you wouldn’t do this again. You agreed to be friends.

But now you’re kissing again.

Your hand moved from his face to his neck, and his hands are gripping your cheeks to make sure your mouth stayed on his. His fingers were shaking. He kissed you desperately, as if he needed this just to be able to breathe again, and maybe he did. You were like putty in his hands, molding yourself to his body as your tongue tangled with his. Whatever ache you felt in your temples drifted between your legs, causing you to moan into his mouth. And fuck, just the sound of you made his cock swell, precum soaking through his boxers.

The room felt so hot all of a sudden, but your cold hands came in handy as they rested on his neck. His left hand slid down to your ass, finally giving it a firm squeeze after kicking himself for not doing it when he first kissed you. That made you moan again, and he decided he’d never stop touching you like this, just so he could hear these sounds fall from your lips.

He slid his knee between your legs on instinct, and you didn’t hesitate to start grinding against his thigh. The friction felt delicious and soothing. You both kissed each other slower, a little messier, focusing on touching each other everywhere you dreamed about all these months. Your fingers traced down the column of his neck, down the thin cotton of the shirt he was still wearing from yesterday, while bucking against his thigh. His lips left yours, dragging across your cheek so he could nibble on your earlobe, feeling it grow warm and red from all the attention. “You have no idea how long I’ve needed you,” he whispered, and you damn near almost came from that confession.

You weren’t used to this; you couldn’t remember the last time you experienced pleasure like this with someone, but you couldn’t imagine stopping. Not when he angled his thigh just right, the muscle in his leg rubbing against your clit, your panties completely soaked. You cupped him over his boxers, feeling his bulge throb in your palm, and you cooed, “Can I …”

He groaned. You didn’t need to say more; Wonwoo was smart enough to know what you were insinuating. He felt disoriented, drunk off of you and your touch, smell, everything. “Are you … are you sure you don’t want to …” His voice was giving out, but from the way your fingers were slipping under the waistband of his boxers, you knew you wanted just this, and he’d give you whatever you wanted. “Yes. Yes, of course. That’s fine,” he finished.

You chuckled softly. He smiled against your neck. Pulling his cock out and wrapping your palm around it, you began to stroke him slowly. “Oh, god,” he was sighing into the crook of your neck, his brain in such a state of disarray when you resumed grinding against his leg while also pumping him from base to tip. This couldn’t be real; he had to be dreaming, but he could feel your wet panties sticking to his thigh. He could feel himself shake as he clung to you and pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your throat. It was all too much, but not enough at the same time. 

“Wonwoo,” you whimpered, and he dragged his lips back to yours just to feel how your mouth moved when you said his name. You bucked your hips faster, your arousal coating his thigh, and warmth bloomed between your legs. When your hand on his cock reached his head again, you rubbed the pad of your thumb over his slit, making more precum bead onto your knuckles. “Wanna cum with you,” you begged, stroking him faster and in time with your hips.

“I know you do, I know,” he breathed against your lips. “Just a little faster … yes, just like that. Fuck.”

Only a moment later were you trembling, hips stuttering as pleasure took over your body. You came hard, squeezing his thigh between your legs, and your cry was swallowed by Wonwoo’s lips. If he didn’t kiss you, he knew he’d moan so loud it would wake the entire hotel. Because – oh, god, he was cumming now, and he was sighing against your mouth as he erupted in your hand, ropes of cum staining your t-shirt. He could’ve swore he saw white. He’d never felt a release like this before; not with anyone else. Not even when he jerked off. But maybe it was because this was your hand and you were cumming on his leg, and fuck –

You were still shaking in each other’s arms, minds blank and reeling, bodies coming down from the high. It took the kind of strength that moved mountains to slip from his arms and clean yourself up. But by the time you came back from the bathroom and cuddled up next to him, Wonwoo was already fast asleep.

Jeon Wonwoo [6:08 AM]: I had to leave early this morning before anyone woke. But if you want, I’d like to see you at breakfast this morning :)

You [7:31 AM]: Jeon Wonwoo, I’m begging you to just text this to me

You [7:31 AM]: Also, was your phone hacked? Since when do you use emojis?

There wasn’t much to do on the last day of sales meeting week. The only things on your plate were to make niceties with some of the new reps, and probably attend a few presentations by HR. When you had finally woken up this morning to just you in the bed, you almost considered skipping the HR presentations, feeling too guilty and like they might see right through you. It was irrational, but you were sure that this was the only way to feel after realizing that you hooked up with your coworker and friend. 

Not that you hadn’t wanted to. Not that you hadn’t been thinking about it since your kiss. No, it wasn’t like that at all.

So why were suddenly terrified to see him at breakfast?

You got ready as quick as you could – but of course, making sure you wore that V-neck sweater that showed off your cleavage just right – and threw your hair up before leaving your hotel room. The line for the breakfast buffet was packed, but you waited patiently and decided to sit near the bar once you plate was full. The rest of the dining room was filled with people and you weren’t awake enough to make shitty small talk. Sitting here at the bar top was peaceful and quiet –

“Is this … seat taken?”

Your eyes met his instantly, and you noticed the way Wonwoo was cringing at the line he threw at you. You decided to forget it, for his sake, and gestured for him to sit down. Fuck, you were so goddamn nervous, even though you had agreed to meet him in the first place. You wore this low-cut sweater for him. You both sat in silence for a bit, crunching awkwardly on the burnt bacon, and shifting in your seats. 

“Did you …” You were surprised that your mouth was moving on it’s own volition, spilling any words that came to your head. “… Do anything this morning since you were up early?”

Wonwoo choked a bit on a strawberry, but recovered quickly. “Uh … yeah, yeah, sure. Once I came down here, one of the IT interns found me in a panic because he couldn’t set up one of the rep’s new work phones. Created a whole scene over nothing.”

You snorted and sipped your coffee. “Is that intern still breathing?”

His eyes flickered to yours, a slow smile growing on his face. “Yes, actually.”

You fell into sync then, letting the awkward silence melt away as you joked about Wonwoo’s interns. He wasn’t meant to teach college students, god help them. But as your plates became empty and a server came around to take them, you two were left with only the mugs in your hands, strangely reminiscent of that apology coffee he bought for you so long ago.

Wonwoo sighed. “Hey, so about last night – or I guess, this morning …”

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you interjected, setting your coffee down. “I have a hangover, but I am thriving.”

He blinked. “Well, that’s good. But I was referring to –”

You almost couldn’t look at him when you said, “The fact that we’re definitely not just friends anymore?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that part.”

“I …” You licked your lips as you gathered yourself. There was this … terrifying flutter in your chest. You’d never felt something like this before, but you weren’t keen on letting it go. Not yet. “I would like to see you again. Like that. Definitely not during work hours. If you catch my drift. This is awkward.”

Wonwoo had to turn his head so you wouldn’t see him trying to hold in his laughter, but it was clear as day. You sighed loud and hit his arm, making him look at you once again as he snickered to himself. “You know, you could just ask me if I want to hang out.”

You leveled a look at him and huffed. “Okay, Wonwoo, do you –”

“Yes,” he beamed. “Always, yes.”

You found yourself at Wonwoo’s side more often than not. What used to be work get togethers transitioned to meeting up at a bar, or checking a new restaurant on the weekends. Sometimes he’d ask you to come over so you could taste test a new recipe he found. (Unfortunately for both of you, Wonwoo wasn’t very good at cooking, but he was getting better. Somewhat.) Those recipe nights, however, always led to him lifting you up on his creaky kitchen counter and kissing you so hard that you almost forgot to breathe. Until Mingyu came into the kitchen, making a gagging sound, and you two instantly detached from each other.

Friday nights were known as Mingyu’s Movie Nights, and Wonwoo began inviting you to those. He had said that this would help knock a few movies off your Letterboxd Watchlist, but you knew that was just an excuse for wanting to see you. You probably saw him more than anyone now, but you couldn’t deny that you … wanted to see him too. Having him in your life made everything suddenly better. He was kind and smart and thoughtful. He made you laugh in ways you couldn’t explain, and obviously … he didn’t have to do much to make you want him. He’d simply have to look at you and you’d get on his lap. If Mingyu wasn’t there, of course.

Wonwoo seemed to blossomed with you. He was more excited to leave his apartment, more eager to become a better cook. He spoke up often, whether it be at work or out with you, rather than letting someone talk. He wanted to learn all the things that you liked, wanted to touch you exactly where you needed it, wanted to find new ways to leave you breathless. Because it was for you.

Even Mingyu noticed a difference in his friend. He’d known Wonwoo for so many years now, but he’d never made this much of a change for anyone. One night, when you and Mingyu were alone in the kitchen, he mentioned, “He’s different around you.” And then kept pouring wine in three glasses while Wonwoo picked a movie from the living room.

There were also times where Wonwoo was a booty call, of course, and neither of you had any problems with that. Some nights, Wonwoo would call you after Mingyu went to bed, begging you to come over, but ended up settling for phone sex. His attraction to you in stockings only went up, and it was difficult for him to contain his arousal at work when you strutted around just knowing how it affected him. There was days where all he wanted to do was pull you into a janitor closet and fuck the living daylights out of you. But it wasn’t like you’d let him anyway.

You had your fair share of desperate moments too. Especially tonight, as you were out drinking with your friends at a local spot you’d been coming to for years. The live band was loud and you’d had your fair share of shitty margaritas already. One of your friends was tugging on the arm of some rando she met on the dance floor, yelling over the music that she was leaving and she’d text you when she was home safe. That left you shit out of luck for a ride home, and suddenly very lonely. The last thing you wanted was to drink alone at a shitty bar on a Saturday night.

Wandering outside, your heeled boots crunched in the snow as you looked for the nearest Uber. The fastest one around would take over 20 minutes to get to you, and as you looked around the empty city streets … wait, didn’t Wonwoo live around here? Maybe all the tequila was just getting to you. But you called him anyway, and despite the time reaching 1 AM, he answered instantly. He heard the slight lisp in your voice, and once he got out of you exactly where you were, he realized you were right. It only took him about 10 minutes to get to where you were, parking on the side of the road. 

He sighed at the sight of you sitting on the curb, shivering and hugging your jacket around you. Various drunk people filtered in and out of the bar, but none of them checked on you – a freezing girl just sitting on the side of the road. “Why didn’t you wait inside for me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek when he pulled you up in his arms. Your dress rode up a little, and his hands were quick to yank it back down. “It’s the middle of winter.”

“I jusssst thought … the cold air would sssssober me up,” you slurred, letting him place you in his passenger seat before running back over to the driver’s side. His car was warm, making you bury yourself in your jacket, but his hand on your thigh was even warmer somehow. If your fingers weren’t so cold, you’d wrap your hand around his wrist, inching his palm up higher as he drove.

Once he was parked, he wasted no time getting you out and helping you up the stairs to his apartment. Mingyu was passed out on the couch, an old movie from the 80s playing on the TV, but you could hardly register it because your brain was spinning and Wonwoo was practically dragging you to his bedroom. He was grateful that all the lights were off so you couldn’t see how messy it was, but honestly, it was a miracle if you could see anything clearly right now.

He sat you down on the bed and you looked up at him with bleary eyes, which made you so fucking hard to resist. All the tequila you drank was pumping through your bloodstream, and you couldn’t help but fist your hands in his t-shirt and try to kiss him. He evaded your lips though – no matter how much he wanted to – and you whined, “Whyyyyyy won’t you kiss me?”

“Shhh …” He whispered, yanking off your boots. “Inside voice. Mingyu’s sleeping.”

You smacked your hands against his mattress. “He’s sleeping in the living room!”

Wonwoo got back to his feet, gesturing as he instructed, “Arms up.” You were too intoxicated to do anything but oblige, lifting your arms as he struggled to pull your dress over your head. Once it was off and thrown to the side with your boots, your hazy vision caught him looking through his drawers for clothes for you to wear. But didn’t he just take your clothes off? You could’ve sworn he did that because he wanted you too right now.

You protested when he tried putting you in one of his simple white tees, but your body felt too limp to fight. He slipped the shirt over your head before pulling back his comforter and wrapping you in it. With your eyes half open, you watched him come to the other side of the bed, yanking his pants down and crawling in bed beside you. He reached over you and set his glasses on the side table. You sighed dramatically. Now he was just torturing you. Wonwoo simply chuckled to himself, realizing what you were angry about.

His arms instantly wound around you, his lips pulled into a smile at your hairline. You looked up at him with a scowl and your voice slurred, “Whysss your eyes closed?”

Wonwoo snickered under his breath. “Because it’s late and I’m tired.” His hand on your lower back traced circles, attempting to coax you to sleep.

“I thought you wanted meeeee,” you complained. Your hand reached in between you two, smoothing your palm against his groin as he slowly started to harden under your touch. You heard his breath hitch slightly, so you kept going, a soft ache beginning between your own legs at just the thought of putting him in your mouth. 

“Sweetheart, I always want you.” He then grabbed your wrist, moving your hand away from him, and then lacing your fingers together. Pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead, he sighed sleepily, “But you’re much sexier when you’re sober.”

You started to realize why you didn’t usually do this, why it had been so long since you let someone see every part of you. What you looked like completely stripped down – both inside and out – completely vulnerable for your person. How your face contorted during pleasure, and how it relaxed when you were taken care of.

Catching feelings like this meant giving up control.

You didn’t work on the weekends unless you had to, and when the Boss sent you a high priority email on Saturday morning, you didn’t hesitate. He had transferred over a bunch of sensitive files that were needed for a board presentation first thing Monday morning. But of course, something just had to go wrong: the files were corrupted and you had no way of figuring out what to do. And it wasn’t like your boss was on call like you were on a Saturday.

This was how you ended up at Wonwoo’s apartment.

You had called him in a panic, explaining what had went wrong, but he didn’t seem too fazed. He was used to your tech emergencies by now. But by the time you got to his apartment, out of breath after running from the train station, he had realized just how serious you were taking this. You both sat down on his couch and you let him work his magic. His fingers moved across the keys as if he were a musician, and you couldn’t stop biting your nail nervously.

Mingyu came back to the apartment after grocery shopping, waving at you before putting all the food away. Seeing as you were here, maybe they could all go out and have fun tonight. He went into the living room, ready to mention a band that was playing at a local venue later, but upon seeing the stressed look on both your faces, he exhaled. “It’s a Saturday,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Why do you two look like that?”

“Corrupted documents,” Wonwoo answered quickly, not even looking up from the monitor. 

“I don’t even want to know more,” he said, grabbing his leather jacket from the coat rack and tugging his arms through the sleeves. “Just your faces are making me anxious. I’m heading out. Don’t wait up.”

You gave Mingyu a wave as he left, but Wonwoo was too focused to even say goodbye. It took about another hour and one cup of coffee, but Wonwoo eventually figured out how to uncorrupt the files. You let out a sigh of relief as he handed the laptop back to you and you were able to open each of them without issue. Thank god, you had managed to figure this out before Monday morning. And … having Wonwoo wasn’t too bad either.

“Thank you,” you beamed, not being able to resist pinching his cheek. “My hero.”

Silence engulfed the room as you both noticed how the sky was already getting dark. You cleared your throat, slipping your laptop back into your bag and muttering, “Thanks again. I know I kind of barged in and wasted your Saturday afternoon –”

Like the saint he was, Wonwoo simply smiled at you. “No time with you is a waste.”

Whatever words you were about to say clogged in your throat. You swallowed hard, attempting to hide your fluster, but you ended up choking out, “I … should go.”

“You don’t have to.” He stood from the couch, walking over to you and running his hands down your arms. His brow lifted. “Do you want to?”

You let the strap of your bag fall to the floor as your hands cupped his neck. “No, not particularly.”

Wonwoo chuckled, leaning in and letting his lips just lightly graze yours. “We have the place to ourselves,” he hummed, slowly dragging you backwards with him. “Mingyu’s gone … probably won’t be back until midnight.”

You bit your lip to suppress a giggle, letting him lead you to his room, as limp as a rag doll. Once he shut his bedroom door behind you, he flicked the light on. You pressed your back against the door and your eyes roamed around the space. This was the first time you saw his bedroom with the light on; every other time had been pitch black. You liked that his walls weren’t bare – they were filled with posters of his favorite musicians or photographs. On his desk was a large monitor and a gaming set up, but also a camera with stacks of film next to it. His furniture was old – probably from the 90s, probably passed down from his family – but the scratches within the wood told a story. And unlike most men, his sheets were gray.

Wonwoo realized you were scanning his room, and he became acutely aware of the clothes scattered amongst his floor. He muttered something to himself, beginning to pick up the clothes piles and chuck them into his hamper. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I wish I inherited the organized gene like Mingyu.”

You tilted your head, striding over and pulling him up, making him halt his actions. Your hands went to his face as you brought him closer. With a smile, you whispered, “I don’t want to talk about Mingyu,” before pressing your lips to his.

The kiss became deep far too quickly, or maybe time was passing faster than usual. Your lips crashed so hard against his that they’d bruise. He took off his glasses, setting them on his drawer, before his fingers hooked into the belt loops of your jeans. You stepped forward, making him step back, then another, and another – until you had him falling back on his bed. You straddled him, arching your back so you could lick into his mouth just how he liked. Hands sliding up his shirt, you felt his abdomen flex underneath you. His fingers in your belt loops jerked you closer, pressing your hips to his, and it wasn’t long before he was moaning into the kiss.

You smiled against his mouth, dragging your lips down his neck, and then even further, as you slinked down his body. Your eyes were trained on his, and he was trying his best not to look like a complete idiot in front of you. But it was difficult when you were looking at him with those eyes and – oh, now you were pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants, practically salivating when you noticed how hard he was already.

But … this was what you guys always did. Not that he had an issue with you giving him blow jobs, but none of this felt particularly intimate. You never really let him worship you; you took control of the entire situation. As if you were bringing your professional stubbornness to the bedroom.

“Wait,” he choked out as you palmed his growing bulge. “Can we … can we try something different?”

Your brows furrowed and you continued pressing sloppy kisses above his groin. “Why would we do that?”

Wonwoo let out a frustrated sound, and before you could prepare yourself, he was yanking his pants back up and pinning you underneath him. You blinked up at him in surprise, and he was gripping your wrists above your head now, his bodyweight pressing you into the mattress. He almost looked shocked that he had the strength to push you back, but his blown-out pupils gave away his true desire.

“What was that for?” You asked incredulously. Nerves clouded your thoughts, making you stutter. “I thought … I thought you liked …”

“No, trust me, I do,” he assured you, and then tipped his head as he gazed down at you. “I just … why won’t you let me take care of you?”

You scoffed then, trying to cover up how petrifying this conversation was becoming. Were you that transparent now, or did he simply know you far too well for your own good?

“I have no idea what you’re –”

Wonwoo gave you one of his infamous leveled looks, and you sighed. “You’re in constant need of seeking control when it’s always at your fingertips. It’s okay to let it go; it won’t slip away.” He let go of your wrists then, but kept his body hovering over yours, holding himself up by his elbows resting near your head. “Please, just … surrender it for once. Let me take the lead.”

You glanced down at your hands on your chest, twiddling your thumbs. Eventually, you murmured, “It’s hard. I’ve never done that before.”

“Can we try? I like …” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then let his head fall as he chuckled to himself. “This is so awkward. I just – I like prioritizing your pleasure. It feels much better for me and I think it will for you too. And if you don’t like it –”

“I’m not good with change,” you blurted.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice taking on that husky tone that made warmth pool in your stomach. His eyes flickered to your lips now, noticing how swollen they still were. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. It was just a suggestion, and I probably ruined the mood.”

You shook your head immediately, allowing your fingers to tenderly sweep over his shirt. “No, I …” A voice in the back of your head told you this was a good thing, and you did want this, but the fear of change was overwhelming. You wanted to step out of your comfort zone, desperately, for once. You were allowed to do this; you were allowed to be happy. 

Your gaze met his again. “I want to try.”

His eyes softened with affection, but then he asked, “You’re not just agreeing for my sake, right?”

“Now when have I ever done that?” You laughed, making him smile along with you. 

But as soon as his mouth met yours, that awkward, giggling persona seemed to melt away. Jeon Wonwoo morphed into an entirely different person, someone that possessed your jaw in his large hand, pulling at your bottom lip before kissing you harder. It was enough to leave you gasping for air once he pulled away, spit connecting you two, and he continued to suck and nip his way down your throat. He made sure to leave marks in places that could be covered up for work, but he’d know exactly where they were. God, would he even be able to control himself at his desk, knowing where his bites were hiding under your clothes? 

Tugging your sweater over your head, he practically whined at the sight of your breasts, constricted in the bra that you told him was too old once, but you kept wearing it anyway because he said it was cute. He lifted you for a moment, expertly removing it with one hand, before licking the valley between your breasts. You arched into him, sighing into your arm when he swirled his tongue around your taut nipple. He glanced up and realized you were hiding your face, so he pushed your hand off. “I want you to look at me while I do this,” he cooed, but it sounded more like a demand.

Despite the embarrassment, you did as he asked, feeling completely bewitched as you watched him cup the swell of your breast, tugging on your nipple. This felt like a goddamn Pornhub video. You two have had sex before, yes, but not like this. Never like this. Wonwoo had always let you do what you were comfortable with, keeping his other side at bay while you rode him hard on the couch. But this … this felt like something else entirely. The way he was lavishing both your nipples, coating them with his spit, demanding you to watch … Expletives filtered softly from your mouth, wetness gathering between your thighs. It suddenly felt too hot and your jeans were still on.

Wonwoo was taking his time with you though, and it was very clear to you that this wouldn’t just be one of those nights where you had sex for 10 minutes before ordering pizza. When he lifted his mouth from your left nipple, he asked calmly, “Do you like this or do you want more?”

You sneered, “Well, of course, I like –”

His hand came up instantly to pinch your other nipple, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that came out of your mouth. “No teasing,” he said, lowering his head to flick that nipple with his tongue. “Just answer me.”

“More,” you choked out, your hips arching off the bed, seeking friction. “Please, more.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss between your breasts once again, before lowering himself down your body. His eyes never left yours as he dragged his lips down your stomach. Eventually, he had to stand from the bed so he could finally unzip your pants, tugging when they got stuck around your ankles. When the cold air hit between your legs, you realized how soaked you were already. Wonwoo smirked to himself, slowly rolling your panties down your legs.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you joked, kicking your panties off into a pile by his bed. 

He lifted your ankle, nipping playfully, and replied, “Told you that you’d like me taking the lead.”

You rolled your eyes as he settled between your thighs, bending your knees back so your feet rested beside his head. You bit your lip as he placed sloppy kisses on your inner thigh, biting hard enough to make a bruise. Wonwoo fought hard to maintain a sense of composure, but god, the sight of your pretty pussy oozing slick made him wonder if he could cum untouched. You had let him finger you before, but had never been in the mood for this. And this was something Wonwoo had been fantasizing about since the day he noticed that tear in your stockings. He could jump for joy if that didn’t make him look like an absolute fucking loser.

He pushed your folds apart with two fingers, running a hand down his face as he attempted to school his expression. It was just so fucking hard to act cool when you were this aroused. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. You reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead, deciding to quip, “Wonwoo, can you even find the clit without your glasses on –”

Without warning, he spit on your pussy and buried his face between your thighs. The words died on your tongue immediately, and you let out the loudest whine he’d ever heard in his life. He smiled, but that didn’t deter him from circling his tongue around your clit. He wound one of his arms around your thigh, holding you in place as he pressed his face further.

Wrapping his lips around your clit, he sucked and drew out the prettiest sounds from you, using his free hand to slip two fingers inside you. You tasted exactly like he dreamed about, sweet and tangy and so unmistakably you. He looked up at you from between your legs, curling his fingers in the spot that made tears prick at your eyes, and when your gaze found his, it was like something in him snapped. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice muffled, feasting at you like he’d been starved for days. 

Your fingers were in his hair now, pressing his head more into you, which only made this more enjoyable for him. He nearly came in his pants when your hips began to buck against his face, but this was about you. And him experiencing you cumming on his face. But mostly you. His fingers pumped faster inside you and his tongue was now flicking your clit, allowing more of your arousal to invade his mouth. He’d never get tired of this taste; he was obsessed. Now that he finally got a taste of you … he never wanted to not be doing this. Never wanted his face too far from the apex of your legs. Not when you had the sweetest taste that could move heaven and earth between these thighs.

And when you finally came on his tongue, he noticed that your legs shook like an earthquake. Your essence flooded his mouth, and he moaned – god, did he moan – lapping at you, never missing a drop of what you gave him. His fingers kept curling inside of you, making your orgasm feel like forever. When he finally removed them with a wet pop, he didn’t miss the opportunity to have more of you, wrapping his mouth around those two fingers and licking off the last of your release. You watched him, completely mesmerized by the way he savored you, even darting his tongue out to capture the whatever seeped out of you. Your hips jolted, suddenly so sensitive, and he grinned up at you.

You hardly caught your breath before he crawling up your body, kissing you hard and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Your hands fisted in his t-shirt, and when you ripped your lips away from his, you arched a brow. “You are still fully clothed,” you reminded, and then swiped at the spit lining his bottom lip.

Wonwoo simply smiled, ghosting his lips over yours before trailing them to your ear. “I’m getting to that part. Patience,” he whispered, nibbling on your earlobe. “You must really want me inside you.”

“I want to not be the only one naked.”

“Say it,” he prodded in a weirdly casual tone.

“What?”

“Say you want me inside you.”

“This is ridiculous –”

He lifted his head from your jawline. “I can easily leave this room and order a pizza,” he teased, and you blinked at him. He was actually being serious. He would completely ignore what looked like a throbbing erection in his pants, just to make a point. You knew he wasn’t trying to be mean; he wanted to get you out of your comfort zone. This was so stupid, because you did want him inside you. Embarrassingly so. He had just given you one of the best orgasms of your life, but you still had this … aching need to be filled. Your cheeks heated just at the thought of it.

“I …” Your eyes closed for a moment, trying not to make your whole face turn bright red. With a sigh, your eyes connected again, and you answered, “I want you inside me, Wonwoo.”

He rewarded you with a kiss, pulling away before it could get too heated again, and stood from the bed. “Well, when you ask nicely …” He smiled, that dominating demeanor slipping for a moment as he pulled his shirt off. You’d never get tired of the way Wonwoo looked without a shirt. He didn’t let anyone see it very often – he wasn’t like his roommate – but the moments he did, you felt eternally grateful. His torso was toned, with defined abs and pecks that made your mind boggle. You liked that his arms were long and muscled; his hands large and slightly calloused. 

You liked everything about him.

When he finally went to kick off his sweatpants, he noticed a large precum stain on the gray fabric from just eating you out. Which was probably the biggest jab to his calm and collected attitude right now, but he didn’t let it slip. He simply threw the sweatpants to the side, coming up close to the bed again, where your legs were now hanging off the edge. You gazed up at him as if he held the world in his palms, watching the way he reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock. Your eyes widened at the sight, never used to the size. He was slightly thicker than average, but long. Longer than you ever expected. With a pretty pink head leaking sticky precum.

It was killing you how long he was taking. Your legs shifted, ready to make a move to yank him underneath you, but he was faster than you. He pinned your wrists about your head with one hand this time, using his other to keep a firm grip on his cock. “You want to be in control that badly, huh?” He asked, tilting his head.

His hand was moving up and down his shaft now, letting precum dribble on your stomach. Your eyes flickered from his cock back to his eyes. “I just … I need you, Wonwoo,” you begged, your voice taking on a new tone. And somehow … wanting him so bad like this was ten times more arousing than riding him on the couch. “Please, please, Wonwoo. Please, fuck me.”

Your pleas had him falling apart, and he sighed, letting go of your wrists to discard his boxers too. His cock flopped against his stomach, hard and aching and – fuck, had he always been veiny? He got on top of you again, cooing against your lips, “I know, baby, I know.” His rubbed the underside of his length against your wet folds, moaning at the slightest bit of friction. “I’ll fuck you real good. I promise.”

Pressing the head of his cock at your entrance, his breath hitched at just the feeling of your arousal coating his shaft. You both had never taken your time with sex. But he was doing that tonight now that he was in control, letting himself slowly push inside you, feel you completely stretch open for him. You mewled, slinking your arms around his neck and carding your fingers at the nape. And when he finally buried himself to the hilt, his lips fell open and he groaned. You felt so good he could cum right now, but he needed to get a grip. The last thing he needed was to cum too fast.

Not that you would like him any less if he did.

“Wonwoo,” you cried, your hips arching up to meet his. “Please.”

Your voice snapped him out of whatever trance-like state he was in. He settled more on top of you, resting his elbows on both sides of your head, and pulled all the way out so only the tip remained. You whined at the emptiness, which soon changed to a gasp when he bullied his cock back in. Your fingers tugged at his hair; your legs crossed around his waist, drawing him deeper inside. “Fuck,” he muttered, still feeling how tight you were, how you molded yourself for him. “So fucking … god, so wet.”

His restraint could only last so long. He’d gotten his fill of feeling you adjust around him. He couldn’t take this anymore, or he was going to cum before you both had even started. With a deep breath, he set a brutal pace inside of you, his hips snapping forward. Tears rolled down your cheeks; how could something feel so good that you cried? Wonwoo seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he was burying his face in the crook of your neck and groaning, “God, so good … you feel so good … how can anyone feel this good?”

The only word you could choke out was, “Ditto,” which you’d regret for hours after this. But now was not the time.

He was fucking into you so hard that you were already sore, but you were holding onto him for dear life, clinging to him as that warmth burned in your gut. The way his cock curved and grazed your g-spot perfectly, making you tremble and whimper his name like a prayer. He placed a hand on your stomach, feeling how deep his cock nestled inside you, and you noticed him shiver in your arms. He was trying desperately to fight off his release. That coil in your gut began to tighten, and from the way Wonwoo was breathing, you knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. He wanted you to cum first though – like always – wanted to feel you clamp around him, squeeze him so tight that he saw white. 

So he did what he did best: reached in between your bodies, finding your swollen, sensitive clit so easily, and rubbed slow circles. He lifted his head from your neck, wanting to see that familiar look in your eyes when you saw stars. “Are you gonna cum for me?” His voice was so deep that it reverberated against your chest.

And finally, as he pressed his thumb down hard and pushed into you just right, you felt your orgasm crest. “Fuck, Wonwoo,��� you sobbed, body shaking as you came undone. 

But Wonwoo wasn’t stopping. He kept fucking into you, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. And when your walls squeezed him so tight, he buried himself completely and came hard, a generous amount of fucks leaving his lips. His cheek pressed against yours; his groans muffled by the comforter. You held him close as he filled you to the brink with his release, and it almost felt like hours before he realized he finished. 

You exhaled together, allowing your heart rates to settle. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, and then to your nose, and now he was kissing all over your face. Your cheeks instantly tinged pink, but you let him do as he pleased. He didn’t even make a move off you, letting his cock soften inside your warmth. When your eyes opened, he was staring down at you like you were the sun. You searched his eyes, “What?”

His dark gaze flickered to your lips for a moment, and then he asked, “Did you really say, ‘Ditto,’ during sex?”

You and Wonwoo had gotten into a routine. Of course, you saw him 5 days out of the week at work, but you wanted more of him. You figured out Mingyu’s schedule, coming over most nights when he wasn’t home – besides Mingyu’s Movie Nights. You would let Wonwoo cook for you, and he promised he was getting better, before he led you to his room with kisses to your neck and a firm grip on your hand. 

He always went with whatever you were comfortable with, but you found yourself letting him take the lead more often than not. You liked letting him prioritize you; you liked being selfish with him. Giving up control felt … much better than anticipated. Everything about this felt too good to be true. But you couldn’t help yourself, and you didn’t want to spoil it by asking him the dreaded, “What are we?” For now, you’d exist in your safe little bubble, where he would smile at you at work and then fuck your brains out after hours. It felt perfect, simple.

You approached sex through a different lens now. Instead of simply riding him on that godforsaken old couch, you let him go at his own pace: placing you on his lap, having his way with you and making you cum at least 3 times before he sunk you down on his cock, bouncing you up and down as you clung to him, practically letting him use you as a flesh light. Even when he let you sit on his face, it was on his terms: his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave a mark, trying to suffocate himself with your pussy, not allowing you to cum until he said so, no matter how much you needed to. But it felt too good to stop. You didn’t want this to stop. You liked the lack of control, liked the way he took care of you. The way he bent your knees back as he slid into you, keeping eye contact, so you’d feel him that much deeper … the way he could feast on you for hours, never getting enough of your taste … there was something about it that made you feel more than beautiful. 

Especially when he looked at you as if you were his world.

Especially when he fucked into you and you realized you might be in love with him.

You tended to get lost in thought while laying in bed on an early morning. The birds chirped outside, your phone chimed along with each new notification. Curling underneath your comforter, you held your pounding head, reminiscing on last Sunday. You had gone over Wonwoo’s apartment and he had surprised you with a spaghetti dinner. Mingyu promised that it was “more edible than usual” before he left you two alone in the apartment.

You had noticed the shine in Wonwoo’s eyes, how excited he was to do this for you. He had never bothered to learn anything for anyone, but all he wanted to do was please you. To make you happy. And you could see that in the way he gazed at you, making your stomach do flip flops. Letting him have all this control over you, letting him see past the fortress you’d kept up for who knows how long … it was scary and exhilarating all at the same time.

He taught you how to play his favorite video game after dinner, placing you in between his legs on the couch and letting you lean back against his broad chest. His arms cocooned around you, nestling your body in his embrace. Sometimes he would nibble on your ear as you fought to maintain hand-eye coordination with the controller. Eventually, you had given up and asked to watch him, but that led to his hand dropping the controller as the enemy killed him off. And then his fingers were slowly slipping down the waistband of your leggings, rubbing your slit over your panties. You had arched into him, your ass pressing against his hardening erection as he pulled your panties to the side, already finding you wet and ready for his touch. He chuckled in your ear, “How long have you been thinking about this?” His index finger rubbed tight circles on your clit, and all that you could formulate for a response was a moan as he –

You cut yourself off from the memory before it could end you.

Your stomach churned. Despite your better judgement, you had completely fallen head-over-heels for senior IT specialist, Jeon Wonwoo, and that was terrifying. He had seen your personality unfold, seen the most vulnerable parts of you. But nothing was more scary than admitting to yourself how much you liked him, maybe even loved. You were frantic to the point of exhaustion, so stressed that you felt sick. Soon you were shivering, your head pounding as a fever came on, and you stayed home from work for a few days. Your phone notifications be damned – you stayed in your bedroom with the blinds closed, sleeping the days away.

Every so often, you would hear your phone chime. Your phone screen would light up with another text message. But … you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him. This behavior was illogical and stupid; you just simply couldn’t help yourself. You were an avoidant. The only thing you knew how to do was slowly push him away before he saw all the layers underneath your carefully crafted facade.

What if he finally saw how anxious you were all the time?

What if he knew how you secretly craved to be loved your entire life, but you looked for it elsewhere, in places like workplace praise or crowded bars where you couldn’t see another person’s face?

What if he knew you weren’t as organized up in your head as you were at your desk?

Or worse … what if he didn’t like you back?

TUESDAY, APRIL 22

Wonwoo: What’s going on?

Wonwoo: I managed to find out that you’re sick. I can make you soup, if you want? I know my cooking is terrible. But what if this time it’s good and it cures you?

Wonwoo: If I threaten to message you on Slack, will that make you reply?

Wonwoo: I promise I won’t. Unless … lol

Wonwoo: You’re not dead, right?

Wonwoo: Please, answer me.

FRIDAY, APRIL 25

UNKNOWN: hey, it’s Mingyu. I found your number in Wonwoo’s phone. he’s really messed up right now and worrying about you.

UNKNOWN: idk what’s going on between you two, but I don’t like seeing him like this.

UNKNOWN: just … call him. or text him. or something.

Jeon Wonwoo [10:13 AM]: Did your computer die and you need a new charger?

Jeon Wonwoo [3:21 PM]: I miss you.

When you finally returned to work, it’s on a day that your cubicle mate had decided to work from home. You couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or curse until the next day, when you wished that he decided to work from home forever. It was on a Tuesday morning that you finally faced him again, locking eyes with him from across the boardroom table in an all-hands meeting. You weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure what you could say, but … he didn’t speak to you any way. In fact, even when you both got back to your desks, he kept quiet, throwing on his headphones and focusing on whatever task was at hand. His attitude change wasn’t exactly surprising, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak to him either.

All your other coworkers looked bewildered. The silence between you two made just about everyone feel awkward. They all saw how close you and Wonwoo had become, and now everything just felt … flat. Silent. Empty. It was like you two were strangers. Maybe you had never really known each other in the first place, if you could both discard each other so easily. 

But that just seemed too good to be true. You thought about him everyday, despite yourself, and he had to think of you too. You caught his eyes on you every once in a while, and you couldn’t help but yearn for him in silence. It was probably time for you to take charge again and make the first move, but you found yourself hesitating. Again. You were overwhelmed with thoughts of rejection. 

This was why you never gave up control with someone before. It left you suddenly so, so doubtful.

You [1:34 PM]: I can’t get into my Outlook. I think I’ve locked myself out 

Jeon Wonwoo is now offline.

You [1:36 PM]: I miss you too

It was a busy Sunday, the first notes of Spring evident in the air. You needed to go to the post office today, the supermarket, probably check in on your parents … but that was all discarded when you made the sudden decision to take a taxi to Wonwoo’s apartment. Your hands were shaking more than his when he first touched you. Your leg was bouncing with anxiety, and when the taxi finally pulled up to his building, you considered never getting out. 

But you couldn’t continue being a coward. Besides, this driver had places to be, with the way he was arguing for you to pay in cash.

You were lucky enough to slide in through the building’s entrance while someone was walking out. The less you had to embarrass yourself by calling Mingyu to let you in, the better. The walk up those two flights of stairs was long and tiring, and it wasn’t because you always hated them. You physically couldn’t make yourself go faster, too frightened of what he was going to say when he saw you. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything; maybe he’d slam the door in your face. And you couldn’t blame him, because now you were at his door and – oh, god, you wanted to hurl.

The door was opening before you could even catch your breath. When you caught that first glimpse of Mingyu, you realized how much of a mistake this was. You could always turn back, run down the stairs before anyone could say a word.

But as soon as you both locked eyes, Mingyu raised his brow, but not in a mocking sense. It was as if … he expected you to be here. He sighed, leaning against the door, and without looking back, he called out, “Wonwoo! You got a visitor.”

Your eyes went wide, and then Mingyu was pushing past you, leaving the door open and muttering, “Good luck.” He was rushing down the stairs two at a time before you could even say a word back. But then you were seeing him, and you wondered if it had always been this hard to breathe around him.

Your fingers played absentmindedly as you both stared at each other. His glasses were slipping down his nose, but he made no move to fix them. His own hand was too busy dropping the controller that had been in his grip, now clattering to the floor. His hair was messed up and he was wearing his favorite comfy sweatsuit, and you … you were put together, as always. Your hair unwashed, but pulled up in a ponytail, and wearing that cardigan he liked so much on you. If he wasn’t so hurt, just the sight of you would have him on his knees right now, begging to have you.

He had to turn around and walk away. If he didn’t right now, he’d just –

“Wait,” you said, walking in and closing the door when he spun away. “Please, don’t. I –”

“What could you possibly say?” He snapped, facing you once again. You had never heard his voice at this octave before, never seen so much distress on his face. “I thought we knew each other well enough that you wouldn’t cut me off out of nowhere. As if I’m just some guy you met at a bar last weekend.”

Your mouth opened, and then closed. 

“Do you … do you even understand how worried I was about you?” He ran a hand through his hair, voice cracking for the first time in forever. You took a step closer to him. “You weren’t answering me and I just … my head went to the worst. I thought Mingyu was gonna kill me the next time I mentioned your name. And then, to see you at work and realizing that you were actually just ghosting me was a fucking punch to the gut. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it. But I’m so pissed at you for hurting my feelings that I’m not even sure if I wanna know.”

“Wonwoo –” You started.

“Please, don’t say my name like that,” he sighed and pinched his nose. “I realize that you came all this way to finally break the news to me, but I’m good. It’s very obvious to me now that you don’t like me as much as I like you, and to save us the pity party, let me get you home –” He reached for his wallet to grab some cash for your next taxi.

But you interrupted before he could finish.

“I love you.”

He paused, looking up and making sure he heard you right. “What?”

“I’m in love with you,” you said it again, and it felt so freeing to have this weight lifted off your shoulders. You moved closer, now standing a foot away, but refusing to touch him for your own good. “And I’m not just telling you that as an excuse. Ignoring you was cruel and I can never forgive myself for hurting you. I just … when I realized how deep my feelings for you were …” Your throat closed up, as if your body was acting on instinct, preventing you from being vulnerable with him.

Wonwoo closed the distance. “Hey,” he whispered, tucking a hair behind your ear. “I’m right here with you.”

His voice was so reassuring – as always – opening you up like a blooming flower. And suddenly, your mouth didn’t feel so dry anymore and your nails stopped making crescent-shaped indents in your palm.

“I got scared,” you confessed, your gaze locked on his. “And I ran away, because that was the easiest thing to do. I thought ignoring you would be best for both of us, and I stubbornly didn’t want to hear your opinion on any of this. What I did was wrong and I … I hate myself when I do stuff like this to people I care about.”

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, but he wiped them with his thumb before they could fall. You sniffled, noticing the hurt in his eyes had faded, replaced only by adoration. Your lips pursed as you searched his gaze.

“I’ve just … never allowed anyone to open me up like this. I’ve never given my feelings to someone and let them care for me.” You blinked, your eyes rimmed red. “I’ve hardly been able to comprehend my own feelings because I’ve been scared shitless of them in the first place. But I can’t … I can’t justify pushing you away anymore. Because I love you. I don’t like being alone anymore and all I ever want to do is see you. Sometimes I’m afraid if I stop holding you, you’ll disappear. You do so much for me; you literally fix something on my computer everyday. I think if I let you go right now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, and I –”

Wonwoo cut you off by pressing his lips to yours. You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you like this: so gently with his palm cupping your jaw. You felt yourself relax when he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His tongue licked into your mouth, sighing with relief when the familiar taste of you entered his orbit again. The taste of coffee and peppermint gum and the peanut butter and jelly you definitely had for lunch today. It was everything he loved about you, and he smiled into the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, he said, “Sorry, I interrupted your monologue.”

“It’s okay. Someone needed to before I got into the Hamlet soliloquy I prepared.”

He chuckled, grinning from ear to ear, and just that had a blush creeping to your cheeks. “I forgive you,” he whispered, leaning back in to ghost his lips all over your face. Your warm breath fanned his mouth. “Just don’t do that again. I know I don’t show it very often, but I’m secretly very …” He smiled softer this time, pecking just slightly on the corner of your mouth. “Sensitive.”

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, wanting him all the more closer. “I know. I promise.” You brushed your nose over his. “If I ever ignore you for even a couple hours, you have full permission to annoy me on Slack.”

Wonwoo had to cover his mouth from letting out the loudest laugh possible, but it made you feel all the better to see him happy. You could spend forever seeing him this happy. You got up on your tiptoes just to stare at him more, to press yourself closer and feel his grin against your cheek.

But he was holding your face now, sighing down at you with a smile that almost made you swoon. “For the record,” he replied, “I love you too.” 

[shellshocklove]

moanin' & groanin' | logan howlett

pairing/AU: lumberjack!logan howlett/wolverine x inexperienced!female!reader

summery: working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad – especially when he can teach you a thing or two.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! age gap (in the way that his mutant abilities prolongs his life), swearing, use of pet names, smut, car sex, praise, a little dacryphilia, logan's got a dirty mouth, soft dom!logan, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), handjob, fingering, a little manhandling, unprotected sex (don't do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: um hi! this is my first ever logan fic. i really hope i got him right! not beta read, and barely edited so any mistakes are my own. happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The pages crinkled under your fingertips as you turned another page. Over the top of your book you could see your father's men milling about, getting the timber ready for another outgoing truck. Day in and day out they worked like flannel-covered ants. 

He wasn't here, your father, leaving you to hold down the fort, or office to be precise, as he  ran errands. "I'll be back before lunch," he'd told you, a hand passing through the sleeve of his tan Carhartt.

The office felt bigger when he wasn't here, like his neuroticism took up twice as much space as he did himself. You looked around the room. It was small, more like a hut than anything else, raised up on cinderblocks. A tiny kitchen lined the front wall, the refrigerator had given out once this month already and something smelled like it had died in there, the white florescent light under the wall cabinets gave you a headache, and the tap drip drip dripped. The table and the mismatched chairs, your father had found at a fleamarked years ago, before you were born most likely, and they wore the wear and tear of years of use. 

Every available surface was covered in papers, and the wooden shelves on the wall dipped in the middle from the weight of the binders. When you were little you'd been afraid the wood would break in two, but they were still standing (hanging?) – maybe they'd stay like that for the rest of eternity for all you knew. Your father's office had only one desk, which made your job as occasional office manager and full-time problem solver, problematic. 

Your father would sit in his chair on one side, while you'd steal one of the mismatched chairs and occupy the other end. If you'd had your way, you wouldn't be working here. The timber business interested you just as much as your father was interested in the disco they played on the radio. "If it ain't the king of rock I don't want to hear it," he usually said and switched the channel. 

But the town was small, and no one was hiring. The summer after you'd finished high school you'd dreamt of moving to the city, but the money had been tight and your father needed you. At least the work, if your father didn't meddle, was relatively easy: answer the phone, type out the invoices and salaries, keep an eye on logistics, and make sure whatever breaks gets fixed. 

The radio hummed at a low volume, one of the singles from Tapestry, as you turned another page of your book. Leaning back in your father's office chair, you glanced at the clock over the door. He should be back by now. Just as the thought crossed your mind, the door swung open.

"Did you need something?" you asked, your book dipping down in your lap. 

Logan raised an eyebrow at you as he walked into the office on heavy steps, that damn cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "Nice to see you too, princess," he poked jokingly, tugging at his gloves, one finger at a time, and tucking them into his leather belt. 

He sported the same outfit he usually wore; bootcut jeans, a white t-shirt under his flannel and a thicker wool-lined jacket. He must've been sweating in here with that on.

Autumn had claimed the trees and ground months ago, but this morning the frost had covered the ground and bit at the apples of your cheeks. Your breath had come out in swirling plumes when you'd locked yourself in this morning; the first glints of the sun peeking through the windows as it rose over the mountains. The first thing you'd done was crank the heater, and now as you approached midday, you'd shed your sweater long ago while the windows had fogged with condensation. 

The smallest of frowns tugged at your brows, as a heat prickled up your neck to your cheeks. Logan made you a little nervous– not in a bad way, but in a way where your thoughts would wander in his presence, conjuring up scenarios of him and yourself in… comprising positions. Okay, maybe it was in a bad way. But who could blame you when he walked around like that?

He'd arrived only a few months ago, at the tail end of the summer, looking for work. He was strong, stronger than any of the other men working for your father, and although the work was hard, it seemed like he never tired. You didn't know much about him and he kept mostly to himself, hidden away in a cabin up in the mountain, but sometimes you'd see him down at the local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. More than once you'd seen him chatting up Kayla Silverfox, and more than once you'd wished it was you in her place.

"Oof," Logan groaned as he opened the fridge, grabbing his packed lunch and closing it as fast as he could. You appreciated him for that; whatever had died in there should stay in there.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm not cleaning that again, not even for a million bucks."

"Can't blame ya." 

He looked to the table for a second where the guys usually ate their lunches, before he decided to take your usual chair at your father's desk. As he sat down, you pushed the ash tray to his side of the desk, earning you a short smile in thanks as he rested his cigar. It wasn't unusual for him to talk to you on his breaks. 

So, why did you heart beat so fast in your chest?

Because it was the first time you'd been alone.

"So, where's your old man?" he asked and bit into the sandwich he'd packed in an old newspaper.

"Running errands– he should be back soon…" you trailed off.

Logan hummed non-committedly. "So, you're in here sittin' pretty readin' your book while we're out in the cold slavin' away– maybe I should become the boss' daughter."

"Well, it's not easy," you sighed, feigning confidence, "and you gotta be pretty first of all," you front teeth dug into your bottom lip as you tried to hide your nervousness.

"That's true," he grinned, "I ain't got nothin' on you, princess."

Logan held your gaze with intent, and it was like something in the air shifted. It happened sometimes with Logan, like he had this power beaming from him that sucked you in. Erratic wings fluttered in your stomach, and you had to drop your gaze.

"So, how's the book?" he asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Eh," you shrugged, dog-earing the page your were on, before throwing the beat-up paperback on the table. "Too many plot twists– first they're on earth, then there's this virus spreading– so they have to move all of humanity to the moon, but then there's this species that lives under the surface of the moon who they start a war with, but one of the main characters are in love with a moonie– that's what they call them– so, now they're in love and trying to stop the war and…" you shrugged again.

Logan chewed slowly as he nodded his head. "Sounds complicated," he decided, making you let out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

A grin washed over Logan's face at your small laugh, and you felt his gaze roll over you, over your exposed skin. When he looked at you like that, like a predator drooling for a meal, you felt a small damp spot stick to your panties. You watched as his nostrils widened, his jaw clenching shut as a pulsing vein protruded from his neck.

"So, science fiction," he started, clearing his throat, "Didn't know you liked that," he continued between the last bites of his sandwich

"Some kid at the library recommended it," you shrugged, "so I thought I'd try it out. And it's not like it's that far from the truth– we've got mutants."

Logan crumbled the newspaper hard and quick, the sharp sound making you jump. "Yeah," he said, and stood to his feet, "That's true."

He grabbed his burnt out cigar, and threw the ball of newspaper in the trash. You started to wonder if you'd said something wrong, but then he said, "Your father's back," and not even a second later you could see your dad's old truck pull up outside the window.

How did he even know that? 

"Logan– wait," the words just fell out of your mouth before you could even think them through. He hovered by the door, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. 

You could be brave– Just say it! 

"Come by later would you? Before you leave for the day– I have something for you."

A gush of cold air blew in with the arrival of your father. He almost crashed right into Logan on his way out, nearly knocking him down the wooden steps. You thought you could glimpse a small nod from Logan, but he was out the door so fast you couldn't be sure. 

The rest of the day went by slowly as a growing anxiety gnawed at your neck. With your dad back you slipped out to borrow the car, driving into town to pick up some lunch at the local diner. It was routine at this point, something you did without thinking, but today your thoughts couldn't stay still. You were pulling up outside the office when you realized you'd driven the whole way with the radio off.

What was even your plan? 

You wished you were better at this. You could pretend, sure, put on a brave face to hide the nerves from surfacing, but how do you get a man like that to go for a girl like you?

You felt non the wiser when the sun had dipped below the mountains and he finally knocked on the office door. Your dad had left thirty-minutes earlier, stranding you at work with no way to get home. 

If this didn't go well, you didn't look forward to walking home.

"What 's it you wanted, princess," Logan asked, leaning against the frame of the door with one knee popped. Your eyes couldn't help but run down the length of him – his broad shoulders, the bulge hidden below his big belt buckle, and the veins of his exposed arms as he slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Oh, um," you tried to shake your thoughts, and you rummaged the desk for the envelope. "Here," you said as you found it, stretching your hand out for him to take it.

He pushed off the door frame with a raised eyebrow, the cold air from the open door taking with it the warmth of the office. "What's this?" he questioned, taking the envelope from your hand. 

"It's your check– for this month's work," you explained.

His raised eyebrow pulled into a frown, "This is a week early," he questioned, "and I usually get these sent in the mail."

"Oh, I-I just thought I'd give it to you personally this time," you lied, fitting a shrug at the end for good measure, trying to sell how completely normal and nonchalant you were.

Logan raised a skeptic eyebrow at you, and you suddenly felt really really stupid. In your chest your heart could compete with a hummingbird's.

"Really?" he said with a smile before he dropped his chin, "Can I appreciate a little extra something in here, or…?" he trailed off, waving the envelope.

Letting out a shaky inaudible breath, you tried in your flirtiest voice, "Maybe if you give me a ride home…"

...................

The lights from the town below looked like stars scattered over the night sky, the yellow light of the roads connected them like on a string. You knew that Logan knew where you lived; the town was small, and even with the short time he'd spent here, it wasn't hard to get familiar. He'd stopped at the lookout point, about half-way up the mountain road. It was nice in the daytime, with a nice view of the town, the mountain and rivers, but at night it attracted a different kind of crowd: lovers. It was cheesy, and cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason. 

The Led Zeppelin tape whirled, and the music stopped. 

Suddenly you felt nervous, fingers picking at a loose tread on your sweater. Logan leaned forward to flip the cassette, and his truck filled with a sound of organ, like you were back in church. When he leaned back he slung his arm over your seat. You watched how he spread his legs, getting comfortable, as his eyes found your face.

Under the wool, your heart picked up its beat.

In a brave move you shifted closer, the leather seat moaning under you, as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His big palm snaked around your shoulder, curling you closer to him until his lips caught your own. You only hesitated for a second before your hand found his neck, where your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A low growl huffed against your lips, and he deepened the kiss, pressing himself roughly against you as he licked into your mouth. You couldn't help the small whimper escaping you. His touch was rough, almost impatient, but tender all at the same time, and you felt yourself fall apart.

The air stuck to your skin, clammy and sticky with arousal and now you started to get impatient. With a loud smack you broke apart, your lips raw and spent from use as you caught your breath. A rough hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb skated gently over your skin as he tilted your head towards him.

"Such a pretty little thing," he mused. His eyes had gone dark, pupils huge and filled with lust; yours must've looked about the same as they rolled down his body. He shifted closer to you, pushing you closer to the door, and you got a better view of the bulge hidden behind his jeans.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, clogging up the sounds around you like you were underwater, pushing at your thoughts at the back of your mind. Logan moved with such ease, each touch natural and easy, like he'd done them a thousand times. Not like you, with only your short-lived high school boyfriend under your belt. 

"Hey," he shook your head gently, "Where you goin', bub?"

"I'm sorry," you whispered, a heat coating the apples of your cheeks. 

He shook his head, his face surprisingly tender for someone so rough, "Tell me, baby."

"I'm just…" you trailed of, trying to find your words, "I'm a little nervous– I haven't done this much," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"That's sweet, bub." The pad of his thumb rubbed the pet name into your skin as he leaned forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss, "But I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours 'bout it."

His breath was hot against your own, and an ache started to spread between your legs. The hand on your cheek travelled downwards to tug at your jacket, and you parted only for a second to rid yourself of it, but before you could lock your lips with his again he grabbed at your hands.

"I'll teach ya," he told you and guided your hands to his broad form. 

He let you touch him as he shucked off his jacket, your fingers dancing over the soft flannel. He was solid beneath your fingers, hard muscles from hard work. A patch of dark hair curled at his chest, peeking out beneath his white shirt, and you found yourself wondering where it lead.

Curling his hand around your wrist, he guided your hand lower; down over his chest where you could feel the solid form of him. His bronze belt buckle burned you like ice, but the heat of him as he pressed your hand to the hard bulge beneath the buckle burned even brighter.

"You feel that?" He looked you straight in the eyes. He pressed your hand down harder and you could feel the shape of him against your hand, hard and thick, and big. You barely managed a nod through the wave of heat coating your cheeks. 

"That's because of you, princess." His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he started to guide your hand to rub over the thick length.

"Me?" you questioned, breathless. 

"Yes, you," he chuckled, a heavy hand petting at your head. "D'you want to take it out? Stroke it f'me?"

"Please," you begged, looking at him with moony eyes through your lashes.

"So polite f'me," he mused, his hands tugging at his belt before he popped the button on his jeans. Slipping off your shoes, you crawled up into the seat, sitting back on your knees as you watched him pull at his jeans. Peeking out from under the denim, you could see a dark patch of hair.

Logan was in no rush, revealing only an inch at a time of the base of his cock, making a show of it as the tension rose. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you, and it made you brave, reaching a trembling hand forward, you helped him tug at the fabric.

At last his cock sprung free.

You felt your eyes widen at the sight, as you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. Even with your limited experience, you knew he was bigger than most. The thick length of his cock bobbed from the weight, hanging heavy between his legs. At the tip of his fat head, a drop of precum pearled, almost invisible in the dark truck. 

"Come here, bub." He widened his legs as he reached out a strong arm for you, curling you into his shoulder. 

"Put your hand on it," he ordered, "like this," he grabbed at your wrist and guided you hand towards his mouth. You let him move you around, eyes blown out and wide as you couldn't take your eyes off his impressive cock. 

A wet blob of spit pulled you from your thoughts, it drew the slightest frown over your face until he guided your palm, now coated in his spit, to his cock.

Under your palm his skin was silky soft, but hard and firm at the same time. You found yourself mesmerized at the sight of your hand around him as you familiarized yourself with the heaviness of him in your hand. 

"There ya go–" he cut himself off with a groan as you formed a fist around the head of him. Your fingers struggled to reach around him, but it didn't seem like Logan minded much when you moved downwards smearing his spit over his shaft in an experimental tug. 

"That's it, good girl, just like that."

A warmth bloomed in your chest at the praise, wrapping itself around your heart. You wanted him to say it again– to be good for him. So, you reached forward with your other hand, wrapping it around the base as the other formed a fist around the head. Another pearl of precum beaded at the tip, and you took the opportunity to skate your thumb over it, massaging it into his spit.

A growl seemed to get caught in Logan's throat, and still riding off your high that the praise had sown in you, you started to pump his cock in slow strokes. A slick sound escaped under your fists with each stroke, and you watched how his head fell back in pleasure.

"Am-am I doing it right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of your voice, Logan sat up straighter, a heavy hand falling over your back to pull you closer. "You're a natural, princess."  

You couldn't contain the smile from coating your lips as he brought you in for another searing kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. It clouded your mind, and you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing. 

Logan's hand travelled down your body, his big palm grabbing at your ass. "Take of your pants," he ordered against your lips, "Panties too," underlining his order with a couple of light slaps to the flesh.

Shuffling out of his hold, you fingered at the button of your pants, pulling at them and your panties as quickly as you could. Goosebumps prickled over your exposed skin, the air suddenly frosty without Logan's touch – but that didn't last long.

The calloused pads of his fingers trailed up your thighs, pressing down into the flesh as he pulled you closer to him. "Come sit in my lap, princess."

He didn't wait for you to move, instead he manhandled you how he wanted. Spreading his legs wide apart he fit you between his legs, your back pressed against his hot chest with his hard and leaking cock caged against your ass. 

"I'm gonna touch you now, baby, okay?" his deep voice whispered in your ear.

"Okay," you peeped, heart pounding in your ears at this new proximity. 

He spread your legs, putting your wet and neglected cunt on display, hooking them over his knees. When his palms danced over your inner thighs, you felt yourself sink deeper into his chest, deeper into the safe scent of pine and man. 

"Need to get you ready f'me, bub– stretch this tight cunt out for my big cock," he cooed.

You ached for him, a sticky wet feeling between your legs as you wished so badly for him to finally touch you. His touch was light, but teasing, drawing circles along the thin flesh, circling closer and closer to where you needed his touch the most, before he pulled away. 

"Please," you whined, grabbing at his arm.

His breath felt hot against your neck, and you could feel the grin he pressed against your skin. He let you guide him upwards to hover his large palm over your mound, but he wouldn't let you have it. Instead, he pushed at your sweater. His hand spread across the skin beneath your belly button as prickled goosebumps followed the rough pads as they ran across your skin.

"Y'gonna feel me right here, bub?" he teased, "So deep inside your tummy?"

A whine caught in your throat and you felt like an exposed nerve. Arousal pulsated throughout your body, threatening to pull you apart unless he did something soon. Your neglected cunt dripped with an ache only he could sooth. 

"Yes, please, Logan," you whined, tears threatening to spill.

His thick beard scraped against your cheek, and you almost trembled from anticipation as he slid his hands downwards. He raked his fingers through the curls of your mound, and a gasp fell from your lips when he finally pushed at your clit.

A wide smile reached across your face when he started to circle his fingers, tight with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips bucked to meet his touch, your cunt eager and dripping for more of him. His other arm clasped around your middle, keeping your still and steady in his lap as he had his way with you.

A bold finger dipped lower, running through your folds and teasing at you entrance. A slick sound filled the car as he played with your cunt, circling his fingers around your hole, dipping a teasing finger inside you just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing it just as quickly. 

"Such a messy pussy," Logan murmured in your ear, the deep bass of his voice vibrating into your skin. "Listen."

The sound as he played with your pussy was obscene, lewd, and so dirty you felt a heat crawl up your chest. A breathy gasp escaped you when he finally split you on his finger, and a satisfied smile coated your lips as he started to move it inside in a steady rhythm, prodding every so often at that spongy spot inside, the spot your own finger couldn't reach.

"F-feels s-so good," you managed to stutter out. 

The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, teasing at your insides and conjuring moan after breathy moan from your lips. He guided you closer and closer to the edge, and you wanted so badly to fall. When he pulled out to slide another finger inside you, you felt a tear roll down your cheek with satisfaction.

"I can feel that pussy clenching me– you close, bub?" he poked, never stopping his fingers.

Your head rolled back, resting heavy on his shoulder as you nodded franticly, mouth parted slightly, humming out small breathy whines. You were so close, the tension in your stomach twisting and aching for release.

But then he pulled his fingers, dragging them up over your mound leaving a wet trail in your curls. You couldn't help the disappointed sigh as more tears pressed their way down your cheeks.

"Shh," he hushed you, "you're okay, bub." 

Under you, you felt him move, his strong muscles flexing as he shifted you on his lap. When you felt the blunt head of his cock slide between your folds, an eagerness came upon you. You grinded against him, making a small chuckle rumble from his chest. Logan slapped his heavy cock against your folds, coating his big cock in your slick arousal. 

The first stretch of him knocked the breath right out of you, the fat tip of him splitting you in half as he helped you guide yourself down on him. You had to remember to breathe, your hand fumbling for something to hold on to. 

"Fuck," you whimpered, eyes wide, "I-it's so big– it's t-too big."

His hand wrapped around your middle held you in place, keeping you still on his cock as you adjusted to the first inches of him inside you. 

"It's not too big, princess, you're doing so well f'me," he praised, "just a little more, bub– you can do it."

With a wet whimper you lowered yourself, taking a couple more inches of him, as Logan pressed more fluttering praise into your skin. He let you take your time, easing yourself down on him at your own pace. When your thighs were finally flushed with his, he was so deep inside you, you jolted, trying to move back up, but Logan's hands held you down. You felt him in your tummy, like he'd said, his cock reaching so deep you were shaking.

"Sit still, get used to it," he told you, as you tried to catch your breath, "You're being so good f'me."

And somehow the burning stretch of him soothed away into a pleasurable pressure, one you couldn't help but chase. With an experimental rock of your hips, you felt the fat head of him prod at your spot, making you mewl. And when you started to swivel your hips, Logan groaned in satisfaction, meeting your movement with small thrusts.

Slowly, he picked up his rhythm, strong hands shifted to dig into your hips, holding you in place for him to move you as he wished. In your ear, you heard him growl, deep and animalistic as he fucked up into you.

It didn't take long until your breath came out fast between moans as the pressure built, and built, and built. 

"Logan," you moaned, tethering right on the edge.

Another growl escaped his chest, as his strong arms hooked under your legs. He pressed them tightly to your body as he picked up his pace, bucking wildly into your eager cunt. You could feel him throb inside of you, and you couldn't help but clench at the thought of feeling him spill inside you, claiming you.

"Don't stop, please, don't stop," you begged, tears streaming down your face like two winding rivers, "I-I'm gonna come."

A hand slid between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, coaxing you closer and closer with winding circles. 

"Come on my cock, baby, come all over that big cock."

It was hot, and blinding. Euphoric shocks pulsed through your body, as you fluttered and gushed around his cock. Logan's grip on your legs tightened as you shook violently with your orgasm – a million stars exploded behind your eyes.

"Oh, that's it, bub, such a good girl," he praised between heavy wet pants against your ear.    

Fucking you through your ecstasy, Logan chased his own high at a relentless pace, and all you could do was take it, reduced to a ragdoll in his hands. In your ear he muttered nonsense interlaced with praise, telling you how good you felt, and how perfect you were for him.

With a deep groan he pulled out quickly, tugging at himself until he spilled his thick spend on the truck floor. With bleary eyes you watched how it pumped in quick spurts, dripping down his hand and soiled the knuckles in his own sticky cum. 

Behind you, Logan breathed hard, nudging his nose against the column of your neck to press soft kisses to the hot skin. 

A pair of bright headlights beamed down the road, pulling you from the moment with its blinding light. Logan helped you shift off his lap, reaching to hand you your discarded clothes before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

The cassette whirled in the car radio, and you couldn't remember when the music had stopped. Logan shifted back behind the wheel and an eerie silence grew in the distance between you.

"How 'bout I take you somewhere to eat?" he posed.

You smiled, "I could eat."

...................

hopefully this was okay? a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Kitten

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Lee Know x fem!reader

Summary: Leeknow loves showing his Favourite Girl who she belongs to.

Warnings: Luxury ownership. Designer collars. ehehehe minho being sexy

A/N: Leeknow arrived to the spoiled series… Han and Changbin are next, don‘t worry my kittens <3

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

Only in his heart.

[luna-azzurra]

Character Careers That Aren't Clichés

(because fictional economies deserve better too)

Look. I get it. I do. A hot CEO. A dreamy small-town baker. A moody artist who somehow lives in a massive Brooklyn loft despite only selling two paintings a year. Those characters have their place.

But if you want your story to feel fresh, real, alive — sometimes you’ve gotta ditch the Insta-ready jobs and actually think: What does this person do at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday? What would they complain about after a garbage day at work?

Here’s how to get careers that feel like they belong to an actual human, not a catalog model...

❥ The "Unexpected But Perfect" Career Pick something that makes your reader go, wait, what? and then oh my god, that's so them. Like:

A chaotic, disaster character who’s actually a surprisingly competent funeral director. (Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s weirdly perfect.)

The quiet, overlooked character who’s a locksmith. Always helping people get inside things. Always a little lonely themselves.

The job should reflect the character’s secret self.

❥ The “Soul-Crushing Job They’re Too Good For” Reality Check Not everybody is their Dream Job Self yet. Some characters are stuck. Flipping burgers, filing invoices, answering phones for screaming Karens named Marge. And you know what? There’s story gold there. Give me the character who’s quietly making art out of coffee foam because it’s the only creative outlet they’ve got. Give me the character who’s wasting in a job they hate, but who hums with what could be underneath.

Failure and frustration? Delicious character fuel.

❥ The "Job That Messes With Their Brain" Career Certain jobs change you. Make you hard in weird places and soft in weirder ones. Lean into that.

A paramedic who's numb to blood but cries at dog food commercials.

A social worker who can’t listen to their friends' minor drama without tuning out completely.

A vet tech who talks to animals better than people.

The job should bruise them in little invisible ways.

❥ The “Work Family or Work Frenemies” Setup Office dynamics are like nuclear reactors: volatile, ridiculous, and perfect for drama.

Give them the boss who’s a passive-aggressive nightmare in group emails but buys everyone surprise cupcakes on Fridays.

Give them the coworker they want to strangle and defend to death when someone outside the office talks crap.

Make their work life messy. (Because it IS messy.)

❥ Actual Career Ideas You Can Steal Because I Love You (yes, you have my blessing, take 'em, twist 'em, make them yours)

Travel nurse who secretly dreams of putting down roots

Archivist in a creepy, half-forgotten library wing

Theme park mascot who has existential crises inside the costume

Home inspector who lowkey loves snooping through strangers' houses

Court stenographer who writes fanfiction on the side during boring trials

Aquarium maintenance tech (yes, it’s a thing, yes, it’s hilarious and tragic)

Disaster clean-up specialist (like post-floods, fires, crime scenes , very spicy potential)

Final Truth Bomb: Your character’s job doesn't have to be their whole identity. (Shocking, I know, Hollywood.)

But it should still touch them somehow. It should rub off on the way they move through the world, the way they talk, the way they size up a stranger in five seconds flat. Because we are all shaped by how we spend our hours, whether we mean to be or not.

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

hii I was wondering if u could write something where daeho and reader are already in a relationship and they find eachother after the first round and maybe they are upset with eachother for going into the games.

anc if it could have a bit of fluff that would be nice!!

tyy🫶🫶🫶

At Least We Have Eachother

KANG DAE-HO X READER

Summary- Dae-ho and you both join the squid games for the benefit of the other. Neither of you know about it, until you find each other after the first game.

Warnings- Squid Games, mentions of blood, murder, and death

A/N- Thank you guys for the overwhelming support with my Daeho fic. I am so motivated right now, it's not even funny. He is such a sweet baby, MY SHAYLAAAA

Word Count- 1,192

Your debt was not something you were proud of. To be honest, it crept up on you. It started with medical bills, then Daeho ran into some Ex-Marines, who dragged him into a bad gamble.

From there it kind of went down hill. Struggling to pay bills, borrowing more money, making the wrong people mad. In other words, the two of you were in an extremely bad position.

When a strange man with a suitcase approached you on your way home, you were hesitant. In any other situation you might have ignored him and walked away. But, you had just had another invoice from a debt collecting company. Not to mention the loan shark that came up and threatened Daeho two days prior. The eviction notice was also putting a hole on your kitchen table.

The idea of following the funny-looking card, winning a bunch of money, clearing your (and Daeho) debts. It was too good to be true, you knew that deep down. At the end of the day, you were at rock bottom. Desperate people do desperate things.

So, while slipping Daeho a simple lie about spending the night with a friend... You took off to the discrete location alone. Where you were picked up by a van. You don't remember much after that.

The regret sunk in deep when you realized what you had gotten yourself into. When you awoke seeing hundreds of people around you, all in the same position, you were noticeably scared. You barely left the bed you woke in. Only to stand with the crowd to listen to the guards and sign the needed contract. It seemed too late to back out now...

The first game was lonely, intimidating, and revealing. The only reason you weren't lying head face in the sand dead, was your fear. It struck you stone-cold still on 'red light'. The ring of your ears pressured you to move forward on 'Green light.' Due to the deadly shots to other players. It pushed you to move so you didn't suffer the same fate.

You were much too nervous to talk to anyone, you saw little point in making friends at first. That was until the realization of any team games.

After the first game was officially over and you had returned to the common room, you'd taken a moment to think. To think how it would be if you were able to walk home now. How it probably wouldn't even matter if you had died, so many people were out for your head anyways. It was all looking dark, but Daeho was your light. He was always so positive, he kept you happy. You owed it to him to keep fighting.

To keep fighting for that adorable, handsome, sweet face. That same face that was currently staring you down....

"Daeho?" You questioned, just in case your mind was playing a trick on you.

"What are you doing here!" He ran over, pulling you further behind the layered beds. His grip was tight on your arm, once the two of you stopped, he seemed to notice. At that he quickly loosened his squeeze.

"W-why are you here! I-I thought you were sleeping over at-" You cut him off, your guilty conscience taking over.

"Daeho, what are you doing here?" You rebutted, frantically pushing your hair back. He knew you were nervous.

"To settle some of our debt, but that doesn't even matter anymore. People are dying, you can't be here!" He stressed over you. He did a few takes over your form, making sure you were not hurt in any way. You thought he was finished until he slowly brought his hand up. He stuck his thumb out and seared a few drops of blood off of your cheek. You hadn't noticed them before...

An argument against him was impossible to think of, but you managed. "Well I can say the same about you! You could get killed also. Where would that leave me!" He threw his head back, pressing both hands over his face. He dragged them down, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Ohhh, this can not be happening.. I-it doesn't matter, because you're here, where you were not supposed to be!" He started to fidget with his fingers, a sign he was distressed.

"Dae...I'm also here because... I got fired yesterday..." You looked down, picking at your nails. His head snapped to look at yours. "What?"

"They were... overstaffed and, apparently a younger employee could do the same amount of work for minimum wage... So, they just got rid of me..." He looked sympathetic, but still mad.

"You should have told me. We would have figured it out. You didn't have to lie."

You thought for a second, "Its not like I wanted to lie! I was trying to help us!"

"How reckless!" He said. It was almost comical!

A laugh pushed its way out, "Oh my gosh, don't act like you aren't here too!" You started to raise your voice, frustrated.

He took a single step back, hands on his hips. "You're supposed to be the smart one! I'm fun, loving, a burst of fricken light!" He said, his words contradicting his tone, not joyfully at all.

"Whatever! What matters now is that we were stuck in a death trap! The money is not even our first problem. We might not even be alive before the day is over! Or worse, you'll be dead and I'll be left to suffer!"

He gave another sigh, stepping forward and embracing you. It was exactly what both of you needed. His arms wrapped impossibly tight around you. You could only reciprocate the squeeze. His head fell on top of yours, he nestled in.

"I don't want to argue, I just want you safe... We will be fine." He said, keeping you in his grasp.

"I know, but I just wanted to help... The man seemed so promising, that we could have a normal life again." You wanted to let your tears flow, but you couldn't risk looking weak. You had to remind yourself that there were still a couple hundred other players in the large room.

He shook his head on top of yours, "I would live in a tent as long as I was with you.... I can manage anywhere, as long as you are by my side..."

You pulled back to look at him. Your arms still wrapping around each other. "I just, I know you're not happy... I wanted to clear everything up, one day own our own house. One that we can never get evicted from." He pushed a stray hair behind your ear.

"Oh Dae, I don't care about that. I just want you." You shoved your head into his chest.

"I love you.."

"I love you too."

"What the hell are we going to do here." You questioned, peaking up from his chest slightly.

"Were going to stick together. We're going to get out of this alive." He pulled back and down to press a firm and reassuring kiss on your lips. Maybe things would be so bad after all.

Oh, how naive you both were...

A/N- Honestly, I like my first Daeho fic better. But that's probably because I am a SUCKER for emotional hurt/comfort. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoyed this one. Pls lmk how I can improve!!!

[asterafroditis]

hey so how do you think the house wardens would deal with a s/o who they find out is from rsa. They met outside of colleges. S/o was super nice and there wasn’t any competitive nature once s/o found out where their bf went too, most of the boys bragged at some point about going to their college. S/o is like “oh looks like we go to rival colleges :D”. “If anyone’s got a problem with me dating you they can suck on a lemon for all I care”?

𐔌 . ⋮ romantic rivals .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Housewardens x gn! reader

𓏵 1297 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

hopefully this fulfills your request! idk anything about RSA so I hope the info fits well enough (´◦ω◦`) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Riddle had always taken pride in his education. Night Raven College was a place of discipline, order, and prestige. So when he found out that his significant other—kind, supportive, and always willing to listen—attended Royal Sword Academy, he wasn’t quite sure how to react.

He finds out by accident when you come over to visit him at NRC. The two of you are sitting under a gazebo in the rose garden, your hands brushing slightly as you flip through a book of classical magic theory.

“You know,” you say offhandedly, “we studied this last year at RSA. My potions professor was obsessed with theoretical applications.”

He blinks. “…RSA?”

“Royal Sword Academy,” you confirm casually, flashing him a peace sign. “Looks like we go to rival schools.”

Riddle stiffens. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his mind already racing through past conversations—had you ever mentioned this before? How did he miss it?

“You’re from RSA?” he repeats slowly.

“Yup! If anyone’s got a problem with me dating an NRC student, they can suck on a lemon for all I care.”

That derails his internal panic completely. “S-Suck on a—?!” He splutters, scandalized, but your smile doesn’t waver. There’s not a trace of competitiveness in your tone, not a shred of superiority.

You don’t see him as a rival. You just see him.

Later, when he walks you to the mirror, he brushes your fingers with his.

“I suppose… I shouldn’t be so shocked. You’re incredibly capable, regardless of where you study.”

You smile. “Thanks, Riddle. And for the record, I think NRC’s lucky to have you.”

His ears flush red. He huffs. “Flattery is unnecessary… but appreciated.”

─────────────────────────

When you finally told Leona you were from Royal Sword Academy, you expected him to scoff or roll his eyes. What you didn’t expect was the long silence.

You were curled beside him in the sunlit corner of the botanical garden, the warm afternoon breeze rustling your shared blanket.

“Mm, the campus flowers remind me of home,” you murmured. “RSA keeps theirs all organized and trimmed. Very picturesque. I miss it sometimes.”

He cracked open an eye. “RSA?”

“Yeah. Royal Sword Academy.” You stretched. “We’re technically rivals, right?”

He groaned. “You’re one of those goody-goodies in white suits?”

You grinned. “One of them, yeah. But don’t worry, I’m not here to compare your school to ours.”

Leona side-eyed you for a beat. “And you’re dating an NRC student like me, knowing the entire school system paints us as ‘troublemakers’ and ‘delinquents’?”

You shrugged. “You’re hot and smart. If someone’s got a problem with that, they can sit on a cactus.”

He laughed. A real one.

“Damn herbivore,” he muttered, fondness creeping into his voice. “You’re alright.”

And from that day on, he started calling you “RSA brat” with something like pride.

─────────────────────────

The moment you mentioned “Royal Sword Academy,” Azul’s pen froze mid-signature. You were helping him with some Mostro Lounge invoices, sorting papers with a cheerful hum.

“Ah, these contract formats remind me of home. Our student council at RSA uses something similar.”

“…RSA?” Azul repeated, slow and wary.

You looked up, innocent. “Yeah, Royal Sword Academy. Why?”

He went very still. “You’re a Royal Sword Academy student.”

“Technically, yeah. But we met off-campus, remember? You didn’t exactly introduce yourself as NRC’s rising businessman either.”

He stared, calculating. “Do you… intend to use this against me?”

You blinked, confused. “What? No? Azul, I like you, not your résumé.”

He sat back in his chair, processing.

“…You don’t care?”

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hands. “Nope. You’re smart, dedicated, and always think five steps ahead. I admire that. And if anyone’s got a problem with you being from NRC and me from RSA, they can take it up with the sea.”

His lips twitched. “That’s not how the expression goes.”

“It is now.”

Azul laughed softly. “You’re a very peculiar person.”

You smiled. “You love it.”

“…Perhaps I do.”

─────────────────────────

You never really meant to hide being from RSA from Kalim. The topic just never came up until someone mentioned something offhandedly in passing.

“Wait—you go to Royal Sword Academy?!” Kalim turned to you, eyes wide with surprise.

“Yup,” you said with a laugh. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. I just didn’t think it mattered.”

He grinned. “No way! That’s so cool! We’re like—inter-school sweethearts!”

You blinked. “That’s one way to put it.”

He twirled you around like you were ballroom dancing. “You must have so many stories! And don’t worry, I don’t mind at all that you’re from RSA!”

“Even if people think we’re rivals?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “If anyone’s got a problem with me dating you, they can look away and cry about it!”

You snorted. “Is that your version of telling them off?”

“Yup!” he chirped. Then he pulled you close. “Besides, no school rivalry matters more than how happy I am with you.”

And you knew he meant every word.

─────────────────────────

When Vil found out you were from RSA, he didn’t immediately react. You were seated on a balcony after a shared modeling shoot, your legs swinging over the edge.

“Reminds me of campus,” you said softly. “Our towers at Royal Sword Academy overlook the mountains too.”

His brow twitched. “Royal Sword Academy?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Didn’t I mention?”

He sat back with a sigh. “No, you didn’t. Not that it matters much.”

“Do you… think less of me?”

He gave you a sharp look. “Don’t be absurd. You’re poised, well-spoken, and dress better than most NRC students. I just… didn’t expect that.”

You chuckled. “Well, rivalry or not, I’d pick you every time. If anyone’s got a problem with that, they can go exfoliate their negativity away.”

He smirked despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Admit it. You like me ridiculous.”

He brushed your hair aside, lips brushing your temple. “You’re tolerably radiant.”

─────────────────────────

Idia didn’t do well with surprises. So when you casually mentioned you were from RSA while gaming with him, he froze mid-button press.

“Wait. You go to Royal Sword Academy?”

You paused the game. “Yeah. Is that… bad?”

His hair flared blue. “Wha—you’re like—my arch-nemesis school!!”

You tilted your head. “So… are you breaking up with me?”

His jaw dropped. “NO?? I mean—no!! I just—I—omg…”

You laughed. “Chill. I don’t care about school rivalries. I care about you. If someone wants to judge that, they can either duel me and my god-built characters or shut up.”

He blinked. “…Okay that’s kinda hot.”

You winked, acting like the love interest in an otome game. “I know.”

He didn’t stop blushing for the rest of the night.

─────────────────────────

Malleus found out when he tried to invite you to a gargoyle lecture and workshop and you hesitated.

“I’d love to, but… my schedule at RSA is packed this week.”

He turned. “You attend Royal Sword Academy?”

You nodded. “Is that… bad?”

He thought for a moment. “No. I’ve always been curious about that institution.”

You smiled. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t care that we’re from rival schools. If anyone has a problem with that, they can go argue with the wall.”

He chuckled. “You are as fearless as ever.”

And when he next walked with you through the moonlit forest, he told you gently:

“School boundaries are mortal things. My regard for you is not so easily constrained.”

You beamed. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

[studioeisa]

you deserve each other ⛱️ seokmin x reader.

all is fair in love, war, and... trying to get fired? the waterpark is the last place you and seokmin want to be. in a ditch attempt to escape your job, the two of you opt to break carat bay’s unspoken, cardinal rule: don't date your co-worker.

⛱️ pairing. co-workers seokmin x reader. ⛱️ word count. 12.4k. ⛱️ genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: waterpark co-workers. romance, friendship, humor, hint of angst. ⛱️ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating and all its shenanigans, sweetheart seokmin, lots of making out (do with that what you will), soonyoung is a plot device, other idols get randomly name dropped as employees. ⛱️ notes. this is part of @camandemstudios’ carat bay collaboration. ever so grateful to be trusted with seok! ‹𝟹 thank you to my ride or die, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta reading. check out the other fics in the collaboration here. 🎵 seokmin’s top tracks this month. sugar, brockhampton. sunny days, wave to earth. get you, daniel caesar ft. kali uchis. heart to heart, mac de marco. m2m, cody jon.

The framed plaque is heavier than you expect.

A small, polished thing. Mahogany edges, gold trim. Your name etched onto a brushed metal plate, capitalized and misspelled. The receptionist claps politely. Someone offers you a slice of cake. Your manager—Changbin—says your name like it’s a blessing, like you’re his biggest win this quarter.

“... a beacon of initiative,” he’s saying, hand on your back, smile radiant and full of teeth. “Always on time, never a complaint, always going above and beyond—”

You stop listening around the word beacon. 

Where joy should be, a horrible kind of dread is crawling up your throat like soda foam. You don’t want this. You never wanted this.

For the last six months, you’ve been orchestrating your own quiet downfall. 

Small acts of rebellion: late reports, mismatched fonts in client decks, turning in spreadsheets without formulas. Once, you deliberately CC’d the wrong contact on an invoice email. Twice. Three times.

Nothing. Not a single reprimand. You’ve only been praised for your ‘out-of-the-box thinking.’

Now here you are. Employee of the Month at Carat Bay—home of hollow branding jargon, ergonomic nightmares, and a break room fridge that smells like egg salad and regret. You’re holding a plaque you prayed someone else would win.

The universe is cruel. Your parents are crueler.

See, Carat Bay is just the latest on your resume’s Greatest Hits of Unwanted Professions. Before this was the summer you spent handing out frozen yogurt samples in a visor that said Lick Me. Before that: barista at a vegan café that also sold crystals. Before that: dog-walking, tutoring, retail at a candle shop that played Meghan Trainor on loop.

Your parents forced each one of them with the same airtight argument: You need discipline. You need direction.

You said you wanted to freelance. Write, maybe. Design book covers. Do something weird and personal and fulfilling. They laughed. Your father nearly choked on his coffee.

But a deal was struck with the Carat Bay gig. If you got laid off, they’d stop pushing. Let you go rogue. No more curated job listings emailed at 5 a.m. No more passive-aggressive forwarded TED Talks. No more, ‘When I was your age, I had a mortgage and two kids.’

If—if—you got laid off. Quitting was not in the cards. It was either that or you stay for at least three years, which you would honestly rather die than do. 

Now, you find that you have this. A plaque. A photo op. Changbin squealing, “This one’s going in the newsletter!”

God, you think, gripping the plaque like it might shatter. You are being rewarded for mediocrity. You are being celebrated for incompetence.

You smile for the camera anyway.

It’s the kind of smile that could get you promoted.

Back at the merchandise stand, your co-worker greets you with a grin and a pair of scissors he’s using to snip zip ties off a crate of branded tote bags.

“Look at you, hotshot,” Seokmin says, nudging you with his elbow. “Changbin’s golden child. I knew you had it in you.”

Your brows furrow. “You’re not mad?”

He scoffs, that beaming smile of his slotting back into place without a moment’s hesitation. “Why would I be mad? This means I don’t have to be Employee of the Month. That plaque is cursed,” he teases good-naturedly. 

You laugh. Genuinely, if only for a second. Seokmin is the kind of person who makes you believe in the good of humanity. 

He once gave his lunch to a crying intern. He always remembers your birthday. He talks to every lost tourist like it’s his job, which technically, it is not. And—in your honest, unbiased opinion—he’s easy on the eyes, too. It takes a lot to make the dreadful polo and even more dreadful khakis work, but Seokmin somehow manages. 

“Seriously,” he continues, turning back to the tote bags, “I’m happy for you. You’ve been working hard. And let’s be honest, you’re the only one who knows how to fix the card reader. Changbin was probably just buying insurance.”

There’s a lightness to his voice. No trace of envy. Just easy, unaffected kindness.

You swallow down the guilt forming like a pit in your stomach. You’ve been quietly planning your own escape route while he’s been showing up every day like a real adult, juggling overtime and night classes. You’re trying to crash and burn and Seokmin—sweet, undeserving Seokmin—might get singed in the crossfire.

You clear your throat. “Thanks, Seokmin. That means a lot.”

He just shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head, okay? You still owe me lunch for covering your shift last week.”

Seokmin walks away to restock mugs, and you stare after him, plaque still under your arm, feeling like the world’s worst con artist. You don’t want Employee of the Month. You don’t deserve it. 

You know someone who does. 

Lee Seokmin, who brings extra socks to work in case someone forgets theirs. He knows the perfect ratio of syrup to ice in the rainbow slushies. He has an uncanny ability to get toddlers to stop crying with a single balloon animal. 

You’ve seen it all. He’s sunshine in human form, if sunshine occasionally tripped over its own feet and knocked over the popcorn machine.

That’s the thing, though. Seokmin—bumbling, bright-eyed Lee Seokmin—isn’t just your co-worker. He’s the son of the owners. 

The heir of this kitschy little theme park kingdom. The golden boy who is destined to inherit its cotton candy throne and take up the sticky, sunscreen-slicked mantle of summer fun for generations to come.

Carat Bay is practically tattooed on his DNA. The gift shop trinkets, the underwater mascot shows, the overenthusiastic lifeguards. This whole place was designed by his family and built on a business model of manufactured joy, and he was the prince working the merchandise stand to get some good ol’ starting-from-the-bottom experience. 

So when, days later, he startles and blurts, “I swear it’s not what it looks like!”—while clutching an open box cutter and a half-disemboweled box of limited edition light sticks—your first reaction isn’t anger. 

It’s confusion.

You ask, flatly, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He winces. He always winces when you swear. Rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dart around like he’s searching for an escape hatch. “Okay, I know this looks bad. Like, really bad,” he starts. “But I swear I wasn’t going to, like, ruin them. Just… make them look better?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. And opens again. “But why?” you manage. It’s a good thing the waterpark has already shut down for the day. You’re not sure what you’d do if you had to deal with this with a whole shift ahead of you.

Seokmin sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that carries a decade of summer-themed retail trauma.

You glance over his shoulder to the shimmering banner flapping in the breeze: WELCOME TO CARAT BAY—THE #1 MERCH DESTINATION ON THE COASTLINE! A glittering monstrosity. Just like everything else here.

“I thought you liked it here,” you add, genuinely bewildered. “You do the Carat cheer. You wore the mascot suit that one time. Willingly.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Well, yeah. But I also want out.”

“You’re the owner’s kid. All this is going to be yours someday.” You gesture vaguely at the cartoon dolphins, the sparkle-laminated shelves, the sea of bubblegum-pink merchandise. 

Seokmin shouldn’t be cutting up product. He should be on some managerial fast-track, drawing up expansion plans in a conference room somewhere. Not ruining stock and looking like he’s going to hurl from the guilt of it.

It happens fast enough for you to almost miss it, but Seokmin’s expression crumbles into  a grimace. Unnatural on a face that usually had a perpetual grin, a catalogue of every positive emotion known to man. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Exactly.” 

It clicks, then. All of it.

The too-frequent mishandling of inventory. The time he tripped and unplugged the entire register system. The day he mistakenly shipped an entire box of glow-in-the-dark keychains to the wrong coast.

You’d chalked it up to Seokmin being Seokmin. Lovable. Mildly chaotic. But now—

“You’ve been trying to get fired,” you say, the truth hitting you like a tsunami on the Wave River.

“Just like you,” Seokmin confirms. The knowledge sends a prickle of panic down your spine, but it fades when he goes on to joke, “Only I suck at it even more than you do.”

You snort. You can’t help it. “Wow. So we’re really the dumbest people here.”

He laughs sheepishly, but it’s the most honest thing you’ve heard in weeks. And when your eyes meet, there’s this quiet understanding that passes between you—like a pact sealed in shared misery and mutual sabotage.

You exhale. “Fine. I won’t rat you out. But you’re going to tell me what it is you actually want to do. Eventually.”

Seokmin grins. It’s that sun-bright, unfiltered expression he wears when he’s about to say something incredibly sincere or incredibly stupid.

“Deal.”

You reach for the disemboweled box. “Let’s make it look like an accident.”

Now you’ve both got a secret. And a goal.

The only thing more dangerous than two people who hate their jobs? Two people who’ve decided to stop pretending otherwise.

--

Except nothing you try works.

You set the air conditioning so low people start confusing your booth for a meat locker. Seokmin deliberately stocks the wrong merchandise on the featured shelves. You both take extended lunch breaks and once, very deliberately, you curse out a mom with three kids after she calls the staff lazy. Seokmin nearly fainted afterward from the adrenaline.

But none of it lands. Your manager pats you both on the back. Customers rave about your booth on Yelp. Kids write thank-you notes in marker.

Next thing you know, a laminated sign appears at the break room. Your name and Seokmin’s, right next to the dreaded Employees of the Month title. 

The photo is horrible. Your smile is tight with disbelief. Seokmin’s peace sign is half a second from cramping.

You two convene in the supply closet. Your emergency meeting room of choice.

“This is bad,” you say, pacing. “This is so, so bad.”

“We could, uh… just keep trying?” Seokmin offers, nibbling the edge of a pen.

“We’ve been trying. We ended up with a plague.” You groan. “We need something bigger. Something bold.”

Your mind whirs. You sift through memory like old receipts in a drawer. Nobody gave a fuck enough about merchandise to cry about its sabotage. Snark was to be somewhat expected from the two of you, and you didn’t really want anything too extreme on your track record. 

How had the past couple of people left Carat Bay? Your fingers tap, tap, tap on the closed closet door. There had been Heeseung, and Soobin—

Bingo.

The recent firings. Not many, but enough to see the pattern.

Heeseung, shortly after he was confirmed to be living with the girl who worked the bodyslide. Soobin, who packed his stuff up when he was found making out with the after-hours lifeguard. 

The ‘rule’ wasn’t written in stone. Not in the employee manual, not mentioned during briefings. But it still existed in a yellowing Post-It taped up on the janky breakroom refrigerator.

DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course.”

“What?” Seokmin says, wary.

You turn to him slowly. The smile that breaks on your face only seems to unnerve the boy even more, especially when you go on to declare,  “We fake date.”

A beat. Seokmin blinks at you like you just offered to throw hands with God himself. “Fake date?” he repeats. 

You nod sagely. “It’s bulletproof. Everyone who’s gotten canned the past three months? They were caught hooking up with coworkers. There’s a Post-It in the lounge, remember? ‘DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.’”

Seokmin opens his mouth, closes it. Then again. It’s like watching a fish try to breathe above water. Finally, he croaks, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, slightly firmer now, arms crossing over his chest like that would protect him from you. Which, to be fair, it might have if you weren’t already smirking.

“Wow,” you say, feigning hurt. “That repulsive, huh?”

Seokmin chokes. “Don’t put words into my mouth!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what am I supposed to take from that, huh? You look like I asked you to run off to Vegas.”

He rubs the back of his neck, visibly flustered. His ears are already pink. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Why? What, you got a secret girlfriend stashed in the plushie bin?”

He groans. “No. That’s not—I just… haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Dated.”

“You’ve never had bitches?”

“I don’t—women are not bitches,” Seokmin splutters. 

He looks like he might spontaneously combust. You’re half-tempted to poke his cheek, see if steam comes out of his ears. Cute, you muse to yourself, but cute in the same way that a kitten might be if its head was stuck in a tissue box. Not cute in a I-want-this-man way. At least, you don’t think so. 

You lean your elbow on the counter and study him, thoughtful. “I could ask someone else. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t even hesitate,” you note. “But I wanted it to be mutually beneficial.”

Seokmin chews the inside of his cheek. “Mutually beneficial?”

“Yeah. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, handsome,” you say, deliberately sweet, watching his face redden by the second.

He presses his hands to his cheeks like that’ll stop the heat. “Can I… think about it?”

“Sure. Just don’t think too hard. Might take it personally.” 

He groans again, but you catch the shy little grin he tries to hide as he ducks his head. Victory tastes a lot like Seokmin’s embarrassment—soft and just a little sweet.

Four days and three failed sabotage attempts later, Seokmin finally gets back to you.

You’re in the middle of stacking sun-bleached baseball caps that say CARAT BAY: GOOD VIBES ONLY when he approaches, rubbing the back of his neck like he might apologize for existing.

“So,” he starts, glancing around like he thinks you might have an audience. The only person within 10 feet of you is a kid licking ice cream and glaring at a pigeon. “About the thing. The, uh. Proposal.”

You know where he’s getting at. You just want to hear him say it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you say breezily. “I proposed several things.”

He goes pink in the ears. Adorable.

“The fake dating thing,” he clarifies, and then fumbles over his next words. “Not that I think dating you would be—I mean, obviously, you’re very—I’m not, like, repulsed or anything—”

“Seokmin.”

“Right. Sorry. Yes. Let’s do it.”

You blink. Then blink again. You had expected him to try and let you down gently, to instead try and rope you into vandalizing the mat racer. Instead, he’s shifting from side to side, laying his heart down on your feet. 

“If you still want to,” Seokmin adds when you’re silent for a beat too long. By some miracle, you resist the urge to coo. 

“Handsome,” you say slowly, grinning as he sputters. “Of course I still want to. What changed your mind?”

He looks down at his shoes, his voice soft. “You said it could be mutually beneficial. And I figured… I want out. You want out. Maybe this is the way.”

Something flickers in your chest. Not pity, exactly. Something warmer.

“Alright,” you say, and you reach over to the counter to hold out your hand to him. 

You lay out the ground rules. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time the past few days doing research of your own—watching contemporary classics like Anyone But You and To All The Boys I Loved Before before scouring the fake dating tag on AO3. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you remind him. “Touch is probably the best way to go about this, but we only have to do that when somebody’s watching. Convincing flirting is the key. The goal is to get caught.” 

You don’t add the cliche of all cliches. No falling in love. Not because you’re hoping for it, no, but because it feels like a given. You like to think you’re smarter than Sydney Sweeney’s Bea and Landa Condor’s Lara Jean. 

Seokmin listens with rapt attention before bobbing his head up and down in a solemn nod. With eyebrows slightly scrunched from concentration, he takes your hand. 

The two of you shake on it. 

--

You and Seokmin agreed to start small. Ease into it. Not make it too obvious. Open flirtation in the break rooms, stolen glances in line for churros, maybe a suggestive comment or two over headset. Nothing too dramatic.

So far, none of it has landed.

You’d told Seokmin to just follow your lead. He was good at that. Always had been. When you reached across the table to oh-so-casually pluck a cherry off his soda float and pop it into your mouth, you expected at least one co-worker to clock it. Instead, Soonyoung kept chattering about the new ice sculpture exhibit, completely unbothered. Joshua just nodded, as if you had simply demonstrated the polite camaraderie of sharing a beverage.

You even tried batting your lashes while Seokmin offered you the last dumpling. He didn’t need to play it up much—just smiled wide, ears going red. Still, all you got from the others was a distracted thanks-for-leaving-some-for-us, not even a wink or a whisper.

You were going to have to double your efforts.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter later that night as you help Seokmin restock souvenir mugs.

He straightens a bit too fast, knocking over a stack of keychains. “I thought it was subtle,” he sniffles, going to pick up the plastic surfboards. 

“Exactly the problem,” you shoot back. “We’re so subtle, it’s like watching two Barbie dolls try to make out without bending at the waist.”

Seokmin’s laugh is loud and unguarded, drawing a look from a passing intern. He ducks his head and waits for her to pass. “Okay. We go bigger. I can do that,” he says, probably trying to convince himself as much as you. “Maybe I could, I dunno, carry you bridal style through the sand sculpture path?”

“Let’s not go zero to K-drama,” you say dryly. “We build up to that. We start with touches. Long looks. Close proximity.”

“You say that like we’re not already touching every five minutes by accident.”

You hand him a mug and let your fingers brush his, lingering. It’s an act, sure, but you’re sure he feels it too. The jolt of electricity. The thrum beneath your skin. Seokmin’s breath hitches, his eyes flitting to where the tips of your fingers had just pressed. 

“That,” you point out. “But on purpose.”

He nods, dazed. “Right. Totally. On purpose.”

If anybody asked, you were building a believable relationship arc.

A couple of days later, you find Seokmin hunched over the merchandise booth counter, the cheap company laptop tilted slightly toward him. He’s got that familiar deep crease between his brows, the one he gets whenever he’s hyper-focused. Usually while trying to fix a jammed ticket printer or master a new drink recipe from the cafe next door.

You lean closer, about to tease him for working too hard, when the wikiHow tab on the screen catches your eye: How to be a good boyfriend: A guide for beginners.

You bite back a smile, heart squeezing painfully at the earnestness of it. Of course he’d look it up. Sweet, ridiculous Seokmin.

“Whatcha doing, handsome?” you ask, voice lilting and teasing.

Seokmin jolts upright so fast he nearly knocks the laptop onto the floor. “I—Nothing! Research! Important work research!”

You snicker, plucking the laptop gently from his grasp and setting it safely aside. “Research, huh? Planning to date the slushie machine or something?”

He groans, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, words muffled by his palm. “I'm—I'm trying to be good at this.”

Your chest aches again. Not in an oh-I’m-screwed way, but in the reminder that, once again, Lee Seokmin is too good for this world. Too pure to be roped into your low-budget, romantic-comedy life. 

“Hey,” you say delicately, nudging his arm until he peeks at you between his fingers. “You can just ask me, you know.”

“Ask you?”

You grin. “Yeah. You’re fake-dating me, remember? Free resource right here.”

He drops his hands, staring at you for a moment. It lasts long enough to make you feel seen, which is never good. “You’d really help me?”

“Of course. I’m an excellent fake girlfriend.” You lean in, conspiratorial. “Tip one: You’re already doing great just by caring this much.”

Seokmin's mouth parts slightly, like he wants to protest but can't quite find the words.

“Tip two,” you continue, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “If you ever don’t know what to do, just be honest. It's kind of…” —you soften— “my favorite thing about you.”

He blinks at you, visibly flustered, and you resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.

“Got any other questions, babe?” you tease, but Seokmin only shakes his head and mumbles something about knowing what to do. 

You’re not all too sure about that. Especially as he starts acting pretty weird in the coming days. 

At first, you think it’s just regular old Seokmin nerves. He fumbles during his cash register shifts, stutters when customers ask for directions, and practically leaps out of his skin when you tap his shoulder to pass him a bottle of water.

But then you notice him sneaking glances at you every few minutes. Shifty, fleeting glances. Like he’s hiding something. You catch him half the time, and he immediately goes red, waving you off with a too-high laugh. “Nothing!” he chirps. “Just—! Nothing!”

Suspicious.

During your lunch break, you find him pacing behind the Carat Bay merchandise booth, clutching his phone like it’s a lifeline. When he spots you, he stuffs it into his back pocket and beams so brightly it’s blinding.

“You good, handsome?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Yup!” His voice cracks on the word.

You narrow your eyes but let it go. For now.

It’s when you’re restocking plushies that you notice it: Seokmin, in the distance, accepting—and then panicking over—a large, extravagant bouquet of flowers.

He tries to hold it normally. He really does.

But first, he almost drops it. Then, he sneezes. Loudly. Violently. Three times in a row.

“Are you okay?” You rush over just as he doubles over with another round of sneezes, the bouquet wobbling precariously in his arms.

“I’m—” he gasps between fits, “—fine!” Sneeze. “Fine!” Sneeze.

You take the flowers from him. It’s a stunning collection of pink and white blooms. “Were you… getting me flowers?” you ask dazedly. 

Seokmin nods, eyes watery, nose turning a tragic shade of red.

Your heart lurches. “Seokmin. Are you allergic to flowers?”

“N-No?” He says unconvincingly before another sneeze rattles through him.

You bite down a laugh, the affection nearly overwhelming.

“Oh my God,” you murmur, shoving the bouquet into Joshua’s bewildered arms as he passes by. “You’re literally dying to be my boyfriend.”

Seokmin sniffles pitifully. “Worth it.”

You shake your head, pulling him by the wrist toward the staff lounge. “C’mon, Romeo. Let's find you some allergy meds before you actually keel over.”

Behind you, Joshua calls out “Are these for me?” while holding up the bouquet.

Seokmin sneezes again in response.

--

“We should actually get to know each other,” you say around a mouthful of rice.

Lunch at Carat Bay is a lawless stretch of twenty-five minutes during which the staff gathers in a sun-warped outdoor seating area, and hierarchy momentarily dissolves into lukewarm leftovers and communal fries. You and Seokmin decide this is the perfect place for the two of you to set your scene. 

You sit on the same picnic bench, unnecessarily close to two people who claim to be coworkers. Which is the point, really.

“I thought we were doing okay,” he answers middlingly. 

“You Googled how to be a boyfriend, Seokmin.”

His ears redden. You fight a smile.

“Let’s do this,” you urge, setting your chopsticks down. “Secrets. Weird facts. Stuff you tell someone if you’re… you know. Really dating.”

Seokmin shifts, folding himself smaller as he thinks. “You first,” he says, almost bashfully.

“Fine,” you huff dramatically. “I can’t snap my fingers.”

Seokmin blinks then bursts into laughter, his head tilting back with the force of it. “That’s your big secret?”

“You’d be surprised how often it comes up in life!”

He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, still grinning. “Okay, okay. My turn. Uh. I still sleep with a nightlight.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s cute,” you say, smiling softly.

“It’s dizzying otherwise.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, nudging him. “Better than getting eaten by whatever monster’s under your bed.”

He groans before looking at you with an open, helpless fondness that makes you feel raw. If you were a little smarter, you’d call it off then and there for both of your sake. 

Instead, you go back and forth like that, trading tiny confessions. You tell him about your irrational fear of mannequins. He admits he once tried to drink orange juice after brushing his teeth on a dare and cried. Every admission makes him squirm, makes you giggle, softens the space between you and pulls it tighter.

Seokmin is sweetness, clumsy and earnest and golden. And as he talks, stammering through another story about how he accidentally joined a ballet class in high school thinking it was an improv workshop, you realize: you aren’t acting when you find him impossibly endearing.

You lean your head against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “We’re gonna crush this fake dating thing.”

“Yeah?” Seokmin says, wide-eyed but smiling.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s with a certainty that’s wholly misplaced.

Soon enough, the conversation spins into romantic experiences. When Seokmin asks you about your worst dating experience, you lean in conspiratorially. “There was this one guy who wore socks during sex. Like—knee-high, novelty print socks,” you divulge. “Multiple times.”

Seokmin’s mouth falls open. “No. No. No.”

“Yes.”

“Was that—was it a kink thing or—?”

“Unclear,” you say. “He called it his 'performance gear.”

Seokmin makes a scandalized noise and drops his sandwich in horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I hate the fact you experienced that.”

You’re laughing now. The kind of light, surprised laugh that bubbles up without warning. “I can go worse.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m already mortified.”

“Come on, Mr. No Dating Experience,” you tease. “You’re the one who wanted to know. Unless you’re just jealous.”

He goes red instantly. It shoots up his ears, stains his neck. “I—well, maybe I should be! I don’t have any dramatic sock stories to tell,” he says defensively. “I had one crush in the eighth grade who gave me half of a Twix bar.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

“She transferred schools the next day.”

You burst out laughing, while Seokmin stares at you helplessly. “It’s not not character building,” he whines, shaking your shoulders as you giggle over his misfortune. 

Across the lawn, Joshua nearly drops his water bottle doing a double take at the sight of you two. Joshua blinks a few times, looks away, and proceeds to accidentally pour water down his own shirt.

You and Seokmin exchange a glance.

“Half-win?” he whispers.

You grin. “Half-win.”

He reaches for another fry. You nudge his knee with yours. Lunch hour ticks on like a warm, strange summer dream.

--

You’re elbow-deep in foam fingers and keychains when Seokmin saunters over, oozing effort.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, leaning on the edge of the merch booth like he’s James fucking Dean. “Need a hand, or were you just waiting for me?”

It’s so out of character that you freeze for a second, your fist halfway inside a box labeled CLEARANCE MUGS. Then, you clock Soonyoung loitering a few steps away, nursing a popsicle and watching the two of you with all the interest of someone half-invested in a reality show.

You turn back to Seokmin. He winks. Actually winks. It’s not subtle. You can feel the twitch of his eyelashes from here.

Soonyoung squints. “You guys good?”

“Just peachy,” you chirp, playing along. You sling an arm around Seokmin’s shoulder and lean in a little, giving the performance a few more sparks. “My knight in branded polo just saved me from mug-related peril.”

“Cool,” Soonyoung says, totally unfazed. “Let me know if you find the sunscreen shipment. Shua burned his face again.”

You hold your grin until he’s gone, then collapse against Seokmin’s side with a snort. “Jesus. That was rough.”

Seokmin groans. “I thought the wink would sell it.”

“The wink was, frankly, terrifying.”

He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, okay?”

“You’ve got heart, baby,” you say, patting his chest. “Execution just needs a little work.”

He mutters something about humiliation and stock rooms.

“You sure you’ve never dated before?” you ask, teasing.

He sighs, still pink. “Yeah. Theater kid. Improv. Not exactly irresistible, apparently.”

You blink at him, then let your gaze sweep from the messy fringe of his hair to the freckle on his jaw, lingering a second longer than necessary. Sure, Seokmin is a bit—all over the place. But he’s boyishly attractive, and if he wasn’t doomed to wear rose quartz and serenity as a 9-5, you think he might actually be a real catch. 

You decide to let him know. 

“Seokmin,” you say slowly. “You are irresistible as fuck, actually..”

He gapes at you. You pretend not to notice how his ears go red like warning lights.

You busy yourself with mugs again, all while your heart plays hopscotch in your chest.

After the disaster masterclass with Soonyoung, you decide to up your act. With Seokmin's consent, of course. 

It’s silly, really. His hand settles in the back pocket of your jeans as if it belongs there, palm flat against the curve of your ass like this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s not. It isn’t. Seokmin is practically vibrating with embarrassment, eyes darting like he’s waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him down. He’s sweating through his uniform polo, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he tries—bless him—to stay composed.

“You okay there, champ?” you murmur out the side of your mouth, smile still perfectly plastered. You’ve faked worse. But there’s something especially comical about watching Seokmin try to play suave when he looks like he might pass out from holding your gaze too long.

“Totally fine. Just, uh, practicing proximity,” he says, a little too loud, a little too stiff.

“Proximity,” you echo, biting down a laugh. “Sure. That’s what the kids are calling it now.”

He opens his mouth to reply but clams up instantly when Joshua walks by and double-takes so hard it’s like his neck cricks. Joshua’s eyes linger for a second too long, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and then he walks faster, like maybe if he moves quickly enough, the image of Seokmin copping a feel in broad daylight will erase itself from his memory.

“Was that—did that count as a win?” Seokmin mumbles.

You grin victoriously. “Definitely a win.” 

Seokmin exhales, relieved. “You’re really good at this,” he breathes. 

“Oh, honey,” you say, adjusting your shirt and looping your arm around his waist like it’s nothing. “I haven’t even started.”

--

Seokmin shoots you a wide-eyed look over Soonyoung's shoulder. You know the one. The look that says, Please get me out of here before I die.

For the past fifteen minutes, Soonyoung has been monologuing about his fantasy, co-ed K-pop group, who he thinks would thrive the most in JYP Entertainment. You catch Seokmin’s eye and give him a sympathetic smile. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you seize your moment.

“We should get going,” you say, brushing your hand against Seokmin’s arm. It makes you feel like a scene partner in a bad rom-com. “Busy day.”

Soonyoung nods, waving a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah! Go do your merch-y things!”

And that’s your cue.

You lean in like it’s second nature and press a kiss to Seokmin’s cheek—except he turns to look at you just as you're going in, and your lips graze far too close to the corner of his mouth.

Seokmin freezes, eyes wide, cheeks pink. You pull back with a proud little smirk, only to hear Soonyoung’s delighted voice go, “Aww, cute!”

Soonyoung then leans in and, before you can stop him, plants a swift kiss to your cheek.

You blink.

Seokmin blinks.

Soonyoung pulls away, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Guess that’s how we’re saying goodbye now, huh? Love that for us.”

And then he’s gone, humming something off-key.

You and Seokmin are left standing in stunned silence, lips parted, eyes still tracking the space Soonyoung just vacated.

“What just happened?” Seokmin asks dazedly.

“We’re either really bad at this,” you say, “or Soonyoung’s just really, really good at being Soonyoung.”

Seokmin lets out a strangled laugh. “You think Shua’s gonna want a kiss next time too?”

“God, let’s hope not. I only have so much emotional bandwidth.”

The next month’s announcement comes with a twist neither of you anticipated. 

Wonwoo—quiet, brooding, catlike in demeanor—is the new Employee of the Month. The rest of the team cheers for him with tepid enthusiasm, and he accepts it with a shrug, already halfway back to the cabanas before the applause dies down.

But for you and Seokmin? It’s hope. A rare, glimmering thing.

Seokmin finds you an hour later, halfway through inventory behind the booths. He sidles in beside you like he’s doing something criminal, which—considering the last few weeks of manufactured PDA and workplace sabotage—isn't far from the truth.

“Heard the news?” he says.

“Wonwoo finally getting recognition for his uncanny ability to look hot and disinterested at the same time? Yeah. Big day for the guy.”

“No, I mean—” He lowers his voice, eyes flicking to the open slats of the booth. “Do you think this means it’s working? That they’re onto us?”

You close the inventory sheet and lean against the shelf. “I mean, maybe. But let’s not get cocky. We still work here. We’re not off the hook until we’re fully jobless and making life choices our parents would cry about.”

Seokmin grimaces. “Right. That.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “We gotta up the ante.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, like another back pocket maneuver?”

“No. We bring out the big guns.”

He looks skeptical. “What’s bigger than the back pocket?”

“A kiss.”

Seokmin chokes on absolutely nothing. “A kiss?”

“In public. Obviously. Catch us in 4K. Let the rumors fly, let HR cry.”

He stares at you like you’ve suggested robbing a bank. Which, to be fair, with this level of emotional fraud it isn’t too far off. “You’re serious.”

“As a tax audit.”

He groans and drops his forehead onto your shoulder. “I am not mentally equipped for this.”

“You’re doing great, handsome.”

“Don’t call me handsome when you’re about to ruin my life.”

You grin, threading your fingers together in a fake prayer. “It’s only fake ruining. Come on, do it for the cause.”

He sighs deeply, like a martyr. “Alright. But if this backfires, you’re buying me dinner.”

“Deal. And dessert, too. You’ll need something sweet to cry into when we’re finally free.”

The plans get made. You’re both actively trying to get fired, sure, but Seokmin still wants to get some of his stuff done. And so the two of you stay even as the clock ticks past eleven, Carat Bay, a ghost town save for you and Seokmin. 

Plastic bins of unsold shirts and foam fingers lay scattered around you while you’re both sluggishly folding and stacking them back into place. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile hum over the quiet.

Seokmin yawns into his shoulder and tosses a crumpled hoodie into a bin without aiming. It lands with a sad little flop, nowhere close to folded. You nudge him with your hip.

“You're getting sloppy,” you snicker.

“‘M tired,” he mumbles.

“Whose idea was it to volunteer for overtime, huh?”

He gives a small, sheepish smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. You watch him for a beat longer than you should, picking up on how the weight of something heavier seems to settle over him.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “You okay?”

Seokmin fiddles with the hem of the hoodie, his fingers restless. For a moment you think he won’t answer. But then he breathes out a laugh, quiet and self-deprecating.

“I guess I owe you the truth,” he says, “about why I wanted to get fired so badly.”

You put the last foam finger down and turn to him, giving him your full attention. He looks everywhere but you before admitting, “I… I wanna open an animal shelter. Mostly for dogs, but… you know. Cats too. Whatever needs a home.”

You blink, processing. “Seokmin, that’s—that’s noble as fuck.”

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, well. Not really. I’ve been saving up, but my parents aren’t really big on  charity and shit. They still want me to take over this place."

Your heart twists painfully at his honesty, at the way he says it like he's bracing for you to think less of him. “Seokmin,” you insist, stepping closer, “I can’t believe you’d ever be embarrassed of this. You want to get fired because you want to help dogs?”

He lets out another laugh, finally looking at you. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounds like you have the biggest heart in the world,” you correct him.

He flushes at the praise, ducking his head. You feel something tender pull tight in your chest.

“You’re gonna do it,” you say, firm. “You’re gonna open that shelter. And it’s gonna be amazing."

Seokmin gives you a look so soft you have to glance away, pretending to busy yourself with a pile of lanyards. But even as you fumble with the cheap keychains, you feel the warmth of his smile on your skin—quiet and certain, as if for the first time, he believes it too.

--

The cubicle smells like a mix of chlorine, sunscreen, and the ghost of body spray someone probably forgot to bring home last week. 

You and Seokmin are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight space, backs to the damp plastic wall, waiting. You can hear the sound of people outside. Laughter, feet slapping against tiles, the zip of a towel being whipped like a weapon. No one ever checks the shower cubicles during lunch. They’re too humid, too gross. That’s what makes it perfect.

“Okay,” you say, shifting your weight, peering at Seokmin. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on some grout on the tiles. “We don’t have to, like, make out or anything. Just something quick. Catchy. Like a Sabrina Carpenter music video.”

Seokmin nods slowly. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “Right. Okay. But, uh… just so you know… I’ve never done this before.”

“Kissed someone?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like he’s confessing to murder. “Like—not even a stage kiss. I always got cast as the comedic relief or the tree.”

You pause. That makes your heart hurt a little. This was supposed to be a dumb performance. Another scheme. But now, your stomach knots with guilt. 

“Do you want to back out?” you ask, already leaning away. “I don’t want to take your first kiss in, like, a sticky-ass stall with pool water dripping on us. That’s a memory you’ll carry forever.”

But before you can make a clean retreat, Seokmin grabs your wrist.

“I want to,” he says, and for once, he doesn’t sound unsure. “With you. It’s doesn’t sound  bad.”

You freeze for a beat. His grip is warm. His cheeks are flushed pink, and he’s still damp from the park’s mist sprayers. For some reason, your heart picks that moment to hammer in your chest.

“Okay,” you breathe.

You lean in. You expect it to be awkward, but it’s… not. 

It’s a little shy at first—his lips tentative, almost featherlight—but it deepens just slightly, like he’s trusting you to lead. His hand flutters awkwardly at your waist, not quite sure where to go, before settling on your hip.

When you pull back, you’re both a little dazed. 

“Christ,” you murmur.

Seokmin grins, soft and stunned. “That wasn’t terrible.”

You smile, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here. Right—

You're still holding onto his wrist, gently, when you say, “We could practice. If you want. Just to make it convincing.”

Seokmin clears his throat. “Practice?” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a noncommittal shrug. All cool girl, chill girl, this-isn’t-a-big-deal girl. “Just enough so we’re not all teeth and awkward angles when it counts. We want it to look natural.”

He nods, visibly thinking through the logistics. Then, a little breathlessly, he says, “Okay. Yeah. Practice. That makes sense.”

You step closer. The shower stall is cramped, so it’s not hard. Your shoes bump into his, your body brushing his chest. You place one of his hands on your waist. His fingers are hesitant, like he’s afraid you might change your mind and bolt.

“Touch me like you want to,” you urge him gently. “Like you're allowed to.”

His palm flattens more deliberately now. You feel the shift in him, the effort. His other hand lifts but hovers, unsure.

“Here,” you guide it, fingers curling gently around his wrist to place it at the side of your face. “You can hold me here. It helps.”

His thumb grazes your cheek, trembling slightly. His breath comes shallow.

“Now, slower this time,” you say. “Tilt your head a little more.”

He does, obedient. Eager. His eyes flick to your mouth, and then he leans in.

The second kiss is better. Less rush, more curiosity. You taste mint gum and something sweet—maybe from the café earlier. His lips are soft, tentative, and open slightly when yours press in a little firmer.

Your fingers rest lightly on his collarbone. His hand on your waist grips tighter, just a little. He kisses you again, like he’s learning. Like he wants to keep learning.

When you pull away, just slightly, he’s dazed and pink in the cheeks.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and stunned. “That was... useful.”

You try not to laugh. “We’ll need more practice. Just to sell it.”

“Right,” he agrees, too fast. “Totally. For realism.”

You’re both kidding each other at this point, but to hell with it. 

Things escalate not long after. He’s touchier. Bolder. Somewhere along the way, Seokmin has stopped flinching when he touches you in public and started leaning into the performance like it’s second nature. And worse still: he’s getting good at it.

A brush of his fingers along the dip of your waist as you reach for the locker door. A comment in front of Soonyoung about how you look good in the staff polo, followed by a wink that is actually genuinely disarming. One time, he even smooths your hair back before a team meeting, murmuring something about presentation.

You catch Mingyu watching the two of you, eyes narrowed. Minghao frowns when Seokmin lets you steal a bite of his lunch using the same fork. The whispers are starting, and not even Seokmin’s endearing clumsiness can cover for the shift in atmosphere.

But the real danger doesn’t come from the outside.

It comes from the break room.

You’re sitting on the counter while Seokmin stands between your legs, lips a breath away. It’s meant to be another rehearsal. A quick one. A casual, convincing peck for the hallway.

Instead, Seokmin’s hand brushes your thigh. Not by accident.

Your breath hitches. He pauses. You don’t move.

His palm presses firmer, sliding just barely, just enough.

Then, without much warning, he leans in and kisses you again. Slower. A little hungrier. It catches you off guard—not because it’s clumsy, but because it’s not. It’s careful. Considered. There’s intention behind it, like he’s trying to see what else he can get away with.

You make a sound. It’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable. A quiet, surprised thing at the back of your throat.

Seokmin jerks back immediately. You stare at each other, both stunned into silence.

“What was that?” you ask, heart pounding.

His voice is soft, eyes wide. “I—I don’t know. I thought we were practicing.”

“We are,” you say, but it comes out shaky.

You both stare at each other for another beat.

It’s getting dangerous. Very, very dangerous. You force yourself to act, to play the role. You shift, leaning back slightly to break the tension, giving him a small, teasing smile. “Now I’m curious, Seokmin. Can you make the same sound?”

The question only flusters him even more. “What?” 

“You know. The sound I made. You looked like you liked it.”

“I—” he sputters, adorably scandalized. “That wasn’t—I mean, it was nice, but I wasn’t—”

You lean closer again, voice dropping just slightly. “Let me try something.”

He nods. Wordless. Willing.

Your hands come up to rest on his chest, warm over the fabric of his shirt. You feel the faint thud of his heart beneath your palms. He’s wound tight, you can tell, nervous in the way he always is when you close the distance. You tilt your head, angle your lips near his ear.

“Relax,” you whisper, soft, lilting.

Then you kiss him.

It starts gentle, barely-there pressure. Your hands slide up his shoulders, then down, resting at his hips as you slot your mouth against his more deliberately. You deepen it slowly, coaxing, guiding.

When your fingers skim up the nape of his neck, he makes a sound—a small, breathy one that ghosts from the back of his throat. It makes your stomach flip, makes you smile into the kiss. You do it again. Just to hear it.

“That,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “was hot.”

He groans in embarrassment, pulling back to bury his face in your shoulder.

“You can't just say stuff like that,” he mumbles, muffled.

“Why not? You sounded good. Really good.”

You laugh, light and airy, and he groans again. When he peeks up at you again, he’s still flushed. But he’s smiling.

“Okay,” he whispers, all conspiratorial, almost as if it were a dare, “your turn again.”

You’re in trouble.

--

The plan is simple, in theory: get caught in a compromising position by the most enthusiastic gossip in Carat Bay. 

The break room behind the bumper cars is off-limits after closing. Soonyoung has a habit of staying late to tally the day’s dance competition scores. It’s foolproof. Everything’s lined up.

Except Seokmin is looking at you like he’s just been asked to disarm a bomb with his teeth.

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off, eyes darting downwards, where your polo shirt now lies folded over the employee bench. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen them, which is saying something. You’re still wearing your undershirt—barely indecent by any standard—but Seokmin’s expression says otherwise.

“Strip?” you finish for him, amused. “It’s the uniform. People get fired for less than partial nudity, you know.”

He swallows. Hard. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

You laugh, stepping closer. “Seokmin, we’re trying to sell the illusion. If we’re going to pull this off, I need you to look less like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not gonna pass out,” he lies, his voice two pitches higher than usual.

You reach up, fingers grazing the side of his face, and it’s like flipping a switch. He exhales, trembling a little. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

“We’ve done this before,” you remind him gently. “We’ve kissed before. This is just like practice, remember?”

He nods again, more believably this time. “Yeah. Just like practice.”

“Exactly.” 

You press your lips to his, soft and warm. 

Enough to ease him in, to coax some steadiness into his hands where they hover near your waist. You kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re reassuring yourself as much as you are him. Because your skin tingles where his fingers tentatively land on your hips, and your breath hitches when his mouth parts just slightly, enough to let your tongue graze his.

He pulls back first, eyes wide and unfocused. “That was…”

“Convincing?” you offer, trying to keep your voice steady.

He nods mutely, blinking at you like he’s never seen you before.

“Good,” you murmur, straightening his shirt collar. “Let’s make this a performance Soonyoung won’t ever shut up about.”

The break room is just warm enough to be stifling, wrapped in the hush of neon hum and the smell of popcorn grease and old rubber. You’re straddling Seokmin’s lap on the worn-out couch you’ve both dubbed the ‘emergency plushie zone.’ 

Seokmin’s tie is hanging off a peg behind you, abandoned somewhere between your fifth and sixth practice kisses. How much fucking practice one needs to get this ‘right,’ you’re not sure, but neither of you are complaining. 

This kiss starts like the rest, lips brushing with practiced familiarity, but something shifts when Seokmin’s hands curl around your waist with more certainty than before.

"You’re really getting good at this," you murmur against his mouth.

He huffs a shy laugh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your undershirt where your skin runs hot. “You told me to practice.”

“I didn’t tell you to practice this well,” you say, and then you kiss him again, hungrier now, breath catching when his hand trails up your spine.

It’s just an act, you remind yourself. Just something to get Soonyoung to walk in and freak out, let the gossip train do the rest.

Except Seokmin moans when you nip at his lower lip. A small sound, barely there—but it melts into you. You want to hear it again. So you shift your weight, rolling your hips once. His breath stutters. Yours does too.

You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw, voice low. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

“I think,” Seokmin says, voice wrecked with something like disbelief, “I’m losing track of what’s a bit.”

You smile against his neck. “We’ve been at it for twenty minutes. Where the hell is Soonyoung?”

“Was—Was Soonyoung even at work today?” 

You freeze. You pull back and stare at Seokmin. 

Kwon Soonyoung had taken a ‘sick’ leave today. To line up at midnight for a video game. He bragged about it in the group chat that all the newbies shared. 

You glance down at your exposed chest, then at the way your thighs are locked around Seokmin’s hips. “Are we fucking stupid?” you wonder out loud. 

Seokmin blinks at you, lips swollen and pink, eyes blown wide. He leans his head back against the couch with a groan. “I don’t think I can do that again without losing my soul,” he rasps. 

“You’ll get it back in pieces,” you sigh, patting Seokmin’s chest in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring. “Starting with your tie.”

--

You’re heading back from the boardwalk, salt still on your skin and the cheap cola you pilfered from the vendor stand fizzing in your hand, when you hear voices. The kind that make you stop short and lean just a little closer to the maintenance shed wall, pretending like you’re very interested in the bulletin board you’ve seen a hundred times.

It’s Joshua. Low and calm, like always, but there’s a seriousness in his voice you’re not used to.

“Seokmin. I just want to know what this is.”

You freeze. You don’t mean to. You know it’s bad form to eavesdrop, especially when you’re the this in question, but something roots you to the spot.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” Joshua continues, “but if this is just a game, if the two of you are pretending? You guys should quit it. Seriously. You’re both going to get into a shitton of trouble.”

A beat. Then Seokmin’s voice rings out, convincingly offended.

“It’s not pretend. I like her.”

Your breath catches.

“I like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts even when she has a towel. I like how she rolls her eyes like the world’s exhausting but she still shows up every day. I like that she lets me be nervous, but doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. I like her laugh. A lot.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything, so Seokmin keeps going.

“I’m—I may not be able to call her my girlfriend. Not yet,” he says hastily. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel. I lo—like being around her. I like her, Shua.” 

You press your lips together, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your entire chest. You feel like a live wire. Humming, sparking at the edges with something dangerous and sweet.

None of that was part of the act.

And, fine. You wish it were real. Just a little bit. Just enough to close the distance between his feelings and yours.

You slip away from the corner of the shed before either boy notices you there. The cola in your hand has gone flat. Kind of like your plan.

The conversation makes a home underneath your skin, hangs like a cloud over your head. It exists even as you’re perched on the countertop in the employee break room, the sickly hum of the vending machine buzzing under the clatter of Seokmin's footsteps. He slots himself between your knees with the same ease he’s learned over the past few weeks, hands bracing on either side of your thighs. It would be routine now, if not for the fact that your heart is somewhere around your ankles.

His eyes search yours. “Are you okay?” he asks delicately, looking at you with that concerned glance he’s been throwing your way all afternoon. 

The thing about Seokmin is that he's gotten good at reading you lately, which would be great if you weren’t actively trying to keep your thoughts from turning into a romantic nosedive. You sigh. Might as well throw it all out. “I overheard you and Joshua,” you push out through your teeth. 

Seokmin freezes like you’ve just dropped on him  a bucket of ice water. “What?”

You offer a crooked smile, something flimsy and fragile. “You were good. Like, really convincing. Should’ve guessed you were a theater kid.”

He looks like he’s been punched. The breath leaves him slowly. “You thought I was lying.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your gaze skitters off to the corner of the room is answer enough.

His voice goes soft when he says his name, and you presume it’s him readying you. He’s about to let you down gently, you think. “I—” he starts, and you refuse to hear it. Not without one final act of stupidity. 

You move before you can think. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you yank him forward, pressing your lips to his like it'll keep everything messy and tender at bay. It’s not careful. It’s not supposed to be. It’s a distraction, a fire alarm, an emotional eject button.

Seokmin doesn’t kiss you back, not immediately; his brain is still caught on whatever he was about to say. The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough for the door to swing open behind you.

“GUYS—”

You both tear apart like you’ve been electrocuted. Soonyoung stands at the doorway holding a neon slushie. The look on his face is the type of thing that would have him going viral on TikTok.

You and Seokmin exchange a look, wide-eyed and flushed.

It’s the worst time to get caught, and of course, that’s when it finally happens.

--

The fallout begins quietly.

Which is the worst part, really.

No fireworks, no messy confrontation, just an unrelenting silence that creeps in where easy laughter used to be. Every brush of Seokmin’s hand now feels weighted, every shared glance taut with the possibility of a conversation you’re not ready to have.

Worse, people are buying it. Hook, line, and sinker. After Soonyoung caught the two of you mid-liplock, the rumor mill went into overdrive, and suddenly, no one bats an eye when Seokmin shares his food with you, or when your knees knock beneath the merchandise booth. Everyone thinks you’re together. That you’re real.

It makes it harder than ever to fake it.

Seokmin still tries. He flashes you that warm grin and slings his arm around your shoulder like nothing’s changed, but it has. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching you, or how his laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes when you tease him. He wants to talk about it. You know he does.

And he tries.

It happens after another long shift, the two of you walking side by side through the near-empty parking lot. The sky is bruised and pink at the edges, cotton-candy dusk descending on Carat Bay like an afterthought. He catches your wrist, gently but firmly.

“Can we just—talk?” he says, voice low, eyes impossibly sincere.

It’s the exact thing you’ve been avoiding. You look at his hand around your wrist and your heart hammers in your chest. You want to hear him out. You want to ask him which parts were real, and which ones were for show. You want to tell him it’s been pretty damn hard for you to tell the difference, even if you’re the one who laid out the blueprint months ago. 

But you’re a coward. And this isn’t part of the plan.

So you do what you’re best at.

You run.

You tug your hand free and turn on your heel. You don’t get far. Just past the bumpers, right by the yellow staff lines painted across the lot, you hear it—the telltale squeak of worn soles and a long-suffering sigh.

Changbin. 

He’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes flick from you to Seokmin, whose hand is still hovering like it’s caught mid-air.

“Inside. Both of you,” Changbin says coolly. “HR wants a word.”

Great.

You’ve been trying to get fired for months. And now, at long last, it feels like your wish is about to come true.

Except the look Seokmin shoots you isn’t relief.

It’s heartbreak.

The HR room is ice cold. Not temperature-wise—someone must've left the thermostat on the exact edge of comfort. It’s cold in that awful, bureaucratic kind of way. Like nothing good has ever happened in here. Like no one’s ever left this place with dignity fully intact.

Changmin, the HR Manager, offers you both paper cups of water. His smile is so bland it’s offensive. “Let’s make this quick,” he says, as if he has something better to do than scold employees for handsy interactions in the Carat Bay parking lot. “There’ve been some... concerns.”

Your arms are crossed. Seokmin’s foot keeps tapping under the table, a nervous rhythm he’s trying to stifle.

“Rumors have been circulating,” Changmin continues, folding his hands neatly. “Several employees have reported seeing you two getting cozy on company time.”

You open your mouth, but Seokmin beats you to it. “We weren’t—I mean, it was nothing compromising,” he argues feebly. 

“The CCTV disagrees.”

Holy shit. You almost forgot about that. There are eyes and ears all over the place; you and Seokmin didn’t even have to wait around for Soonyoung. The two of you could have just made out in the merch booth and been done with it.

“You’re both aware of the rule,” Changmin goes on. “No romantic fraternization during work hours. No workplace relationships without disclosure. And certainly not in full view of customers or staff.”

“Yes,” you mutter.

Changmin sighs, as if he genuinely hates what’s about to happen. “After internal discussion, we’ve decided to terminate the employment of one party.”

It sinks in a beat too late, what’s wrong about the statement. 

One party. Only one of you is going to get sacked, and it’s pretty clear who it’s going to be. 

Seokmin’s head snaps toward you. “What? No, that—that doesn’t make sense,” he sputters. “We both broke the rule.”

Changmin's smile flickers. “Mr. Lee, you know very well your position in this company.”

Ah. There it is.

The heir card.

You could laugh, but it’d come out strangled.

“This doesn’t have to be a big thing,” Changmin says smoothly. “We’ll phrase it as a mutual separation. No disciplinary record. A clean reference, if needed.”

You stare at the condensation sliding down your paper cup. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To get fired. To be released from this pastel-colored theme park hellscape and finally live your own damn life.

And yet.

Beside you, Seokmin's voice breaks. “It wasn’t just her. If anyone should take responsibility—”

“This is final,” Changmin says, in the politest voice imaginable.

You got what you had planned for. Why does it feel like shit?

You find Seokmin in the parking lot after the meeting, his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders drawn up like they’re trying to shield him from the world. The Carat Bay sign flickers behind him, casting a tacky blue halo over his profile. You take slow steps toward him, gravel crunching under your shoes.

“Hey,” you say tentatively. “I—I didn’t think it would go like that. I thought we’d both get fired. That was the point.”

Seokmin doesn’t look at you. His jaw works, like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” he says flatly.

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, bite your tongue. “You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want you to get hurt by this. I didn’t think they’d—only fire me.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that tastes of ash. “Of course they didn’t. Why would they? I’m Lee Seokmin, Prince of Carat Bay. Fucking heir to the tacky throne.”

You step closer. “Seokmin—”

“No, seriously. This is the first time I ever tried to do something for myself, and I managed to ruin it by—” He breaks off, exhales hard through his nose. “By catching feelings for someone who only wanted a clean way out.”

You flinch. “That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?” he snaps. “You heard what I told Shua, right? You were eavesdropping. So you know. You know I wasn't acting. You kissed me anyway, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just another scene.”

You shake your head. “I kissed you because I didn’t know what to say,” you say, voice cracking. “Because I was scared. Not because I didn’t care.”

Seokmin finally looks at you, and it guts you. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way he’s never let you see. When he speaks, it’s as good as a confession, “I thought maybe, just maybe, if I kept being useful, if I kept showing up, you’d start to want me for real,” he manages. “But I guess I really was just an acting partner, huh?” 

He pulls back when you reach for him. “Don’t,” he says, looking less like the boy you’ve come to love and more like the ghost of him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” 

And then he’s walking away, shoulders still hunched, hands still buried in his pockets, as if letting them out might betray too much. You stay rooted to the spot, the neon lights buzzing overhead, your name already half-forgotten by the place—and the coworker—you were trying so hard to leave behind. 

--

You have at least two more weeks before your exile from Carat Bay is final, and you tell yourself you’re okay.

You tell yourself that when Seokmin, who you’ve worked elbow-to-elbow with all summer, starts pretending you’re not breathing the same air as him. You tell yourself that when he disappears to ‘stock’ the back room every time you so much as look at him.

You tell yourself that when he hands you inventory lists like he’s passing secret messages in a Cold War spy thriller. Gaze averted, fingers barely brushing yours.

You’re fine.

It’s fine.

You’re very normal about the fact that the boy who once had a casual palm curved to the slope of your ass now can’t stand to be within two feet of you. The boy who used to trip over himself to steal kisses, to coax soft sounds out of your throat in the shadowed corners of Carat Bay, now can’t even meet your eyes.

The merchandise booth is tiny, the kind of claustrophobic that’s usually endearing in the early stages of a slow-burn romance. Now it feels like a battlefield. 

Every interaction is a landmine. You joke with Soonyoung and Joshua louder than necessary just to fill the silence Seokmin leaves behind. You laugh a little too hard when Mingyu teases you about winning the Fastest Employee-to-HR Pipeline award. You act normal. You’re good at acting normal.

Seokmin, for all his theater-kid roots, isn’t.

His silences are loud. His stiffness is louder.

You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking. There’s a hollow, guilty kind of sadness in it, like he’s punishing himself. Like he’s mourning something neither of you can name.

You don’t know how to fix it. You’re not sure you should. Wasn't this what you wanted?

You got out. You got what you needed. It’s not your fault if somewhere along the way, Seokmin handed you something far messier, far more dangerous, and you didn’t know how to hold it.

You clock in. You clock out. You memorize the days until your last shift like you’re counting down to parole.

You don’t think about how empty the booth feels now.

You don’t think about the way Seokmin used to smile at you like you put the sun in the sky.

You don’t think at all.

You can’t afford to.

And, really, you don’t mean to cry. You’d told yourself you’d get through your shift, maybe duck into the bathroom if it got bad enough. You could’ve handled this like an adult. Quietly. Dignified.

Instead, here you are in the back break room, facedown against the sticky laminate table. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re sniffling embarrassingly loud as you try to muffle the sound.

“Whoa, hey,” comes Soonyoung’s voice, full of immediate alarm. “Hey, what—oh my God, are you crying?”

You don’t look up. You can’t. You just groan low into your arms, trying to make the world swallow you whole. Of all the people who could find you. 

There’s the rustling sound of Soonyoung pulling out the chair next to you, scooting in close. A warm, awkward hand pats the middle of your back.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Hey, it’s okay. Breakups suck. Like, really bad. Especially when it’s someone you see every day at work. That’s brutal.”

You let out a wet, miserable noise.

“Everyone’s been talking,” Soonyoung continues, unaware of the dagger twisting deeper into your gut. “Like, we all kinda figured something was wrong since Seokmin’s been… I dunno, all weird. He barely even smiles anymore. He’s acting like you killed his cat.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at Soonyoung through bleary eyes. “It wasn’t even real,” you whisper.

“Huh?”

You sniff and rub your sleeve across your nose, cringing at yourself. “It was all fake. Me and Seokmin. We were faking it.”

Soonyoung blinks at you. “Like… the relationship?”

You nod miserably.

“Why?”

Through your tears, you tell Soonyoung everything. The plan, the faking it, the makeout sessions. The way it ended on a Wednesday, of all days, which is terrible—because you both had to clock in the next morning like you hadn’t just broken each other’s hearts. 

Soonyoung leans back in his chair, processing this with the same serious expression he reserves for really important things, like choosing what to order for lunch.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “That’s kinda… diabolical. But also, like, you and Seokmin… you’re just idiots in love.”

You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm.

“I mean it,” Soonyoung says, smiling now, in that rare, earnest way of his. “You’re both idiots. And it’s kinda beautiful, if you think about it.”

You don’t know if ‘beautiful’ is the right word for the mess you’ve made.

But maybe—maybe it could be.

--

You always figure there’s a big act of romance in every rom-com. A grand, sweeping gesture by the male lead. Unfortunately, your male lead is out of commission; you decide to take things into your own hands. 

It’s your last day of work, and you have nothing left to lose.

Lunch time is your choice of poison. You wait for the clock to hit exactly 12:30, and then you hit Send after making sure everybody who matters is in the breakroom. 

Someone gasps. Someone else drops their coffee. Employees and managers alike pull out their phones to see what’s so stunning. 

The screenshots are in the group chat. Seokmin’s texts to you over the past few months, confessions of all the petty little sabotage attempts he’s made at the merchandise booth: mislabeling shirts, sneaking wrong sizes into bags, purposefully miscounting plushies. 

People are side-eyeing you, whispering among themselves—

“Damn, she’s really airing him out.”

“Was the breakup that bad?” 

“Evil ass ex.” 

You ignore them all.

You’re focused on Seokmin, who is seated between Joshua and Soonyoung. When he glances at his lockscreen, he does a double take. Blinks. Shoots up, his expression slack with horror. He looks like he’s about to make a run for it. 

You cross the room in a couple of quick strides. Before Seokmin can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his stupid Carat Bay polo and kiss him. Long. Hard. Unapologetic. 

Your mouth moves against his like you’re staking a claim. Like you’re not done with him yet. 

The breakroom explodes in noise—shrieks, whistles, laughter—but you barely hear it. Your brain is doing that thing again, the one where your entire world narrows into nothing whenever you’re up against Seokmin like this. 

You’ve known since the first time you kissed him that he would ruin you. You were right. 

You break the kiss to breathe, to murmur against his lips, “You’re definitely going to get fired now.” 

You don’t need to look to know a few mothers outside the breakroom are going to be scandalized. That the CCTV in the corner is blinking red, and Seokmin’s face is angled so you absolutely cannot manipulate or miss who had just participated in public indecency. 

For the first time in days, Seokmin smiles.

Not the fake half-smile he’s been giving you lately. Not the sad, wilted one. A real one. Wide and bright and devastatingly beautiful. He cups your face, leans in, and kisses you again—softer this time, like a promise. 

Screw the script. You're writing your own ending.

--

EPILOGUE. 

The drive is long, but not unbearable. 

Soonyoung and Joshua have packed the car with snacks, and between the three of you, there’s enough chaos to keep the ride from feeling too heavy. It's only when the road smooths out into rolling countryside and the first glimpse of the shelter comes into view—an unassuming building with bright, inviting banners—that your heart tightens in your chest.

“There it is,” Soonyoung says, leaning forward against his seatbelt, eyes wide.

“Cute,” Joshua adds, pulling his sunglasses down to get a better look. “Looks like it belongs to someone who loves, like, every living thing.”

You laugh, amused. “Sounds about right.”

The car barely parks before you're throwing the door open, feet hitting the gravel with an eager crunch. Seokmin is already at the entrance, waving both arms above his head like he's trying to guide a plane in for landing. You sprint the last few steps and collide into him, arms wrapping around his middle.

He lets out a winded, delighted noise, hugging you so tight your feet lift off the ground for a second. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here,” you murmur against his neck. “I’d be a terrible girlfriend otherwise.” 

Behind you, Soonyoung and Joshua groan loudly.

“God, it’s worse than I thought,” Soonyoung sighs. “You’d think the honeymoon phase would be over by now.” 

“It’s watching a rom-com on 2x speed,” Joshua agrees.

Seokmin only grins against your hair, clearly unfazed. He sets you back down but keeps an arm looped lazily around your shoulders as he ushers everyone inside.

The shelter is still new—there’s the faint smell of fresh paint, and not every kennel is full yet—but the energy is unmistakably Seokmin: warm, bright, buzzing with earnest hope. He introduces you to every animal like he’s presenting you with priceless treasures. You fall in love with each one.

You had properly fallen in love with Seokmin shortly after you were both freed from the clutches of Carat Bay. The two of you talked it out. He asked you on a proper date. The rest became history, and the story of your origins—now about half a year in the rearview—proves to be a fun tale to swap during drinking sessions. 

This time, you both got what you wanted, and so much more. 

At one point, Seokmin presses a kiss to your temple. You instinctively lift onto your toes to kiss his jaw in return. You both giggle like teenagers, noses brushing, completely lost in each other.

From behind you, Joshua pretends to gag. “Do we need to leave you two alone with the puppies?” he says judgmentally, arms tightening around the Rottweiler puppy he’d been eyeing for weeks. 

Soonyoung joins in on the teasing. “Disgustingly cute,” he announces dryly, already halfway out the door so he can escape you and Seokmin. And then, he throws in as an afterthought: “You two deserve each other.” 

You glance up at Seokmin. He beams down at you like you’re the only thing he can see.

It pains you to admit—but for once, Kwon Soonyoung might be right about something. 

[mountainsandmayhem]

In My T-Shirt

|| Joel Miller x Female Reader ||

A/N: this is VERY loosely based on a true story, but if it was Joel Miller in front of me at that time…well, I would have been a puddle. Thank you @lotusbxtch and @for-a-longlongtime for listening to me lose my mind last night. This is not at all beta’d or proofread, so just take what you get. Dividers by @saradika-graphics

C/W: kissing, flirting, dirty talk, lots of teasing, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc.), fully clothed orgasm.

Word Count: 2.6k

My Masterlist

Working in a male dominated has more cons than pros. Most of the contractors coming in for supplies treat you like you haven’t been doing this for ten years, but not Joel Miller. No, Joel is your favourite customer, and you reckon that you might be his favourite supplier. He comes in every other day, and today you watch him from the window of your office as he hop out of his truck with a Starbucks in hand.

“Iced London Fog,” he beams. “Half sweet and with oat milk.”

“You remembered?” You all out gush.

“Course I did,” he says with a wink before telling you what he needs and you ring him up. As you pull your radio from your safety vest to call his order out to the forklift operator, his eyes flick to the logo on your shirt. His company logo.

“Nice shirt,” he teases.

“Oh thanks. Some guy I know gave it to me. Heard he’s pretty good at his job.”

“Heard he’s the best,” he jokes, puffing his broad chest out. “Got an award recently and everythin’.”

“That so? I heard his supplier put some pressure on the vendor to get that product for him AND waived the delivery fee. Lucky guy to have someone like that.” You know you’re flirting, but so is he. Your staff will probably gossip about it later. Even though you’re their boss, they all know you have a small crush on him.

Joel’s perfect lips pull into a smile, dimples forming into his sun-kissed cheeks. He leans forward to grab his invoice, his rough hand purposely caressing yours as he says, “you have no idea how lucky.”

Your phone rings about ten minutes before close, “Joel - Miller Construction” across the screen.

“Hey Joel,” you say, your usual greeting when he calls.

“Hey, sorry, I know ya close soon, but I need another few bags of that polymetric sand and I need to finish this job tonight.” You can hear the stress in his voice, yet he’s nothing but polite.

“All good. When will you be here?” You’re slightly annoyed that you’ll have to stay longer since you have a bottle of red wine at home that’s been calling your name. The thought of getting to see his big, brown eyes one more time today though wipes out any negative feelings.

“About twenty minutes or so. I can give you my card number if you wanna leave them outside the gate.” Disappointment swirls in your gut at the thought of him not wanting to see you.

“No, it’s ok. Just slide the gate open, I have some stuff to catch up on. I’ll wait.” It’s a lie. An outright lie. You don’t have anything to catch up on.

“Thank you. I’m sorry,” he coos.

“It’s all good, Joel. That’s what I’m here for,” you say with a smile, using your best customer service voice. “See you soon.”

Shortly after all your staff has punched out and left, the door bings. You pop out from the back to see Joel, his hair messy, a smudge of dirt or grease on his face from his workday. He smiles when you come into view.

“Sorry again,” he apologizes.

You’ve gotten to know Joel pretty well over the past few years that he’s been your customer, so as you pull up his order you say, “You really don’t need to apologize, Joel. I’m sorry you have to work late on a Friday. Where’s Sarah tonight?”

As he slides the chip of his credit card into the pin pad he replies, “Stayin’ with her friend Ellie from school. Havin’ a sleepover or whatever it is girls do.”

The machine beeps the sound of approval. With a soft, nostalgic laugh you say, “God I miss being a kid.”

When you look back up at him he’s looking at his company logo on the upper left part of your T-shirt, your safety vest now removed and hanging in your office. His eyes trail to the small hole in the collar part. In any other job you’d never get away with wearing a ripped shirt, but the safety vest covers it and it’s also your favourite shirt. The cotton of it is so soft, and every time you put it on you remember how shy yet proud Joel looked when he brought it in for you. It was his first round of shirts after he finalized his company logo, you’d supported him with his first job - and every job since - and he wanted you to have one.

“Looks like ya need a new shirt,” he quips, smirking slightly.

“No way, I love this shirt. Ripped collar and all.” The two of you walk towards the showroom door, he holds it open for you and both wander towards the sand he needs.

“You sure? I just got a new batch of swag. Shirts. Sweaters. Hats. Might even have a water bottle or a note pad or two in my truck.”

The two of you stop in front of the pallet of sand. “That so? How do I get some of those?” It comes out much flirtier and suggestive than you mean for it too.

Joel easily lifts two of the three bags he paid for, each of them weighing fifty pounds. His large, strong, vein-lined hands wrapping around the bags as he hoists them to rest on one of his broad shoulders. The hem of his T-shirt lifts, exposing the V of his hip. Your mouth goes dry as you look away and go to lift the third bag.

“I can get it,” he says, but you lift it with ease, holding it more like a toddler than a sack of potatoes in the way Joel is.

“I’m friggen ripped, bro,” you joke with an attempted baritone, making him laugh. As the two of you walk to his truck, you repeat, “So, what do I have to do to get one of those new shirts?”

Your gazes meet and you watch as his eyes trail slowly down your body and then back up, his eyes hungry as they pause for a second too long on your lips.

“Well…” he nearly growls, before a devious smile parts his lips.

That awkward, introverted side of yourself wants to squeal out a giggle and push at him jokingly; luckily, your cool, flirty side wins.

“You wish, Miller.”

He pops the tailgate and flips the sand bags in one smooth motion. The gravel of the parking lot crunches under his boots as he spins towards you and then steps in close. You can smell the sunscreen and freshly cut grass of his day at this proximity. His hand brushes against your stomach as he scoops the bag from your arms. Before stepping back he says, “If you ask me really nicely, I’ll let you have whatever you want.”

You haven’t even registered what he just said when he steps away. Without him close, you almost feel like you might fall over. Like his eyes locked to yours were the only thing keeping you upright. Your world starts to spin, and then there’s Joel again; Deep, coffee brown eyes looking down at you with an intensity you haven’t seen before. And, hooooly fuck, does he look sexy right now.

“I’m waiting,” he murmurs.

You clear the pins and needles from your throat gently then stammer, “Pl-please Joel?”

His breathing quickens as he watches your lips form the words. “You can do better than that. Come on…ask nicely, sweetheart.”

His hands come to your hips. You’ve imagined Joel in scenarios like this for years, but the reality of it is soooo much better. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth as you try to recall what it is that you’re supposed to be asking for.

“Joel,” you purr sweetly. “Please may I have a new shirt?”

His head lowers to yours, and now, not only does he smell like sunscreen and freshly cut grass, but also the mint of his breath.

“That all you want?” He taunts.

“N-no,” the shaky whisper of your voice barely sounds like yours.

“Water bottle?” His voice is cocky and playful. He’s a menace, you always knew it, but this is the first time you’ve really seen it. Unable to form a sentence, all you can do is nod in response. “Can’t ask nicely if you don’t use your words, baby.”

Your pressed flush against him. Joel is solid and steady against your pliable body and erratic breathing. “Can I pretty please have a water bottle, as well?”

The tip of his nose grazes just barely against yours. “Atta’ girl.”

He steps away abruptly and all the air feels like it’s been sucked from your lungs. He wanders to the rear passenger seat door as you grip onto the tailgate to attempt to ground yourself. He shuffles some things around and then wanders back to the back of the truck. He places the shirt and bottle beside your hand.

“Thank you,” you say with a gulp.

Joel’s eyes seem glued to your lips. “Fuck,” he mumbles to himself. “I really want to kiss you, but I don’t want you thinkin’ that you have to do it. This is different from our business relationship.”

“Kiss me,” you rasp.

His hands meet your waist again. He’s close. So very fucking close and your entire body is humming with anticipation.

“Are you giving me consent to kiss you?” He whispers. “Knowing that you can say no and it won’t change anything?”

“Yes, Joel. Yes. Please kiss me.” He chuckles darkly at your neediness.

“And you’ll tell me to stop if you want me to stop?”

Your cheeks flush and the frustration of being kept on the edge builds. You need Joel’s lips on yours; in fact, you don’t think you’ve ever needed anything this badly.

“I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to. Kiss me, Joel. Kiss me or I think I’m going to die.”

“Goddamn, baby girl. You have no idea what it does to me to hear you beg while you’re wearing my T-shirt.” His hard cock presses against your hip as he says it. Your hands scramble for purchase on his forearms, his nose bumping lightly against yours.

“Stop teasing,” you whine, poking out your bottom lip.

He nips at it quickly and then his mouth is on you. His warm lips fuzing with yours passionately. He wraps one arm around your back, the other cupping the back of your head. You go completely boneless for him, letting him bend and manipulate you to be closer, head tilting to let him in more. That’s all you can think. More.

You slide your hands up his forearms, over his tanned biceps until they’re wrapped around his neck. Your lips part, calling him to take whatever he wants from you, and when his tongue passes your lips to lightly swipe against yours, sparks burst behind your closed eyes and you let out a desperate whimper.

At the sound of your need for him he kisses you harder, the passion evolving into something much more heated than you’ve ever experienced. His knee presses between your thighs, getting you as close as possible while still fully clothed.

He nips your swollen bottom lip again as he pulls away, just enough to tug your hair to the side and expose your throat to him. You tense at the pain, but when his warm tongue runs up your throat you basically dissolve into him.

His facial hair scratches against your ear as he says. “Be a good girl and thank me.”

“Th-thank you, Joel,” you obey, your voice a crackling whisper of need and desire.

“You’ve been drivin’ me wild for years in that shirt,” he rasps, his lips ghosting along the sensitive skin of your neck. Your hips move on their own, grinding against the leg he has pressed where you need it most. He continues between kisses, “Did you know that? How goddamn hard I get when I see my name sitting on top of your heart.”

All you can do is pant and cant your hips.

“It’s like you belong to me.” Your nails scrape along his scalp, a mix of a gasp and moan filling the minuscule amount of space between you. “Mmm, you like that, don’t you? Me saying you belong to me?”

You capture his lips with yours, kissing him deeply as you moan a sound of agreement. Joel spins the two of you, then lifts you slightly so you’re sitting on the still lowered tailgate of his truck. You normally wouldn’t be this public with your desires, but all the businesses around you are closed and the sun is starting to set. Plus, between the tall gate that encloses the yard and all the pallets of product, the chances of being seen are low.

“More,” you hum, wrapping your legs around his hips. You can feel his cock pressing against you. “More, please. Touch me, Joel.”

His hand slips between your bodies, his warm palm cupping your pussy over your jeans. Heat spreads as you grind into his palm.

“Been imaginin’ you like this for years, baby girl. Those moans are so much prettier in reality.”

“Same,” you coo with a smile, running the tip of your nose along his jaw. You feel his entire body shudder as you gently graze his earlobe with your teeth. You whisper seductively, “I want you to kiss all of me.”

Neither of you want to break apart. Neither of you want to stop this. But it can’t happen here, not on the tailgate of his truck in the parking lot of your work.

“Come over,” he practically begs before kissing you gently, just once. “I have to install this sand, I can be home in an hour. Meet me there.”

You fake another pout and grind into his hand again. “But I’m so wet for you right now,” you tease.

“I know, sweetheart. Can feel how you’ve soaked through these jeans that hug that perfect ass of yours. Come over, I wanna be able to strip you down slowly, giving every inch of your perfect skin the attention it deserves.”

You feel your orgasm building and you tip your head back to see the deep oranges and purples of the summer sunset forming in the sky.

Joel’s lips find your jaw, his palm pressing harder into your center. Between kisses he says, “Can you come like this?”

“Yes. I’m close,” you say, bringing your eyes to meet his. The deep sparkling chocolate brown of his irises send a flush of warmth through your entire body. You feel like you’re being slowly burned to death and you never want it to stop.

“Show me,” he encourages, then you watch as his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip. “Use my hand.”

It doesn’t take much longer for you to come apart. He holds you tightly to his body as your boneless form twitches and shakes.

“Fuck - Joel. Oh…oh my god.”

“That’s my girl. Just let it take you.” His eyes dance along your face.

“K-kiss me,” you ask with a shaky breath as the clenching of your pussy starts to slow.

His lips meet yours tenderly, so soft that you almost think you might be imagining it. If it wasn’t for his scent surrounding you, or his strong arm still wrapped around you, you’d be convinced this was a dream. Your hips slow, but he doesn’t pull away. He kisses you, keeping you pressed to him until you’re ready.

You pull back slightly and he follows your lead.

“Come over tonight,” he states again and tucks your outgrown bangs behind your ear. His cock strains even harder at how blissed out you look. “One hour. Let me taste you properly.”

You nod, a crooked smile lifting your lips as you look up at him. “One hour,” you repeat.

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. established relationship, sappy sappy. | wc: 2.2k, reading time: ~12 minutes

Another afternoon turns into evening while you sift through paperwork, shoving aside past due bills to make sense of the invoices for his last four missions. Did he even get paid for these? You’ll have to ask him when he gets back.

The relative quiet is interrupted by Nero, who tosses something far and hard enough across the room and onto the workbench that it echoes through the room.

“Everything okay back there?” You turn in the chair, gazing over the side of it at the scowling twenty something moving through the lobby of Devil May Cry like a tornado. “This is the tenth time you’ve slammed something in five minutes so I’m just making sure.”

Nero pauses and scrubs his hand over his face.

“Yeah but it pisses me off that Dante didn’t invite me to go with him today. He’s a cocky asshole and someday he’s going to get caught out by himself.”

The young man places down his tool with a frustrated grunt, exhaling sharply through his nose. He’s young and chomping at the bit to go. You get it yet sometimes the way he speaks about the man you love rubs you the wrong way.

You still can’t help but feel like it’s up to you to bridge the gap between the two men even if your eye has started to twitch.

You lean back in your chair, voice low but steady.

“You know, Nero, Dante’s not just the demon hunter or the reckless guy who likes to joke his way through chaos.”

Nero glances at you, eyes sharp and defensive.

“I know that.”

“No, I mean…listen to me.” You pause, gathering your words carefully. “He’s…complicated. Imperfect, like all of us but there’s something about him that most people don’t see and it’s that he’s just like his father.”

Nero’s eyes narrow as he listens.

“I mean, obviously I don’t know Sparda or anything like that, just what’s in books I've read or the little tiny bit Dante has told me about him yet I can never shake this feeling that they’re so similar.”

Leaning over the desk and propping your head up with your palm, you try to make sense of the way you’ve felt for a long time. It’s harder than you thought.

“He’s one of the kindest, most fiercely protective men I’ve ever known. Especially when it comes to women.”

You see his brow lift slightly.

“It has never been about just being strong or tough to him. He treats the women in his life with a respect that you don’t find often. Eva, even after all these years, she’s the heart of who he is. Lady and Trish? They’re more than friends or partners, they’re family. And Patty… even when he was in his darkest place, he was her protector.”

Nero’s expression softens a bit. The weight of what you’re saying starts to settle in.

“And me. He’s done more for me than I can even begin to tell you. He’s not perfect.” You laugh, shaking your head. “In fact, he’d laugh if you called him perfect. But he is a knight.. Not like the stories you hear — more real, more broken — but still a knight all the same.”

You meet Nero’s gaze, voice firmer now.

“I know you look up to him. And you should. He deserves that respect, more than most men I’ve met. Because he doesn’t just fight demons outside; he fights the ones inside himself, every day. And he does it while trying to make the world better for the people he loves.”

Nero nods slowly, swallowing something unspoken.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “I needed to hear that.”

“He’s lucky to have you, too.”

The two of you share a moment — a silent understanding.

The bell above the Devil May Cry door jingles as Dante pushes it open, a gust of street wind following him in like a stray dog. His boots hit the wooden floor with their usual swagger. Whistling, low and tuneless, he strolls in, spinning Rebellion in one hand like it’s a baton instead of a sword soaked in demon blood.

He glances your way. Then at Nero.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he mutters, voice too casual as he sets Ebony and Ivory down on the workbench, turning his back under the pretense of cleaning them.

You and Nero share a quick glance. The conversation had gotten... tender. Personal. You hadn’t realized just how personal until now.

“Everything go okay out there? Are you alright?”

Your voice is quiet as you cross the room, hand reaching for his gently, like if you press too hard, he might flinch.

Dante doesn’t flinch. But he does stop. Entirely. Still facing away, though his head dips just enough to suggest he heard every word you'd said to Nero. Every single one.

He looks down at your fingers wrapped around his hand, his calloused thumb brushing yours absentmindedly.

Then he lets out a breath. It’s long and slow, like he’d been holding it since the doorway.

“You really think I’m like my old man?”

His voice is so quiet it’s barely a scrape of sound. He finally turns to face you, and it’s not the usual cocky grin he wears like armor. It’s something rawer. Stripped down. Vulnerable in a way Dante almost never allows.

You nod.

“Yes, absolutely..”

Dante’s mouth twists. Not into a smirk, but into something between disbelief and awe. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to find the lie but can’t.

“You called me a knight.”

“You are one. I know you don’t see it, but—”

“No.” His hand squeezes yours. “It’s not that I don’t see it. It’s that... no one’s ever said anything like that about me before. Not like that. Not in a way that made me wanna believe it.”

You reach up, brushing a bit of grime off his cheek, and he closes his eyes for just a second, like your touch is the first warm thing he’s felt all day.

“Maybe it’s time you started listening.”

Behind you, Nero makes some loud, exaggerated noise with a screwdriver and a chunk of metal that definitely doesn’t need fixing.

“I’m still in the room, y’know.”

Dante opens one eye and grins faintly.

“Yeah, yeah, kid. We’re just havin’ a moment. You’ll get one someday.”

“God, I hope not,” Nero mutters.

Dante laughs, really laughs, but when his eyes finally meet yours, the mirth fades, replaced by the soft gravity that ceaselessly pulls you in every time.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “I don’t know what the hell I did to earn what you said about me… but I’ll try to live up to it. Even if I think you’re a little crazy.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his for just a moment.

“You don’t have to try. You already do.”

He closes his eyes again, lets that truth settle in his bones.

Outside, the sun is setting. Inside, something else is rising, slow and sure and good. Maybe, for once, Dante doesn’t feel like just a man trying to outrun his past.

He feels like someone worth coming home as.

———

It’s late.

The Devil May Cry office is quiet now. The neon signs outside casting pale light through the window blinds. Nero’s long gone. You and Dante are left in the comfortable kind of silence that only happens when you don’t need to fill it.

He’s on the couch, one arm slung across the back of it, boots kicked off, hair still damp from the quick shower he took after getting home. You’re sitting sideways, your knees curled beneath you, tracing lazy circles over the worn fabric of his shirt where it hugs his chest.

He hasn’t said much since dinner. Just little things. A grunt here, a soft chuckle when you teased him about tracking blood into the kitchen. But now he’s quiet. Too quiet.

You look up and find him already watching you. His gaze is softer than usual. Troubled, maybe but it seems more like he’s deep in thought.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, voice rough from disuse. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, shifting to face him fully.

“You said earlier that I’m a knight. Like my dad.”

He swallows. His throat moves, and he looks away like maybe he regrets bringing it up, as though even asking might break something sacred.

“Do you really think that? That I’m like him?”

There’s something raw in his voice. Not insecure, just wounded. Like he wants to believe it so badly but can’t quite bring himself to. Like repeating what you said aloud will make it evaporate.

You reach out, gently brushing your fingers along his jaw. He doesn’t pull away.

“I think you’re the best of him,” you say softly. “And everything he didn’t get the chance to be.”

He blinks. You see it hit him. the quiet force of your words, and you press on.

“Sparda gave up everything for love. For humanity. He protected people who would never know his name. But you? You stayed. You fight every day. You carry his legacy and your own. Not because it’s easy but because it’s right.”

You lean closer, your voice even gentler.

“You love like he did. Fiercely. Without hesitation. You protect people not just with your sword, but with your heart, even when it scares you. That’s what makes you like him. That’s what makes you better.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes, slow and heavy, like your words are air in lungs that have been empty for too long.

And then he speaks, barely above a whisper.

“He was a hero.”

“So are you.”

Dante closes his eyes, like he needs a second to believe it. To let himself believe it. When he opens them again, they’re shinier than before, not tearful, just full of a kind of emotion he’s never had space for.

“You know... if he were here, I think he’d like you. You’re a lot like…”

You smile, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. He doesn’t have to finish that sentence for you to know what he means.

His mother. Eva.

“Too bad for him I’m yours.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, leans in, presses his forehead to yours. You feel his hand rest at the small of your back — grounding, steady, grateful.

“Guess that makes me the lucky one.”

The moment lingers, your forehead against his, your breath warm between you. Dante’s hand rests on your back, the other curled loosely in your lap, fingers twitching like he’s turning something over in his mind.

You know that look. You don’t rush him.

He leans back just slightly, eyes distant now, like he’s watching something that happened a lifetime ago.

“You ever think about how few memories I have of him?”

You nod.

“Sometimes I think I’ve made most of them up,” he says with a small, humorless chuckle. “Bits and pieces… like trying to hold water in my hands.”

You wait. You know what’s coming is rare.

“But there’s one I’ve never told anyone.”

He shifts, runs a hand through his hair like the memory itself makes him restless.

“I was maybe four. Real young. I’d had a dream. One of those bad ones, y’know? Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. I ran down the hall looking for Mom, but she wasn’t home. I guess she was out shopping or something. And I remember just... freezing there in the dark. Couldn’t move. My legs felt like stone.”

You squeeze his hand gently. He doesn’t stop.

“Then I felt this warm hand on my shoulder. No words, no ‘it’s okay, kiddo’. Just that hand. Big. Calloused. Strong.”

He pauses, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

“He didn’t pick me up or carry me. He just sat down right there in the hallway. Crossed his legs. Patted the floor beside him.”

You smile too, already picturing it.

“I sat down next to him. And we just... stayed there. For a long time. Didn’t speak. He just let me sit next to him until I could breathe again.”

Dante’s voice is quieter now, far away.

“It wasn’t a grand lesson or some legendary quote. Just...presence. Safety. He didn’t try to fix it. He was the fix.”

You feel your throat tighten. He finally looks at you.

“That’s the man everyone talks about like a myth. But to me? He was just a guy who sat on the cold floor with his scared kid in the dark until the fear passed.”

Your voice catches when you finally answer.

“That’s beautiful, Dante.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But the way he presses your hand to his chest tells you it’s everything.

“I guess I never told anyone ‘cause I didn’t want to share it. Felt like the only real thing I had left of him.”

“And you’re giving it to me?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “You earned it.”

You reach up and kiss his temple ever so softly, slowly, reverently.

“You’re more like him than you think.”

He chuckles low.

“You mean stubborn and impossible to live with?”

“I mean the kind of man who sits with someone in the dark until they can breathe again.”

His smile is quiet. Grateful. You don’t speak after that, content that all that needs to be said has been. You just sit with him — the way Sparda once did — and for a while, that’s enough.

[luveline]

hii hope youre doing well! could i request coworker!james where r comes in to work sick and he gets worried?

fem!reader, 1.3k

It’s getting old, the whole charade. James didn’t like you and now he does. You used to piss him off, now you don’t. Somehow, someway, he’s seen parts of you he couldn’t help but love, in your voice, how you talk; in your hands, your touch; in your emails worst of all. Who ever thought that James could fall in love on Outlook? 

Dearest desk mate,

Where are you? It’s 9.45 and you aren’t here. You realise work starts at 8.30? Besides my worry, I need the invoice for Lang and Co. and Remus doesn’t have them either.

You’re my only hope, 

James

You email back a stringy fifteen minutes later. 

James, 

I’ll be there soon. I can’t attach the file from my phone but I will send it to you the second second I get there, I know you asked meyesterday. I’m sorry for holding you up .

James reads your email with a frown. Your typos are unlike you. He wonders if perhaps you’re texting and driving, which is abhorrent, but you walk into the office a minute later, so you must’ve been responding to him as you walked. 

You duck straight into the manager’s office. James can hear you say sorry before the door is fully closed, craning his neck for a good look at you. 

Remus laughs shamelessly. “Worried about her?” 

“About who?” he asks, even as his chair creaks and threatens to snap under his weight, leaning back to see you through the frosted glass. 

“She’s not going anywhere now she’s here, James. Nobody stops by for social visits.” 

James relents when he realises you may be in there for a little while. The rain today is aggressive against the window, condensation dripping down the windows to pool atop the radiators. You hate it; you love the radiators when they’re working in the winter, but sad summer days with rubbish weather bog you down. Either way, the condensation wets your elbows or gathers on your desk —it’s not nice. James grabs a wad of tissues from the box on his desk and begins his quick mission. 

“Oh, my god. Jamie, you can’t be serious.” 

“I'm avoiding electrocution.” 

“You’re cleaning up for her,” Remus says, putting his face in his hand to watch him with a softer smile, “it’s nice of you, really, but you can’t expect me to pretend I believe you when you say you don’t like her for much longer if you’re going to do stuff like this.” 

“Now say that five times fast.” 

His heart drops when you clear your throat, caught, sodden tissue in hand. You don’t eyeball him, there’s no scorn, you clear your throat again and all but collapse into your seat. 

“Hey,” James says. 

You tip your head back. “Hi, James.” Your eyes are bloodshot, and, to James’ surprise, you aren’t wearing a lick of makeup. You look very pretty but very tired, too. 

“You okay?” 

Remus bends around the desktop. “Yeah, are you okay? 

“I’m fine,” you drop your head back with some vertigo, and press your hands to your eyes. “I’m not very well, is all.” 

“What’s wrong?” Remus asks. 

“Just poorly. Um, I have a bad headache, and my ears are ringing, but it’s not unmanageable. I’m full of sudafed.” 

“Can’t you go home? We can manage without you until you’re better,” Remus says.

“I had all that time off a few weeks ago,” you say. You’d been ill not so long ago. 

“You can have some of my sick days,” James says immediately. 

You rub your eyes hard enough to make James’ ache in sympathy. “Doesn’t work like that.” 

“You really shouldn’t be here if you’re sick,” James says. 

“I won’t get you sick, I promise. I brought hand sanitizer, I’m not sneezing or coughing, I’m just aching.” Your movements are lethargic as you lean back in your chair, the slow roll of your shoulders and the limp cross of your arms over your stomach hard to ignore. 

James rounds the desk to chuck his tissues in the little bin beneath it. “I don’t think either of us are worried about you getting us sick, lovely.” 

Your face crumples quickly and neatens up again just as fast. “My head just hurts,” you say, rubbing your forehead. You manage to summon a wobbly smile despite your pinched brows. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” 

If it were Sirius, James would thrust a bottle of water and a pack of ibuprofen at him and tell him to chill out. It it were Remus, the expression would turn his heart, and he’d give his friend a good pat on the back. You aren’t Sirius nor Remus, you’re not so close to him that James knows what to do, but what use is he if he doesn’t try?

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” James asks. 

“That’s cruel,” Remus says, “your tea is like milky disappointment.” He stands with a smile James hates, some playful conniving mixture with good intentions deep, deep down. “I’ll make it. James, why don’t you turn the radiator?” 

“Is that okay?” James asks. 

“What?” 

“Do you think that’ll make you feel better, the radiator?” James asks. 

“I can do it.”

“No, it’s okay, it hurts your hand. I’ll turn it up.” He weaves back in between your chair and the radiator. Your desk is close enough to be faced with your thighs, but James doesn’t get half as distracted by them as he does your twitchy face. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. 

“You and Remus worry too much.” You give him the side eye. “Why do you care?” 

“I think we’re a little bit past pretending we don’t like each other, aren’t we?” 

He turns the radiator on with less struggle than he’s anticipating and holds his hand to the bottom until he feels the metal warming. “Tell me if that gets too hot for you,” he says, standing. 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem.” 

“No, really,” you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose, “thanks for worrying about me. I’ll feel better in an hour.” 

“Did you eat breakfast?” He brings his hand up to wipe a stray fibre from your cheek, “Why were you late?” 

“I…” Your eyes follow his hand as he lowers it. Emboldened, James raises it again, wiping at a phantom fibre. “What is it?” 

“Little hair on your cheek.” 

“I slept late, and I felt strange in the car so I parked for a bit, and… I don’t know. I should’ve stayed home, but you know what he’s like about sick days.” 

“You feel alright now, other than the headache?” 

“Just heavy.” 

James spots Remus coming back and steps away. “You’ll be alright, okay? Don’t worry too much. Do some of the top spreadsheets and we can manage the rest.” 

“You don’t have to do that for me.” 

James does, really. Remus gives you your mug of tea and one of the plastic wrapped muffins from the kitchen, both boys keeping watch over you like a vigil. If you were well enough to notice you’d complain, but you spend the next few hours sipping at your tea as it turns cold, and nibbling at little bits of muffin, clearly tired. 

You email James the Lang and Co. invoices four hours after he’s asked for them with a sorry and a frowny face emoticon. James wants to kiss you on the forehead, feels it so strongly it becomes a different kind of wanting, to look after you and for you to want him to do that. He’s in way too deep. There’s not much he can do. 

“You want some more tea?” he asks, leaning over to grab your discarded mug.

“Yeah, please, Jamie.” 

James’ fingers wobble around the mug. 

Remus glances up from his phone. 

“Of course,” James says, smiling, “coming right up.” 

Jamie, he thinks. Friends call him Jamie. He can be your friend, he’d love to be your friend, but Jamie. Even sick, you say it sweetly. He trips over himself trying to get what you asked. 

[kiwriteswords]

begs nicely for bombshell reader

In the Margin

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bombshell!Female Reader||Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: canon-typical themes, flirting, fluff, finance talk, banter, Hotch is a softie for Penelope.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s weekly budget meetings with you, the sharp-tongued BAU financial analyst, become an unexpected mix of humor, wit, and simmering tension as professional boundaries blur. Between team antics, Penelope’s creative expenses, and your playful challenges, Hotch finds himself navigating far more than just numbers.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t sure if he hated the newly implemented weekly budget meetings because they disrupted his already packed schedule or because of you, the BAU’s Operations Department Budget Analyst.

No--that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he hated you. It was that he hated how much he didn’t hate you. You were sharp-tongued, confident, and armed with a wit so quick it could cut him to ribbons before he even knew he was bleeding. It didn’t help that you looked like you belonged on a movie set rather than in a conference room dissecting every penny spent by his team.

He adjusted his tie as he entered the room. You were already seated at the head of the table, a tablet in front of you and a pen in hand, tapping it rhythmically against the desk as you scanned a detailed report. He knew that was meant for him. It was always meant for him.

“Good morning, Agent Hotchner,” you greeted without looking up. “Let’s talk about how your team managed to burn through three months of budget in--oh, a month and a half.” Your eyes finally met his, and the smile you gave him could only be described as predatory.

“Good morning, Miss. Y/L/N.” He placed his briefcase on the table and sat across from you. “I see we’re getting right into it today.”

“Well, Aaron”—and wasn’t that a bold move? Using his first name like that—“I’d love to make small talk, but someone”—you leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping as if this was the world’s biggest secret—“decided we needed to order customized iPad cases last month. For everyone. Including” You looked back down to the itemized invoice,"‘Penelope Garcia’s-second-backup-iPad.’”

Hotch rubbed a hand over his face. “That would be Garcia,” he said dryly.

You laughed, and the sound was like a reward he didn’t know he was aiming for. “Oh, Aaron. It’s always Penelope, isn’t it?”

The meetings became a staple of his week, though not by choice. What had started as a quarterly formality became a monthly necessity when you joined the department and discovered Penelope’s propensity for colorful, extravagant expenditures. But the kicker came two months ago, when Penelope had gone rogue with the budget to fund her “absolutely vital” initiative to replace paper case files with digital ones—complete with the max amount of storage, of course. You’d retaliated by instituting weekly budget reviews.

“She knows,” Hotch told Penelope one afternoon in her lair. “She knows it was you.”

Penelope gasped dramatically. “How does she know? Wait—does she have surveillance on me? Did she bug my office? Tell. Me. She didn’t bug my office.”

“She didn’t bug your office, Garcia,” Hotch said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She knows because you send her invoices.”

Penelope frowned. “But those were justified expenses!”

“She’s not convinced.” Hotch sighed. “Neither is the finance department.”

“Well, maybe if she’d loosen up a bit—”

“She’s very loose, Garcia,” Hotch muttered before realizing how that sounded. Penelope’s grin was instant, and Hotch scowled. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, “you’ve been spending a lot of time with Miss. Y/N Y/L/N. Maybe you like these meetings more than you’re letting on.”

He left her office before she could get another word in.

The meetings evolved into more than budget disputes. You had a way of challenging Hotch that nobody else did. You questioned his decisions—not about cases, but about expenses. You turned a dry meeting into something that felt like a battle of wits, and despite himself, Hotch found he didn’t mind the sparring.

“So, tell me,” you said during one particularly contentious meeting, “why does Penelope need a beanbag chair? Let me guess—‘it fosters creative thinking.’”

Hotch cleared his throat; his years of being quick on his feet as a lawyer somehow always did him good when it came to defending Penelope’s spending. “She has unique requirements for her workspace.”

“Unique, huh?” You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs, and Hotch caught himself looking before he forced his gaze back up. “And the collection of...neon gel pens? Also, a unique requirement?”

“She…has a system.”

You laughed again, and Hotch felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He’d smiled more in these meetings than in most social situations, not that he’d admit it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you said casually, pointing your pen at him, and Hotch stiffened. You were already standing, gathering your papers. “Meeting adjourned. See you next week, Aaron.”

It wasn’t until two months into weekly meetings that things finally shifted.

You caught him in the break room late one evening, well after everyone else had gone home. “Aaron,” you greeted, leaning against the counter with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Did you know your coffee expenses are also over budget?”

Hotch turned, mug in hand. “Should I expect an itemized report on my caffeine consumption?”

You smirked. “Already on your desk.”

The air between you crackled, and for the first time, Hotch saw something beyond the wit and the barbs. He set his mug down and stepped closer, his voice low. “You enjoy giving me a hard time.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “And you enjoy taking it.”

“Do I?” he challenged.

“Don’t you?” you shot back, and the look in your eyes was enough to make him question every professional boundary he’d ever adhered to.

He took another step closer, close enough that he could see the faint trace of amusement in your expression. “This feels like it’s about more than the budget.”

“It definitely is,” you said, your voice softer now. “Maybe I think you could use a little…loosening up.”

Hotch let himself smile just a little. “And you think you’re the person to help me with that?”

You grinned, pushing off the counter and brushing past him, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of your perfume. “I know I am.”

The budget meetings continued, but now, the tension between you and Hotch wasn’t just professional. It simmered, unspoken but palpable, until it was only a matter of time before one of you crossed the line.

And Hotch couldn’t wait to see who would make the first move.

Hotch had a long day ahead of him. Between case briefs, team check-ins, and the weekly budget meeting you’d so gleefully instituted, he felt like the universe was conspiring against him. It didn’t help that Penelope Garcia had texted him earlier with an ominous, “Sir! Big news! You’ll thank me later.”

When he stepped into the bullpen, the team was gathered around Penelope, who stood in the center like a magician about to unveil her latest trick.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, waving her hands dramatically, “I give you the latest and greatest tech upgrade to grace the halls of the BAU!”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as the team collectively oohed and aahed over the sleek new monitors now adorning every desk.

“Garcia,” he said, his tone low and measured, “please tell me this was approved through the appropriate channels.”

Penelope turned to him with a smile so wide it could only mean trouble. “Of course it was, sir!” Then, after a beat, she added, “I mean, I may have pulled a few strings. But can you really put a price on efficiency and team morale?”

Rossi, seated casually nearby, chimed in. “I’ll admit, it’s a nice touch. Maybe next month, you can swing for some leather chairs in the conference room. The kind that recline.”

Hotch shot him a withering look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Penelope pouted. “Come on, Hotch! You know these upgrades are totally needed. Plus, they match my aesthetic.” She gestured to her own office.

He sighed. “You know who’s going to have to explain this, don’t you?”

Her grin didn’t waver. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

Later, Hotch found himself standing outside your office, mentally preparing for the inevitable. When he knocked, you barely looked up from your screen. “Ah, Aaron,” you said, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What brings you to my humble lair? Let me guess—Penelope strikes again?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You heard?”

“I always hear.” You gestured to the chair across from your desk. “Sit, and tell me why I shouldn’t slash your team's budget to nothing.”

Hotch sat, rubbing his temples. “She upgraded the monitors.”

Your laughter filled the room, light and musical. “Monitors? Really? Did she bedazzle them too?”

“She might have,” he muttered. “Look, I know it’s excessive, but the team…they rely on her. She keeps things running smoothly.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Running smoothly or running through money?”

Hotch gave you a flat look, which only made you grin wider.

“Alright, Aaron,” you said, leaning forward. “Here’s the deal. We can refinance a few line items. Maybe cut back on travel expenses for conferences nobody attends. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” he asked warily.

You tapped your pen against your desk, pretending to consider. “How about you keep coming to these meetings on time? And,” you added with a smirk, “try not to look so grumpy when you do.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, threatening a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The next meeting was no less contentious, but there was a new edge to the banter.

“You really went to bat for Penelope this week,” you said, flipping through your notes. “Is she holding something over you? A dark secret, perhaps? Did she catch you sneaking an extra slice of cake at Rossi’s last party?”

Hotch gave you a pointed look. “She’s an integral part of the team.”

“And I’m sure the sparkly monitor really enhances her skillset,” you quipped. “What’s next? A gold-plated stapler?”

“Don’t give her ideas.”

You laughed, and he found himself staring at the way your eyes lit up when you did. It was distracting. You were distracting.

“So,” you continued, turning serious, “how do you propose we make this work? I’ve crunched the numbers, and unless you want to start holding bake sales, something’s gotta give.”

Hotch straightened in his chair. “Rossi suggested cutting back on the print subscriptions.”

“Oh, no,” you said, feigning horror. “What will he do without his monthly shipment of Fine Living Magazine?”

Hotch sighed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But only because you make it so easy.”

As the weeks went on, the tension between you and Hotch became undeniable. The banter turned sharper, the lingering glances longer, the air in those meetings thicker with something unspoken.

It all came to a head late one evening, long after everyone else had gone home. Hotch was leaving his office when he saw your light still on. Against his better judgment, he knocked and stepped inside.

“Still working?” he asked.

You glanced up, surprised. “Someone’s gotta keep the lights on.”

He closed the door behind him. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Is that an offer to help?” you asked, leaning back in your chair. “Because I could use a second set of eyes on these reports.”

Hotch stepped closer, the tension crackling between you like static electricity. "You’re good at what you do. The team is lucky to have you.”

For once, your usual smirk faltered. “Thanks, Aaron.”

The silence stretched, heavy with possibility. Then you smiled again, playful and challenging. “Careful, Hotchner. If you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He let out a rare laugh, low and genuine. “Maybe I do.”

Your eyes widened slightly before you recovered, your grin turning sly. “Well, that’s a start.”

The next budget meeting arrived with its usual dose of tension—and not just the financial kind. Hotch entered the conference room early, a strategic move to reclaim some semblance of control. You were already there, of course, seated at the head of the table, the tablet glowing in front of you.

“Early today,” you said, glancing at your watch with mock surprise. “Did someone finally read my strongly worded emails about punctuality?”

"I'm always on time, and I always read your emails,” he replied dryly, taking his usual seat across from you.

“Sure you do,” you said, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s why you never respond.”

“I’m busy running a team of federal agents.”

“And yet somehow Penelope has time to order monogrammed pen holders.”

Hotch sighed, his hand already moving to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”

“Not a chance, Aaron.”

The meeting was halfway through when Penelope barged in, her presence as colorful as ever.

“Sir!” she chirped, holding a bright pink folder that screamed unnecessary expense. “Quick update—I managed to upgrade the entire team’s software licenses. State of the art, cutting-edge, only the best for my BAU fam.”

Hotch stared at her, his mouth a thin line. “Garcia, we discussed this.”

“I know!” she said, beaming. “That’s why I made sure to get a bulk discount. I saved us 12%.”

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip to stifle a laugh. “Twelve percent? Wow, Aaron, she’s practically a financial wizard.”

Hotch glared at you. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, “with savings like that, we’ll be out of the red in no time. What’s next, Penelope? A popcorn machine for movie nights in the bullpen?”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, her eyes lighting up. “That’s genius. The camaraderie…I—”

“No,” Hotch said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Penelope pouted, but she left without further incident. As soon as the door closed, you turned to Hotch, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“She’s incredible,” you said, shaking your head. “Completely unhinged--but incredible.”

“She’s a lot of things,” Hotch muttered. “Mostly expensive.”

“And you,” you added, grinning, “are such a softie for her.”

Hotch scoffed, leaning back in his chair, but the slight upward twitch of his lips betrayed him. “Softie? I’m her supervisor, not her enabler.”

You laughed, a low, melodic sound that Hotch had come to recognize as the precursor to trouble. “Please. You bend over backward for her, and we both know it.”

“She’s part of my team,” he replied evenly. “It’s my job to advocate for them.”

“Advocating for a new monitor system with glitter decals?” you teased, leaning forward slightly, your grin widening. “Aaron, that’s not advocacy—that’s indulgence. She's like your team's equivalent to 'happy wife, happy life.'"

Hotch crossed his arms, his stoicism cracking just enough to let his dry humor slip through. “I’d call it picking my battles.”

“Oh, really?” you shot back. “And what battle are you avoiding by letting Penelope order custom beanbag chairs?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but you caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Do you know what happens if I say no to her?”

“I can only imagine,” you said, leaning your chin on your hand. “Please, enlighten me.”

“She gets creative,” Hotch said gravely. “Very creative. The last time I vetoed one of her purchases, she launched a campaign with color-coded charts and heartfelt video testimonials from the team about how much they needed a slushie machine in the bullpen.”

Your laughter filled the room again, and Hotch let the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. “A slushie machine? You’ve got to give her credit—that’s bold....and random.”

“She called it a ‘hydration initiative,’” he deadpanned.

You leaned back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You are such a softie.”

“I’m pragmatic,” he corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s easier to approve the monitors than to explain to Strauss why there’s a PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Ice-Cold Justice.’”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter, and Hotch found himself momentarily distracted by the way your eyes sparkled with amusement. It wasn’t often he let himself relax enough to notice those things, but with you, it was becoming harder to keep the line between professional and personal intact.

“And yet,” you finally said, regaining your composure, “you’re here, pleading her case to me instead of just putting your foot down.”

“She has her merits,” he admitted, his voice softening just enough to remind you why people followed him so loyally. “The work she does is critical. Even when it’s…excessive.”

“See? Softie,” you said triumphantly, pointing your pen at him. “You can’t fool me, Hotchner. You’re all gruff on the outside, but deep down, you’re just one big teddy bear.”

“I’m not sure that’s how the rest of the Bureau would describe me,” he replied dryly.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “the rest of the Bureau doesn’t get to see you begging for beanbags.”

He gave you a long, measured look, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. “I don’t beg.”

“No?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “What would you call this, then?”

“I’d call it negotiation,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “And if you’re not careful, I might actually win.”

Your grin widened. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Hotch allowed himself a small smirk, the kind that was so rare it felt like a reward in itself. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, Aaron,” you said, leaning back in your chair, your tone playful and just a little daring. “I live to tempt you.”

For a brief moment, the tension crackled, sharper than the wit you both wielded like weapons. Then you straightened, tapping your pen against the table as if to signal the end of the moment.

“Alright, Mr. Softie,” you said lightly, “I’ll see what I can do about those monitors. But don’t think this means you’re getting that cappuccino machine Rossi asked for.”

Hotch stood, smoothing his tie as if to regain his composure. “One victory at a time.”

As he turned to leave, you called after him, your voice laced with amusement. “Don’t forget to tell Penelope her beanbags are still on the chopping block.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you with a look that was almost fond. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

By the time Hotch left the meeting, he felt thoroughly defeated. You had grilled him on every expenditure, from coffee pods to the mysterious disappearance of two office chairs. You’d teased him mercilessly, of course, but you’d also offered solutions, which only made you more infuriatingly attractive.

Later that afternoon, Rossi cornered him in his office.

“Aaron,” Rossi began, settling into the chair across from his desk. “I have a proposition.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” Rossi said smoothly. “I’ve been re-thinking about how to improve morale around here. You know what we need? A cappuccino machine. The kind they have in those fancy Italian cafes.”

Hotch blinked. “A cappuccino machine. We talked about this. We have coffee in the break room.”

Rossi looked hurt by Hotch's definition of coffee. “That isn’t coffee. This is an investment in productivity. Caffeine keeps the team sharp.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Hotch exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You do realize I have to explain this to Y/L/N?”

Rossi grinned. “You’re good with words. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

That evening, Hotch found himself in your office again, this time with what he knew was a losing argument.

“A cappuccino machine?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Is that really where we’re at again?”

“Rossi insists it’s for team morale.”

You laughed, leaning forward on your desk. “Aaron, if I approve this, what’s next? A hot tub in the break room? A second private jet for local cases?”

He gave you a long-suffering look. “I wouldn’t put it past Rossi to suggest either of those.”

Your laughter bubbled out again, and a small smile that tugged at Hotch’s lips. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You mean brilliant,” you corrected, your tone playful. “Come on, admit it—you love these little matches.”

Hotch hesitated, just long enough for the moment to stretch between you. “I do.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Well, don’t get too comfortable, Hotchner. You might actually win one of these someday.”

“And if I do?”

Your grin turned sly again. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

The tension between you and Hotch simmered like an unsaid promise, lingering in the spaces between your words and the way your eyes lingered just a beat too long. It wasn’t until another late night when the office was quiet and the shadows stretched long, that Hotch found himself once again at your door.

“You know,” you said as he stepped inside, “if you keep showing up here after hours, people are going to start talking.”

“Let them,” he said, surprising himself with the bluntness of his response.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “That sounded suspiciously like flirting.”

“Did it?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “It did. And for the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

For once, Aaron Hotchner didn’t have a retort. Instead, he let the silence speak, the weight of it filled with possibilities he hadn’t dared entertain before.

And when you smiled at him again, he thought that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something worth breaking the rules for.

Hotch stood frozen in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, your words echoing in his mind. “For the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

He cleared his throat, stepping fully into your office and closing the door behind him. It wasn’t often that Aaron Hotchner found himself at a loss for words, but there was something about you—your sharp tongue, your disarming wit, the way you looked at him like you knew exactly what you were doing—that threw him off balance.

You leaned back in your chair, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What brings you here this time? More cappuccino machine negotiations? Or did Rossi decide the bullpen needs a wine fridge?”

“Neither,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “I wanted to talk.”

“Oh, talk,” you said, your lips curving into a playful smile. “That sounds serious.”

“It is,” he admitted, surprising himself again with his own candor.

You arched an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “Alright, Aaron. You’ve got my attention. What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he wasn’t sure how far he was willing to let this go. The boundary between professional and personal was already blurred; one more step and it might vanish entirely. And yet, as you sat there watching him with that sly, confident smile, he found he didn’t care as much as he should have.

“You,” he said finally, the single word weighted with more meaning than he intended.

Your smile faltered for just a second, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. Then it was back, brighter and sharper than ever. “Well, that’s unexpected. Flattered, of course, but unexpected.”

He allowed himself a small smile, stepping closer to your desk. “I doubt anything surprises you.”

“Not often,” you admitted, leaning forward slightly. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t peg you as the type to make the first move.”

“Who says this is a move?”

You laughed, the sound warm and low. “Oh, Aaron. If this isn’t a move, then I’m very curious to see what one looks like.”

He didn’t answer right away, letting the silence hang between you like a challenge. Finally, he leaned forward, placing his hands on your desk, and met your gaze head-on.

“What if I am making a move?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with something that made your breath catch.

For the first time since he’d met you, you seemed genuinely caught off guard. Your confident smirk wavered, replaced by a flicker of something more tentative. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and it struck him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Well,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter than before. “In that case, I’d say it’s about time.”

His heart thudded once, hard and unexpected, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot who he was. All he could think about was how close you were, how easy it would be to reach across the desk and close the distance.

But then you leaned back, your smile returning with a hint of mischief. “Of course, if this isn’t a move, I’d hate to embarrass myself.”

“Consider yourself safe,” he said, straightening but not stepping back. “For now.”

Your laughter filled the room again, light and teasing. “Careful, Aaron. I’m thinking you actually enjoy these little games.”

“I do,” he said, surprising himself once more with his honesty.

You tilted your head, studying him with a newfound intensity. “Well, in that case, I’ll make sure to keep things interesting.”

As he left your office that night, the air between you charged with unspoken tension, Aaron Hotchner realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider before: he wasn’t just drawn to you because of your sharp wit or your undeniable charm. He was drawn to you because you made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Alive.

The roundtable room was unusually quiet when Hotch gathered the team for an impromptu meeting. That should have been his first clue. They were always at their most dangerous when they were waiting for the hammer to drop.

“All right,” he began, standing at the head of the conference table. “We need to talk about the budget.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, a smirk already forming. “This is about the cappuccino machine, isn’t it?”

“It’s not about the cappuccino machine,” Hotch said firmly. “Though that’s still off the table.”

“Good thing I didn’t submit the requisition for the margarita blender,” Morgan muttered, earning a stifled laugh from JJ.

Hotch gave him a pointed look before continuing. “We’ve been asked to cut back on end-of-year expenses. That means scaling back on travel accommodations for the next few cases.”

“Scaling back how?” Prentiss asked, her tone cautious.

“Fewer hotels,” Hotch said. “We’ll have to bunk up where possible.”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“Bunk up?” Garcia appeared in the doorway, her dramatic gasp signaling she’d overheard. “Do you mean to tell me we, the esteemed agents of the BAU, are being reduced to sharing rooms? What is this, a slumber party?”

“Garcia, you rarely travel with us. Would it kill you to share a room with JJ or Emily for a few nights, if and when you do?” Hotch asked, his tone dry.

“It’s not about me, sir,” Garcia replied, clutching her chest like he’d wounded her. “It’s about the principle. We’re public servants, heroes even. Heroes deserve better than twin beds and bad room service.”

“Twin beds?” Reid asked, looking genuinely horrified.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Come on, Hotch. We all know you’ve got an in with Y/N in finance. Can’t she pull some strings before Garcia does?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Y/N is doing her job, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” Rossi said with a grin, earning a ripple of laughter from the team.

“Funny,” Hotch deadpanned. “But unless any of you have a better solution, this is how it’s going to be.”

“Sure, sure,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “But if anyone could sweet-talk Y/N, it’s you, Hotch. You’ve got that whole brooding, stoic charm thing going for you. She loves that.”

“I’m not sweet-talking anyone,” Hotch said, his tone clipped.

“Really?” Prentiss chimed in, raising an eyebrow. “Because rumor has it you’ve been spending a lot of time in her office lately.”

“That’s called managing the budget,” Hotch replied evenly, though his ears felt uncomfortably warm. “The budget we keep going over. Which is what I’m trying to do right now.”

“Right,” JJ said, her voice full of mock seriousness. “Managing the budget.”

The laughter around the table grew louder, and even Garcia joined in with an exaggerated wink.

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This conversation is over.”

“But the bunking isn’t,” Rossi said, still grinning. “Good to know.”

Later, Hotch sat across from you, his tie slightly loosened after the long day. The hum of your sarcasm was already in the air, a comfort he’d never admit aloud.

“Back so soon?” you asked, glancing up from your tablet. “What’s the crisis this time? Let me guess—the team didn’t take kindly to the budgeting suggestion?”

“They had…questions,” Hotch replied, his tone dry. “And commentary.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you said, smirking as you leaned back in your chair. “Let me guess: Rossi wants to requisition a wine fridge instead of a cappuccino machine? Garcia--who if I remember correctly doesn’t even travel with the team--staged a protest? Or did Morgan suggest you charm me into pulling some strings?”

Hotch blinked, caught momentarily off guard. “Actually, yes. That’s almost word for word what he said.”

You laughed, the sound warm and far too satisfying. “I knew it. The whole team thinks I’m your budgetary fairy godmother, don’t they?”

“They’re not subtle about it,” he admitted, leaning forward slightly. “And if I’m honest, they’re starting to have…suspicions.”

Your eyebrows lifted, your smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “Oh, suspicions, huh? About what exactly?”

“That I might have an ‘in’ with you,” he said, his tone measured but carrying a hint of something wry. “And that I use it to get my way.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand. “Well, you do have an in with me, Aaron.”

“I do?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Mm-hmm,” you said, your grin widening. “You come in here all brooding and stoic, with that deep voice and those puppy-dog eyes, and I’m supposed to say no to you? Please.”

He let out a rare chuckle, low and brief. “So you’re saying you find me…persuasive?”

“I’m saying I find you irritating,” you replied, though the teasing lilt in your voice betrayed you. “But occasionally charming.”

“Occasionally?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

“Don��t push your luck,” you said, though your smile hadn’t wavered. “Now, what exactly are you hoping I’ll do?”

Hotch straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “The travel budget is tight. We need to cut back on some of the accommodations for the next few cases. If there’s any room to reallocate funds or find efficiencies, I’d like your input.”

You studied him for a moment, your pen tapping against the desk. “You know,” you said finally, “you could’ve just sent an email. But you didn’t, which means you wanted to have this conversation in person.”

“Maybe I thought it would be more effective,” he said, his voice steady.

“And maybe,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “you just like spending time with me.”

Hotch’s gaze held yours, the tension between you thick enough to cut. “Maybe the team isn’t wrong to have their suspicions.”

That caught you off guard, and for the briefest moment, your confident grin faltered. Then you recovered, your smile turning soft around the edges. “Well, if you’re going to keep coming to me, Aaron, I guess I’ll have to live up to their expectations.”

“So you’ll help?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

You rolled your eyes, though your grin didn’t fade. “Of course, I’ll help. But only because I’d hate for Garcia to have to share a room on the rare chance she joined you on a trip. Can you imagine the drama?”

Hotch stood, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said, your tone playful. “I might make you owe me one.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you. “I think I already do.”

Your laughter followed him out, and Hotch didn’t mind giving up a little control.

The next few weeks blurred into a whirlwind of cases, budget meetings, and what Hotch could only describe as a game of mutual teasing with you that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to win. The team’s jabs about his “in” with you only got more relentless, but the truth was, they weren’t wrong. He found himself seeking out your company more often than he’d care to admit, and not just because of budgetary crises.

One evening, well after most of the team had gone home, Hotch walked into your office to find you perched on the edge of your desk, heels kicked off, and a pen tucked behind your ear as you typed furiously on your tablet.

“You work too much,” he said by way of greeting, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You glanced up, smirking. “Says the man who just came from his own office. What brings you here, Aaron? More budget drama? Or are you just here for the company?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Would it be so bad if it were both?”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, but the smile that followed was slow and dangerous. “Well, well. Are you finally admitting that you like me?”

He hesitated for half a second before replying, his voice low but steady. “I think you already know I do.”

That made you pause. Your usual sharp wit seemed momentarily replaced by something softer, something vulnerable, before you quickly masked it with your trademark confidence. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flirt before, Hotchner. You’re better at it than I expected.”

“I don’t flirt,” he said, stepping closer. “At least, not intentionally.”

“Oh,” you said, your voice dropping slightly. “So this is just you being your naturally charming self?”

“Something like that,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk.

You laughed, shaking your head as you set your tablet aside. “You know, if you keep talking like that, I might start to think you’re actually serious.”

“What if I am?” he asked, taking another step closer.

Your grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “Aaron…”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough that he could see the faintest flush on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said quietly. “But I don’t regret it.”

You tilted your head, studying him as if trying to determine whether he was being sincere. Then, slowly, your lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile that he hadn’t seen before. “Well, that’s good,” you said, your voice lighter now. “Because I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time trying to get under your skin.”

“You’ve been very effective,” he admitted, his voice laced with dry humor.

You laughed again, the tension between you easing slightly. “Good to know.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, the air between you charged with possibilities. Then you leaned forward just enough that your shoulder brushed his, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “So what now, Aaron? You going to keep playing it safe, or are you finally going to make a move and follow through?”

Hotch held your gaze, his pulse quickening in a way that was entirely unfamiliar and yet oddly welcome. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you replied, your grin returning.

Before he could overthink it, he leaned down, his hand resting lightly on the edge of your desk as his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was brief but electric, leaving both of you slightly breathless when he pulled back.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your voice a little unsteady but filled with warmth. “That’s one way to balance the budget.”

Hotch chuckled softly, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I hope that’s not the only thing you take away from this.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, your grin turning wicked again. “I’ll send you the itemized breakdown tomorrow.”

He laughed, a rare, genuine sound, and as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your office, Hotch couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what he’d been missing.

The next morning, Hotch walked into the bullpen, his usual stoic demeanor firmly in place—at least on the outside. Inside, he felt lighter than he had in years. But any illusion of subtlety was shattered the moment he saw Morgan smirking at him from across the room.

“Morning, Hotch,” Morgan said, his tone far too casual. “You look…different today. Get a good night’s sleep?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, choosing not to dignify the comment with a response. He made his way toward his office, but before he could escape, Garcia intercepted him, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Oh, boss man, you’ve got that look,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows. “The look of a man who’s either won the lottery or—” Her eyes widened in dramatic realization. “—had a life-altering, swoon-worthy moment with a certain someone in finance.”

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Garcia—”

“Don’t deny it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I have sources.”

Before he could reply, the elevator dinged, and you stepped out, striding confidently into the bullpen with your signature blend of poise and sass. You caught Hotch’s eye and shot him a subtle, knowing smile that sent a ripple of warmth through him.

Garcia caught the exchange and gasped audibly. “Oh my God! It’s true!”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I knew it. Didn’t I say he had an in with her?”

“You said it,” Prentiss confirmed, her tone amused. “Repeatedly. But he's really getting it in with her.”

JJ just shook her head, smiling. “Well, at least we know why the budget meetings keep getting longer.”

Hotch leveled a calm, measured glare at his team. “I don’t recall calling a team meeting on my personal life.”

“Ah, but your personal life is so much more interesting than budget cuts,” Rossi said with a wink. “You should let us enjoy it.”

“I’m glad you’re all entertained,” Hotch said dryly, turning toward his office. But as he walked away, he caught your voice behind him.

“Don’t be too hard on them, Aaron,” you called amusement lacing your tone.

The laughter that followed was warm and genuine, and for once, Hotch didn’t mind being the subject of it. As he stepped into his office and closed the door, he glanced back at you through the glass, catching your playful smile once more.

Yes, this was definitely worth breaking the rules for.

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