#is something that is like... not tone-breaking

[jupiterpilgrim]

New Skin

Irene Bae x male reader

word count: 15K

commissioned fic

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

Unofficially? You just want to talk to her.

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

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

She speaks to you. Not much, never initiating, but she responds. There's a politeness there, a guarded stillness that never tips into outright rudeness, which is more than some of the other office drones manage. Maybe it’s because you’re her supervisor, a rung or two up the ladder. Maybe it’s because you’ve made a point of being… well, not a dick. Friendly, even. You try to be, anyway. God knows this place needs a bit less soul-crushing bureaucracy and a bit more basic human decency.

You weave through the maze of cubicles, a landscape of grey fabric and flickering screens. The usual suspects are in their pens: Wendy from accounts scrolling through what definitely isn’t work-related, Seulgi from marketing on yet another clearly personal call, her explanations pitched low and urgent. You offer a vague nod if anyone catches your eye, but your trajectory is set. Irene’s little nook is at the far end, slightly more isolated than the others, a small mercy in this open-plan purgatory.

As you round the last partition, you see her. And fuck, she looks… good. Really good. It’s nothing outrageous, nothing that would breach the unwritten dress code. She’s wearing a simple black top, some kind of soft, clinging material, with three-quarter sleeves. It’s understated, like everything about her, but it hugs the lean lines of her petite frame in a way that makes you notice the toned strength beneath. Her black hair, usually just neatly tied back or falling straight, has a slight wave today, like she maybe didn’t have time to fully straighten it, and it catches the shitty office light, making it gleam. Her head is bent, focused on her screen, one slender hand guiding a mouse, the other resting near the keyboard. Even the line of her neck, exposed where her hair parts, seems delicate, smooth.

You pause for a beat, a couple of feet from her desk, just taking her in. It’s not a leering thing, not really. More like… appreciation. Like noticing a rare, quiet bird in a flock of pigeons. There's a subtle tension around her, even in repose, like a coiled spring. You’ve always sensed it.

You clear your throat, just a little, not wanting to startle her. "Hey, Irene."

She looks up, and for a split second, before the usual mask of polite reserve slides perfectly into place, you see something else. A flicker of… surprise? No, not quite. Vulnerability, maybe? It’s gone before you can properly catalog it. Her dark eyes meet yours, large and surprisingly intense in her small face. No smile, not usually, but the tightening around her eyes isn't hostile.

"Oh. Hi," she replies. Her speaking manner is soft, not quite a whisper, but definitely low, like she’s conserving energy, or maybe just doesn’t want her syllables to travel too far.

"Just doing the rounds," you say, leaning a casual shoulder against the fabric wall of her cubicle. Trying for breezy. "Making sure everyone’s still alive after that marathon budget meeting this morning." You didn’t actually ask her to be in that meeting; her role doesn't require it. Just making conversation.

A tiny, almost imperceptible dip of her chin. "It sounded… long."

"You have no idea. I think a part of my soul shriveled up and died in there." You give a mock shudder. "Anyway, I was wondering how you were getting on with those quarterly figures. The ones for the Anderson account?"

She swivels slightly in her chair, her movements economical and precise. Her gaze drops to her monitor, then back to you. "I finished them about an hour ago. They should be in the shared drive, under 'Q3 Projections - Final'."

Of course, she did. Meticulous. You knew she would be. "Ah, brilliant. Knew I could count on you." You make a mental note to actually check them later, just for form's sake. "No problems with the source data? Sometimes marketing sends it through looking like a dog’s breakfast."

"There were a few inconsistencies in the initial dataset from last Tuesday, but I cross-referenced them with the updated figures from yesterday morning. It should be accurate now."

See? Smart. Doesn’t just blindly input. She actually thinks. Most of the temps just plough through, garbage in, garbage out. You find yourself smiling, a genuine one. "That’s great, Irene. Seriously. Saves me a headache later."

Her eyes flick down, then back up. Is that a hint of… satisfaction? Hard to tell with her. She’s a masterclass in neutral. "I just try to make sure it’s done correctly."

"And you do," you affirm, pushing off the wall slightly, taking a half-step closer, more into her personal space than you usually would, but keeping it open. "So, uh, besides saving the company from numerical chaos, what else is on the agenda for you today? Any exciting plans for… data collation?"

She considers the question, or at least appears to. Her fingers tap once, very lightly, on her desk. The nails are bare, neatly trimmed. No polish. "I have the backlog from the Henderson merger to sort through. It’s… substantial."

"Sounds thrilling," you say, and this time, you think you see the corner of her mouth twitch. A ghost of a smile. Progress. "Well, don't let it swallow you whole. If you hit any major roadblocks, or if the sheer tedium becomes a threat to your sanity, you know where I am."

"Thank you," she says, and her gaze lingers on yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual. There’s an odd sort of directness in her eyes when she properly meets your look, like she’s assessing something deep inside you. It’s unnerving and intriguing as hell. "I appreciate that."

"No worries." You linger for another moment, searching for something else to say, some way to keep this fragile thread of interaction going. You notice a small, potted succulent on the corner of her otherwise bare desk. It’s a tiny, unassuming thing, but it’s green and alive. "New plant?"

She glances at it. "Oh. Um. Yes. My… neighbor was moving and couldn’t take it."

"It’s… resilient looking," you offer, which is a stupid thing to say about a plant, but it’s out there now.

A tiny, almost inaudible huff of air escapes her. It might have been a laugh. It really might have been. "It’s supposed to be hard to kill. That’s what she said."

"Always a good quality in an office plant," you agree. "Or an office worker, for that matter. Well, I’ll let you get back to the thrilling Henderson merger files. Thanks again."

"You’re welcome," she says, her attention already starting to drift back towards her screen, the brief opening in her defenses slowly closing up. But it was there. A little crack.

You find yourself reluctant to leave, to let the usual office drone silence settle back over her. The way that black top clings just so to the curve of her back as she turns slightly, the faint, clean scent that you can only catch when you’re this close (something like fresh laundry and maybe a hint of a very subtle, floral soap). It’s doing things to your concentration that have absolutely nothing to do with quarterly projections. You know you should probably just go, get back to your own mountain of work, but there's a pull, a quiet magnetism she exudes that makes you want to just… stay. See if another tiny piece of the real Irene Bae might surface if you wait long enough, patiently enough.

That faint, almost-laugh, the tiny, fleeting opening… it’s enough. It’s more than enough. Now or never, idiot. Before the professional shell hardens completely again, before she retreats back into that fortress of polite distance.

"So," you begin, trying to make it sound like the most casual afterthought in the world, even as a different, less casual thought hammers in your head, don't fuck this up. "Seeing as it's Monday, and Mondays officially suck by universal decree… I was thinking of grabbing a drink after work. You know, just to sort of… defiantly kickstart the week. Would you, uh, be interested in joining? In case you don't have any other more interesting plan. No big deal if you have, totally get it."

There, it’s out. You hold your breath without meaning to.

Irene’s gaze, which had started to drift back to her monitor, snaps back to you. For a moment, her face is perfectly, utterly blank. Not surprised, not annoyed, just… still. Like a photograph. Then, a slow blink. She looks down at her neatly folded hands in her lap, then back up at you.

"That’s… very kind of you," she says. "But I think I’ll have to pass. I have a few things I need to finish up here."

A polite decline. Of course. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, managing a smile that you hope looks understanding and not like you just got gently punched in the gut. "Hey, no problem at all. Totally understand. Rain check for another lifetime, maybe?" you add, trying to keep it light, to show her it’s genuinely okay.

A tiny, almost imperceptible softening around her eyes. "Maybe." She offers that. "I’ll send through that Henderson merger summary report by end of day."

"Sounds good," you nod, already backing away, giving her space. "Don’t let it bury you alive. And, uh, thanks again for the Anderson stuff."

"You’re welcome."

And just like that, she turns back to her screen, the brief window of interaction decisively closed. You walk away, a familiar mix of mild disappointment and a strange sort of respect for her unbreachable composure settling in. Well, you tried. Can’t say you didn’t try.

The rest of the afternoon crawls by. You actually do your work, or at least a passable imitation of it. Around five-thirty, an email pings into your inbox. Subject: Henderson Merger Summary - Irene Bae. You click it open. The report is attached, and even a cursory glance tells you it’s immaculate. Clear, concise, all the key data points highlighted, potential issues flagged with brief, intelligent notes. Fucking hell, she’s good. Way too good for a casual data entry gig. You fire off a quick reply: "This is perfect, Irene. Seriously, amazing work. Thanks!"

No reply to that. You didn’t expect one.

By six, the office is starting to empty out. The symphony of keyboards has dwindled to a few sporadic taps. You grab your bag, sling your jacket over your shoulder, and head for the elevators. As one slides open with a soft hydraulic sigh, you step in, pressing the button for the ground floor. Just as the doors are about to close, a hand darts out, stopping them.

Irene.

She slips inside, her movements quick and economical as always. She’s got a small, plain handbag over her shoulder, and she looks… tired. There are faint shadows under her eyes that weren’t as noticeable in the brighter office lights. The doors close, encasing you both in the small, brushed-steel box. An awkward silence immediately descends. This is always the worst part of accidental shared elevator rides.

"Hey," you manage, because the silence is starting to feel like a physical weight. "That report you sent? Seriously, top-notch. You made my evening a lot easier."

She looks up at you, a brief flicker in her dark eyes. "I’m glad it was helpful."

Her reply is soft, barely disturbing the canned muzak seeping from a hidden speaker. The silence stretches again, punctuated only by the quiet hum of the elevator descending. One floor. Two. You can feel the seconds ticking by. You want to say something else, anything, but the words just don’t come. Don’t be that guy, you tell yourself. Don’t be the slightly-too-eager supervisor cornering the quiet girl in an elevator.

She probably just wants to get home. Respect that.

The doors slide open onto the ground floor lobby. Freedom.

"Well, have a good night, Irene," you say, stepping out, already turning towards the exit. "See you tomorrow."

You’re halfway to the main glass doors when you hear it.

"You asked… if I had plans."

Her words are so quiet you almost miss them, almost think you imagined them against the backdrop of distant traffic noise and the lobby’s echoing emptiness. You stop. Turn around slowly. Irene is standing just outside the elevator, her bag clutched in front of her, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher.

"Yeah," you say, walking back towards her. "I did."

"I don’t," she states. Just like that. No preamble, no explanation for the earlier refusal. Just: "I don’t have plans."

Holy shit. Your brain seems to short-circuit for a second. Okay. Okay, asshole, she just threw you a goddamn lifeline. Don't drown. You swallow, trying to regain some semblance of composure, to make your next words sound casual and not like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Oh. Well, in that case," you begin, a slow smile spreading across your face, "the offer for that drink still stands. To, you know, combat the general Monday-ness of things. I know this great little bar not too far from here, actually. Good music, not too loud, and they make a mean old-fashioned, if you’re into that sort of thing." You pause, holding her gaze. "What do you say?"

She looks at you, properly looks, for what feels like a full minute. Her dark eyes search yours, and for a terrifying second, you think she’s going to say no again. Then, the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. "Okay."

"Okay?" you echo, a grin breaking free. "Yeah, okay. Brilliant. My car’s just in the parkade across the street."

The walk to your car is filled with a slightly giddy, slightly surreal silence. You keep stealing glances at her. Irene Bae, willingly accompanying you somewhere. It feels… momentous. You unlock the car, a slightly battered but reliable sedan, and open the passenger door for her. She murmurs a "thank you" and slides in.

Once you’re both in and you’ve navigated out of the dimly lit parkade into the early evening traffic, the atmosphere in the car feels charged, but not uncomfortably so. It’s the buzz of something new, unexpected.

"So," she says, breaking the silence first, her gaze on the passing cityscape, a blur of office lights and neon signs. "This job. Is it… what you always wanted to do?"

You laugh, a short, surprised sound. "Managing quarterly reports and navigating inter-departmental squabbles? Not exactly the dream I had when I was, like, ten." You glance at her. "It’s alright, though. Pays the bills. I’ve kind of gotten used to it, you know? Found a rhythm. Got a decent team, for the most part. People I actually don’t mind seeing every day. That’s something, right?"

"It is," she agrees, turning her head slightly to look at you. "You’re good at it."

That surprises you. "You think so?"

"Yes," she says, with a quiet certainty that makes you sit up a little straighter. "You don’t… take advantage. Of your position." Her eyes flick to the road, then back to you. "You treat everyone like they matter. Even the casuals." There's a faint emphasis on the last word, a shadow in her tone that makes you wonder.

"Well, that’s just… basic decency, isn’t it?" you say, a little embarrassed by the praise. "Nothing to write home about. Everyone’s just trying to get through their day."

"Not everyone sees it that way," Irene counters, her words flat, devoid of inflection, but carrying a weight nonetheless. "I’ve worked in places… with terrible superiors."

"Ah, the petty tyrants of middle management," you sigh, shaking your head. "People with miserable, unhappy lives who get a tiny sliver of power and suddenly think they’re Genghis Khan in a polyester suit. They try to feel better by making everyone else feel smaller. It’s pitiful, really. Because at the end of the day, they’re still just employees. Same as anyone else. One major screw-up, one too many complaints, and they’re out on their ass just like the next person." You glance at her. "Hope you didn’t have to deal with too many of those."

She doesn’t answer directly, just looks out her window again. "It happens."

A beat of silence. You change the subject, not wanting to dwell on whatever bad experiences she’s clearly had. "So, do you live around here? Or am I kidnapping you to the other side of the city for this drink?"

"No, I live pretty close by, actually. Just a few blocks from the office."

"Oh, good," you say. "Well, after we’ve thoroughly deflated Monday’s ego with a beverage or two, I can drop you off, if you like. Save you the walk."

She turns to you again, and this time, the smile is a little more definite, reaching her eyes. "Thank you. I’d like that."

The bar is that classic thing: dimly lit, exposed brick, a long mahogany counter gleaming under strategically placed spotlights and indie rock plays at a conversational level. It’s busy enough to have a buzz, but not so packed you can’t find a quiet corner. You spot a small, empty table tucked away near a bookshelf filled with mismatched paperbacks. Perfect.

You lead her over, pulling out one of the sturdy wooden chairs for her. "Best seat in the house," you announce with a mock flourish.

She slides into the chair, her handbag placed neatly on her lap. "It’s nice," she says, looking around, taking it all in. "I like it."

"Glad it meets with your approval," you grin. "Now, the crucial question: what are you drinking?"

Her eyes scan the chalkboards behind the bar listing craft beers and cocktails. "Um. Maybe a… gin and tonic? If they have a good gin."

"Consider it done." You head to the counter, weaving through a few small groups. You order her G&T, specifying a decent small-batch gin you know they carry, and an old-fashioned for yourself. Waiting for the bartender to work his magic, you glance back at Irene. She’s watching the other patrons, her expression unreadable but not, you think, uncomfortable. She looks small and almost delicate in the low light, yet there’s that core of resilience you always sense in her.

Drinks secured, you carry them carefully back to the table. You set her tall, clinking glass in front of her and place your own squat tumbler down. Sliding into the chair opposite, you make sure you’re facing her directly. This feels good. Really good.

You pick up your glass. "Well," you say, raising it slightly.

Irene mirrors your action, her dark eyes questioning yours over the rim of her glass. "What are we toasting to?" she asks

A grin spreads across your face. "To new beginnings," you start, then amend it. "No, scratch that. To Monday nights that don’t suck. And, more importantly," you meet her gaze directly, "to the best goddamn casual worker this company has ever had the dumb luck to hire."

A beat of silence. Then, something remarkable happens. Irene laughs. It’s not a loud laugh, not a boisterous one. It’s a soft, breathy sound, genuine and utterly unexpected, crinkling the corners of her eyes and making her whole face light up for a precious, unguarded moment. "Oh my god," she says, still chuckling, shaking her head slightly. "Thank you." She clinks her glass against yours. "I’ll drink to that.”

That shared laugh, her unexpected, genuine amusement: it’s like a key turning in a rusty lock. The air between you shifts, losing some of its earlier, fragile tension, replaced by something warmer, more… possible. You take a slow sip of your old-fashioned, the sharp bite of whiskey and bitters a pleasant counterpoint to the sweetness of the moment. Her gin and tonic is already a little lower in its tall glass, the ice clinking softly as she sets it down.

"So," you begin, leaning back a fraction, trying to project casual interest rather than the full-blown interrogation your curiosity is screaming for. "Aside from being a spreadsheet wizard and a savior of Monday nights, what else does Irene Bae get up to?”

"Nothing too extraordinary. I like to read. And I walk a lot. Explore the city."

"Reading, huh? Anything good lately?" You try to keep your follow-up equally light. You’re intensely aware that every question is a potential landmine. Too personal, too probing, and she might just vanish back into that shell.

"I just finished a collection of short stories," she offers, her words measured. "Modern gothic. Quite dark."

"Sounds… cheerful," you remark, raising an eyebrow. "Matches the general Monday vibe, I guess." Your internal monologue is whirring: Modern gothic. Dark. Okay, that’s… interesting. Not exactly chick-lit. Adds another layer to the enigma.

She gives a tiny shrug, a graceful, minimal movement. "I find it interesting." She takes a delicate sip of her drink, her eyes watching you over the rim. Then, before you can formulate another carefully casual question, she flips it. "What about you? When you’re not cracking the whip at the office or rescuing Mondays, what’s your grand passion?"

The question, coming from her, feels like a small gift. You lean forward, genuinely pleased to share, to keep the conversational ball rolling. "Ha, 'cracking the whip.' If only. Mostly I just try to keep the ship from hitting the nearest iceberg." You grin. "Passions? Let’s see. I’m a bit of a film nerd. Old movies, foreign films, anything that isn’t a superhero sequel, basically. And I attempt to play guitar – emphasis on 'attempt.' My neighbors probably hate me."

"A film nerd?" A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Any particular director or era you favor?"

"Oh, man, where to start?" You launch into a slightly-too-enthusiastic explanation of your love for classic film noir, the French New Wave, the oddball genius of Kurosawa. You talk about the satisfaction of finally tracking down a rare print, the joy of watching a masterpiece on a big screen, even if it’s just at the local art-house cinema. You’re aware you’re probably rambling a bit, but she’s listening. Or at least, she appears to be. She’s still, her gaze fixed on you, not interrupting, just… absorbing. It’s more attention than she’s ever given you in the office.

You eventually wind down, a little breathless, feeling slightly foolish for your impromptu lecture. "Sorry," you say, laughing a bit. "Probably more than you ever wanted to know about black and white cinematography."

"No, it’s… interesting," she says, and you think she actually means it. Or maybe she’s just incredibly polite. "You’re passionate about it. It’s clear."

"Yeah, I guess I am." You take another swallow of your drink. The warmth of the whiskey spreads through your chest, mingling with the unexpected warmth of this conversation. "So, you said you walk a lot. Any favorite spots in the city? Hidden gems I should know about?"

"I haven't found any particularly interesting places yet. But, uh, I went to a historic library this month and the place is really pretty. I think that's a start."

"Sounds interesting. The city’s definitely got a lot to offer if you just wander. I keep meaning to do more of that myself, but, you know, life. Work."

"It can be hard to find the time," she agrees, her gaze returning to yours. Her expression is neutral, but her eyes are observant, constantly gauging. You have the distinct feeling you’re being carefully evaluated. "Do you… enjoy living here? In this city?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," you reply honestly. "It’s not where I grew up, but I’ve been here long enough that it feels like home. There’s always something going on, good food, decent music scene. And it’s big enough that you can disappear if you want to, but small enough that you still run into people you know. What about you? Are you originally from here?"

Another brief hesitation. "No. Not originally." She offers no more than that. Another door, gently closed. You’re learning the rhythm of it: she’ll answer the direct question, but volunteer nothing extra about herself.

"Well, no need to thank me for revealing the best gin in the city," you joke, gesturing to her glass.

A tiny smile again. "This place is cool. And the gin is really good."

"Well, I know you are a reserved person, but I’m honored you made an exception for my 'kickstart the week' initiative."

"It was…" she pauses, as if searching for the right word, "...a good suggestion."

The conversation flows like that for a while longer, a gentle ebb and flow of questions and answers. You learn that she prefers tea to coffee, that she finds crowded places overwhelming, that she once had a cat but doesn’t currently. Each piece of information is tiny, almost inconsequential on its own, but you hoard them like precious gems. In return, you tell her about your disastrous attempts at cooking, a funny story about your college roommate that happened years ago, your undying loyalty to a consistently terrible local sports team. You’re careful to keep it light, to match her level of disclosure, but inside, you’re buzzing. You’re actually talking to Irene Bae, and she’s… talking back. It feels like a minor miracle.

Her drink is nearly empty, and yours isn't far behind. The initial energy of the bar has mellowed into a comfortable, late-evening hum. You catch the bartender’s eye, you lift two fingers, then tap your chest and mouth "non-alcoholic beer for me this time." He nods, already reaching for a specific bottle from the cooler. Driving Irene home safely is suddenly a very high priority.

When he brings the drinks, a fresh, fragrant G&T for her, and a dark, malty-looking non-alcoholic brew for you, Irene is watching you, that quiet, considering look in her eyes again.

"So, about the work,” you start, “are you actually, you know, enjoying your time at the company? Aside from my brilliant supervisory skills, of course."

"It’s… okay," she says, which from Irene is practically a glowing endorsement. "I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, since I’m usually… quiet."

"Hey, quiet is fine," you interject quickly. "You’re always polite, you do incredible work, and you haven’t tried to set fire to the servers yet. Honestly, that puts you in the top percentile of casuals we’ve had." You mean it. "Seriously though, as long as you’re not miserable, that’s what matters."

"I’m not miserable," she confirms. "It’s… structured. Predictable. I appreciate that."

"Good." You nod, relieved. "So, what’s the plan then? Your current contract is up in, what, another month or so? Any thoughts on what you’ll do next? Back to the exciting world of job hunting?" You try to keep it light, but there’s an underlying purpose to your question now.

She looks down into her drink, swirling the ice with a long, slender finger. The small gesture somehow seems incredibly thoughtful. "I haven’t really thought that far ahead," she admits. "Find another job, I suppose. That’s usually how it goes."

This is it. Your opening. Your heart gives a little thump. "Well," you begin, trying to sound casual, like this is just a random thought that popped into your head. "About that. There’s actually been some talk… about your role."

Her head comes up, eyes narrowed slightly in question.

"The thing is, Irene," you lean forward a fraction, "you’re kind of indispensable. And some of us, higher up the food chain, have noticed that." You take a breath. "So, I was wondering… how would you feel about making your position full-time? Permanent contract, benefits, the whole shebang."

She stares at you, her expression unreadable. Surprise, definitely. Maybe a hint of suspicion? "You… can do that?"

"Not me, personally," you clarify quickly. "This isn't me pulling strings as your dashingly handsome supervisor." You shoot her a quick grin, which she doesn’t return, her focus entirely on your words. "The decision actually came from the big boss, old Henderson himself, after seeing the quarterly summaries and the work you did on that merger data. He was… impressed. He asked me to sound you out, see if you’d be interested. I was planning on talking to you about it sometime this week, but, well, now seems as good a time as any, right?"

Irene is silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on some distant point over your shoulder. You can almost see the gears turning in her head. Finally, she looks back at you. "I… I’d have to think about it."

"Of course," you say immediately. "No pressure at all. Seriously. Take your time. But," you can't help adding, "it would be really great to have you on board properly. As a, you know, full-fledged contract worker."

She cocks her head, a tiny, bird-like movement. "Why?"

The question is so direct, so simple, it throws you for a second. "Why?" you echo. You hesitate, searching for the right words. The real reasons are a tangled mess of professional admiration and a rapidly growing personal affection that feels way too soon, too intense to articulate. "Well, because… because you’re an excellent professional, Irene," you land on, hoping it sounds convincing. "You’re efficient, you’re meticulous, your attention to detail is incredible. You make my job easier, and you make the whole team look good."

She shakes her head slowly, a faint frown touching her lips. "What I do… it’s no big deal. Data entry, report summaries. There are plenty of people out there who can do the same thing."

You lean forward, a mock-serious expression on your face. "Actually, Irene, I don't like you just doing your job," you say, letting the pause hang for a split second before a grin breaks through. "Because what you do isn't just 'your job.' It's exceptional. And no, not 'several out there' can do it like you." You soften your expression, meeting her gaze earnestly. "Besides, everyone at the company genuinely appreciates you, and your work."

A beat of silence. Then, Irene laughs again, that soft, breathy sound that does ridiculous things to your insides. Her eyes, though, are sparkling with a teasing light you’ve never seen before. "Oh really?" she says, a playful lilt in her quiet words. "Is it everyone? Or is it… just you?"

Heat floods your face. You can feel the blush creeping up your neck. You look away, flustered, trying to come up with a clever retort, but your brain has apparently short-circuited. Shit. You’re usually better at this.

Seeing your reaction, her expression softens. "Hey," she says, her words a soft balm. "I’m just joking." She reaches out, just for a second, and her cool fingertips brush the back of your hand where it rests on the table. "Don’t look so terrified."

You manage a shaky laugh, looking back at her. Her eyes are kind. More than kind.

"And for the record," she continues, her gaze holding yours. "I appreciate that you like my work. You're very kind.”

Irene’s gaze is steady on yours, a hint of that earlier blush still dusting her cheekbones, but her expression is open, almost serene. That tiny, brave nod she gives is more articulate than a thousand words.

"Alright," you manage, letting out a shaky laugh. "Okay. That’s… that’s really good to hear, Irene. So," you venture, your smile softening, "does this mean you’re going to accept my incredibly generous, Henderson-approved proposal to become a permanent fixture of corporate excellence?"

She chuckles. It’s amazing how quickly she seems to be shedding layers of that formidable reserve, at least with you, in this moment. "I said I’d think about it," she reminds you, a playful glint back in her eyes. "No need to rush such a life-altering decision, right?"

"Right, right, of course," you concede, still grinning like an idiot. "Strategic deliberation. I respect that."

And just like that, the initial fear peak passes, settling into a comfortable, warm plateau. You talk. For hours, it seems. The second round of drinks arrives, your non-alcoholic beer surprisingly satisfying, her gin and tonic still her companion. The conversation meanders easily now, a stark contrast to the careful, step-by-step navigation of your earlier interactions. You touch on office matters: the ridiculousness of certain company policies, the upcoming (and dreaded) office move to a new floor, the latest gossip about which department head is feuding with another (which Irene, surprisingly, seems to have a few wry, understated observations about).

Then you drift to side things. You talk more about films you both like, discovering a shared appreciation for a particular cult sci-fi series from the 90s that you’re both shocked the other has even heard of. She mentions, very briefly, a passion for minimalist photography, focusing on urban decay and overlooked details, and you make a mental note to ask her more about it another time, when it feels right. You tell her about your disastrous attempt to learn coding during lockdown, which ended with you accidentally wiping your own hard drive. She doesn’t laugh uproariously, but her shoulders shake a little, and her eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that makes you smile unconsciously.

Time seems to dissolve. The bar gradually empties. You’re both leaning in slightly over the small table, the rest of the world faded into a pleasant, out-of-focus backdrop. It’s only when you catch a glimpse of the clock behind the bar, nudging past midnight, that you realize how long you’ve been here.

"Whoa," you say, genuinely surprised. "Look at the time." You glance at Irene. She does look a little tired now, the earlier animation softened by a gentle weariness around her eyes, though her expression is still content. "I should probably get you home. You must be exhausted."

She stifles a small yawn, then nods. "Probably a good idea. Mondays, even good ones, take their toll."

When the bartender brings the bill, Irene immediately reaches for her handbag. "Let me get my share," she says, her tone matter-of-fact.

You wave your hand dismissively. "Nope. Not a chance. My treat. I did invite you to defiantly kickstart the week, remember?"

"But we had four or five rounds," she protests mildly. "And you offered me a job. The least I can do is pay for my own gin."

"Consider it a pre-emptive signing bonus discussion fee," you counter, already pulling out your card. "Seriously, Irene. It’s on me. Please."

She hesitates for a moment, then a small, appreciative smile touches her lips. "Okay. Thank you. That’s… very chivalrous."

"I have my moments," you say, winking, as you settle the bill.

In the car, the city lights painting fleeting stripes across the dashboard, Irene gives you her address; a street in a quiet, older residential area not far from the office, just as she’d said.

"So," you ask, as you navigate the familiar streets, "you live alone?" It’s a casual question, but your heart beats a little faster waiting for the answer.

"Yes," she replies, looking out at the passing buildings. "For a few years now." She turns her head. "You?"

"Same here," you say. "Just me and my old movie collection. The second part probably justifies the first."

She gives a soft chuckle at that.

You pull up outside a well-maintained older apartment building, with a small, neat garden out front. It looks… peaceful. Like her.

"Well, here we are," you say, putting the car in park.

Irene turns in her seat to face you more fully. "Thank you," she says, her gaze direct and sincere. "For the invitation, for the drinks. It was… a really nice chat. I enjoyed it."

"Me too, Irene," you reply, your own sincerity matching hers. "Thanks for your company. It was a lot of fun. Definitely the best Monday I’ve had in a long time."

"Good night, then," she says softly. Her hand hovers near the door handle. For a wild second, you wonder if you should lean in, if this is the moment for a goodbye kiss, but something in her stillness, a lingering hint of that old reserve, tells you not yet. Don’t push it. Not now.

"Good night, Irene," you echo. "Get some rest."

She nods, gives you one last small smile, and then she’s out of the car, a fleeting figure disappearing into the building’s warmly lit entryway. You wait until you see the lobby door close behind her before pulling away, a wide, goofy grin plastered on your face that doesn’t fade the entire drive home.

—

From that night on, something undeniably shifts. Your bond with Irene, forged in the dim light of that quiet bar, begins to progress in subtle but significant ways. In the office, she still maintains her discreet presence, never drawing undue attention to herself. But with you, things are different. She seeks out your gaze more often across the expanse of cubicles, a small, almost imperceptible smile usually accompanying it. When you approach her desk, she looks up immediately, the guardedness you were so used to now noticeably lessened, replaced by a welcoming warmth in her dark eyes.

She talks to you more, too. Not just about work, though she’s still impeccably professional. She’ll share a wry observation about a particularly mind-numbing office memo, or ask your opinion on a new software rollout. Sometimes, she even initiates the conversation, a quiet "Got a minute?" when she has a genuine query or, increasingly, just something she wants to share. And jokes (Irene actually makes jokes). They’re subtle, dry, delivered with that understated wit you’re quickly coming to adore, but they’re there, little sparks of humor that light up your interactions.

It makes you ridiculously happy, this gradual unfolding. Every shared glance, every quiet conversation, every fleeting smile feels like a victory, a testament to the connection you’re building. You find yourself looking forward to seeing her each day with an eagerness that’s entirely new. There’s no denying it, not anymore. You’re liking Irene Bae more and more, and the thought of where this all might be heading fills you with a buoyant, thrilling anticipation.

The week has been a blur of spreadsheets that all look the same and meetings that could have been emails. Standard. You do your usual wander through the office tundra, a flimsy excuse to stretch your legs and make sure the drones haven't revolted. You offer the requisite nods, the "how’s it goings," the feigned interest in weekend plans that involve either mind-numbing DIY or equally mind-numbing children's soccer games. But really, your internal compass is pointing one way: Irene’s desk.

She’s there, a small, still point in the surrounding office chaos. Head down, focused. God, she’s beautiful. It’s not even a conscious thought anymore, just an accepted fact, like gravity or the office coffee being terrible. Today she’s wearing a cream-colored sweater, soft and slightly oversized, that makes her look even more delicate. Her dark hair is clipped back loosely, a few stray strands feathering her cheek. As you approach, she senses you, looking up. And this time, there’s no hesitation, no fractional delay before her polite mask clicks into place. This time, a small, subtle smile touches her lips almost instantly. It’s a tiny thing, barely a curve, but on Irene, it’s like a goddamn sunrise. Your chest does that stupid warm lurch it’s been doing a lot lately.

"Morning, Irene," you say, leaning against the partition of her cubicle, trying to match her quiet energy. "Or, well, almost afternoon, I guess."

"Good morning," she replies, her words soft, but the smile lingers in her eyes. That’s new. And definitely not unwelcome.

"Just checking in. How’s that… uh… creative asset compilation for the new campaign coming along? The one I dumped on you yesterday with zero notice?" You’d asked her to pull together a bunch of visual elements and a draft for some new ad copy. A bit outside her usual data-entry scope, but you had a hunch she’d be good at it.

"Almost done," she confirms, gesturing vaguely at her screen. "Just finalizing the font choices for the header. It should be ready by three."

"No rush at all, you’re a miracle worker as it is." You glance at her screen, trying to seem interested in fonts, but your attention snags on the small, almost hidden detail on her desk – a tiny, exquisitely wrapped parcel, no bigger than a matchbox, tied with a simple silver ribbon. It wasn't there yesterday. "So," you continue, keeping your tone light, "anything exciting happen since I last graced your cubicle with my overwhelming presence?"

Her gaze flickers to the small parcel, then back to you, and the subtle smile widens just a fraction. "Actually," she says, her fingers brushing the ribbon lightly, "I received what you sent."

Ah. So she got it. This week was her birthday. You’d thought about organizing something, a small surprise with a few of the nicer people on the team. But then you’d pictured Irene, the center of attention, forced smiles, awkward small talk… and you’d nixed the idea. She wasn’t the surprise party type. So, you’d sent a small, carefully chosen gift to her apartment instead (you still had her address from that night at the bar). A collection of short stories by an author she mentioned being a fan of and, apparently, she didn't have this book yet, which is a new release.

"Oh yeah?" you ask, feigning mild surprise. "Well, I hope I didn't choose something boring. Choosing gifts isn't really something I'm very talented at."

A soft chuckle escapes her. "No, it was… lovely. Thank you. You really didn't need to bother, though."

"Hey, what are supervisors for if not to occasionally bother their best employees with unsolicited tokens of appreciation?" you say, grinning. "Glad you liked it." You pause, then decide to take the plunge. "So, listen. Friday today. End of a massively busy week. Any chance I could tempt you with another round of drinks? All on me, of course.”

She looks up, and for a moment, you see that familiar flicker of hesitation, the slight tensing around her eyes. She bites her lip, her gaze dropping to the desk. "I don't know…" she begins, her words very quiet. "Don't you think… people in the office might find it a bit strange? Just you and me, going out for drinks together again?"

Her concern is valid. You’re her supervisor. And while this office isn't exactly a hotbed of malicious gossip, people notice things. But the thought of not seeing her outside these four grey walls, especially after the progress you’ve made, feels… deflating.

You shrug. "Let them think whatever they want. Honestly, Irene, who cares? It's just a couple of colleagues grabbing a drink after a long week. Besides," you add, leaning in a fraction, lowering your tone slightly, "no one here is interesting enough to be a dedicated gossip columnist. They’re too busy worrying about their own TPS reports. You don't need to worry about it."

She looks at you for a long moment. You can see the internal debate warring in her eyes. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile. "Okay," she says. "Okay, I’d like that."

—

Lunchtime. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at a spreadsheet that’s threatening to induce a coma, when a small shadow falls over your keyboard. You look up, surprised.

It’s Irene. She’s holding a small, clear plastic container, tied with a simple piece of kitchen twine. Inside, you can see a neat stack of perfectly round, golden-brown cookies. Homemade. No doubt about it.

"Hi," she says, a little shyly, holding out the container. "I, uh… I made these last night. For you. As a thank you. For the… for the other day. And the gift."

You’re genuinely speechless for a second. Irene Bae baked you cookies. You take the container, your fingers brushing hers. "Irene, wow. You… you really didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to," she says, that faint blush back on her cheeks. "They’re just chocolate chip. Nothing fancy." She pauses, then adds, with a tiny, playful smirk, "Don’t get spoiled."

"Too late," you say, already prying the lid off. The smell of warm butter and melted chocolate hits you. "These look incredible. Seriously." You take one, biting into it. It’s perfect: soft and chewy in the middle, slightly crisp around the edges. "Holy shit, Irene, these are… you’re a wizard."

"They’re just cookies."

"No, these are not 'just cookies'," you insist, taking another enthusiastic bite. "These are edible drops of pure happiness. You’re wasted on data entry, you know that? You should open a bakery."

"One business is enough for now," she says, but she looks genuinely pleased by your reaction. She lingers by your desk for a moment, not quite meeting your eye, but not leaving either. "How’s… how’s your day going? You look a little tired."

It’s true. The past few days have been a relentless onslaught of urgent requests, looming deadlines, and a particularly tedious software integration project that’s been fighting you every step of the way. You probably look like you’ve been wrestling a badger.

"Yeah, it’s been a bit of a beast," you admit, rubbing your eyes. "Lots of fires to put out. Trying to get the specs finalized for the Q4 roll-out, plus Henderson is breathing down my neck about those new compliance protocols. Standard corporate fun and games." You try for a light tone. "But I’m fine. Just need about seventeen more cups of coffee."

Her expression softens with something that looks a lot like genuine concern. "Don’t try to do too much," she says. "You’ll burn yourself out."

"Words of wisdom from the cookie queen," you say, smiling at her. "I’ll try to take it easy. Especially since," you add, your grin widening, "I’m really looking forward to those drinks later."

You expect her to just nod, to give one of her polite, non-committal responses. But instead, her eyes meet yours, and there’s a surprising warmth, a definite spark in their depths. "Me too," she says, her words clear and, to your utter astonishment, tinged with what sounds like genuine anticipation.

—

The end-of-day exodus is in full swing, the usual shuffle of tired bodies and the clatter of keyboards being powered down. You catch Irene’s eye as she’s gathering her things, and that subtle smile, the one that’s becoming less of a rarity when you’re around, touches her lips. She does look tired, a faint weariness around her dark eyes, but it doesn’t diminish the quiet prettiness that always seems to cling to her. If anything, the slight vulnerability makes her even more striking.

You meet her by the elevators, a silent agreement passing between you. No need for forced office goodbyes today.

"Ready to officially declare war on the work week?" you ask as you both step out into the cool evening air. The city is already starting to glitter, streetlights blinking on against the fading daylight.

She glances up at you, noticing you're not heading towards the parkade. "No car today?"

"Nope," you say, hands in your pockets as you start walking. "Figured if we're going for drinks, actual drinks, then driving is counterproductive to the whole 'getting drunk and forgetting responsibilities' vibe. Thought we’d walk."

Irene falls into step beside you, her pace surprisingly brisk for someone who looked so weary moments ago. "Didn't you come to work by car today? But… I could have said no to the invitation. You would have walked for nothing."

You shoot her a sideways grin. "Nah. I had a pretty good feeling you’d say yes."

"Very presumptuous of you," she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it, only amusement.

The walk to the bar is easy, the conversation flowing more naturally than it ever has in the sterile confines of the office. You talk like coworkers, at first. The new coffee machine in the breakroom, which everyone agrees is a downgrade despite its fancy chrome exterior. The inexplicable disappearance of all the good pens from the supply closet.

"Seriously," you say, shaking your head as you navigate a cracked paving stone, "it’s like there’s a pen gremlin. I bought a pack of twelve on Monday. By Wednesday, they were all gone."

Irene actually chuckles at that. "It’s Henderson. I saw him pocket one of mine yesterday when he thought I wasn’t looking."

"No way!" you exclaim, genuinely shocked. "The CEO? Stealing pens? That’s… actually kind of hilarious."

"He has very specific preferences for blue ink," she says, her tone dry, and you both laugh.

It’s like this, small talk, office anecdotes. Nothing too deep, nothing too personal, but it’s comfortable. You notice the way she walks, with a quiet grace, her gaze often drifting to the small details of the cityscape around you; an interesting piece of graffiti, an old, weathered doorway, the way the light hits a particular window. She doesn’t say much about what she sees, but you get the feeling she’s absorbing it all.

The bar is the same familiar spot, a haven of dim lights and good music. You find your preferred corner table, and Irene slides into the chair you pull out for her with a small, appreciative nod.

"Same again?" you ask, already knowing her answer.

"Gin and tonic, please," she confirms.

You head to the bar, ordering her drink and another of those surprisingly decent dark ales for yourself.

When you return, she’s watching the crowd, a faint smile on her lips. You set the drinks down, the tall glass of her G&T clinking softly against your bottle. You slide into the chair opposite her, the small table creating a sense of comfortable intimacy.

"Alright," you say, picking up your bottle and raising it slightly. "First round."

She lifts her glass, her dark eyes meeting yours. "To what, exactly, are we dedicating this particular round of defiance against the universe?"

You grin. "To surviving another week of corporate warfare. To Fridays. And," you pause, your gaze softening, "to the fact that the mystery of the stolen pens was finally solved, thanks to your important intel."

"You’re welcome. Happy to assist in the fight against executive kleptomania." She clinks her glass against your bottle. "Cheers."

You both take a sip, a comfortable silence settling between you for a moment. The bar’s atmosphere wraps around you, the low murmur of other conversations, the distant clatter from the kitchen, the bluesy track oozing from the speakers. It feels… right.

"So," you begin, after a while, setting your bottle down. "That whole full-time contract thing. Still mulling it over?"

Irene takes a slow sip of her G&T, her eyes thoughtful. "I am," she admits. "It’s… a big decision. More responsibility. More… permanence."

"No pressure," you reiterate. "The offer stands. But Henderson was genuinely impressed. You’ve made a good mark."

"It’s just… data," she says, looking down into her glass. "It’s not like I’m revolutionizing the industry."

"Hey," you say, leaning forward slightly. "Don’t sell yourself short. You have a knack for seeing patterns, for making sense of chaos. That’s a rare skill. And honestly, the way you transformed that Henderson merger data from an absolute clusterfuck into something coherent? That was art, Irene. Pure, unadulterated, spreadsheet art."

She looks up, and there’s a faint blush on her cheeks, but also a flicker of something else (pride, maybe?) "You really think so?"

"I know so." You pause, then decide to just go for it. "Look, I’m not going to bullshit you. The main reason Henderson wants you on full-time is because you’re damn good at what you do. But for me?" You meet her gaze, holding it. "I just… I really like having you around the office, Irene. You make the place better."

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, her lips parting slightly. The blush deepens. She looks away, down at her glass, then back at you, a complex mix of emotions playing across her usually composed features. She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, takes another sip of her drink.

She finally sets her glass down with a soft click, her fingers tracing the condensation. "That’s… a really nice thing to say," she says.

Your smile widens at her quiet admission, the sincerity in her dark eyes hitting you with a pleasant warmth. "Well, 'nice' is a good start," you say, your own words softer now. "I was aiming for at least 'not actively terrible,' so I’m calling this a win."

She gives a small, almost shy laugh, her gaze dropping to the G&T she’s cradling. The ice cubes shift and clink as she swirls the glass. "You set a low bar for yourself."

"Hey, gotta manage expectations," you retort, grinning. "Especially on a Friday when the main goal is to de-stress, not to impress." You take another sip of your non-alcoholic beer. It’s not bad, actually. Almost makes you feel like a responsible adult.

The conversation flows easily after that, the topics meandering from the absurdities of office life to more general things. She listens with an unreadable but attentive expression as you recount a particularly disastrous client presentation you had to salvage earlier in the year, even managing a small, sympathetic grimace when you get to the part about the projector dying mid-PowerPoint. Hours seem to melt away, marked only by the gradual lowering of the liquid in your glasses and the comfortable rhythm of your shared talk.

It’s Irene who eventually steers the conversation into more personal territory, and it’s so unexpected it almost makes you choke on your beer. She’s been quieter for a few moments, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. Then, she looks up, her dark eyes meeting yours with a new sort of intensity.

"So," she begins, her words careful, measured, "you mentioned your friends at the office. The ones you started with."

"Yeah?" you prompt, curious where this is going.

"Is it… just friendships? Or is there anyone… more specific?" Her gaze is direct, unwavering, and you realize she’s not just making small talk. This is deliberate. She’s plucking up the courage, right here, right now.

You try to keep your expression neutral, but you can feel a faint heat rising in your own cheeks. "More specific how?"

"You know," she says, a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. "A girlfriend? Someone you’re seeing?" Then, her eyes flick to a point just past your shoulder, a subtle shift. "Like… Seulgi? You two seem… very close."

Ah. Seulgi. You should have seen that coming. Seulgi is vibrant, outgoing, and yes, you two are close. You share a lot of inside jokes, grab lunch together sometimes, and there’s an easy camaraderie between you that probably looks like more than it is to an outside observer. Especially an observant one like Irene.

You lean back in your chair, considering how to answer. Honesty seems like the best policy here, especially with the way Irene is watching you. "Seulgi and I…" you begin, then pause, choosing your words. "Yeah, we’re close. But it’s not… like that. Not anymore, anyway."

Irene’s eyebrows lift slightly. "Anymore?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. Might as well just lay it out. "Look, years ago, when we both first started at Henderson Corp, fresh out of uni, barely knew which way was up… yeah, Seulgi and I had a thing. An affair, I guess you’d call it. It was intense, for a while. But it was a long time ago. We were young, stupid, figuring things out." You meet her gaze. "It burned out pretty quick. Honestly, we realized we were much better as friends. And that’s what we are now. Good friends. Nothing more, I promise."

She absorbs this, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, "Aren’t… relationships between employees frowned upon? At the company?"

"Officially?" you shrug. "There’s no explicit rule against it, as long as it doesn't involve a direct reporting line, which ours didn’t, even back then. Henderson’s surprisingly old-school about some things, but pretty laissez-faire about others. Unofficially, the policy is basically: keep it professional at work, don’t let it affect your performance, and for God’s sake, no dramatic breakups in the middle of the quarterly budget cycle." You take a sip of your beer. "What you do on your own time, outside the office walls, is generally considered your own business. As long as you’re not an idiot about it and it doesn’t spill into work, they tend to look the other way."

Irene nods slowly, processing that. "So… it’s okay?"

"Yeah, mostly. Just gotta be smart, maintain professionalism when you're on the clock. Everything’s fine. Honestly, there are probably more office romances brewing in that place than anyone realizes." You grin. "Henderson Corp: Where Careers and Questionable Life Choices Collide."

She gives a small, hesitant smile at that. The conversation drifts a little after that, back to safer, more general topics. You order another round, she sticks to her G&T, you get another non-alcoholic ale. The bar is thinning out now, the Friday night energy mellowing into a late-evening calm. Irene seems more relaxed than you’ve ever seen her. She’s leaning back in her chair, one arm resting on the table, her earlier tension almost entirely gone. She even initiates a couple of topics, asking about a book you mentioned earlier, a small, thoughtful question about one of the characters.

It’s as you’re describing a particularly ridiculous plot twist that she starts to chuckle. Not a full laugh, but a series of soft, breathy huffs of amusement, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"What?" you ask, grinning. "Too unbelievable?"

"No, it’s not the book," she says, shaking her head, her smile widening. "It’s you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," she confirms, and there’s a definite warmth in her gaze now. "You’re… you’re actually quite funny." She pauses, as if surprised by her own admission. "It’s… rare. For me to find men funny."

You blink, then let out a surprised laugh yourself. "Is that a compliment, Bae Joohyun?" you tease, using her full name for the first time, enjoying the way a slight blush rises on her cheeks.

She rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. "Don’t let it go to your head."

"Too late," you say, your grin spreading wider. "I’m officially adding 'surprisingly humorous to discerning women' to my resume." You lean forward, your elbows on the table, the atmosphere between you feeling lighter, more charged than ever. The drinks, the late hour, her unexpected praise… it’s all coalescing into something…

promising.

"So, Irene Bae, now that we’ve established this mutual… "liking"," you drawl the word out, enjoying the faint blush that returns to her cheeks, "does this improve the odds of you accepting Henderson’s most gracious offer of permanent employment?"

She picks up her G&T, takes a thoughtful sip. "Still thinking," she says, her eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass. "Wouldn't want to seem too eager, would I?"

"Heaven forbid," you agree, playing along. "Strategic ambiguity. Very professional."

The conversation continues, hours evaporate. The bar staff are starting to wipe down distant tables, the music has shifted to something even more mellow, and the crowd has thinned to a few lingering couples and solitary drinkers. Irene glances at the small, elegant watch on her slender wrist.

"Wow, it’s… getting pretty late," she says, her words carrying a hint of surprise, as if she hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed.

You nod, a reluctant sigh escaping you. The beer has settled into a comfortable warmth in your system, your limbs loose, your head pleasantly fuzzy. "Yeah, you’re right." You pause, looking at her, at the soft way the low light catches her dark hair, the way her eyes seem even deeper, more expressive in the intimate gloom. "Damn shame. I wish this night wouldn't end."

She meets your gaze, her smile soft, questioning. "Oh yeah? Why’s that?"

The alcohol has definitely loosened your tongue, stripped away a few layers of your usual caution. "Because I like being around you, Irene," you confess, the words coming out easily, honestly. "Your presence… I don’t know. It’s kind of hypnotic." You give a small, self-deprecating laugh. "And now I’m going to go home and just… keep thinking about you."

"You… think about me?" she asks.

"Yeah," you admit, feeling your own cheeks warm a little. "A lot, actually."

She’s silent for a moment, then, very slowly, her hand reaches across the small table, her cool fingertips brushing against yours. It’s a feather-light touch, barely there, but it sends a jolt straight up your arm. "What… what do you think about?"

"Everything," you say, your gaze locked on hers, feeling a bit drunk on more than just the beer now. "The way you concentrate when you’re working. The way you have that tiny little frown when you’re figuring something out. The way your hair falls across your cheek when you’re not looking." You shake your head, a small, dazed smile on your face. "Lately, Irene, you’re pretty much the only thing on my mind."

Her fingers intertwine with yours, a soft, hesitant pressure. Her dark eyes are searching yours, and you can see a storm of emotions in their depths. "Lately," she confesses, "I’ve… I’ve been thinking about you too."

"Yeah? What do you think about me, Irene Bae?"

She takes a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to your joined hands, then lifting back to your eyes, bold and vulnerable all at once. "I think about… what it would be like… if you kissed me."

The world around you just… stops. Your brain stutters, reboots. You lose focus on the bar, the music, everything but her face, her eyes, the feel of her hand in yours. She thinks about you kissing her. That’s it. That’s all the fucking permission you need.

Before you can second-guess it, before the moment can break, you’re moving. You lean across the small table, your other hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb stroking her soft skin. And then you kiss her.

It’s insane, the moment your lips meet. Her lips are soft, yielding, tasting faintly of gin and lime. She gasps softly into your mouth, then kisses you back, her initial hesitation melting away into a surprising, eager passion. Her tongue, tentative at first, then bolder, meets yours. It’s not a polite, end-of-the-date kiss. It’s hungry, searching, like you’ve both been starving for this without even knowing it. Your fingers tighten in her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until you’re both breathless.

When you finally break apart, gasping for air, your foreheads are resting against each other. Her eyes are closed, her lips swollen and glistening.

"Don’t let the night end here, Irene," you whisper. "Please."

She opens her eyes, her gaze dark, hazy with desire. "Okay," she breathes. "My apartment."

You’re on your feet in a second, fumbling for your wallet, the earlier weariness completely gone, replaced by a thrumming, urgent energy. Irene is already sliding out of the booth, her movements a little unsteady but graceful nonetheless. You throw some cash on the table (way more than enough to cover the bill) and then you’re out, into the cool night air.

You’re definitely tipsy, the world having a pleasant, fuzzy edge. Irene stumbles slightly as you step onto the uneven sidewalk, and you instinctively reach out, your arm going around her shoulders, pulling her close. She leans into you, her body warm against yours, her head resting against your arm. She’s giggling, a light, infectious sound that makes you laugh too, a stupid, happy, drunken sound. You walk like that, a tangled, giggling mess, your steps uneven but your direction certain.

Her apartment.

—

The elevator ride up to her floor is a blur of stolen kisses and breathless laughter. You’re pressed against the cool metal wall, her hands in your hair, your mouths searching, hungry. Every time the elevator dings at a floor, you pull apart, slightly dazed, only to crash back together the moment the doors close.

She fumbles with her keys at her apartment door, still kissing you, her body pressed flush against yours in the narrow hallway. Finally, the lock clicks. She pushes the door open, stumbling inside, pulling you with her. Her bag hits the floor with a soft thud. And then, before you can even register your surroundings, she jumps, her legs wrapping around your waist, her mouth finding yours again in a bruising, desperate kiss. You catch her instinctively, your hands splaying across her ass, lifting her, holding her tight against you as you kick the door shut.

She pulls back for a moment, her chest heaving, and a wide, triumphant smile spreads across her face when she sees yours. "You’ve got my lipstick all over you," she says, her words a delighted slur, as she reaches up to smudge a pink streak on your cheek with her thumb.

You glance around then, taking in her apartment for the first time. It’s small, neat, surprisingly minimalist but with touches of warmth: a stack of books on a low shelf, a soft throw draped over a simple armchair, a couple of framed black and white photographs on the wall. "Nice place," you manage.

Her eyes sparkle. "Did you come here to look at my apartment, or do something else?" she teases, her hips giving a suggestive little squirm against yours.

"Definitely something else," you growl, taking your "revenge" by burying your face in her neck, your lips finding the soft skin just below her ear, nibbling gently.

She yelps, a surprised, delighted sound, then dissolves into giggles, her body squirming in your arms. "Hey! That tickles!"

"Bedroom," you murmur against her skin. "Show me the way."

She points vaguely down a short hallway, still giggling, and you carry her, your mouths finding each other again, kissing deeply as you navigate the unfamiliar space. You find the door, push it open, and then you’re gently depositing her onto the bed, following her down, never breaking the kiss.

The world narrows to the feel of her beneath you, the taste of her, the soft sounds she’s making. After a moment, you pull away, reluctantly. "Clothes," you manage, your breath ragged. "Need these off."

You roll off her and stand, your fingers already working at the buttons of your shirt. Irene watches you, her eyes dark and hungry, as she sits up and reaches for the hem of her own sweater. It comes off in one smooth motion, revealing the delicate black lace of her bra, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Her petite body is, as you’ve always known, perfectly toned, every line and curve an invitation. She doesn’t hesitate, her fingers going to the clasp of her bra next.

The cotton of your shirt feels like a restriction, a barrier. Your fingers, clumsy with a mixture of alcohol and adrenaline, work at the buttons, fumbling them free one by one. It hits the floor. Shoes next, kicked off with impatient shoves of your heels, then the belt buckle clinks as you undo it, the leather sliding free. Your pants join the shirt in a heap on the floorboards. You’re standing there in just your boxers, the air of her bedroom suddenly cooler on your skin, or maybe that’s just the fever pitch of your own blood.

Then it’s her turn. Her hands go to the delicate clasp of her black lace bra. It gives way easily, and she shrugs the straps down her pale arms, letting the flimsy garment fall. Her breasts are revealed, small, yes, but perfectly shaped, round and perky, with pale pink nipples already pebble-hard in the cool air, or perhaps from anticipation. They’re exquisite. You’ve imagined them, of course, in fleeting, guilty moments, but the reality is so much fucking better. Then, she reaches for her shoes. She kicks them off one by one, the soft thud against the wooden floor loud in the charged silence. Finally, her hands go to the waistband of her pants, a simple black one that clung to her hips. It slides down her legs with a soft rustle, pooling around her ankles, leaving her standing before you in nothing but a pair of sheer black panties. They’re scandalously tiny, doing very little to hide the curve of her ass.

You feel like you can’t breathe.

You’re on her in a second, moving without conscious thought, your body acting on pure, undeniable instinct. You climb onto the bed, settling over her, your weight pressing her into the soft mattress. Your mouth finds hers again, but this kiss is different from the one at the bar. It’s rougher, needier, your tongue plunging, seeking, demanding. She meets your intensity, her own hunger flaring.

Your kisses trail down her jaw, her neck, your lips and teeth mapping the sensitive skin there. She arches into you, a soft whimper escaping her. You reach her breasts, your mouth closing over one hard nipple. She moans instantly, her fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tight. You suck, hard, your tongue laving the peak, then flicking, teasing. Her whole body shudders.

"Fuck… yes…" she gasps, her hips starting to buck beneath you. "They’re… so sensitive…"

You grin against her skin, moving to the other breast, giving it the same relentless attention. You squeeze and suck, feeling the delicate flesh swell in your mouth, the nipple hard against your tongue. The skin around it is already turning a delicious shade of pink, flushed and slightly raw from your attention. Her moans are getting louder, less inhibited, open-mouthed gasps of pure pleasure.

Her hands, which were gripping your hair, slide down your back, then lower, her fingers finding the thick, insistent ridge of your cock straining against your underwear. She squeezes, a playful, testing pressure, and a low growl rumbles in your chest. She feels you, hard and ready, and a wicked little smile dances on her lips, visible even as she throws her head back, lost in the sensations you’re creating.

Then, just as you’re about to lose yourself completely in the taste and feel of her breasts, she moves. With surprising strength, her hands are on your shoulders, pushing, guiding.

"My turn," she breathes

She pulls you, making you lie back against the pillows. You watch, dazed, as she straddles your hips, her gaze fixed on your groin. Her movements are slow, deliberate, almost torturous. Her fingers hook into the waistband of your boxers.

"Been waiting for this," she murmurs.

She pulls your underwear down, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch, her knuckles brushing against your straining erection with every downward tug. The fabric slides past your hips, down your thighs, until your cock springs free, thick, veined, and brutally hard, slick with pre-cum.

She just stares at it for a long moment, her dark eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. A genuine, almost awestruck smile spreads across her face. It’s the smile of someone who has just been presented with their favorite fucking meal.

She reaches out, her small hand surprisingly confident as it wraps around your shaft. It’s a perfect fit, her fingers cool against your heated skin. "Jesus," she breathes, her thumb stroking the thick, prominent vein that runs along the length. "It really has been a while since I’ve had sex." Her gaze lifts to yours, burning with an intensity that steals your breath. "You have no idea," she says, "how much this cock, your cock, is everything I want right now."

Before you can even process the raw honesty of her words, she leans down. Her tongue, pink and wet, flicks out, lapping delicately at the bead of pre-cum glistening on the slit of your tip. Then, she takes a mouthful of her own saliva (you see her gather it) and lets it dribble slowly onto your shaft, her fingers working quickly to spread the slickness all the way down, coating you, preparing you.

And finally, her mouth descends.

The moment her lips close around the head of your cock, you fucking groan, your hips bucking involuntarily. Her mouth is hot, wet, impossibly soft. She starts working you immediately, no hesitation, no awkwardness. Her lips create a perfect seal, her tongue swirling, lapping, teasing, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks with a practiced, almost reverent skill. This isn't the tentative exploration of a novice. This is the confident, devastating expertise of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

Holy shit. Irene Bae is a fucking professional.

You can feel the muscles in her throat working, a gentle, rhythmic pulse that’s already threatening to undo you. And her eyes. Fuck, her eyes. They’re locked on yours, wide, dark, and glittering with a deadly combination of intense focus and raw, unadulterated lust. There’s a challenge in them, a silent dare. Think you can handle this? they seem to say. Think you can last?

"Fuck, Irene…" you groan, your hips giving an involuntary jerk. "That’s… holy shit…"

A low hum vibrates from her throat against your shaft, a sound of pure, animalistic satisfaction. She pulls back just enough for the head of your cock to pop free with a wet, obscene sound, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of your slickness.

"You like that, baby?" she murmurs. "Like the way my mouth feels wrapped around your big, thick dick?"

"Yes… God, yes…" you pant, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. "It’s… you’re amazing, Irene. Fuck, you’re so good at this."

Her smile is a predatory flash against your skin before she takes you in again, deeper this time. Her tongue is a relentless engine of pleasure, lapping, swirling, flicking against every sensitive nerve. She knows exactly where to press, where to tease, how to vary the pressure and speed to keep you right on that knife-edge of unbearable pleasure. It’s not just her mouth, either. Her hands are working you too, one wrapped firmly around the base of your shaft, pumping in rhythm with her sucking, the other gently cupping your balls, her fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles.

"Mmmm, you taste so fucking good," she says, her words slightly muffled but no less potent. She breaks suction for a moment, her hot breath ghosting over your hypersensitive skin. "I love the way you get so hard for me, the way your cock just throbs in my mouth." She punctuates the statement by taking just the swollen head between her lips and sucking, hard, focusing all her attention there, her tongue doing that insane swirling thing that makes your vision blur.

"Shit, Irene… don’t stop…" you gasp out, your voice rough, pleading. "Please, don’t stop…"

Her head bobs faster, a satisfied, almost guttural sound coming from her throat. "Oh, I’m not stopping, baby," she promises, her eyes blazing into yours. "I want to hear you moan for me. I want to hear you fucking beg." She sucks harder, her lips pulling, teasing. "Moan for me, supervisor. Let me hear how much you love your little casual worker sucking your dick."

The sheer audacity of her words, the way she so effortlessly flips the script, calling you out, it’s fucking electrifying. A raw, broken groan tears from your throat. "Fuck… yes… Irene… please… feels so good…"

"That’s it, baby," she purrs, her mouth still working you relentlessly. "Louder. I want to hear every filthy sound you make when I’m sucking you like this. I want to know I’m driving you absolutely fucking insane."

And you are. You’re losing it. Her mouth is a goddamn weapon, and she’s wielding it with devastating precision. She shifts her attention, her lips sliding down your shaft, her tongue laving a hot, wet path until she reaches your balls. You tense, anticipating, and then her mouth closes over one, warm and wet, and you fucking cry out.

"Oh my god… Irene… fuck…"

She sucks, gently at first, then with increasing hunger, her tongue rolling, massaging. Your balls are heavy, aching, and her mouth on them is an entirely new level of torture and bliss. She leaves them absolutely soaked, glistening with her spit when she finally moves back up your shaft.

"You like that, huh?" she breathes, her lips brushing against the underside of your cock, right where the skin is thinnest, most sensitive. "Your balls taste just as good as your cock. So salty… so fucking you."

Her tongue flicks out, targeting your frenulum with an accuracy that makes your entire body jolt. She plays with it, licking, teasing, nipping ever so gently with her teeth before sucking that sensitive ridge into her mouth. You’re bucking against her now, completely lost, your own moans a constant, ragged soundtrack to her ministrations.

"Fuck… Irene… please… I can’t… I’m so close…" you plead, your voice a shredded mess.

Her only answer is to work faster, harder. Her hand is a blur on your shaft, slick with spit and your own pre-cum, while her mouth continues its relentless assault. She takes you as deep as her little mouth can manage, her throat working, a series of soft, choked gagging sounds escaping her that are, perversely, driving you even wilder. She’s not just sucking your cock; she’s fucking devouring it, worshipping it.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" she asks, pulling back for a split second, her eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. Saliva strings from her lips to the head of your cock. "I want it. I want your hot load all over my tongue. I want to swallow every last drop. Please, baby, give it to me. Begging you."

That’s it. Her words, the sight of her, so beautiful, so depraved, kneeling before you, mouth open, waiting for your release…it shatters your last shred of control.

"Irene!" Your shout as your orgasm rips through you. Your hips slam upwards, your back arching off the bed. Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot from your cock, hitting the back of her throat. She doesn't flinch. She takes it all, her throat working, swallowing, her eyes locked on yours, a triumphant, ecstatic glint in their depths. You keep pumping, jet after jet, emptying yourself into her waiting mouth. The sensation is blinding, overwhelming. You’re vaguely aware of your eyes rolling back in your head, your body trembling uncontrollably. It feels like you’re cumming for an eternity, each pulse a fresh wave of unbearable pleasure.

When the last viscous glob finally spurts out, you collapse back against the pillows, panting, drenched in sweat, utterly fucking spent. You’re in heaven. Or hell. Or some glorious, filthy place in between.

Irene stays there for a moment, gently sucking the last drops from your now twitching, softened cock. Then, slowly, reverently, she pulls away, her lips making a wet sound. She licks her own lips, savoring the taste, a small, incredibly satisfied smile playing on her features.

"Holy… fucking… shit, Irene." You shake your head, still trying to process the sheer intensity of what just happened. "That was… That was, without a fucking doubt, the best blowjob of my entire life."

Her smile widens, a genuine, radiant thing that makes her eyes sparkle. The exhaustion is there, but beneath it, there's a deep, purring satisfaction. She leans forward, pressing a soft, sticky kiss to the now-sensitive head of your cock.

"Good," she murmurs. "That’s what I like to hear." Then she looks up at you. "I aim to please, supervisor. Especially when the benefits are… this rewarding.”

You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down at her. She’s still kneeling between your legs, that pleased, cat-who-got-the-cream smirk playing on her lips, now glistening with your cum.

"Irene," you rasp. "Where in the ever-loving fuck did you learn to do that?”

She lets out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in her chest. She reaches up, wiping a stray smudge of your load from the corner of her mouth with a delicate finger, then slowly, deliberately, licks it clean, her eyes never leaving yours. The gesture alone is enough to make your semi-flaccid cock give a hopeful twitch.

"Every woman has her secrets, supervisor," she purrs. "Maybe one day I'll tell you some of them." Then, before you can even process that delicious, infuriating coyness, she’s moving. climbing onto you with a fluid grace. Her petite, pale body straddles your chest, her knees bracketing your shoulders. She leans down, her dark hair curtaining your face. "Besides," she whispers, her lips brushing against yours, "who said anything about being done?"

Her mouth finds yours, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you, of her, of pure, unadulterated lust. While her lips work their magic, her body begins a slow, deliberate crawl down yours. Kisses are pressed against your jaw, your throat, lingering on the pulse point there until you can feel your heart hammering in response. She moves lower, her tongue flicking out to trace the line of your collarbone, then lower still, across your pecs.

When she reaches your right nipple, she pauses. Her gaze, hot and knowing, flicks up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before her mouth closes over it. Your breath hitches. You weren't expecting that. Her tongue swirls around the already sensitive peak, rough and wet, then she starts to suck, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, pulling the nub into her mouth, her teeth grazing it ever so lightly.

"Nghh… Irene…" A surprised, helpless moan escapes you. Fuck, that feels good. Way better than it has any right to.

"Sensitive here, are we?" she murmurs against your skin. "I thought so."

She continues her assault, licking, sucking, her lips working your nipple like it’s the head of another cock. And all the while, one of her small, deceptively strong hands snakes down your torso, past your navel, her fingers tracing teasing patterns on your lower abdomen. You feel the heat of her palm as it hovers, then finally settles, over the base of your now rapidly re-hardening cock.

"Oh, look at that," she says. "Not so spent after all, are you, big boy?"

Her hand closes around you. Even through the haze of pleasure radiating from your nipple, you can feel the change. Your cock, which had been softening, content in its post-orgasmic haze, now surges back to life, thickening, lengthening, pressing urgently against her grip. She starts to stroke you, slow, deliberate movements, her fingers slick with the remnants of your earlier release and her own gathering wetness.

"The night is far from over, supervisor," she whispers, her mouth leaving your nipple to trail a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses towards the other one. "I know you can give me more. Much more." She punctuates the last word by taking your other nipple into her mouth, sucking on it with a greedy, demanding pressure that mirrors the rhythmic pull of her hand on your shaft. "And you will give it to me."

And she’s right. Fuck, she’s absolutely, undeniably right. Your cock is already granite-hard again, throbbing in her skilled grip, every nerve ending in your body screaming for more of her, more of this. The lingering exhaustion is a distant memory, burned away by this fresh, potent wave of desire she’s so effortlessly conjured. The slight ache in your balls is back, but it’s a good ache now, a heavy, needy throb that promises another explosive release if she keeps this up.

Her hand on your reawakened cock is a brand, her touch electric. The soft, rhythmic stroking, combined with the devastating assault on your nipple, is a one-two punch of pure, unadulterated sensation. Your breath hitches, your hips giving a small, involuntary buck.

"That’s it, baby," Irene purrs against your chest, her lips still teasing your other nipple, her words a hot, damp caress. "Feel that? Already getting hard for me again. You just can’t get enough, can you?"

"Fuck… no…" you manage to groan out, your eyes fluttering. "Not… not when you do that…"

"Mmmm, I know," she hums, a smug, satisfied sound. "The night is far from over, supervisor.” Your cock is already iron-hard again, throbbing with a renewed, almost painful urgency against her skilled fingers.

With a lithe movement that takes your breath away, Irene shifts, disentangling herself from your chest and sliding down your body. She straddles your hips, her petite frame settling over you, and the sight of her poised above you: dark hair tousled, lips swollen from your kisses, her small, perky breasts bare and flushed, nipples still pebble-hard; is enough to make your vision swim. She reaches down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of her sheer black panties.

"You like these, baby?" she teases. "Thought you might."

She doesn't wait for an answer. With a slow, deliberate tug, she pulls them aside, hooking the flimsy fabric around one hip, exposing her pussy to you. It’s perfect. Pink, glistening, the inner lips slightly swollen and already dewy with her arousal. The dark thatch of hair above is neatly trimmed.

"Ready to feel me again?" she whispers, her gaze locked on yours.

Before you can form a coherent word, she’s lowering herself onto you.

The way she takes your cock is a revelation. There’s no hesitation, no tentative exploration. She knows her body, she knows yours, and she sinks down with a practiced, almost arrogant ease, her hips rolling, her inner muscles clenching around you, milking you from the first fucking inch. A guttural groan rips from your throat as she takes you deeper, her tight, wet heat a scalding brand.

"Fuck, Irene… so tight…"

"Mmmm, you love how tight my little pussy is, don't you?" she moans, her head falling back, her hands gripping your shoulders for balance as she starts to bounce. "Love the way it squeezes your big, thick cock?"

"Yes… God, yes…"

Her rhythm is insane. She starts riding you with a skill that leaves you breathless, her hips a blur of motion, bouncing, grinding, rotating in ways that hit every goddamn nerve. She’s not just fucking you; she’s performing, a symphony of sensual movement designed to drive you absolutely wild. Her small breasts jiggle with every thrust, the pink nipples bouncing hypnotically. You can see the way her pussy lips stretch, glistening, around the base of your shaft as she lifts herself up, only to slam back down, taking you to the hilt.

"Look at me, baby," she pants, her eyes finding yours again. "I want you to watch me ride your cock. I want you to see how much I fucking love it."

You can’t look away if you tried. The sight of her, so beautiful, so utterly consumed by pleasure, her body moving on yours with such raw, uninhibited abandon, is seared into your brain.

"You’re… incredible…" you gasp out.

"I know," she says, a smug, breathless laugh escaping her. Then her expression shifts, darkens. "But you’re getting distracted." Her free hand snakes out, unbelievably fast, her fingers wrapping around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand your absolute attention. "You close your eyes on me again, supervisor, and I’ll make you regret it. Got it?"

The sudden pressure, her fingers cool against your heated skin, the sheer dominance in her gaze... Your cock gives a hard, convulsive throb inside her. "Fuck… yes… Irene…"

"Good boy." Her grip loosens slightly, but her hand stays there, a possessive brand. "Now, look at me. I want to see that pretty face of yours when I make you feel good. I want to see every fucking expression." She punctuates the command by grinding down, hard, her hips rotating in a slow, torturous circle that makes you cry out.

You reach up, your hands finding her breasts, squeezing them, needing to touch her, to feel her. They’re soft, full in your palms, the nipples like hard little pebbles against your skin. "Fuck, your tits are perfect, Irene…"

She moans, leaning forward, pressing them against your chest as she kisses you, a deep, filthy, open-mouthed kiss, her tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, you like them, baby?" she whispers against your lips, her hips still moving, still squeezing. "You can play with them all you want… as long as you keep fucking me with that big, thick cock of yours—God, it’s so good—It fills me up so perfectly!”

You can see it then, when she leans back slightly, her stomach tight, the unmistakable bulge of your cock pressing against her lower abdomen, a clear testament to just how deeply you’re buried inside her, how perfectly her petite frame is taking every inch of you. It’s a brutally hot visual, a stark reminder of your size against her smallness, and the sight alone nearly pushes you over the edge.

"Jesus, Irene… I can see it… You’re so fucking tight…"

"I know," she pants. "Now make me cum, supervisor. Fuck me until I can’t see straight. I want your load. Give it to me."

This isn't the Irene from the office, the quiet, mysterious woman who barely met your eye. This is someone else entirely: a wild, insatiable creature of pure, unadulterated lust. And fuck, you love this Irene. You love every goddamn demanding, filthy, beautiful inch of her.

She rides you harder now, faster, her moans turning into raw, broken cries. Her body is slick with sweat, her muscles trembling with the effort, but she doesn’t slow down. She’s chasing it, that shattering release, and she’s dragging you right along with her. Her pussy pulses around your cock, squeezing, milking, each contraction an exquisite torture.

"I’m… I’m gonna cum…" she screams, her voice cracking, her back arching as her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave.

Her body seizes, her walls clenching around your shaft in a series of violent, unbearable spasms. She’s crying out your name, her head thrown back, her entire being consumed by the pleasure. It’s beautiful, watching her shatter like this, so completely undone, so utterly yours.

But she doesn’t stop. Even as the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her, her hips keep moving, a desperate, frantic grinding, her pussy still milking your aching cock.

"Fuck, Irene… I’m close…" you gasp out, your own release clawing at you. "I’m gonna cum…"

The moment the words leave your mouth, she’s moving. With a surprising agility, she pulls off your cock with a wet, sucking sound, her own body still trembling. Before you can even register what’s happening, she’s scrambling off the bed, dropping to her knees in front of you, her flushed face upturned, her dark eyes blazing with a renewed, almost manic hunger.

"Give it to me, baby," she pants. "I want it all over my face. Drench me. Make me your fucking whore."

Your brain short-circuits. Her words, the sight of her kneeling there, so eager, so fucking filthy, it’s too much. You get out of bed, standing in front of her. You grab your cock, your hand slick and shaking, and start stroking, hard and fast.

"Look at me, Irene," you growl. "Open that pretty little mouth for me."

She does, her tongue flicking out in anticipation. You stroke faster, your balls tight, your vision blurring. One more stroke… two…

"FUCK!"

With a guttural roar, you explode. Thick, heavy ropes of your cum shoot from your cock, spurt after spurt, splattering across her face. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn away. She takes it all, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the hot, sticky load coats her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. A thick glob lands on her lips, and her tongue darts out, instinctively licking it away, a soft, pleased moan escaping her. You keep cumming, more than you thought possible, drenching her, covering her, marking her as yours.

When the last pulse finally subsides, you’re left panting, your body trembling, your cock still twitching in your hand. Irene stays there, kneeling, your cum dripping from her face, her hair stuck to her slick skin. She looks utterly debauched. Utterly fucking beautiful.

She opens her eyes, her dark gaze meeting yours. There’s no shame there, no disgust. Only a wild, exhilarated pleasure. She slowly brings a hand up to her cheek, her fingers tracing through the thick, creamy mess, then brings them to her lips, sucking your cum from her skin with a delighted, almost reverent expression. Receiving your load like this, being painted with it, clearly turns her on as much as it does you. It feels fucking amazing, this raw, shared depravity.

You can't resist. You lean forward, your own body still thrumming with the aftershocks of release, and dip your thumb into the thickest patch of your load still clinging to her cheek. You bring your slick finger to her lips.

"Taste good, Irene?" you murmur.

Without a word, her eyes still locked on yours, she parts her lips and takes your thumb into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around it, hot and wet, sucking sensually, cleaning every last trace of you from your skin.

You let out a long, slow sigh, your whole body going lax. "That was… Jesus, Irene. That was fucking amazing."

She releases your thumb with a soft, wet sound, a tiny, almost smug smile playing on her lips. "It was, wasn't it?" she agrees, her usual quietness now laced with a husky, satisfied confidence. "Best Friday night I’ve had in… well, a very long time." She pushes herself up, her movements fluid and graceful despite the intensity of what just happened. "I should probably… shower now."

"Yeah," you manage, watching her. "Good idea."

She disappears into the en-suite, and you hear the distant hiss of the shower starting. You lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, your mind a blissful, empty buzz. Eventually, you push yourself up. You should probably leave, give her space. It’s the decent thing to do, right? Even if every fiber of your being wants to crawl back into that bed and wait for her.

By the time she pads back into the bedroom, you’re mostly dressed – pants on, shirt half-buttoned. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel that looks ridiculously large on her petite frame, her dark hair damp and clinging to her neck, her face scrubbed clean and glowing. She stops when she sees you, her brow furrowing slightly.

"You’re… leaving?" Her words are soft, a hint of something unreadable in them.

"Yeah," you say, trying for casual, even though your limbs feel heavy, your head still pleasantly swimming from the beer and everything else. "Figured I shouldn’t bother you. It’s late."

She walks closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the fresh, clean scent of soap and her skin. "You’re still a little drunk, aren’t you?" she observes, her gaze steady.

You shrug, a sheepish grin touching your lips. "Maybe a little. The beer was good. The company was… distracting."

"You can stay," she says. "It’s no problem. You shouldn't be walking around like that.”

You look at her, surprised. "You sure? I don’t want to impose."

"I’m sure," she replies. "The bed’s big enough."

And just like that, the decision is made. You reverse the process, now unbuttoning your shirt and taking off your pants. Irene takes off her towel, drys her hair, and puts on comfortable pajamas. You both slide into her bed, the sheets cool against your skin. She keeps a respectable distance at first, lying on her side facing away from you. You lie on your back, staring up into the darkness, your mind replaying the night’s events.

"That was…" you begin, "quite a night."

She shifts slightly, turning her head on the pillow to look towards you, though you can barely make out her features in the dark. "It was," she agrees, her reply just as soft. "It’s been a long time since I… since I had a night that good."

"Me too," you admit. The silence stretches for a moment, comfortable, intimate. "So, this whole 'not going out much' thing," you venture, remembering her earlier comment at the bar. "Are you, like, super strict with your routine? Or is it just a general aversion to humanity?"

"A bit of both, maybe." She pauses. "But it’s also… more than that." Her words are hesitant now. "I just… I ended up depriving myself of some things. For a long time. For my own good, I thought."

"Things like… fun? Or just human contact in general?" you ask gently, trying to understand.

"Things like… letting go," she says, her meaning still veiled. "Being… open."

You process that for a moment. "Well," you say, trying to inject some lightness, "I hope, as your newly appointed (and incredibly charming) supervisor, I can attempt to bring a little more… spice? Unpredictability? Into your carefully curated life. Supervisors can be cool too, you know. It’s not all spreadsheets and passive-aggressive emails."

She gives a weak, tired chuckle. "You’re cool," she concedes.

Silence again. This one’s heavier, but it’s not uncomfortable. It wraps around you both like the comforter you’re only half under. Her presence is warm and grounding, even with the distance she’s keeping between your bodies.

And just when your mind starts fuzzing at the edges, drifting toward sleep, you hear it.

“…hey.”

Your eyes flutter, but you don’t answer immediately.

She tries again. “Hey. You awake?”

You manage a half-conscious “Hmm?”

“I… I need to tell you something,” she says, her tone suddenly different. Strained. Fragile. “And I don’t think I’ll get another chance like this.”

You roll your head a little, but you’re already falling. You’re trying to stay up, your body fighting it, but there’s alcohol in your blood and pillows under your skull and her voice sounds like a lullaby even when it’s trembling.

“It’s kind of awful,” she says. “I mean: I think it is. Most people would think it is. I don’t even know why I’m bringing it up. I guess… it’s easier when I can’t see your face.” Her voice catches. She swallows. “And I’m drunk,” she adds bitterly. “That helps. Brave little idiot version of me that only comes out after gin and zero lighting.”

You want to say something, your brain claws for words, but you’re slipping. The room is tilting, your breath slowing, mouth too heavy to open.

“I don’t want this to blow up,” she goes on, like she’s already sure it will. “But you’re… nice. Too nice. And I think it’s going to matter eventually. So maybe it’s better you know now.”

She turns, the sheets rustling. Her breath’s close. She's watching you.

“I used to do porn,” she says into the dark. “I know it’s horrible. But, God, I liked it. Not just the attention, not just the money. I liked the sex. I was… addicted. Like, actually. Probably still am. I think I’m a… I don’t know. A nympho? That sounds dramatic. But it’s true. And I’m terrified you’re gonna look at me differently if you ever find out. Like it’ll be all you see. Like I’m… stained.”

A sharp breath.

“You probably will look at me differently. If not now, then later. And that’ll kill me. Because I think I actually like you. And you’re the first person in forever who makes me feel like I don’t have to hide.”

Her hand reaches out under the blankets, not to touch you, just to rest nearby.

“I’m still not sure if I’m ashamed because I regret it… or because I liked some of it too much. Isn’t that worse?” She exhales. “I tried to cut it all off. Cold turkey. Quit the industry. Quit everything. No sex. No relationships. No late nights. No bars. No letting anyone get close. I started hiding from everything I wanted. Because I had to. My last relationship was a disaster. Everything fell apart. I wanted to be invisible again. Safe. And I thought if I worked a boring job, wore boring clothes, kept my mouth shut, nobody would see me. Nobody would want me.” She pauses. The next words are like admitting a sin:

“And then you saw me.”

“You were kind to me. Just… kind. That’s all it took. And I started feeling again. I tried to fight it. I told myself you were just being nice. That it wasn’t anything. But every time you smiled, or made some dumb joke, or talked to me like I mattered… I couldn’t stop it.” She sounds exhausted. Hollow. “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to kiss in years. The first one I’ve wanted to touch. The first one I’ve let into my bed. And I hate that I like you. I hate that it scares me. Because I’m not… good.”

Her voice breaks, just a little.

“I’m not someone who deserves soft things. Or quiet moments. Or this stupid, beautiful night.” Another deep breath, followed by a silent bitter laugh. “And you’re asleep. Of course you’re asleep.”

She waits. Hopes, irrationally, for some murmur of understanding, some unconscious twitch of your hand to say you’re still with her. But there’s nothing. Nothing. Your chest rises, falls. Silent. Peaceful. Asleep.

Another rustle of sheets as she rolls back onto her side, facing away again.

“Maybe that’s better,” she whispers. “Maybe if you knew, you’d leave. Or worse… maybe you’d stay for the wrong reasons. I just wanted you to know. Even if you never hear it.”

She tugs the comforter up to her shoulders, folds in on herself, and presses her forehead to the pillow, eyes closed, breath warm against the sheet. And then she whispers one last thing. So quiet it almost doesn’t exist:

“Please... don’t hate me.”

—

The days that follow are not what you expected. Not at all. After that night, after the intensity, the confessions, the shared intimacy, you thought you’d climbed a new step with Irene, reached a new layer. You imagined easier smiles in the office, maybe even her initiating a coffee break, a casual lunchtime chat. You pictured the comfortable progression from Friday night drinks to something… more.

Instead, it’s like you’re back at square one. Worse, even.

Irene is a ghost again, but this time, her politeness is tinged with an almost painful discomfort. She still does her work, still impeccably, but she avoids your gaze. Your attempts at casual conversation are met with short, clipped answers. The easy banter, the shared laughter from that night at the bar; it’s all gone, replaced by a strained, awkward formality.

You try, of course you try. You invite her to your apartment to watch that terrible sci-fi series you’d bonded over. "Sorry, I have plans," she’d murmured, not looking at you. You suggest grabbing a quick drink after work, just like before. "I can’t, I’m busy." Even a casual, "Hey, fancy grabbing lunch in the park? Sun’s actually out for once," is met with a polite, "Thank you, but I brought my own."

Each refusal is a small, sharp sting. Always polite. Always with a hint of something that looks like regret, or discomfort, in her eyes. But always a refusal.

You know what this means, or at least, you think you do. She regretted that night. Of course she did. She was drunk. You were too. Maybe she was feeling lonely, vulnerable, and just got carried away by the alcohol and the moment. You probably came on too strong, misread the signals, pushed too hard, too fast. And now you’ve messed it up, scared her off, ruined whatever fragile connection you were starting to build. The thought settles in your gut like a cold, heavy stone. You fucking idiot.

Weeks bleed into each other. The distance between you and Irene solidifies, an invisible wall of her polite deflections and your own frustrated, confused silence. You stop trying so hard. What’s the point?

Then, the email from HR lands in your inbox. A reminder: Irene Bae’s casual contract is due to expire at the end of next week. Department heads need to submit any recommendations for extension or permanent placement by close of business Friday.

Your office feels colder than usual when you call her in. You keep your expression neutral, professional, as she walks in and sits in the chair opposite your desk. She doesn’t meet your eye, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your left shoulder.

"Irene," you begin, your own words sounding unduly formal. "Thanks for coming in. As you know, your current contract is… coming to an end." You pause, waiting for some reaction, any reaction. Nothing. She just sits there, perfectly still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "HR needs a final decision regarding the full-time offer we discussed. This is… well, this is pretty much your last chance to decide." You try to keep the disappointment, the faint, stupid hope, out of your delivery. "So, I need to ask. What conclusion have you reached?"

She takes a slow, deliberate breath. Her gaze is still averted, focused on the framed print of some abstract cityscape hanging on your wall. When she finally speaks, her reply is short and cold.

"I… I’m going to have to decline the offer.”

You look at her. She’s still not meeting your eye, her gaze resolutely fixed on that abstract cityscape print on your wall as if it holds the answers to the universe. Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles are white. You know. Of course, you fucking know. It’s not about the job, not really. It’s about that night. It’s about you.

"Irene," you begin, your carefully constructed professional composure starting to fray at the edges. You try to keep your delivery even, reasonable. "That… that doesn’t make a lot of sense, professionally speaking. This isn't just a casual offer. It’s a permanent position. Full benefits package, paid time off, a significant salary increase from your current rate. Henderson genuinely likes your work; he specifically mentioned your efficiency with the merger data. This office… it’s a good environment. People respect you here. There's clear potential for promotion down the line, further salary increases. Turning this down… frankly, it’s not a rational career move for someone with your skills."

You’re laying it on a bit thick, the corporate spiel, but you need her to see, to understand that you’re trying to offer her something good, something stable. Something she deserves.

Still, she doesn’t look at you. "I understand the terms, and I appreciate the opportunity." Her words are precise, almost robotic.

"Then what is it?" you press, a note of frustration creeping in despite your best efforts. "Because it sounds like you’re about to walk away from a genuinely great opportunity for no good reason." You lean forward, resting your elbows on your desk. "Irene… I know why you want to turn this down."

Her head snaps up at that, her dark eyes finally, belatedly, meeting yours. "No," she says, her reply sharper than usual, cutting through her quiet demeanor. "You don’t know."

"I think I do," you insist, your gaze holding hers. "It’s because of what happened between us, isn’t it? That night. After the bar."

Her expression shutters again, becoming unreadable, guarded.

"Look," you continue, softening your approach, trying to sound reassuring, "if that’s what this is about… if you’re sorry it happened, or if you felt pressured, or if you’re just uncomfortable now… it’s okay. I get it. I swear, I won’t pressure you, I won’t bother you at work. We can just… go back to how things were. Professional. I respect you, Irene. Your decision, whatever it is." You’re laying your cards on the table, trying to give her an out, trying to make this easier for her, even if it twists something in your own heart.

"It’s not because of you."

Not because of you? Then what the hell is it? "Then what?" you ask, genuinely bewildered now. "What’s the reason, Irene? Because I’m not seeing it."

She sighs, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. "It’s… complicated." She pushes her chair back slightly, her hands gripping the armrests. "I should probably just… go." She starts to get up, a clear intention to flee in her movements.

"No." The word is out before you can stop it, sharper, more commanding than you intended. You’re on your feet too, moving around your desk, stopping her before she can reach the door, positioning yourself between her and her escape route.

She freezes, her eyes wide, trapped.

"Irene, wait," you start, “okay, look. I’m sorry. For… for what I did. For that night. We were both drunk, I know that. And if you’re uncomfortable now because of it, if I made you feel… pressured, or weirded you out, then I am truly sorry. That was never my intention. I just… I thought you liked me too. I guess I misinterpreted things." God, you sound like a desperate idiot.

"I do like you," she says. "I told you that. At the bar."

"Yeah, but…" you trail off, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "I thought you were just… drunk. Saying things. I didn’t think…"

"That’s the problem," she cuts in. "Liking you. That’s the problem." She finally looks up at you. "If I stay here… in this job… in the same environment as you… things will… they’ll develop." Her gaze is pleading, desperate. "And I know how it will end."

You stare at her, completely lost. "Develop? End? I… I’m confused, Irene. Is it so bad? Liking me?"

A sad, hollow little laugh escapes her, a sound that tears at something inside you. It’s devoid of any humor, filled only with a deep, weary pain. "Oh, you have no idea. It’s not about whether liking you is bad." She looks up, her dark eyes swimming with unshed tears. "It’s that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of liking you."

"But… it’s mutual, Irene," you say, stepping closer, wanting to reach out, to comfort her, but holding back, unsure. "I like you. A lot. I… I thought that was obvious. The way I act around you, the way I talk to you…"

"I know," she whispers, a single tear finally escaping, tracing a path down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. "I know you do. You… you treat me so well. Better than I deserve."

"Don’t say that."

"But it’s true!" Her words gain a desperate edge. "And that’s why I’m afraid! I’m afraid you’ll… you’ll be disappointed in me. Like any other guy would be. Eventually."

"That won’t happen, Irene," you assure her, your conviction absolute, even if you don’t fully understand the depths of her fear. "Not with me."

Her gaze searches yours, desperate for reassurance, for a guarantee you can’t possibly give, not without knowing what demons she’s fighting. "How?" she breathes. "How can you be so sure?"

"You just… you have to trust me.”

She sighs then, a long, shuddering exhalation that seems to carry the weight of years. Her shoulders slump, her head lowers. "I… I have a past," she says. "A past that I’m… I’m not proud of."

"It’s okay," you say gently. "Everyone has things in their past they’re not proud of, Irene. That doesn’t define who you are now."

She shakes her head, still not looking at you. "No, this is… this is different." She takes another shaky breath. "When I was younger… much younger… I… I was a porn star." The words come out in a rushed, choked whisper, as if saying them aloud might shatter her. "For three years."

Porn star. Irene? Your quiet, meticulous, reserved Irene? Your brain struggles to reconcile the image with the woman standing before you, so vulnerable, so afraid.

"I… I almost told you," she continues, her words tumbling out now, as if a dam has broken. "That night, at my apartment… when we were in bed. When I was drunk and feeling… brave. But you were already asleep. And I just… I gave up. Maybe, I thought, maybe it was better that way. Better for you not to know."

She finally lifts her head, her eyes raw, pleading. "My last relationship… it was four years. And it ended the moment he found out about it. He didn’t just leave. He… he leaked it. To my work, to everyone I knew. As revenge. Because he felt… betrayed, I guess." Her words are choked with remembered pain. "I had to leave. My job, my apartment, everything. I was… traumatized. Completely exposed." She shudders. "That’s why I only work as a casual worker now. I’m terrified of staying in one place too long. Terrified that eventually… someone will find out. That it will all happen again."

She looks at you then, her face pale, her eyes wide with a terrible, naked fear. "So now you know… Do you… do you think I’m disgusting now? Do you think I’m a whore?"

You listen, your own expression carefully neutral, though inside, a storm of emotions is raging: shock, yes, but overwhelmingly, a deep, aching empathy for what she must have endured. Disgusting? Whore? The words feel alien, obscene when applied to the woman in front of you.

You step closer, very slowly, and gently, calmly, you reach out and take her trembling hands in yours. Her skin is cold.

"No, Irene," you say, your gaze holding hers, willing her to believe you. "No, I don't think you're disgusting. And I sure as hell don't think you're a whore." You give her hands a gentle squeeze. "I am no one to judge you. No one. And what you went through… at your old work, with your ex… Jesus, Irene, I am so incredibly sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine the trauma of feeling exposed like that, of having your life and your privacy violated so brutally."

She stares at you, her lips parted, her dark eyes wide with a dawning, incredulous surprise. It’s as if she was braced for a blow, and instead, you offered her… understanding.

"The job offer," you continue, your tone unwavering, "it still stands, Irene. Henderson wants you because you’re brilliant. I want you here because this team, this office, is better with you in it. That hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed that."

"You’re… you’re serious?"

"Deadly serious," you affirm. "The contract is yours if you want it. No questions asked, no judgments made." You pause, then take another step closer, your grip on her hands tightening just a fraction. "And more importantly, Irene…" Your words are softer now, laced with all the unspoken emotion that’s been building between you for weeks. "I still want to keep… seeing you. Dating you. Whatever this is that we’re starting." You search her eyes. "If… if you still want to, of course. After all this."

For a long, breathless moment, she just looks at you, her expression a maelstrom of shock, relief, and a fragile, burgeoning hope. Then, slowly, wordlessly, she steps forward, closing the small distance between you. Her hands leave yours, sliding up your arms, to your shoulders, and then she’s rising on her tiptoes, her face lifting to yours.

Her lips meet yours, soft, hesitant at first, then deepening with a desperate, grateful intensity. It’s not like the hungry, alcohol-fueled kisses from before. This is something else entirely. It’s a kiss of acceptance, of relief, of a future that suddenly feels possible again. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are shining, her cheeks wet, but she’s smiling. A real smile. Radiant.

"Yes," she whispers, but the words come out clear as day. "Yes to both.”

—

Two months have passed since the night Irene told you her secret. You hadn’t pressured her for details after that. You figured she’d share more when she was ready. And maybe you’re dying to know, because there’s a whole life behind those eyes you’re only just beginning to uncover, but you’ve kept quiet. The important thing is simple: Irene’s here, now, with you. Not a passing contract worker anymore, but a full-time part of the company, of your team, of your life. She’s taken root, quietly but firmly, in your space.

And the sex? If anything, it’s only gotten wilder, like with the weight of her secret off her chest, she’s finally able to let go in ways you hadn’t seen before. The shy smiles, the slow, calculated movements…still there, sure, but now layered with something hungrier, less reserved, like she’s reclaiming something with every time you push her over the edge. You love it. Love her.

Which brings you to today. Your birthday. You didn’t tell anyone at work, not even Seulgi, who usually insists on dragging your ass out for overpriced cocktails every year. No thank you. You didn’t want a party. All you wanted was your day off, the luxury of doing absolutely nothing with Irene. You arranged to meet her at 6:00 PM at your apartment, which left your afternoon free. You went for a run in the park, as you usually do, and for some reason, the day feels brighter; maybe because it’s your birthday, or maybe because you know you’ll be seeing Irene in just a few hours. The air was cool, but the city was beautiful, glinting in that late afternoon gold.

By the time you got home, you were sticky with sweat, a faint sheen from the walk making your shirt cling to your back. You opened the door expecting the familiar sprawl of your apartment (the faintly messy pile of laundry on the chair, the open laptop on the coffee table), but instead, you stopped dead.

She was standing there, barefoot on your rug, a modest little cake perched on the kitchen counter, a couple of small, wrapped boxes beside it, the faint scent of chocolate and flour in the air.

“Irene… what the fuck…” You blink, stunned, taking it in: the simple but unmistakable gesture. She’s dressed so casually it almost undoes you: black tank top, thin and loose enough that you can see the faint outline of her nipples beneath, and tiny gray cotton shorts that barely cover the tops of her thighs. Her hair’s pulled back, but messier than usual, strands framing her face. She looks so effortlessly gorgeous it pisses you off a little, how she always does this without even trying.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you say, still standing in the doorway, key half out of your hand. “Seriously.”

She shrugs, but her lips curl up, pleased. “It was a pleasure,” she says, walking toward you, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. “You deserve it.”

You exhale, feeling something tight release in your chest. She’s already so close now, tilting her head up to kiss you. You bend down automatically, catching her mouth in yours, slow and grateful. She tastes like the chocolate she must’ve sampled from the cake.

You pull back, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “I’m just gonna take a quick shower. I’m disgusting after that walk.”

She smirks, and her hand snakes out, giving your ass a firm squeeze. “But you look hot like that.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “It’ll be quick.”

She lets you go with a small, satisfied hum, and you head to the bathroom, stripping as you go. Under the hot spray, you let your muscles relax, your mind drifting. This week’s been a nightmare: training a bunch of new hires who couldn’t give a shit about what you say, their apathy bleeding into your own work, your inbox piling up, everything a fucking mess. You rinse your hair, scrubbing shampoo out, and call out loud enough for her to hear in the other room.

“I swear to god, babe, this week’s been brutal. I’ve been babysitting these useless newbies, none of them care, none of them listen—” You towel off roughly, stepping out, water still dripping down your chest. “—and I still have to keep up with all my own shit. It’s like I’m doing two jobs.”

You walk into the bedroom, still talking as you rub the towel over your head. “I should’ve just told Henderson to shove it and let them sink.”

And then you stop mid-sentence.

She’s standing there.

Naked.

Not a single stitch of clothing, just her flawless, toned petite frame, the faintest sheen of lotion on her smooth skin, her black hair loose now, falling around her shoulders. And her nipples (your breath catches) her nipples are each dabbed with a smear of dark, glossy chocolate, the scent of cocoa rich and unmistakable from where you stand.

She tilts her head, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Do you really want to talk about work? And by the way, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes right now.”

You’re frozen, towel hanging loose around your hips, your cock already stirring in response to the sight of her.

She steps closer, one slow, deliberate stride at a time, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. Her fingers ghost over the edge of your towel, teasing, tugging, and with a practiced flick, she pulls it free. Your cock springs up, hard and ready, and she smiles like she expected nothing less.

“You didn’t really think cake and presents were your only gifts, did you?” she murmurs, eyes dropping to your length appreciatively.

Before you can answer, she pushes you gently but firmly backward, making you sit on the bed. You fall back onto the mattress, legs spread, leaning on your elbows, watching her climb up, her knees on either side of your thighs.

“It’s time for your second gift,” she says.

She shifts forward, and her small, perfect breasts are suddenly right there in front of you, chocolate gleaming on her tight little nipples.

You groan, sitting up and catching one of her nipples in your mouth without hesitation. You suck hard, your tongue circling the hard peak to clean away the bittersweet smear of chocolate. She lets out a soft, sharp gasp, her fingers immediately threading through your damp hair, gripping the strands, holding your head firmly in place. You take that as an invitation.

You drag your tongue over every last trace of the chocolate, lapping at her skin, feeling the delicate flesh swell and tighten even more under your attention. The taste is insane; dark, rich chocolate melting into the salty, warm taste of her skin. Once the first nipple is clean, glistening, and pink from the friction of your tongue, you move to the other. This time you start with your teeth, grazing them ever so gently over the hardened bud.

She shivers violently, a full-body tremor, her hips giving a small, involuntary buck against the mattress. "Fuck… yes…" she pants. "Right there… don't stop."

"You like that?" you murmur against her breast, your hot breath making her shiver again. "Like it when I bite?"

"I… fuck, yes," she admits, her hands tightening their grip in your hair, almost pulling. "Bite it harder."

You do, clamping your teeth down just enough to make her gasp again, a sharp, pained-pleasured sound that makes your cock throb. Then you soothe the faint mark with your tongue, lapping at her, sucking her deep into your mouth until her moans become a steady, breathless rhythm.

"Fuck," you breathe, finally pulling back to look at her, your lips wet and dark with chocolate. "You taste so fucking good."

She smirks. "I know," she purrs. "I was hoping you'd think so." She leans forward, her clean, hard nipples brushing against your lips. "They're all yours tonight, supervisor. A birthday present. You can do whatever you want to them."

"Anything?" you ask.

"Anything," she confirms, her eyes glinting. "Suck them, bite them, cover them in your cum… Just make them feel good. Make them feel used."

That's all the permission you need. You dive back in, taking her left nipple into your mouth again, but this time your assault is rougher, needier. You suck hard, creating a powerful suction, pulling at the flesh, your tongue a relentless engine against the peak. She cries out, a raw, open-mouthed sound, her body instinctively pressing closer against yours.

"God, you're so fucking sensitive," you mutter against her skin, loving the way her body reacts to your every touch. "I love how your nipples get so hard for me, how they just stand at attention, begging for my mouth."

"They are," she gasps, her hips starting to writhe. "They've been aching for you… for weeks… every time you look at me in the office…"

You pull away from her breast just enough to trail a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up her chest, over her collarbone, until you reach her mouth. You capture her lips in a deep, filthy kiss. Your tongue, slick with her taste and melted chocolate, plunges past her teeth, and she meets it eagerly, her own tongue wrestling with yours. You let her taste herself on you, the sweetness of the chocolate mingling with the salt of her skin.

When you finally break the kiss, you're both panting, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. "See?" you breathe. "I told you you taste good."

Irene licks her swollen lips, a dazed, utterly debauched look in her eyes. "Fuck," she whispers. "You're right." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then back up again. "You know what else tastes good?” she asks, cupping the back of your head and guiding you down, down until your shoulders hit the mattress again. Then she moves, her thighs sliding up, one smooth motion as she positions herself right over your face, her pussy bare and slick, already dripping for you.

You barely manage a breath before she lowers herself onto you, her inner thighs framing your face, her weight pressing you down in the best possible way.

“This will be more delicious than the cake,” you say, voice muffled against her.

Irene smiles down at you lazily, like a queen about to settle onto her throne. Her hands find the headboard above your head, bracing herself, and then, finally, she lowers herself onto your mouth, her warmth enveloping you, her thighs tightening around the sides of your head.

The first contact is enough to make your cock twitch against your stomach. You slide your hands up the backs of her thighs, fingertips tracing the toned, soft muscle there, and then up further to her ass, gripping it firmly as you pull her closer, burying your face in her cunt. She’s soaked already, the slickness smearing across your lips and chin as you flatten your tongue and drag it slowly from the very base of her slit all the way up to her clit, savoring every second.

She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips twitching forward instinctively.

“Shit…” she breathes, looking down at you, her expression already beginning to shift from teasing control to raw need.

But for now, she’s still in charge. She rocks her hips forward just a little, her pussy sliding wetly over your mouth and nose, smearing you with her arousal. You keep your tongue out, letting her use your face however she wants, just occasionally giving her little flicks against her clit to remind her how eager you are.

“You love this, don’t you?” she says, her tone soft but with that dangerous little edge that always drives you crazy. Her fingers tangle in your damp hair, holding your head still as she starts to move her hips in slow, deliberate circles against your mouth. “Love being under me… letting me use you…”

You can’t answer (she’s not giving you space to) but your moan is deep and guttural, vibrating against her slick folds as you slide your tongue back up to her clit and start circling it in slow, agonizingly steady motions.

“Mmm, fuck…” she exhales, head falling back slightly, her chest rising and falling with quickening breaths.

She’s setting the pace. You know better than to rush her. Your hands stay planted firmly on her ass, kneading the flesh as she rides your face, her hips rolling smoothly, confidently. The heat of her grows with every pass of her pussy over your tongue, her slick spreading across your cheeks and chin, and every time you flick the tip of your tongue against her clit just a little harder, she gasps and rocks her hips more forcefully.

“You always… eat me so fucking good…” she mutters, her voice breaking into a breathy moan as you latch your lips around her clit and start sucking gently, your tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud.

Her thighs tense around your head, the muscles flexing beautifully as she grinds down harder, chasing more friction. The more you give, the more she takes, rolling her hips with more intensity, dragging her soaked slit all over your face, smearing herself on you like she owns you (and she does).

Right now, she does.

“Don’t stop,” she hisses through gritted teeth, her fingers gripping your hair tighter, anchoring herself as she starts to lose some of that controlled rhythm, her movements becoming more desperate, more erratic.

You moan into her, the sound vibrating directly against her clit, and she cries out, a sharp, needy sound that makes your cock throb with how much you want her. But this is her moment. You flatten your tongue again, letting her grind against it, letting her slide herself up and down at her own pace, her pussy getting wetter, creamier, with every second.

“Fuck… fuck, you’re making me so wet…” she gasps, looking down at you, her dark hair sticking to her temples now as her body starts to glisten with sweat.

She lifts herself slightly, just to reposition, then slams her hips down against your mouth again, harder this time, her pussy mashing against your tongue and nose. You slide one hand from her ass to her lower back, steadying her, encouraging her to keep going, to use you just like this.

You can feel the shift now. The subtle change in her moans, from teasing and playful to raw, involuntary noises she can’t hold back. Her thighs begin to shake slightly on either side of your head as she rides your face, her slick coating your lips and chin, the taste of her getting thicker, sweeter, more intoxicating.

“I’m so fucking close…” she whimpers, her voice cracking with how hard she’s working herself against your mouth.

You respond by tightening your grip on her ass, pulling her down harder, guiding her against your tongue as you focus all your energy on relentless, steady strokes against her clit. She gasps, her whole body shuddering above you, her head dropping forward so her hair hangs in her face.

“God… yes… just like that… don’t you fucking dare stop…” she growls, grinding her pussy against your face with wild, desperate circles now, her control all but gone.

The wet sounds of her pussy dragging over your lips fill the room, slick and obscene, her arousal practically dripping onto your chest now as she rides you, using your face like her own personal toy. You keep your tongue out, letting her smear herself all over you, letting her control everything, loving how small but powerful she is, how easily she can overwhelm you with just her hips and her need.

“Shit… shit…” she pants, her thighs clamping tighter around your head, her fingers gripping the headboard so hard her knuckles go white.

You feel it, the way her pussy clenches, her body going rigid above you as she slams her hips down one final time and cries out, a long, shuddering moan that echoes off the walls. Her whole body quakes as she cums, her pussy gushing over your mouth, slick and creamy, her arousal spilling down your chin and onto your chest as she grinds out every last wave of her orgasm against your face.

You don’t stop. You keep your tongue moving gently, lapping up everything she gives you, licking around her swollen clit and savoring the taste of her cum as she rides out the aftershocks.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she collapses forward, her body draping over yours, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and slick with sweat. Her thighs tremble as she slowly lifts herself off your face, and you look up at her, lips and chin gleaming with her wetness, your eyes glazed with pure, feral hunger.

She smiles weakly, her breathing still ragged. “Happy birthday…” she whispers, voice hoarse but full of smug satisfaction.

You grin, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Best fucking birthday ever.”

She laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you, tasting herself on your lips, her tongue slipping into your mouth with a slow, deliberate slide.

And then she pulls back, biting your lower lip gently, her eyes still dark with want.

“But we’re not done,” she says as her hand trails down your chest and wraps around your cock, already throbbing and slick with precum. “That was just your first gift…”

You groan, tilting your head back, already ready for whatever she has planned next as she shifts her weight and starts to slide down your body.

You laugh breathlessly, wiping the last traces of her slick from your chin with the back of your hand, still riding that high from having her grind out her orgasm on your face. “Jesus,” you exhale, your chest heaving. “That’s already the best fucking birthday I’ve had in years.”

She chuckles, low and throaty, still catching her breath. Then she leans in, presses a lazy kiss to the corner of your mouth, and whispers, “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.”

That pulls a grin out of you immediately. You squeeze her ass, your fingers digging into the soft but firm flesh, pulling her closer as you smirk. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

She pulls back just far enough to give you that look: mischievous, calculated, playful. Her lips tilt up in a smirk, then she bites the inside of her cheek and says, almost sing-song, “Wait here.”

Then she’s sliding off you, her bare feet hitting the floor with that soft, soundless grace that only she seems to have. You watch her as she pads out of the room, completely naked, that tight little body moving with unhurried confidence, her hips swaying just enough to make your already rock-hard cock give another desperate throb.

From the bedroom, you hear the faint sound of a zipper, metal teeth rasping open. A pause. Then some soft rustling. Your heart picks up, your curiosity burning, trying to piece together what the hell she’s planning. And then, her footsteps again, crossing the hall, getting closer.

She comes back into the room, eyes glinting, and tosses something at you. You catch it on instinct.

It’s a small bottle.

You turn it over in your hand, read the label.

Lube.

Your brows shoot up and you look at her, grinning in disbelief. “What the hell do you plan on doing with this?”

She climbs back onto the bed, crawling up slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking prey, her eyes locked on yours, her knees spreading on either side of your hips until she’s hovering right above you.

“You’re the one who’s gonna do it.”

You blink, your brain still processing, the words sticking in your throat for a second. “Wait… what?”

She leans down, her lips grazing yours as she whispers, “Because it’s your birthday…” she kisses you, slow and soft, then pulls back, “…and because you’re such a great supervisor…” another kiss, deeper this time, “…you get the privilege of fucking my ass today.”

Your whole body tightens instantly, your cock jerking so hard it practically aches. You stare at her, eyes wide, like she’s just handed you the keys to some secret vault you didn’t even know existed. “Are you… are you serious?”

She sits back on her heels, all casual, like she didn’t just offer you the dirtiest birthday present imaginable. “Of course I’m serious.”

Then she reaches behind her, drags her fingers slowly down the curve of her own ass, giving one cheek a light slap, making it jiggle just enough to send your pulse into overdrive.

“It’s been a long time since I took it in the ass…” she says, almost absentmindedly, her voice that same casual, almost shy tone she uses when discussing quarterly reports, like this is just another item on her to-do list. Then she looks right at you, her eyes dark and steady, “…and I kind of love anal.”

Your jaw slackens a bit, your mind racing with images, with questions, with raw, hungry need.

She grins at your reaction, shrugging one bare shoulder. “Makes sense, right?” she adds, almost teasing. “Former porn star. Guessing I’ve done it… more times than I can count. It's part of the job.” Then her voice drops just a little more, breathier, more vulnerable. “But… it’s been years since I’ve had a real dick back there. Just… toys. Dildos.”

Your cock twitches violently at that, thick and hard, standing straight up against your stomach. You groan, dragging your palm slowly along your length, almost needing to ground yourself with the sensation. “Fuck, Irene…” you mutter, shaking your head. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“But you like it… don’t you?”

“Like?” you laugh quietly, breathless. “This is… this is the best fucking gift.”

She smiles, pleased with herself, then crawls forward a little more, turns, and gets onto all fours right in front of you. That perfect little ass of hers tilted up, back arched so her cheeks spread just slightly, giving you the clearest possible view of her tight, pink little asshole. Your throat goes dry.

She glances back over her shoulder at you, smirking. “Well… supervisor… you gonna get started?”

Your heart is hammering out of your chest. “Damn right.”

You pop open the bottle of lube, the faint plastic crack of the cap clicking free, and squeeze out a generous amount into your palm. It’s cool and slick, coating your fingers easily as you rub them together, warming it up a little.

Without wasting any more time, you slide closer to her, one hand gripping her hip, the other bringing the lube to her ass. You let the first cold drop fall right onto her tight little hole, watching as she shivers at the sudden temperature shock.

“Ohhh… fuck,” she breathes out, her back arching deeper as her hands grip the sheets.

You smear the lube over her asshole with slow, steady circles, massaging it in, spreading it across the perfect crease of her ass, making sure it’s slick and glistening all over. Her cheeks are shining now, slippery under your fingers, and that tight little star is all slicked up, glistening and ready.

The more you work the lube in, the more she relaxes, her breaths coming deeper, slower.

“You’re loving this,” you murmur, running your thumb gently along the rim of her hole, teasing her.

She looks back at you, biting her lower lip, her eyes half-lidded with arousal. “You have no idea…”

You apply a little more pressure with your thumb, testing her, and she pushes back slightly, welcoming it, her body already opening up for you.

“Mmm… that’s it,” you say under your breath, gripping one cheek and spreading her wider, admiring the way her asshole puckers and flexes, slick and inviting.

The contrast between the shy, composed Irene everyone knows at the office, and the filthy, unashamed woman kneeling naked in front of you now, offering you her ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world… it’s fucking intoxicating. You love this about her. That duality. That quiet power.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the small of her back, your hand still massaging circles around her entrance, feeling her pulse there, steady and hot. She shivers again, but it’s not from the cold now; it’s pure anticipation.

“You sure about this?” you ask.

She laughs, breathless. “Don’t make me beg…”

You grin, sliding your lubed fingers lower, brushing her slick pussy briefly, just enough to make her moan softly, before bringing your hand back up to her ass. You add a little more lube to your fingers, making sure it’s dripping, then slowly, carefully, you press the tip of your index finger against her tight, pink hole.

Her breath hitches. Her whole body tenses as you apply steady pressure. The tiny muscle fights you for a second, a stubborn little ring, before it finally gives way with a soft squelch. You slide your finger in, just to the first knuckle. She groans, a low, guttural sound that’s half pain, half pure bliss.

"Fuck…" she breathes out, her hips twitching. "Okay… okay, that’s… mmm."

You wait, letting her adjust to the feeling of being filled, your finger still and warm inside her. Then, you start to move it, a slow, gentle circling motion. Her asshole clenches around you, tight and hot.

"Easy, baby," you murmur. "Just relax for me. Let me open you up."

She exhales, a long, shuddering breath, and you feel her body soften, her tight muscle relaxing just a fraction around your finger. You push in a little deeper, hooking your finger slightly, massaging her from the inside.

"Oh, god… that feels…" she trails off. She pushes back against your hand, wanting more. You continue the slow, steady rhythm, and she lets out a soft, contented sigh. "It's… it's so nice," she whispers. "To be able to do this again."

You keep moving your finger, feeling her pulse against the tip. "Do what, baby? Take a finger up your ass?" you tease gently.

She lets out a wet little laugh. "That too. But… just this. All of it. The sex… being filthy…" Her voice drops, becoming more serious. "But feeling… safe. Feeling protected while I do it. Knowing you’re not going to… hurt me at the end. Or judge me." Her hips rock back, pressing her ass more firmly onto your hand. "God, I’m so happy you didn’t give up on me. That you insisted on staying."

You slide your finger out slowly, coat it with more lube, then add a second finger to the first. You press them both against her entrance. She gasps as you work them in together, stretching her, filling her more completely.

"I would never lose a woman like you, Irene," you say. "You're the most beautiful, intelligent, fucking amazing woman I've ever met. Past, present, all of it. You're perfect."

She shudders as your fingers begin to move inside her again, a slow scissoring motion that makes her moan, a high, keening sound this time. She looks back over her shoulder, her face flushed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Fuck… that’s…" she bites her lip, a shy blush creeping up her neck despite the raw vulgarity of the situation. "That’s… really nice of you to say, but… maybe we can leave the love talk for later?" she gasps out between moans. "Talking about these things while you have your fingers in my ass isn't exactly… the best time."

You bark out a laugh, the tension breaking. "You're right. My bad." You lean in and bite her ass cheek playfully. "Sorry for trying to be romantic while I finger-fuck you."

"It's okay, baby," she giggles, her whole body relaxing into your touch now. "Just… focus on the finger-fucking part for now."

"Whatever you want, boss," you say, grinning. You add a third finger, and she cries out, her ass clenching hard around you, starting a slow, relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of her tight little hole. The lube makes a wet, slapping sound with every thrust of your hand, a filthy soundtrack to her ragged moans. Her ass cheeks are spread wide, giving you a perfect, obscene view of her pink, stretched muscle gripping your fingers. You watch, fascinated, as she completely melts under your touch, her body surrendering to the pleasure.

"Fuck, Irene… look at you," you growl. You rotate your fingers inside her, feeling her stretch wider around them. She cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound. "You're taking my whole hand like a champ. Just imagine how good this is gonna feel when it's my thick cock stretching you out instead."

"Mmmm… don't… don't stop," she pleads, her words broken by gasps as she pushes her ass back onto your violating fingers, meeting the pressure.

"Oh, I'm not stopping," you promise, your pace quickening slightly. You lean down, your lips brushing against her ear. "I think I'm gonna get addicted to this. To your perfect ass. I'm going to want to fuck it every single day." You thrust your fingers deeper, imitating a hard fuck. "How's that sound, baby? Waking up every morning with my cock already buried deep inside your ass, filling you up before you've even had your coffee."

Her response is a raw, guttural moan that vibrates through her entire body. Her hips begin to grind against your hand in wild, needy circles. "Yes… fuck… keep talking," she pants. "Tell me more… tell me what you're gonna do to my ass…"

You glance down between her thighs and your own cock gives a hard throb. A glistening, clear trail of her arousal is dripping from her soaking wet pussy, running down the inside of her thigh and pooling on the sheets. She's not even touching herself, but the thought of you fucking her ass is making her cunt gush.

"Look at that," you murmur, your free hand reaching down to trace the slick path of her juices. "You're so fucking wet for this, aren't you? So horny just thinking about my cock in your ass that your pussy is weeping for it." You dip your thumb into her slickness and bring it back up to her asshole, smearing her own cunt juice around the rim of her hole, mixing it with the lube. "Let's make it even messier."

"Please…" she whimpers, completely gone. "Please, just… fuck me… I need it…"

You pull your fingers out of her with a loud, wet sound. Her asshole, stretched and glistening, puckers greedily, empty for only a second. You can see how ready she is, how open you've made her.

You draw your hand back.

The sound of your palm connecting with her ass cheek is sharp and loud, echoing in the quiet room. A perfect, red handprint blossoms on her pale skin. She yelps, a shocked, ecstatic sound, her whole body jolting. She looks back at you over her shoulder, her eyes wide, dazed, and full of pure, unadulterated need. Her chest is heaving, her lips are parted, and her ass is red, abused, and beautifully, perfectly ready for you.

The lube glistens like syrup under the low light, a sheen coating the delicate wrinkle of her pink asshole, smeared slick between the cleft of her cheeks and dripping slowly toward the tight seal of her pussy. She keeps herself open for you, kneeling deep into the mattress, arms stretched forward, arching her back like a fucking exhibit. She’s panting, her head down, black hair spilled over her shoulder blades in wild, careless strands.

You trace the tip of your cock along the seam of her hole, barely nudging the outer ring, and she makes a noise: sharp, needy, almost angry.

“Don’t tease me,” Irene growls, hips pushing back against you, practically punching your cock with the weight of her ass. “Put it in. Now.”

You obey. You press forward slowly, resisting the urge to just bury yourself to the hilt and fuck like an animal. Her hole yields just a little, then grips you, impossibly snug, sucking you in with a hot, slick resistance that makes your whole body twitch.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter under your breath, biting down on a curse as the ring of muscle clamps around your head, slow and greedy, dragging every millimeter into her. “Jesus, you’re… tight.”

“I know,” she smirks into the pillow, biting down on her bottom lip as she breathes through the stretch. Her tone is breathless but taunting. “I haven’t been used in a while. Not properly. Not like this.”

You ease in another inch. Then another. Her asshole flutters and clamps, adjusting around your girth like it’s testing you.

“That’s it,” Irene whispers, then harder: “Keep going. All the way. Don’t you dare stop until your balls are fucking pressed against me.”

You grit your teeth, rocking your hips gently forward, both hands gripping her sides to keep steady. Inch by inch you sink into her, the resistance melting into slick pressure. She moans, a raw, throaty sound full of pain twisted with hunger. Her whole body shudders as the last inch disappears into her heat.

When your pelvis finally nestles flush against the swell of her ass, your balls brushing her dripping cunt, she exhales hard; like she’s just been filled with something holy.

“Goddamn,” you breathe, locked inside her, unmoving for a second, overwhelmed by the feel of it. “You’re gonna break me.”

“No,” she says, lifting her head just enough to look back at you. “You’re gonna break me. Keep moving, or I’ll sit on your face until you pass out.”

You pull back slow, dragging yourself out until just the thick head is left buried inside, then push back in with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes her whine low in her throat.

“That’s it,” Irene murmurs. “Nice and deep. I want to feel every inch. I want to feel it in my fucking stomach.”

You start to move, slow and steady, your cock plunging deep into the hot grip of her ass and pulling out again, over and over, building a rhythm. Her moans rise in pitch, sharp and cut with whimpers, but her ass keeps pushing back onto you, meeting every thrust with a greedy snap of her hips.

“Faster,” she snarls. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.”

You pound into her harder, the slap of your skin against her ass echoing in the room, obscene and constant. Her back arches deeper, the curve of her spine a perfect invitation, and you drive in deeper still, your hands spreading her cheeks to watch your cock disappear again and again into that slick, stretched hole.

“Fuck yes,” she gasps. “That’s it. That’s your hole. Say it.”

Your brain is on fire, body wound tight, but you nod, fucking her faster, harder. “My hole. All mine. Fuck—so good, Irene.”

“Tell me what I am,” she spits, grinding her ass against you mid-thrust. “Tell me what you’re fucking.”

You groan, barely coherent. “My whore. My nympho slut. My fucking anal-obsessed goddess.”

“That’s right,” she laughs, low and mean, pleasure twisting her words. “I’m your filthy bitch. Keep filling me. I want you so deep I can’t walk tomorrow.”

You grip her hips and slam into her, cock buried to the base every time, her ass stretched wide around you. Her pussy is a mess now, slick and twitching, untouched and throbbing with every shockwave of your rhythm.

“Harder,” she snarls. “I want to feel your cock rearranging my guts.”

"Alright, ma'am," you growl.

You give her exactly what she's begging for. Your hips become pistons, slamming into her with a brutal, relentless force. All your strength is channeled into your cock, driving it into her ass again and again, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. The wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoes in the room, obscene and glorious. You grip her hips so hard you know you'll leave bruises, using them as handles to anchor her as you pound into her without mercy.

Her moans shatter, turning into raw, animal cries of pain and ecstasy. She pushes back against you with every brutal thrust, her body a taut bow of pure sensation. You watch your cock disappear into her tight, glistening hole, the muscles of her ass clenching desperately around you. Her untouched pussy is a mess below, dripping her slick onto the bed with every jarring impact. She's so fucking hot, so insatiable.

"Tell me again what a filthy whore I am!" she snarls, voice cracking. "Tell me how much you love fucking my tight ass!"

"You're my perfect little anal slut," you pant, the words ripped from your throat as you continue your assault. "You take this cock so fucking good. Your ass was made for this. Made to be stretched, used, and filled by me."

"It was," she sobs, the words half-lost in a scream of pleasure. "It's yours! My ass is your fucking property! Now wreck it! Wreck me!"

Her body starts to tremble, fine tremors at first that grow into violent, uncontrollable shudders. Her asshole, which was already impossibly tight, clenches down on your cock like a vise, spasming, milking you with an intensity that almost makes you lose control. She's close. So fucking close.

"That's it, baby," you groan, feeling her body start to come apart around you. "You feel that? You're going to cum for me. You're going to cum all over my cock from your ass."

"I am… fuck… I'm… oh god…"

Her head whips back, a choked, guttural scream tearing from her lips as her orgasm hits her like a lightning strike. Her entire body locks up, her back arching so high her knees lift off the bed. Her asshole spasms violently around your shaft, a series of deep, rhythmic pulses that feel like she's trying to suck your cock clean out of your body. She’s coming, harder than you’ve ever seen anyone come, purely from the brutal, relentless fucking you’re giving her ass.

"FUUUUCK!" she screams as she shatters. Her body convulses around you, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through her. She's sobbing, drool trailing from the corner of her open mouth, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation. You don't stop, slamming into her through it, dragging her along the edge of that climax until she’s twitching, sobbing, her thighs soaked, everything between her legs shaking from overstimulation. Her asshole clenches over and over, like it’s trying to keep your cock inside her permanently. The sound of your name on her lips turns into a whimper, a plea.

And then she collapses.

She goes limp under you, body gone soft, her face buried into the mattress, hair plastered to her neck with sweat. You slow just enough not to hurt her more, but you're still buried in her, and she’s still trembling like something in her got snapped and rearranged.

You reach down, cup one hot, twitching cheek in your palm, fingers sinking into the softness, then you slap her ass. She jerks violently, crying out again, a fresh gush of wetness from her untouched cunt.

Irene’s panting like a dog, but she lifts her head slowly, pushing herself up on shaky elbows. Her asshole is raw and red, clenching around nothing now that you’ve pulled out, and your cock stands slick and flushed, aching to go again.

You run a hand down her back, smearing sweat, and watch her shiver under your touch, still catching her breath. She looks over her shoulder, eyes dark and dazed, lips parted.

“What now?” she asks, still high on it, a smirk tugging at the edge of her fucked-out expression.

You crawl over the mattress, slow and deliberate, the mattress dipping under your weight until you’re hovering above her. You reach out, brush her damp hair away from her cheek, and tilt her face toward you. Her eyes meet yours; you lean in and kiss her.

It’s not rushed. Not forceful. Just the soft press of your lips on hers, a quiet connection that feels startlingly out of place after how violently you’d just been inside her. But it fits. Her lips part easily, kissing you back, slow and sweet, her moan caught between you like breath being passed from one lung to another.

When you pull back, your thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone, you speak low and close.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She blinks once, then laughs; a little stunned, a little disbelieving, the sound raspy and full of heat. She shifts onto her side, hair falling in her face, her lips tugged up into a crooked grin. “Jesus,” she murmurs. “That’s a hell of a romantic thing to say after you fucked my ass like it owed you rent.”

You laugh too, forehead pressed to hers, eyes shut for a second. “I mean it.”

“Yeah?” she whispers, her palm sliding up your chest, nails dragging faintly across skin. “You always get all poetic when I let you wreck my holes?”

“I’m discovering new talents,” you say, and kiss her again, deeper this time, longer, your tongue meeting hers slow and deliberate, savoring her like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. Her fingers find your hair, tangling in it, keeping you there until she finally pulls back, panting softly, her lips swollen and wet.

You straighten, letting your hand glide down her bare side, palm trailing over the curve of her hip. “Come on,” you murmur, fingers nudging at her.

She doesn’t move.

Instead, she stretches lazily, catlike, then rolls onto her back, arms above her head, bare chest rising and falling. “Make me,” she says, grinning like a brat, teeth flashing beneath the curtain of black hair stuck to her cheek. “If you want me up so bad, you better earn it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re in that mood again?” you mutter, and before she can blink, you lunge, grabbing her under the thighs, flipping her off the bed in one fluid motion. She shrieks, half-laughing, half-startled as your arms lock around her, her bare ass landing square in your hands.

“Hey!” she gasps, but she’s laughing, eyes bright. “Assault!”

“You asked for it,” you growl against her throat, kissing her hard, biting the skin there just enough to make her squirm.

Still holding her up, you reposition your grip—one hand under her ass, the other around her back. Her legs wrap around your waist like it’s instinct. She clings to your shoulders, breath hitching as your cock brushes against her inner thigh, then her slick, drenched cunt.

You drag the tip along her folds, once, twice.

She gasps. “Fuck, fuck, I’m—” she starts, but your head nudges inside, the slickness between her legs so intense it practically sucks you in.

“Sensitive,” she finishes, her whole body jolting.

You groan as you push deeper, her pussy hot and swollen and soaked from everything that came before. She’s not just wet—she’s drenched, her folds clinging to your cock like velvet, the entrance spasming as you ease in inch by slow inch. Her breath stutters out of her mouth in broken moans, arms tightening around your neck, her nails biting into your skin.

“Irene—fuck—you’re soaking,” you hiss, your lips brushing her ear.

“I know,” she moans, her words thick with need. “It’s from before…I came so hard… ahh, god, don’t stop, don’t—”

You don’t.

You fuck her slowly in the air, each thrust smooth and deep, her weight light in your arms but heavy on your cock. Her pussy clenches with every movement, already overstimulated and begging for more. Her head falls back, exposing the line of her throat, mouth open in helpless pleasure as you move inside her.

Her moans get louder, warmer, wetter, her body rocking with every motion, the slap of skin against skin muted by the softness of her thighs wrapped tight around you.

“You like that?” you whisper, kissing her collarbone, trailing your tongue between the swell of her breasts. “You like getting fucked right after I ruined your ass?”

She nods frantically, face flushed, lips parted. “Y-yes, I—fuck, yes, I need this, don’t stop, I’m so close already.”

You kiss her, swallowing her cries, letting her whimper into your mouth as you keep thrusting up into her, slow and deep, filling her again and again until her cunt spasms, her whole body clinging to yours like she’s afraid to fall. Her moans melt into kisses, breathy, broken, desperate, like she’s trying to stay anchored through her own bliss.

And you just keep holding her, hips rolling, fucking her deeper… slower… not letting her come down yet.

Your arms are burning with the effort, but you don't care. The feeling of her wrapped around you, your cock buried deep inside her slick, hot cunt, is worth everything. Her body is a dead weight of pure pleasure, clinging to you, her head thrown back as you continue the slow, relentless rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, deep, a lazy roll of your hips that slides you all the way in until your pelvis presses against her, then draws you almost all the way out before sinking back down.

She whimpers into your mouth every time you pull back, a desperate, needy sound. "Please..." she breathes against your lips, her own hips trying to buck, to rush the pace, to find the friction she so clearly craves.

"Shhh," you murmur, capturing her mouth in another long, slow kiss. "Just feel this, baby. Let me love you." You fuck her with an infuriating gentleness, your movements tender, almost reverent. It's the exact opposite of what her body is screaming for, and you both know it.

That’s the fucking point.

"You're... torturing me," she pants, her nails digging into the muscles of your shoulders. Her pussy is so wet it's practically frictionless, dripping down onto your thighs, but it clenches around your cock with a desperate, pulsing grip.

"Am I?" you whisper, your lips tracing a path down her throat to her collarbone. You continue the slow, deep strokes, ignoring her plea. "I'm just loving you, Irene. Showing you how much you mean to me. How perfect you feel." You thrust upwards, slowly, filling her completely, and hold yourself there for a moment, letting her feel every thick inch. She moans, a long, frustrated wail.

"No... please... I need it harder," she begs, voice cracking. She starts to writhe in your arms, trying to grind her hips against you, to create her own rhythm. "Fuck me... please, just fuck me properly."

You chuckle softly against her skin, a low, dark sound. "But I like this," you say, resuming the agonizingly slow pace. "I like feeling you squeeze me. I like hearing you beg." You kiss her again, a deep, possessive kiss that smothers her protests. You can feel the frantic, thrumming energy building in her, the pleasure coiling into a tight, unbearable knot of pure need.

Her body is trembling now, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat. "You're an asshole," she gasps, her voice a mix of fury and arousal. "You know what I want... you know what I need, and you're just... playing with me."

"I am," you agree easily, your hips still rolling in that same, maddeningly slow rhythm. "And you love it. Look at you. You're soaked. Shaking. Completely coming apart just from me being inside you."

"Then make me come!" she cries out, her control finally snapping. "For fuck's sake, stop making love to me and just FUCK ME! Fuck me hard! Use me like I'm a toy, like I'm just a fucking fleshlight you own! I need it! Please, I need you to ruin me!”

You kiss her neck gently, your lips brushing her skin in a gesture of pure affection that completely contradicts the filthy words she just screamed.

"A fleshlight?" you murmur against her ear, your voice a soft, teasing caress. "Is that all you think you are to me, Irene? Just a set of holes to use?" You slide almost all the way out of her, making her gasp and instinctively clench her pussy around the thick head of your cock, trying to keep you inside. Then you push back in, slowly, deeply, until you bottom out against her cervix. "That doesn't sound very romantic."

"I don't want romantic right now!" she cries. Her body writhes in your arms. "I want to be used! I'm just a cunt for you! A tight, wet hole for your big dick! Please, I'm begging you, just pound me! Pound my cunt until I'm stupid! Forget my name! Forget everything but how good it feels to fuck me!"

"Are you sure?" you ask, your voice still infuriatingly calm and gentle. You continue the slow, deep fucking, each stroke a deliberate act of torture. "Because I love making love to you, Irene. I love holding you like this. Feeling your heart beat against mine."

"Fuck my heart!" she sobs. "Fuck my heart and fuck my brain! Just fuck my pussy! Please! I'll do anything! I'll be your good little whore, I promise! Just stop teasing me! I can't take it anymore! I'm going to come just from this, and I'll fucking hate you for it!"

You stop moving.

For one torturous second, you are completely still inside her. She whimpers, her body frozen in anticipation. "Alright," you growl. "If you're going to beg for it like a good little whore, then I guess I have to give you what you want."

"Yes..." she breathes.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into the meat of her ass as you slam her down onto your cock harder, rougher, the sound of her soaked cunt getting louder, wetter. The wet smack of flesh on flesh fills the room, and she yelps, then laughs through it, her eyes wild, her smile twisted with too much pleasure.

“God, yes—fuck me, use me—don’t stop—don’t you dare—”

You do exactly what she demands.

You use her.

You fuck her like she’s a doll made just to take cock, just to squeeze and stretch and be filled until her mind breaks and drips out of her pussy. You slam into her over and over, brutal rhythm, zero mercy. Her nails are digging into your shoulders, her forehead pressed to yours, moaning every breath into your mouth as her body takes the full force of your thrusts.

“Fucking hell,” you growl, gritting your teeth as her pussy tightens and pulses around your cock, “you’re taking it like a fucking slut, Irene.”

“I am,” she pants, the words shuddering out of her, “I’m your fucking slut—I’m your toy—make me fucking cum, I want it, I want it, please!”

You feel the change before you see it. The muscles inside her pussy, already clenched tight around you, suddenly begin to flutter, then seize, locking down on your shaft like a superheated vise. Her eyes, which were squeezed shut, fly open wide, not with pleasure, but with pure, unadulterated shock.

"Oh... oh my god... I'm..."

A sharp, strangled cry rips out of her as the first gush erupts from her cunt. It’s not just wetness; it's a hot, violent spray that shoots out, soaking your stomach and thighs, splashing on the floor below you. It’s a shocking, uncontrollable release, and her entire body locks up, trembling in your arms as she comes so hard she can’t breathe, can’t think.

You don't stop. You don't even slow down.

The sight, the sound, the feeling of her completely letting go like this makes you lose control. You keep slamming into her, your cock driving through the gushing fluid, making it splash and spray with every thrust. The fucking is louder now, wetter, a constant, obscene slapping sound. Another powerful torrent shoots from her, then another, seemingly endless. Her pussy is a broken faucet, gushing warm, clear fluid that runs in rivers down your legs, pooling on the floor.

"Aaahhh—fuck—it's still coming!" she screams. "I can't stop it—what's happening?! Fuck, fuck, don't you dare stop!"

Her legs, locked around your waist, are trembling so violently she can barely hold on. Her entire body jerks with every stroke, completely helpless in your grip. You fuck her through the flood, your own vision blurring, your body on fire. You watch her face, see her mind completely erased by pleasure, her eyes rolled back, her mouth wide open in a silent, unending scream.

You only slow when the last pulses drain from her, the violent gushes finally slowing to a warm, steady trickle down her thighs. Her limbs go limp, her body slumping against you, completely boneless and spent. She collapses against your chest, shivering and dazed, her entire body buzzing in the aftermath.

With a groan, you stumble back with her still in your arms and half-fall, half-sit on the edge of the bed. She’s still on your lap, your cock buried deep inside her wrecked, dripping pussy. Her arms curl weakly around your neck and she buries her face in the crook of your shoulder, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps.

You hold her tight, your own heart hammering against your ribs. Your hands slide slowly up and down her back, a soothing, grounding motion. You kiss her hair, her temple, the shell of her ear, whispering her name over and over.

Finally, you tilt her chin up to kiss her. Her lips are soft, wet, and slow to respond, her body still floating, completely fucked-out. She moans weakly into your mouth, a sound of pure, exhausted bliss.

When she pulls back, her eyes are barely open, her long lashes wet with tears and sweat.

"Mmm," she sighs, nuzzling her cheek against yours. Her gaze drifts down, looking at the mess. Your bodies are gleaming, the floor is soaked, and the air is thick with the clean, musky scent of her release. "Your cock is magic," she whispers. "That was… Jesus Christ. I don't even squirt. Like, ever. I think I've maybe done it once in my entire life, and it was nothing… nothing like that."

You chuckle, your forehead pressing against hers. "Well, I guess your pussy just really, really likes me."

"I guess so," she murmurs, a lazy, dazed smile spreading across her face. "Or maybe you just finally fucked me hard enough to break me.” Then her hand slips between the two of you, down to your lap. Her fingers wrap around your shaft, still rock hard, still throbbing inside her. “Are you close?”

You nod, your breath hitching. “Yeah.”

Her smile changes—still soft, but wicked underneath.

“Good.”

Then she pushes you back, palms on your chest, making you fall flat onto the bed with a surprised grunt. She rolls her hips as she pulls off your cock, the slick noise of her body separating from yours obscene, strands of wetness sticking to your shaft.

She straddles you like she owns you; knees braced on either side of your hips, sweat-slick thighs trembling but determined, ass flexing as she angles herself just right. You’re flat on your back, heart thundering in your chest, cock twitching and red and glistening with her slick, twitching against your stomach until she grips it with one hand, lines the head up with the soaked, glistening pucker of her asshole, and then sinks.

Your breath catches in your throat as her ass envelops you again, tight and hot, that familiar pressure building immediately as she sinks down with a slow, sinful twist of her hips. The tip slides in, and she moans, a low, guttural sound of pleasure and defiance, her back arching, hair sticking to her damp face. Her hole stretches around you perfectly, so perfectly it borders on painful, but she keeps going, inch by inch, until her full weight settles against your hips and you’re buried to the base.

You groan, your fingers digging into the sheets as her ass clenches around your cock like a fist. She lifts her head, licking her lips, eyes half-lidded with bliss.

“Still so fucking hard,” she murmurs. “You love my ass, don’t you?”

You nod, helpless.

“I could ride this cock all night,” she whispers, then smiles wickedly. “And I just might.”

She starts to move.

No slow buildup, no gentle grind: she fucks you, bouncing on your cock with reckless rhythm, ass clapping against your thighs, wet, loud, filthy. You groan through gritted teeth, hands finding her waist to keep yourself grounded, but it’s impossible to keep up with her. She’s wild. Even after cumming twice, even after being reduced to a trembling, soaking mess; she’s still fucking insatiable. Every drop of strength she has is poured into fucking herself on your cock like a nymphomaniac possessed.

“Oh my god,” you groan, hips thrusting up instinctively to meet her. “Irene—Irene, I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

“I know you’re close,” she gasps, riding you harder. “I can feel it. Your cock’s throbbing like it’s about to explode. Come on. Don’t hold back.”

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, and slaps your face (not soft). Your head rocks to the side, the sting immediate, and your cock jerks hard inside her.

“Cum,” she hisses, breath hot against your mouth. “Fucking fill me. Cum in my ass. Do it.”

Your hands clamp onto her hips, pulling her down with every thrust, using her body like a goddamn toy, because that’s what she wants—her words, not yours. She’s a toy, a whore, a filthy little anal slut who wants nothing more than to milk the last fucking drop out of you.

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” she pants, her nails dragging down your chest. “I know you do. I can feel it. You’re right there. Do it—cum inside my ass.”

Your brain goes blank. There’s no air, no words, just pleasure, pure and blistering, like you’ve been set on fire from the inside out. Your whole body seizes, hips jerking up into her as the orgasm slams into you like a bomb.

“Fuuuck—” you groan, head thrown back, every muscle tightening.

You cum. Hot, thick spurts of seed shoot deep into her tight little ass, each pulse more intense than the last, her body milking you with every squeeze, every rhythmic clench. It pours out of you, heavy and helpless, so much it feels like your balls are emptying themselves completely into her. She moans low and deep as she feels it, still grinding, slow now, purposeful, drawing out every spurt like she’s harvesting it.

“Fuck yes,” she groans, eyes fluttering shut. “So hot inside me… I can feel it—all of it. So warm. So fucking full.”

You can't stop moaning, your voice a pathetic, broken thing in the quiet of the bedroom. Your orgasm has left you hollowed out, your body trembling and weak, but she’s still moving. Her hips continue their slow, tight circles, grinding your now hypersensitive cock against the walls of her asshole. Every tiny movement sends a jolt of raw, overstimulated friction through you that’s almost painful. Your semi-flaccid cock twitches again, spasming weakly, squeezing out another dribble of cum into the hot, slick grip of her ass. The wet, squelching sound is obscene.

“Jesus,” you whisper. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, your whole body tense. “Irene—I can’t—please, stop…”

She just laughs. It’s not her usual soft, sweet chuckle. This is a low, throaty, cruel sound that vibrates down through her body and into yours. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her sweat-slick hair falling around her face like a dark curtain. Her eyes are glittering with a wild, sadistic light.

“Stop?” she purrs, her hips not pausing their relentless, grinding motion. “Oh, baby. We’re not stopping. We’re just getting started.” She grinds down harder, a deliberate, punishing circle that makes you cry out. “Remember earlier? When I was begging you to fuck me harder, and you just kept going slow? When you were teasing me, making me wait, making me plead for it?”

You nod weakly, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Well,” she says. “Payback’s a bitch. This is my revenge. Now it’s your turn to beg. It’s your turn to lie there and take it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you want me to stop. You don’t get to move. You don’t get to pull out. You just take it. Understood?”

“Irene… please… I’m empty,” you plead, your hips instinctively trying to squirm away from the relentless pressure.

Her hands shoot out, pinning your wrists to the bed on either side of your head. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “I said, don’t move,” she hisses. “And you are not empty. I know you, baby. I know your body. There’s always more. And I’m going to milk every last fucking drop out of you before I’m done.”

With your arms pinned, you’re completely at her mercy. She speeds up, just slightly. The slow, torturous grind transitions into a purposeful, steady rhythm. The wet, sloppy sounds of your cum lubricating her fucking get louder. She’s using your own release against you, turning it into a slick coating for her relentless ride.

“That’s it,” she moans, her own pleasure building again. “Feels so good, riding you when you’re this sensitive. I can feel your cock twitching inside my ass with every fucking squeeze. You love it, don’t you? Even though it hurts. You love being my toy.”

“It’s too much, babe…” you groan, your head thrashing on the pillow. Your cock, against all odds, is hardening again inside her, engorging with trapped blood, the sensitivity becoming an unbearable, burning ache.

“Too much? Oh, no. This isn’t even close to too much,” she taunts, her pace quickening even more. She starts bouncing on you, her ass slapping against your thighs, each impact sending a shockwave of sensation straight to your overstimulated nerves. “I’m not stopping until I cum again. And you’re going to be hard and buried inside my ass for that whole ride. You’re going to fill me up again while I’m screaming.”

She’s a fucking demon, a beautiful, insatiable nympho riding you into oblivion. She can feel you getting hard again, feel your body’s unwilling response. A triumphant, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oh, look at that,” she pants, her rhythm becoming frantic now. “Getting hard again for me. Such a good boy. You can’t help it, can you? Your cock just wants to please me. It just wants to be milked by my greedy little asshole.”

Her words are a death sentence to your self-control. Your body is already screaming, a raw nerve of overstimulation, but her filthy promises send a fresh wave of heat through you. You’re actually hardening again, impossibly, painfully, inside the slick, tight grip of her ass.

“You’re on the edge again, aren’t you?” she pants, her rhythm becoming frantic now, a brutal, merciless bouncing on your raw cock. “I can feel it. Your cock is twitching inside my ass, getting ready to shoot for me again. Good. I want it. I want your hot load coating my insides. I want to feel you pump every last drop into my greedy little hole.”

“Irene… please… I can’t…” you plead.

“Shhh. You don’t get a say in this. You don’t decide when you’re done. I do. I’m going to milk your balls dry, and you’re going to lie here and take it like the good little toy you are. I want to feel you come apart inside me. I want to feel you lose your fucking mind.”

She feels the tell-tale tremor run through you. She knows. A triumphant, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oh, yes… right there…” she hisses, her pace becoming even more punishing. “You’re going to give it to me now. You’re going to fill your whore’s ass up again. Fucking beg me for it. Beg me to let you cum.”

“Please,” you sob, the word ripped from a place beyond your control. “Please, Irene… let me cum… please…”

“That’s it,” she purrs. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

She lets go of your wrists, braces her hands on your shoulders, and with a final, guttural cry of her own, she sits down on you. Hard.

The sudden, overwhelming pressure is blinding. It forces the air from your lungs in a choked scream. Your body goes rigid, your back arching violently off the bed as the second orgasm rips through you with a force that feels like it’s tearing you apart. It's a complete system overload, a raw, involuntary expulsion that is pure, agonizing bliss.

Hot, thick ropes of your cum shoot deep inside her again, flooding her, filling the space that was already slick with your first release. You’re screaming, incoherent, your mind completely blanked out by the intensity.

As you flood her, a sound tears from her throat; not a taunt, but a raw, shocked scream of her own. Her whole body locks up, seizing around you. Her ass muscles spasm violently, a deep, powerful clenching that milks you even harder, drawing out every last drop of your release. The sheer force of you coming inside her, filling her so completely, has pushed her over her own edge.

“OH FUCK!” she screams, voice cracking as her own orgasm hits her suddenly. She’s coming apart on top of you, her body convulsing, her mind wiped clean. You feel her climax in the way her inner walls flutter and pulse around your still-erupting cock. She’s coming from your cum, from the feeling of being brutally, completely filled.

She rides out the violent waves, her body still moving on instinct, until the last shuddering tremor racks through both of you. Finally, with a long, shuddering sigh, she collapses, her body a dead weight on top of yours, her face buried in the crook of your neck. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, completely and utterly broken. Her ass is still wrapped snugly around your now-softening cock, your combined releases making a warm, sticky mess between you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is your ragged, shared breathing. You stroke her hair, your fingers trembling slightly, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks. She feels impossibly warm, impossibly real, molded against you.

You let the silence stretch, letting the intensity fade into a soft, warm quiet. You feel her press a weak, open-mouthed kiss against your throat.

“I love you, Irene,” you whisper. It's the first time you've told her that. It feels like the only true thing in the universe right now.

You feel her tense for a second, then melt against you even more. She lifts her head, her face a beautiful wreck. Her eyes are hazy, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed. She looks at you, and the raw, unadulterated love in her gaze steals your breath all over again.

“I love you too,” she whispers back. She leans down and kisses you.

She pulls back, resting her forehead against yours. “Jesus,” she breathes, a shaky laugh escaping her. “No one’s ever… done that to me before.”

“Done what?” you murmur, your thumb stroking her cheek.

“That,” she says, her gaze soft and vulnerable. “Made me feel so… completely dominated. So used and broken. And then… made me feel so completely loved, all in the same breath. I didn't know that was possible.” She nuzzles her face into your chest. “I trust you so much. I can be… all of this… this filthy, needy thing… and I know you won't leave. I know you’ll still be here to hold me after. You are the first person to understand me completely."

You wrap your arms tighter around her. “I’m never leaving,” you say. “You can be whatever you want with me, Irene. Dominant, submissive, a fucking demon, an angel. It doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here. I’ll still love you.”

She sighs, a sound of pure, contented relief. “Good,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut. “Because I think you broke my ass. You’re going to have to carry me to the shower.”

You chuckle, kissing the top of her head. “Deal.”

—

An hour later, after a long, hot shower that washed away the sweat and cum but left the buzzing, bone-deep satisfaction, you're both on the couch, tangled together in a thick blanket. The apartment is quiet and dark, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp. You take the cake that Irene prepared and put it on the coffee table.

It's a rich, dark chocolate cake, with a glossy ganache frosting that’s a little uneven on the sides, a testament to the fact that she made it herself. A few simple, elegant chocolate shavings are scattered on top. It looks cute and real. You find a few candles in a drawer and stick them in the center.

"Alright, birthday boy," she murmurs. "Make a wish."

You look from the flickering candles to her face, her skin glowing in the warm light, her eyes soft and heavy-lidded with exhaustion and love. "Already got it," you say quietly.

You lean forward, and blow the candles out in a single, gentle puff. The wicks glow red for a moment before extinguishing, leaving thin trails of smoke curling in the air. You cut a large, messy slice and hold the fork up to her lips. She parts them, taking the bite, and her eyes flutter shut. A low, genuine moan of pure bliss rumbles in her chest.

“Holy shit,” she sighs as she chews slowly. “Okay. This is what I needed all along.”

You laugh, taking a bite yourself. "What, not the two hours of borderline-abusive anal sex?"

She nudges you with her shoulder, swallowing. “Okay, both,” she concedes, her lips quirking into a grin. “But this is a very, very close second. I can’t believe the cake actually turned out good. I had to whip it up in a rush before you got back from your walk.”

"This is honestly the best chocolate cake I've ever had," you say, meaning it. You pause, a wicked grin spreading across your face. "But... I think I still prefer the taste of it on your tits."

Her laugh is sudden and bright, a beautiful, airy sound. A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she hides her face in your shoulder for a second. "Oh my god, you're an idiot," she murmurs into your t-shirt, but she’s still shaking with laughter. “In my head it was an incredibly erotic idea.”

She leans her head against your shoulder, tucking her legs up under the blanket, and you both eat the cake in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sharing the fork.

“I really like this,” she says quietly.

“Yeah?” you ask, nudging her gently with your head. “What part?”

She sighs, a sound of deep, bone-deep contentment. “All of it. The chaos from earlier. The quiet now. You.” She pauses, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket over your thigh. “Just… this. Sitting on a couch, eating cake. It feels so… normal. I haven’t felt normal in a very long time. I think I forgot what it was like.”

She looks up at you, her eyes wide and sincere. “For years, I just felt like this… lonely creature. Hiding. Just trying to get through the day without anyone really seeing me. It’s so nice to not feel like that anymore. To just be… here. With you. And for it to be this easy.”

You put the plate down and turn, wrapping your arms fully around her, pulling her into your lap. You kiss her forehead, holding her close. “This is your new normal, Irene,” you whisper into her hair. “You’re not a lonely creature. You’re my amazing, brilliant girlfriend who makes killer chocolate cake and who I get to come home to. You’re not alone anymore.”

She burrows her face into your neck, holding you tight. You feel a wetness on your skin and realize she’s crying, but it’s a quiet, happy, cleansing cry.

After a moment, she pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, a watery but radiant smile on her face. She leans in, kisses you softly, deeply.

“Happy birthday,” she whispers again against your lips. “This was a really good day.”

—

It’s deep into the night by the time you make it to bed. The room’s completely dark except for the faint glow of the city filtering in through the slats in the blinds. Irene’s lying on her side, bare under the sheets, one leg tangled with yours, her fingers lazily drawing circles on your chest.

“Can I tell you something?”

You turn to face her. “Always.”

She takes a breath. “It’s… about my past. The… stuff I used to do.”

You nod, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”

“No. I want to.” Her hand presses against your sternum, anchoring herself. “I just haven’t really… said this out loud in a long time. But I think it's time to tell you the whole story.”

You wait.

“I got into porn when I was twenty-one,” she says, slowly, like each word needs to be chosen carefully. “I was drowning in student loans. I’d dropped out after two years of college because I couldn’t keep up financially, and I was so fucking angry; at myself, at my parents, at the system. I was doing retail. I was behind on rent. I was living in a place with mold on the walls, sharing a mattress with someone I didn’t even like.”

You nod, your hand finding hers under the blanket and squeezing it.

“People think porn is this glamorous, expensive thing you fall into because you’re greedy or slutty or broken. But it wasn’t like that. It was desperation. And curiosity. And yeah, maybe a little recklessness too.” She chuckles, but it’s dry. “I found an ad on the internet. It was a new adult film studio that was gaining popularity. I think it no longer exists today, but it was becoming well-known at the time. The ad didn't say much, just ‘professional shoot, high pay, women 18–30.’ And I thought… fuck it. What else am I gonna do?”

A new adult film production company

Your thumb runs along her knuckles slowly. She continues.

“I wasn’t scared, really. I was more scared of being broke forever. I’d always been… into sex. A lot. Like, way more than anyone I knew. Masturbating three times a day since I was a teenager. Hookups that made my friends call me names behind my back. But porn? It felt like a way to finally own that part of myself. Monetize it. Flip the script.”

She shifts, her cheek brushing your chest. Her voice steadies, but it’s raw.

“The first shoot was awkward as hell. I cried afterward. Not because I hated it. I didn’t. I liked it. I liked the power of it, the thrill of being watched, of giving someone a fantasy and being in control of how far I’d take it. After spending 1 week filming the scenes, I came home with two thousand dollars in a brown envelope and the weirdest feeling that I’d just started something I couldn’t undo.”

The way she talks—it’s not rehearsed. It’s not for pity. It’s like she’s finally giving herself permission to speak it out loud.

“And from there it just… grew. I filmed more. I used different names. I met people who pulled me in deeper. Some were great, honestly. Some were predators. But the money came fast. I paid off my college debt in under a year. Got a better place. Better food. Clothes. And I was fucking constantly. It was like being high.”

She pauses. Her fingers clutch yours tighter.

“I got addicted. Not to the money. Not even to the attention. To the sex. To the permission. Like I was finally allowed to be as filthy as I’d always been inside. And people were clapping for it. Commenting. Downloading. Jerking off to me. I became this thing. A brand. A body.”

You feel her exhale. Her voice cracks at the edges.

“Eventually I couldn’t tell where Irene the girl ended and Irene the performer began. I’d be doing grocery shopping and people would stare at me and I’d wonder if they recognized me. Or if I was just imagining it. I stopped dating. Who the hell wants to date a girl who’s had fifty dicks on camera? I started pulling back. Told myself I’d film one last scene. Then another. Then another… Eventually I met a guy, he was nice. And I thought maybe this was my chance to leave that world and live a normal life. I had no idea what was yet to come.”

Her voice fades for a second, and you hear her swallow.

"My relationship fell apart when he discovered everything. I had every intention of telling him the truth—I swear I didn’t mean to deceive him—but it was such a difficult thing to bring up. I was trying to find the right moment, building up the courage. By then, I had already left the adult film industry and was working a regular job, trying to move on with my life. But I waited too long, and somehow, he found out. I still don’t know how it happened. Maybe one of his friends stumbled across something and told him, or perhaps he came across one of my old videos online. It doesn’t really matter now. After that, my world unraveled. He told everyone: our friends, even people at the company where I worked. The shame and judgment were overwhelming. So, I just… vanished. I cut ties completely. Deleted all my social media accounts, changed my phone number, and moved to a new city to start over.”

You can feel her heartbeat through her chest, thudding softly against yours.

“And since then, I’ve been alone. Not just physically. I mean… alone. I didn’t touch anyone. I didn’t let anyone touch me. I thought if I deprived myself long enough, I’d stop wanting it. That I’d be better. Cleaner. Deserving of a different life.”

She lifts her head, finally. She looks at you like she’s terrified. And yet still determined.

“Then you came along. And for the first time in years, I wanted to want again. Not just for the release. But for the way you looked at me. The way you talked to me, saw me. You didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared. You didn’t treat me like I was made of broken parts.”

You move your hand to her cheek and stroke it gently.

“I was scared I’d fall back into old habits. That if I let myself be touched again, I’d become… her. That insatiable thing. The one who always needed more. But it’s different with you. I don’t feel empty after. I don’t feel used.”

She exhales, her lips trembling. “I feel… real. Like I can breathe again. Like I’m allowed to be who I am. And still be loved.” Then quieter. “You don’t think I’m sick, do you?”

Your response is immediate. Fierce.

“No. Not even close.”

Her lip trembles. “I’ve done things that would probably make you run if I told you. Stuff I can’t take back. And I still want sex. I’ll probably always crave it too much. I’m still trying to balance it. Be healthy. Not lose myself in it again. But it’s hard. It’s messy. I feel like damaged goods, sometimes.”

You cup her face in both hands, pressing your forehead to hers.

“You are not damaged. You’re not sick. You’re brave. You’re human. And you’ve survived more than most people even think about. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. And you have a right to want. To need. To feel.”

She lets out a sound like a sob, but it turns into a laugh, wet and breathless.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me like this. Not even me.”

You pull her close, so close there’s no air left between you.

“You deserve to be loved, Irene. Every inch. Every version. Every mood. You deserve it.”

She stays curled against your chest, her breath soft and steady now, her body wrapped around yours like she’s trying to memorize the shape of safety.

“I was such a bitch when I started,” she says.

“You were not.”

“I kind of was.” She laughs quietly, her nose brushing against your jaw. “I didn’t talk to anyone. I barely made eye contact with you the first two weeks.”

“You were reserved,” you correct her gently. “Not rude.”

“I was terrified,” she admits. “Not of you, just… of everything. I had the feeling that I was constantly being watched. I thought I’d last maybe a month before someone recognized me. Before the whispers started.”

You nod, stroking her spine slowly with your fingertips.

“I almost quit the second week,” she confesses. “I wrote the email. Had my resignation drafted and everything. I thought it’d be easier to just run. That’s always been my thing—run when it starts to feel like people care too much.”

You tilt your head, nudging her nose with yours.

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” she says, a small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “You wouldn’t let me.”

You smirk. “That makes me sound controlling.”

She giggles, quiet and real, the kind of laugh she only gives you when it’s just the two of you in the dark like this.

“No, you were just… kind. And persistent. You kept checking in. Bringing me coffee even when I wouldn’t talk to you. Including me in conversations even when I’d pretend I was busy.” You shrug like it was nothing. Because to you, it was nothing. The bare minimum. But to her? It’s clearly more. “I don’t think I would’ve stayed if it wasn’t for you,” she says, voice dipping lower again. “You didn’t push. You didn’t ask too much. You just… let me be, while still reminding me I wasn’t invisible.”

Her fingers skim your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the corner of your mouth. “So yeah. Thank you. For being patient. For not giving up on me before you even knew what I was hiding.”

You meet her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I didn’t know what you were hiding, but I knew you were worth knowing. That was enough.” She looks like she’s about to protest again, maybe deflect or crack a joke, but you don’t let her. “And for the record,” you add, leaning in just a little, your lips grazing hers, “you being here tonight? With me? That’s the best birthday present I could’ve asked for.”

Her eyes flutter shut for a second like she’s letting it soak in. Then she leans forward and kisses you, slow and unsure at first, but then deeper, warmer, like her body’s catching up to what her heart’s just now starting to believe. Her fingers wind into your hair, her chest pressing to yours, and her lips stay against you for long moments, whispering wordless thank-yous between every soft drag of her mouth.

—

Everything is fine. For months, everything is fucking perfect.

The revelation of Irene’s past, that raw, terrifying confession in the dark of your bedroom, didn’t break you. It bonded you. A routine settles in, easy and comfortable. She keeps the apartment, a permanent fixture now, her quiet confidence growing day by day. She starts talking to people more, a small smile here, a shared joke there. She’s still Irene, reserved, observant, but the wall of fear has been dismantled, brick by brick. She’s a common face in your life now, an essential one. Her toothbrush is in your bathroom holder. Your hoodie is her favorite thing to sleep in. You trade nights at each other’s apartments, building a small, shared world of takeout, inside jokes, and lazy Sunday mornings.

And the sex. Fuck, the sex. Knowing her history, knowing the deep well of experience she draws from, only makes it hotter. It’s not just a physical act; it’s a form of communication, a place where she can be completely, uninhibitedly herself. And you… you’re falling in love with her. It’s not a sudden realization, but a slow, creeping certainty that settles in your bones. You’re in love with every part of her—the quiet office worker, the demanding lover, the brave woman who is learning to trust again. Everything is fine.

Until today.

The office is quiet. It’s break time on a Monday. Half the staff are outside or in the break room. You’re just walking back to your desk after refilling your water bottle when you see it. A huddle. Four, maybe five guys from the junior sales and IT teams, clustered around a workstation at the far end of the open-plan space. Their backs are to you, their shoulders hunched together, their focus absolute.

You hear murmurs, low and conspiratorial. A snicker.

"…Jesus, look at her take that…"

"No way that’s really her…"

"God, I’d pay good money…"

A familiar, unpleasant prickle goes up your spine. You start walking over, your curiosity piqued. Probably just watching some stupid viral video or a sports highlight. You come up behind them, peering over the shoulder of some fresh-faced IT kid.

And then you see it. Your heart stops. Literally fucking stops. The blood in your veins turns to ice.

On the monitor, displayed for anyone to see, is a porn video. The image is sharp, clear, and utterly undeniable. It’s her. It’s Irene. Younger, yes, but unmistakably her. She’s on her knees, her mouth wrapped around some guy’s cock, her eyes looking straight into the camera with a practiced, dead-eyed expression that is so alien from the woman you know it makes you physically sick.

You freeze. For one, long, terrible second, your brain cannot compute. The two realities: Irene, your Irene - the woman who makes you laugh and brings you cookies, and this woman on the screen, a sexual commodity - violently collide, and your mind just… shorts out.

You don’t even think. You move. You shove your way through the huddle of gawking men, their surprised yelps barely registering.

"Who the fuck put this on?" you scream, your words ripping through the quiet office, echoing off the partitions.

Your eyes land on the person in the chair. It’s fucking Kyle. A newbie from the sales team, barely twenty-two, a smirking, entitled little shit you’ve disliked from day one, the kind of kid who thinks sexual harassment policies are just a suggestion.

You grab him by the collar of his preppy polo shirt before he can even react, hauling him out of the chair, slamming him back against the cubicle wall. His feet scramble for purchase.

"Was this you?" you roar, your face inches from his, your knuckles white where you’re gripping his shirt. "Did you do this?”

His smug little face has dissolved into pure, slack-jawed terror. "Whoa, man, chill out! I-It wasn’t just me!" he stammers, his eyes wide, darting between you and the screen where Irene is now taking the guy’s cock deeper down her throat.

"I’m going to ask you one more fucking time," you snarl, giving him a hard shake. "Did. you. put. this. on?"

"N-no! I mean, yes, but—but Kevin recognized her!" he squeaks, pointing a trembling finger at another terrified-looking newbie cowering nearby. "He said he’d seen one of her movies before, and we didn’t believe him, so we just… we just looked it up to see if it was true! It was just a joke!"

"'A joke'?" you repeat. "You think this is a fucking JOKE? You had no right. No fucking right!" You draw your fist back, every ounce of rage in your body screaming at you to smash it into his stupid, terrified face, to wipe that pathetic excuse off the planet.

"Hey! What the hell is going on over here?"

The commotion has drawn a crowd. Park Sooyoung from HR is there, her face a mask of stern disapproval. Seulgi from accounts is peering over a cubicle wall. And then, among the new faces trickling in from the break room, drawn by your shouting, you see her.

Irene.

She stops, a cup of tea in her hand, a look of mild curiosity on her face. Then she follows everyone’s gaze. First to you, holding Kyle pinned against the wall. Then to the huddle of now-terrified men. And finally… to the monitor.

Time slows down. You watch as her eyes land on the screen, as they widen, as she processes the grainy, moving image of her younger self. You see the exact moment of recognition. You see the color drain from her face, leaving it a sickly, ashen grey. You see her mouth fall open in a silent, horrified expression. You see her worst fear, the trauma she’s been running from for years, realized in the most brutal, public way imaginable. And it breaks your fucking heart. The rage in you evaporates, replaced by a cold, sickening horror that mirrors her own.

Her cup slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor, splashing hot tea across the grey carpet. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are still glued to the screen, her body frozen. Then, a choked, strangled sound escapes her lips. She turns, her face a mask of such absolute, bone-deep horror that it will be seared into your memory forever, and she runs.

"Irene!"

You let go of Kyle, shoving him away so hard he stumbles and falls. You push past Wendy, past the stunned onlookers, your entire being focused on getting to her. But she’s already at her desk, her movements frantic, clumsy. She snatches her handbag, her hands shaking so badly she can barely hold it.

"Irene, wait!" you call out, but she’s not listening. She’s a cornered animal, driven only by the instinct to escape. She bolts, running for the elevators, her footsteps echoing in the now-silent, watching office.

You lunge, your body moving on pure instinct, throwing yourself through the gap just as the polished steel doors of the elevator begin to slide shut. You land inside with a heavy thud, the doors closing behind you, sealing you both in the small, descending box. The world outside: the shocked faces, the murmuring, the obscene image still frozen on that monitor, is gone. It’s just you and her.

And she’s broken.

Irene doesn’t just stumble; she collapses. Her body gives out completely, her legs folding beneath her as she hits the floor in a heap. A raw, animal sound of pure agony is torn from her throat, a sound that has nothing to do with the quiet, composed woman you know. She curls into a fetal position on the cold, sterile floor, her hands clawing at her hair, her whole body shaking with violent, uncontrollable tremors.

"No… no, no, no…" she gasps, her words dissolving into ragged, hyperventilating breaths.

This isn't just crying. This is a panic attack, full-blown and terrifying. You’re on the floor with her in an instant, you gather her into your arms, pulling her trembling body against your chest, trying to shield her from a horror that’s already inside her head.

"Irene, hey, I’m here. I’ve got you," you murmur. You hug her tight, trying to use your own body to still her shaking. "Breathe, baby. Just try to breathe with me."

"I knew it," she whines, her face buried in your shirt. "Oh god, I knew this would happen… I was so stupid… so fucking stupid to think I could just… leave it behind…" Her words are punctuated by desperate, panicked gasps for air. "It’s never going to stop. It’s always going to find me. It’ll never fucking stop haunting me…"

"Shh, shh, no, that’s not true," you insist, your heart fracturing at the sheer, raw despair in her words. You gently take her face in your hands, forcing her to look away from the floor, to look at you. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, her beautiful face streaked with tears and twisted in a mask of pure terror. "Irene. Hey. Look at me." Your tone is firm but gentle, trying to cut through the noise in her head. "Look at me. I’m right here. You see me?"

Her gaze flickers, struggles to focus on yours. She gives a tiny, shuddering nod.

"Good," you say, your thumbs stroking her tear-soaked cheeks. "You are not alone in this. Do you hear me? I am not leaving you. Not now, not ever. We… we can get through this. Together. But I need you to be strong right now, Irene. I need you to just hold on for me. Can you do that?"

"I can’t…" she chokes out, a fresh wave of sobs shaking her. "I can’t go back there. I can’t face them. I can’t…"

"You don’t have to," you say immediately. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do." And then, the words, the most honest, urgent truth you possess, just… come out. A desperate anchor thrown into the storm of her panic. "I love you, Irene."

Her frantic, panicked breathing stutters. Her wide, terrified eyes blink, the wildness in them receding for just a second, replaced by a look of stunned, utter disbelief. She stares at you as if she’s never seen you before.

"I love you," you repeat. "And because I love you, I will fight for you. I will protect you. Those fuckers who did this? They will be punished. They will be gone from that office before the sun comes up tomorrow, I fucking swear it. I will talk to Henderson. I will talk to HR. I will talk to every single person in that office and I will explain exactly what happened; that a couple of immature, pathetic little shits violated your privacy and humiliated you, and that they don’t represent what our company stands for."

You lean closer, your forehead pressing against hers. "Remember what I said? That it’s a good office, with good people? That is still true, Irene. The people who did this… they are the exception. They are newbies who don’t fucking belong there. You do. You belong there."

Her breathing is starting to even out, her gaze still fixed on yours, clinging to your words.

"You don’t have to be silent," you continue. "You don’t have to hide. I can be your voice, if you want me to. I will scream for you until my own throat is raw. All I ask… all I need from you right now… is that you don’t run away. Not from this. And not from me."

For a long moment, she just looks at you, the tears still flowing silently down her face, but the raw panic has subsided. Then, with a shuddering cry that’s more relief than pain, she collapses forward, her arms wrapping around your neck, clinging to you as if you’re the only solid thing in a world that has just disintegrated around her.

"I love you too," she whispers, her words muffled against your shoulder, choked with sobs. "God, I love you so much."

A huge, shaky smile breaks across your face, even as your own eyes start to burn. You hug her back, hard, burying your face in her hair, breathing in her scent. "That’s great," you whisper, laughing a little through the sheer, overwhelming emotion of it all. "That’s… that’s all that matters." You pull back, looking into her eyes again. "We can do this, Irene. Together."

She looks at you, her face a mess, her body still trembling, but for the first time since this nightmare started, there’s a flicker of her old strength, her resilience, in her eyes. She nods, a small, jerky movement. "Yes," she says. "Okay. Yes. I can… I can try."

Just then, a soft chime rings through the small space, and the elevator doors slide open with a gentle whoosh, revealing the brightly lit, indifferent emptiness of the ground floor lobby.

—

The hours that followed your escape in the elevator were a blur of cold, focused fury. While Irene was safely behind the locked door of your apartment, you went to war. You didn’t just want to find out what happened; you wanted names, you wanted details, and you wanted blood. Leveraging your supervisor credentials and a couple of quiet, pointed conversations with reliable sources (people you knew weren’t part of the office’s smirking underbelly) the whole pathetic story spilled out.

It was exactly as the terrified little shit Kyle had stammered. A rookie named Kevin, a recent transfer from another branch, had recognized Irene. He’d apparently bragged to his new friend Kyle that he’d jerked off to one of her films back in college. Kyle, ever the skeptic and dickhead, had called bullshit. So, on a slow Monday afternoon, they looked her up. When they found the videos, confirming Kevin’s claim, their pathetic little minds were blown. They couldn’t just keep it to themselves. They had to prove their discovery, gathering a small, willing audience of other bored, morally bankrupt juniors to gawk at their coworker’s past, laid bare on a company monitor.

The ugliest part, the detail that made you want to find them and break their fucking hands, came from Park Sooyoung in HR, who had pulled one of the other witnesses aside. Just before you’d walked in, Kyle had allegedly joked to the group that maybe he should make Irene a "proposal" (a bit of quid pro quo). She could fuck him, and in exchange, he’d keep her secret from spreading to the rest of the company. He claimed, when confronted, that it was "just banter." You classified it as attempted blackmail and gross misconduct of the highest order.

Their expulsion was swift and brutal. You, Sooyoung, and Henderson, the big boss himself, had them in a conference room before they could even clock out. By the time they were escorted out by security, their careers at Henderson Corp were over, and the big boss promised you he’d be making a few calls. Thanks to his contacts, those two little shits were going to have a very, very difficult time finding another job in this industry, in this city, ever again.

Now, the next morning, you stand at the head of the main conference room. Your entire team is here, seated around the long, polished table. And so is Irene. She’s sitting between Wendy and another woman from her department, a silent, formidable wall of female support flanking her. She looks pale, exhausted, her eyes slightly puffy, but she’s here. She showed up. The sheer, breathtaking courage of that simple act makes you look at the people in the room with renewed determination.

You clear your throat, and the room falls silent. Everyone’s eyes are on you.

"Good morning, everyone," you begin, your tone calm, level, professional. You let your gaze travel around the room, meeting the eyes of each person there. "I’ve called this meeting because I need to address the incident that occurred in our workspace yesterday afternoon. I’m not going to go into the explicit details, because frankly, they are irrelevant. What is relevant, what is critical for every single one of us to understand, is what that incident represents."

You pause, letting the weight of your words sink in.

"Yesterday, a member of our team had her fundamental right to privacy violated in the most egregious way possible. She was exposed, without her consent, to a small group of employees in an act that constitutes severe, targeted harassment." You can feel the anger, still simmering just below the surface, but you keep it leashed, transforming it into cold, hard authority. "Let me be absolutely, unequivocally clear: this type of behavior is not just unacceptable within this company; it is antithetical to everything we stand for. This is a zero-tolerance policy issue. The individuals responsible for perpetrating this act, for creating what is legally defined as a hostile work environment, have already been terminated. Their access has been revoked, and they will not be returning."

A few people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Good. Let them be uncomfortable.

"We are all human beings here," you continue, your tone shifting slightly, becoming more personal, more human. "We come to this office every day from different walks of life. We all have experiences, we all have histories, we all have traumas and triumphs and pasts that are entirely our own. And no one—no one—in this room, or in this company, has the right to excavate another person’s history and put it on public display for their own amusement or judgment. The moment we start believing we have that right is the moment we lose our own humanity."

Your eyes find Irene’s across the room. She looks up, meeting your gaze. You give her a small, almost imperceptible smile, one meant only for her.

"I am incredibly proud, and frankly, humbled," you say as you continue to look at her, "that our coworker chose to walk back into this office today. That she chose to stay with this team, even after what happened. That choice shows an incredible amount of trust in us. In all of us." You look around the room again, at your team. "It shows that she believes this incident was an anomaly. That she believes the rest of us are better than that. And I hope, I expect, that every single one of you will spend every day proving to her that she is absolutely right to place her trust in us once more."

"We have an obligation to maintain not just a physically safe workspace, but a psychologically safe one. And what happened yesterday was a profound breach of that psychological safety. It will not happen again." You take a deep breath. "Irene, what you did today, just by being here, took more courage than most people will have to show in their entire careers. You are facing this with your head held high, and you have the full, unwavering support of this company’s leadership, and of your team." You start clapping, a slow, deliberate sound in the quiet room. "I’d like to ask for a round of applause for Irene."

For a split second, there’s silence. Then, Sarah, sitting next to Irene, starts clapping loudly. Then another person, and another, until the entire room erupts in a wave of sustained, genuine applause. It’s not polite, corporate clapping; it’s loud, it’s heartfelt. The women beside Irene grab her hands, squeezing them tight, hugging her shoulder. You see a single, fresh tear roll down Irene’s cheek, but this time, she’s smiling through it, a watery, overwhelmed, but real smile.

You let the applause continue for a long moment, a testament to her, a cleansing of the ugliness from yesterday. When it finally dies down, you clap your hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that brings the focus back to you.

"Alright," you say, your tone shifting back to that of a no-nonsense supervisor. "Thank you for your attention. The matter is dealt with. Let’s get back to work. We have deadlines to meet, and no one is slacking off on my watch."

A few nervous chuckles ripple through the room as people start to stand, the tension finally broken. You wait as the last person files out of the conference room. You inhale and exhale slowly your shoulders slumping slightly. It’s over. The worst is over.

Then, you hear the soft scrape of a chair. It’s Irene. She didn’t leave with the others. She pushes herself to her feet and slowly walks towards you, navigating the maze of chairs.

"That was a great speech," she says.

You manage a tired grin, shoving your hands in your pockets. "Well, I have to live up to my fancy supervisor title sometimes, right? Can’t just be about chasing you for reports and stealing your pens."

Her smile widens. "Henderson steals the pens, not you."

"Right." You look at her, and she looks, even at this delicate moment, the most beautiful woman in the world. "How are you doing? For real."

She considers the question for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. "I’ll be fine," she says. "Tired. A little… wrung out. But I’ll be fine."

"Do you think you can work today?" you ask gently. "Because if you want to go home, you just say the word. I’ll handle everything here."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I want to stay. I need to stay." She meets your eyes, and there’s a flicker of her newfound fire in them. "I’m done running."

"Okay," you nod. "Okay. But you take it easy." You pause, then a thought strikes you, a desire to anchor this new beginning with something normal, something just for you two. "Hey. You wanna… you wanna go out to dinner tonight? After work? A proper place, with tablecloths and everything. No dive bars."

"Wow, look at you," she teases. "We’re evolving. No more getting me drunk at a bar. Now it’s romantic dinners?"

"Well, now that you've said you love me—twice—I figure I don’t have to get you drunk anymore to trick you into liking me. Saves me some money."

She chuckles again, reaching out and patting your shoulder lightly. "You’re an idiot." Her expression softens, her eyes searching yours. "Hey… can I kiss you?"

You glance instinctively towards the glass door of the conference room, a conditioned reflex. "As long as it’s quick," you whisper back, your heart starting to hammer again for a much, much better reason.

She rises up on her tiptoes, her hands coming to rest on your chest, and presses her lips to yours. It starts as a quick, sweet thank you, but neither of you can hold back. It deepens, fast, her mouth opening against yours, your arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against you. It’s a long, full, passionate kiss, filled with all the terror and relief and love of the last twenty-four hours. It’s a victory.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathless, she reaches up with her thumb and gently wipes the corner of your mouth. "My lipstick," she murmurs. She looks you right in the eye, her own gaze clear and steady. "I love you," she says again, not as a desperate confession in a falling elevator, but as a simple, solid statement of fact.

"I love you too, Irene," you reply.

She rests her forehead against yours for a moment, a comfortable, contended sigh escaping her. "I’m happy to be here," she says softly. "I like it here."

You smile, a teasing glint in your eye. "I hope that’s because of me, and not just because of the significant salary increase and comprehensive benefits package."

"Mmm, it’s mostly because of the salary, to be honest," she says, deadpan. "But you’re nice too, I guess."

"Alright, you," you say, reaching out to playfully nudge her. "We better get going before someone walks in and finds us. Back to pretending we’re just professional coworkers."

"Okay, boss," she says. As you both turn to leave, she gives your ass a sharp, surprising slap.

You yelp, jumping in surprise and turning to look at her with wide, laughing eyes. "Hey! That’s harassment!"

She just winks, her smile turning wicked. "Not my fault you have such a nice ass."

You shake your head, still laughing, a feeling of pure, unadulterated joy bubbling up inside you. "Well, it seems like you’re not that shy, mysterious woman from a few months ago anymore."

She steps closer, looping her arm through yours, leaning her head on your shoulder as you walk towards the door together.

"You’re right," she says, and that confidence of hers that you love so much is back. "I’m not." She looks up at you, her eyes full of love and fire and endless possibilities. "Now, I’m your woman.”

[bitters-n-sweets]

green-eyed — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader Robby thinks the newest transfer, Dr. Chase, is flirting with you. Things get a bit complicated.

warnings: jealous and insecure trope, robby says something mean, hurt/comfort, dr. chase from house md cameo, not too angsty, happy end—yes, I'm a sucker for it. a/n: I think we can acknowledge that robby is slightly toxic. I mean, he’s emotionally constipated and still hasn’t gone to therapy, I would assume his behavior at work is similar to how he is with relationships—which is probably why he and Collins broke up—so even though this fic could be resolved so easily with good communication, said good communication is sadly something our dear robby and reader don’t have mastered yet. enjoy! masterlist

Robby thinks it’s been a while since he’s seen you laugh like that. Throwing your head back, tears in your eyes, covering your mouth because that’s a thing you do. And he’s gutted that he’s not the one in front of you being the reason for your laughs. He used to make you laugh like that all the time.

It’s Chase, the new hot-shot transfer doctor. Who has an Australian accent. Who could blame you? He’s young, blonde, blue-eyed, toned—a real life Ken. He’s a damn good doctor, too. The nurses call him Dr. Hemsworth behind his back. Wonderful. Robby hates how easily people gravitate to him. And now it’s your turn.

Robby stands across the ER, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Chase—leaning in to show you something on his phone—and the rest of the room, like maybe he can find something else to focus on. Out of habit, his hand drifts to the back of his neck. Your shoulders are practically touching. A few nurses glance over and giggle. One of them mutters something he doesn’t catch—but whatever it is, it makes his stomach twist.

Robby’s hands curl into fists inside his pockets. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He trusts you, but some ugly part of him starts whispering things he can’t silence.

She should be with someone her age.

Someone who doesn’t feel like a goddamn relic when she’s in a room full of twenty or thirty-somethings.

His lips press into a thin line hidden under his beard as he storms your way. He doesn’t even realize his legs are moving until he’s about half-way.

“Quit flirting at work. Both of you,” he snaps.

You look up, startled.

Chase lifts his eyebrows, all amused charm. “Just showing her a video, mate.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Go do your job, then.” It comes out sharper than intended, but he doesn’t take it back.

The room goes still for a beat. Chase gives you an apologetic shrug and steps away, but you’re already turning toward Robby, brow furrowed.

“Was that necessary?” You chase after him, keeping up with his big steps.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hey. Robby. What’s going on?” You manage to stop him by the stairwell.

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” you press, softer now. “Talk to me. Please.”

He halts, jaw tight, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Something funny happen during rounds?”

“What?”

“Just… looked like you were having a real good time.” He doesn’t say it mean, exactly.

You blink. “With Chase?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like your laughter a few minutes ago didn’t go straight to his chest and start twisting. “You tell me.”

You step in front of him, blocking his path. “Robby… are you jealous?”

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, crossing his arms, “I’m not young, or charming, or built like a damn Marvel character. Sorry if I don’t love watching people act like you two were—”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think I was flirting with him?”

“I think everyone sure thought you were.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation. Not quite a confession. Not quite fair, either. But honest in a way Robby can’t seem to help right now.

“It looked like you actually wanted to be there,” Robby says. “With someone who suits you better.”

That breaks something open inside you. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means this”—he gestures vaguely, bitterly, between you—“was a mistake.”

And that stings, even if you know he’s only saying that because he wants it to hurt you. “Really, Robby? You can tell that we’re a mistake because Chase was talking to me?”

“It’s not about him,” Robby snaps. “It’s about you eventually realizing I’m too old, too tired, too fucking cynical for you. And when that happens, I’ll be the one left picking up the pieces, wondering why I ever thought I could be enough.”

And then you realize. This is not jealousy. This is insecurity. Now you see the desperation in his eyes, but his shoulders are still so high and tense it masks it. You see the way he shuffles around, can’t seem to quiet down his own thoughts.

“You’re wrong.” You say.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do. Because I’ve already chosen you.”

Robby looks at you, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes—hope, maybe—but he kills it quickly, walls going back up.

“I need to get back to work.”

You reach for his hand. “Robby—”

He pulls away. “Don’t.”

That single word makes you stop. And then he’s gone, out the stairwell door and back into the ER, leaving you in silence.

Robby knows he messed up. He knows you didn’t deserve that. But his heart’s pounding like he just ran a mile, and he can’t stop the thought looping over and over: that you’ll realize he’s right sooner or later. And then eventually, you’ll just leave like everyone else does.

So Robby does what Robby does best. He runs. He buries it deep, distracts himself just enough to keep from falling apart. Lets it all pile up behind a steady face, hoping it won’t spill over. And if it does? That’s a mess for later.

You decide to give Robby some space—after multiple attempts to approach him and him avoiding you, and finally find him at the end of your shift, standing at the exit, hands in his pockets. You know he’s waiting for you, and he always will, even when he’s doubting himself, even when his world is crashing down. Because that’s who Robby is. He shows up for people even when he’s hurting. It’s what makes you love him so much, and it’s killing you that he’d do this to himself.

You stand next to him. “You ready to talk?”

His head lifts to look at you slowly. He sighs, rubs his hands down his face. “No, not really. But I have a feeling we’re doing this anyway.”

“You don’t get to say all of that and just walk away, Robby.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did.” You cut in, soft but firm. “That was preemptive damage control. You meant to hurt me before I could hurt you.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn't say anything, just looks down because he knows you're right.

You sigh softly, reaching for his hand. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“You think you’re too old for me? That I’d leave you for someone else? God, Robby—” You squeeze, cupping his jaw so he’ll look at you, and his own doubt in himself kills you. “I love you. I want you. You, who listens to me when I don’t even know what I need. Who calms me down with one look. Who knows me better than myself.”

He’s staring at you now, eyes locked on yours, holding his breath because he’s afraid to hope.

“I don’t care if people think we don’t ‘match.’ I don’t care if you have lines on your face or if your knees make that weird sound when you stand up. I love you. Even when you push me away because you don’t believe you’re enough—but you are, Robby. You’re more than enough.”

“I never once looked at you and wished for someone else. I look at you, and I thank God it’s you.”

His eyes are red, doubt and exhaustion evident, and he keeps staring down at your intertwined fingers—like if he lets go, he’ll lose something he can’t live without.

“Okay?” you whisper, nudging him gently.

Robby doesn't say anything at first. His eyes are glassy, the corners red, and he swallows hard like the lump in his throat might choke him if he tries to speak. He's looking at you like he doesn't know what he ever did to deserve you.

His lips part. Nothing comes out.

He tries again, and still—nothing. Not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because there's too much he wants to say. Because you just shattered every wall he’s built with so much certainty and care, and now all that’s left of him is the raw truth of how deeply and desperately he loves you.

So he just nods, a little breathless, and pulls you into his arms. He hugs you tight in front of the ER, deciding that he doesn’t care—no, fuck it, he wants everyone to see. To see that he has you now. That he has someone he cares about. Someone he loves.

“Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You finally let out a breath of relief, sinking into him, your arms tightening around his waist. “Still think this was a mistake?”

He exhales slowly, resting his chin on your head. “No. But I think I’m going to need a lot of reminding.”

You hum, lips brushing the nearest patch of skin you can reach. “I’ve got time.”

[barnes-babydoll]

Save Me Tonight | b.b 𐙚˙⋆.˚

Pairing | Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Reader 

Summary | Congressman James Barnes is your boss. When you begin to develop strong feelings for him, you decide to take a practical approach and download Tinder. However, when your date takes a turn for the worse, you find yourself desperately hoping for someone—anyone—to come to your rescue. Bucky will always be there to save you.

Warnings/tags | Between the events of CA:BNW and Thunderbolts*, fluff, slow-burn, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, sexual harassment (not by Bucky), angst, panic attack, nsfw, MDNI (18+), kissing, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, low-key switch!Bucky, protective!Bucky, breast play, fingering, save a horse; ride Bucky, mentions of violence, injuries, Bucky would let the world burn for Reader, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 17.8k

A/N | Hey, lovelies. Thank you for all the support on my last fic and 160 followers!! It motivated me to write this one, and I’m pretty proud of it. To reiterate, this is only my second fanfiction, so bear with me, I’m still learning. There’s a little something extra at the end because I’m a sucker for protective Bucky. Sorry in advance for it being so lengthy. Blame my fingers for typing away without consequence. (Hahaha, you’ll never stop me ~ my fingers) Hope you enjoy, and if you did, let me know or feel free to give any feedback:))

You were falling.

No, you were clearly standing upright, but it felt like you were falling. Whenever you looked at him, you felt like the rug was being ripped out from under you.

Him being your boss, Congressman James Barnes. He’s so handsome in a rugged, but polished way. 

Like the white button-up he’s in now. Sure, it’s sophisticated, but he has his grey suit jacket off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a bit of his forearms. A few of his top buttons are undone, leaving an immaculate view of his collarbone. That and his five o’clock shadow leave a perfect mix of rugged and polished.

The scent of his cologne is filling your nostrils—oak, amber, and lavender. It’s making your head spin. You feel crazy. You should not be breathing in your boss’s scent or staring at him like you are now.

Bucky is leaning over his desk, focused on a document. He’s chewing on the end of a pen with a furrowed brow, as if the papers had personally offended him.

You let yourself take him in for a few more seconds before you step into his office. You enter with a soft knock on his door.

”I thought I told you that’s bad for your teeth. And, if you keep scrunching your eyebrows like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” You tease, your voice is light and full of warmth.

Bucky’s eyes shoot up immediately. He gapes at you momentarily before taking the pen out of his mouth and relaxing his face. He snorts and rolls his eyes, but you can see the hint of amusement in his expression. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

“Maybe you’ll finally look your age if you get wrinkles.” You bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

Bucky shakes his head, but the corner of his lip lifts. “You’re hilarious.” His tone is laced heavily with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” you bow, your arm over your stomach as you bend. “I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if I fire you.” He tilts his head, smirking.

Your jaw drops in faux shock as you cross the room to his desk. You let out a soft laugh. “Smooth, Barnes.”

He swivels in his chair to face you; it’s evident he’s enjoying the banter. Bucky leans back in his seat, elbow on his armrest with his head propped in his hand. Fuck, he’s sexy.

You gesture to the document on his desk as your face goes serious. “If that’s stressing you out, take a break.”

He waves you off. “Nah, I’m alright. Besides, isn’t that what I’m doin’?” Bucky winks at you. Winks at you! What, is he trying to kill you? 

After a beat, you clear your throat and nervously grin. Bucky motions to you as he speaks. “What’d you need, darlin’?” 

You honestly forgot why you were even here, but you glance down at the packet in your hand, and it all comes flooding back. 

“You’re going to hate me.” Your expression turns apologetic. “But I need you to read this over and sign it.” You sheepishly hand him the packet.

”I could never hate you.” He grabs the papers, and your fingers brush. You feel sparks across your flesh. It’s like tiny fireworks coursing through your veins, threatening to reach your pounding heart. You haven’t let go yet, relishing in the bit of contact. 

You snap out of your daze and release them. Your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see the slight flush crawling up your face. You tuck a loose strand of hair that has fallen from your bun behind your ear. 

Bucky’s jaw sets as he places the packet off to the side. He coughs into his fist and locks eyes with you. “Consider it done. I’ll leave it on your desk before I go home.” 

“Perfect!” You force your voice up an octave to distract from your embarrassment. “Sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate.” 

“All good, it’s a part of my job.” 

“Yeah,” You cross your arms over your chest. “But you work too hard. Take a break.”

He arches a brow, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. “Like I said, always tellin’ me what to do.” Bucky huffs air through his nose. “I could say the same for you.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to deflect your concern. “I work a normal amount, and my break is in five, so don’t worry about me.”

”I’m always worried about you.” Bucky’s voice softens.

You can’t hear anything over your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Does he realize how those words affect you? You could die happy knowing you‘re even a thought on Bucky’s mind.

He sits up in his seat and continues. “When was the last time you went home on time and didn’t stay after hours?”

”I do go home on time.” Your voice squeaks; you’re lying.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “You’re not foolin’ me, doll.”

”Fine, if I promise to leave on time, you have to promise you’ll take a break.”

He contemplates your words and then gives you a stiff nod. “Okay, I promise.”

You grin as you stick out your pinky. He stares at you with a perplexed expression. “What’re you doin’?” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Pinky promise me.”

Bucky‘s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not twelve.”

You give him an unimpressed look. ”You’re right, you’re a hundred and something years old. Now give me your damn pinky.” 

He grunts, glaring at the ceiling as if it were the one to make him do this. He eventually concedes and interlocks his pinky with yours. 

Your fingers tingle again at his touch. You feel like a touch-starved puppy who’s finally getting some attention. If only both of his hands were on you, holding you by your waist and pulling you in to put his lips against yours-

You mentally punch yourself, so that thought doesn’t go any further. Maybe you need to get laid. Then, all these feelings for your boss will go away. This relationship is strictly professional, so you might want to find something to keep your mind off the idea of it becoming more. 

You straighten, beaming at him. You pull your hand away and turn on your heels to stride toward the door.

When you exit his office, you grab the handle, ready to close the door behind you. Before you do, you peek your head in. “Have a nice break.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky grumbles.

On your way back to your desk, you're grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. This is ridiculous. You need a distraction. You pull your phone out of your blazer and download Tinder.

This should be fun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky glances at your phone resting on his desk before refocusing on his laptop to determine where he left off with his email. Just as he gets his train of thought back-

Bzz. Bzz.

He takes a steady breath in and releases it. Why is he upset over a simple notification? He wonders why you didn’t take it with you to the bathroom. Bucky sighs and begins typing away on his laptop again.

Bzz. Bzz.

What the fuck? How many notifications can you get in a minute? He nearly wants to reach over and grab it to see, but he won’t snoop into your business. That’s unprofessional.

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his eyes as he inclines back in his chair. How can he get any work done with that thing buzzing on his desk? He hears your heels clack against the wood floor as you enter his office.

“You okay, sir?” Your pretty voice drifts through the air like a bird’s song.

Bucky’s gaze darts to you, and he gestures to your phone. “Can you get that thing under control? And I told you, stop calling me that.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You raise your hands in surrender. “I’ll get right to that, grumpy.” 

You grab your phone off the desk, glance at it, and press a button on the side. Then, you slide it into the pocket of your trousers before perching on the seat across from him.

“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, massaging his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s no excuse.”

You shrug and give him a soft smile. “It’s alright, I can handle your grumpy ass.” You motion to your pocket. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to silence my phone this morning.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky scoots forward, getting back to his email. His fingers are on the keys, but his mind is elsewhere. 

“What was that all about anyway?” He points to your pocket.

You cross one leg over the other, settling into the chair. “Oh, nothing. It’s just this guy I’ve been talking to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he has to force his face to remain blank. He shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not jealous. You're his assistant, nothing more. You deserve to have a life outside of work, outside of him. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

Lucky fucking bastard.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Bucky lightens his tone as if it doesn’t bother him, which it doesn’t. He doesn’t care about his name, but he’ll try for your sake. 

“Uh…Derek.” You mutter.

His posture goes rigid. He attempts to tease you, so you don’t notice. “What’s uh…Derek like?” 

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound. Like a soft patter of rain against a window. “I don’t know, I guess he's nice.”

”You guess? Haven’t you been on a date with him yet?” Bucky inquires.

This is entirely unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking about your relationship status. He’s just trying to get to know you, right? It’s normal for bosses to ask their employees about their lives. 

He doesn’t see you that way, though. He’d much rather label you as his equal. You do as much work as he does, if not more. He knows he could never do this job without you.

You let out a long sigh, drawing him away from his brain's constant back and forth. “No, our first date is tomorrow.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Tomorrow’s the gala, darlin’. I kinda need you there.” 

If you asked for a day off, he would be more than happy to give it to you. However, he wants to be selfish. You are the highlight of his evenings at those damn events. Whenever he feels anxious or overwhelmed by all the rich bastards around him, he seeks comfort in your company.

“I know, that’s why I invited him as my plus one. It completely slipped my mind. I should have asked you earlier this week.”

It’s not the best situation, but you’re still going with him. He hates the thought of you being around another man all night, but he’ll deal with it because it’s necessary. This is a professional relationship, and he has to accept that, even though he wishes it could be something more.

Bucky’s silent, so you continue. “I just didn’t want to be alone all night. I always appreciate it when you come over to check on me, but you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.” He opens his mouth to interrupt you, but you talk right over him.

“I thought it would be easier this way. You can focus on the political side of things, and I can keep tabs from a distance like we always do, but instead, I’ll have someone to keep me company.” 

You’re rambling, your words spilling out like water from a faucet. You’re bouncing your leg and picking at your nails—clear signs of anxiety. He recognizes these behaviors all too well, although his own anxiety manifests as a silent, gnawing feeling. In contrast, yours feels like a wildfire, all-consuming and intense.

“Doll-” Bucky tries to cut you off, to ease the tension out of your body, but your mouth is moving a mile a minute.

“Gosh, what was I thinking? It’s a dumb idea and entirely unprofessional. I’ll cancel and reschedule our date for another time.” Your gaze has shifted to a point on the wall, as if you’re dissociating. 

He stands up from his chair and drops down to one knee in front of you. You still don’t notice his existence as you keep chatting away.

“It’s not that I hate galas, I like them, but it’s easier around someone. I don’t even have to talk to them just to be near them-” You stop suddenly when Bucky places his hand on your restless leg, halting its movement.

“Hey, darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, calmly trying to pull you out of your trance. His thumb strokes your knee over the fabric of your pants. Your wide eyes focus on him, and your breathing becomes erratic.

“You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me for a second?” He demonstrates breathing in and then releasing slowly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me now.”

You follow his lead, breathing deeply into your nose and releasing a long breath out of your mouth.

”Good, do that a couple more times with me.” Bucky coaxes. You obey his instruction, slowing your breathing down.

Once he knows that you can breathe easier, he speaks again. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

”Huh?” You look utterly confused.

”It’s a trick I learned in therapy. Indulge me.” Bucky continues to gently massage your knee with soothing patterns.

You give him a tight nod. Your eyes begin wandering around the room. “Uh…your laptop, that little white cat figurine I bought you—Alpine.”

Bucky snorts; he really loves that figurine. One day, early in his term, you were discussing pets. You asked him if he would ever consider having a pet, and he replied that he couldn’t because he’s too busy. Curious about his preferences, you asked what type of pet he would choose if he had the time, and he mentioned that he liked cats. That’s how the cat figurine came to be. Of course, you were the one who named it.

”That’s two. Give me three more.”

Your attention flicks back to Bucky, and he notices how drained you look. “Your tie has blue stars on it.” 

You lock eyes with him, and a faint smile appears on your lips. "It matches your eyes, though yours are the perfect shade of blue. That color is rare; I don't think I've seen it anywhere else."

Bucky swears that his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’s ever received a compliment quite like that before. He decides he only wants you to compliment him from now on.

He clears his throat when he realizes he stared at you for too long. “One more, doll.”

You lift your gaze again, searching for something in his office. “That dumbass painting.” You point to the wall, and Bucky pivots to see. 

You’re referring to the painting with dogs around a table playing poker. He chuckles, scanning your face as if your thoughts are written there and he’s trying to read them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bucky sounds offended, but he’s suppressing a smirk.

”It doesn’t fit your aesthetic.”

“My aesthetic?” The word feels foreign on his tongue, as if he were never meant to say it.

You clarify, your hands motioning to the room around you. “Your style.”

He no longer tries to hide his amusement, grinning like you are the most interesting thing in the world. “And, what is my style, doll?”

“Dark, mysterious, clean, and you’re a minimalist.” You express it as though it’s obvious, and he can’t deny your description.

”Huh, I guess I’ll remove it then. I didn’t realize you had such disdain for dogs playin’ poker.”

”I don’t, it’s cute,” you insist. “And, don’t take it down. You put it there, and it’s your office.”

“Nope, it’s already settled.” Bucky rises from his kneeling position with a grunt. “I’m removin’ it. I didn’t put it there anyway. It was here before I became a congressman.”

Bucky grabs the pitcher of water off his desk and pours it into one of the stacked plastic cups beside it. He sits in the chair beside you and hands you the water.

“Drink.” He orders, but his voice is soft.

“Now you’re telling me what to do.” You tease, lifting the cup to your lips and gulping down the refreshing liquid.

He ignores your comment and presses on. “Wanna tell me what happened to make you have a panic attack? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No,” Your shoulders slump forward as you release a breath. You set the empty cup down on his desk before speaking again. “It was the silence. I immediately thought you were angry with me when you didn’t say anything.”

“Have I given you any reason to believe I’d be mad at you?” It’s a sincere question. You’re the only person he genuinely cares about protecting. If you think he’s upset with you, then he’s not fulfilling his role.

You shake your head, and it instantly puts his worries to rest. Bucky clasps his hands together and continues. “I’m okay with the idea of you bringin’ a plus one, I just wish you had told me-” 

You open your mouth to speak, but Bucky raises a hand to signal that he isn't finished. “I wish you had told me you don’t like being alone.”

You furrow your brow, surprised by his unexpected response. You bite your lip, searching for the right words to express your feelings.

“I’m not your responsibility.” You murmur. There’s no malice behind your words, just a woman who’s done things on your own for far too long and doesn’t want to ask for help.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky begins. “But we’re a team, and if secrets exist between us, this doesn’t work.”

He’s such a hypocrite. He’s holding back vital information from you. Bucky likes you, and no one can pry that knowledge from him. Feelings are fleeting; whatever he feels towards you will fade eventually. Right?

You smile sweetly, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like the sun has entered the room. You’re bright and blinding. You’ll destroy him from the inside out if he looks for too long. 

He doesn’t mind the idea of that, though. He was yours to take apart anyway. How can he move on when you look like that, and you make him feel like this?

“You’re right. No more secrets.”

“Damn right, I’m always right.” His expression is all smug, which prompts you to roll your eyes and giggle, but it seems somewhat frail.

Bucky gets up from his spot. “You should go home. I got it from here.”

You stand to meet his eyes, defiance etched on your face. “No, I’m fine. I was going to help you-”

He cuts you off. "If you want to help me, go home. Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll see you at the gala, and you can introduce me to uh…Derek.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You are not making that a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making that a thing.” Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Now, go before I fire you.”

You narrow your gaze. “Fine, but you can’t keep threatening to fire me when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nah, I like seein’ the look on your face every time I say it.” His smirk is wide and arrogant. You glare at him in response, and it’s adorable.

He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Do you need a ride home?”

Your expression softens. “No, I’ll manage.” He gives you a stiff nod.

You amble towards the door, but pause, peeking over your shoulder. “Thank you, Barnes. For everything.”

Bucky staggers slightly. He would do anything for you. He doesn’t need a thank you in return, but it sounds too good coming from your lips. He’s staring at you like a damn fool, undoubtedly with hearts in his eyes.

”Of course, doll.” He mumbles. You hum and proceed forward, stepping out of the door and out of Bucky’s view.

As soon as you leave, he flops back down in the chair. He lets out a long sigh, metal hand running down his features. 

How will he manage a whole night with another man's arm around you? 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and patiently waiting. 

No, pacing by the bar and fixing your hair for the tenth time tonight is not what anyone would describe as patience. You have never been a patient person, and you can thank your anxiety for that.

You arrived at the venue about half an hour ago, an hour before the gala even starts. You like to be on time or extremely early. There’s no in between. 

The real reason you arrived early was to meet Derek before the event. You wanted to chat and get acquainted before everyone else arrived. 

He’s late. You would understand if he had sent a quick text saying he would be there soon, but you haven’t received anything in an hour.

You spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth. The bartender noticed your nerves and slid a glass of water your way. You’ve been sipping on it while trying to fix your curled strands. This is why you usually wear your hair up—so you don’t have to worry about adjusting it repeatedly. Then there’s your dress, which you keep fussing with.

You wore a navy satin dress with a plunging neckline that revealed just enough cleavage. The back was mostly open, featuring crisscross straps. The dress hugged your curves perfectly and accentuated your figure, making your ass look fantastic. You exuded elegance along with just the right amount of sultriness.

It wasn’t your typical style, and the thought of revealing too much of yourself made you feel insecure. Since you hadn’t been on a date in a while, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something bold. Now, you worry that after putting in so much effort, he might end up standing you up.

You continue to drink your water, letting it cool you. You almost wish you had something a bit stronger to ease the tension in your body.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you as a warm hand brushes your arm. You quickly turn your head around.

Damn. Congressman Barnes.

He looks like snow cast in shadow under the midnight sky, with the snowflakes illuminated only by the moonlight. He’s wearing a crisp white button-up shirt over a black tuxedo and dark dress pants. Although his bow tie is crooked, it doesn’t matter at all. Bucky wears suits every day, but tonight he looks incredibly handsome with his hair slicked back and his blue eyes shining.

Shit. You’re gawking at him. To distract him from your flustered state, you flash him a wide smile. His warm flesh hand rests gently on your arm, but after a moment, he acknowledges that he is still touching you, and he lets his hand fall away.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth several times before spitting it out. “You look…lovely.” 

Your smile falters slightly, and you feel your breath become heavier in your lungs from that simple word. Sure, he has complimented you before, but this feels different. You can't quite put your finger on why, though.

“Thank you.” Your voice is delicate, and your grin turns genuine, unlike the showy one from before. “You don't look too bad yourself.”

Bucky huffs air out of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes seem to penetrate your very being, as if he's tearing through your flesh to truly understand every part of you. He knows your most vulnerable sides and didn't flinch. So, what’s the harm in him seeing everything?

You turn your gaze away from his eyes, afraid of losing yourself in them. Your eyes shift to his neck as you take a step forward until you're directly in front of him.

“You look perfect, but can I make one minor adjustment?” 

He gives you a firm nod in response. You extend your arms to grip both sides of his bow tie and adjust it to your liking.

“Great,” Bucky grumbles. “I can’t even dress myself properly.” 

“You did fine, it was just a bit crooked. Sometimes all a man needs is a woman’s touch to look presentable.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. 

After adjusting, you rest your hand over the middle of the bow tie. Glancing up into his piercing blues, you realize how close you are.

You swear he’s reading every one of your thoughts as if they’re on full display. It’s intimidating, yet his eyes tell you he’ll treasure them, keeping them tucked away in his mind in a special spot just for you.

His cologne envelops you like a warm hug, drawing you in as if urging you to kiss him. You find yourself captivated by the scent, which clouds your mind and impairs your logical thinking.

Instead, you gently pat him and take a step back, admiring your work. “Now you’re ready for your close-up, Congressman Barnes.”

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes. “Thanks, doll.” He peers around the room. “Where’s uh…Derek?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looks puzzled, so you clarify, “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t shown up or even sent a text.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, but releases it as if the tension was never there. “Would you like me to wait with you?”

You wave your hand as if to shoo him away. "No, please, go mingle."

He seems like he might press the issue, but gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Well, as soon as he gets here, I’m givin’ him a piece of my mind for makin’ a pretty girl wait.”

He’s stolen the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping for just a bit of air to keep from suffocating. It feels as if he hasn’t realized that his sweet words are slowly killing you. Then, he walks away as if nothing had happened.

Air rushes into your lungs again, overwhelming you as if it’s choking you. You’re panting like you ran a marathon, yet your feet remain planted in the same spot.

You pull out your phone from your purse and shoot Derek another text.

I’m at the bar whenever you get here.

You need him here now. The whole reason you put yourself out there is to distract your heart from liking someone you can’t be with. And once again, Bucky has turned your world upside down. You must avoid your feelings before they sink their teeth into your vulnerable, beating heart.

Minutes go by, and finally, you see a familiar figure moving around the ballroom. Derek is even more attractive in person. He carries himself with confidence, and his presence fills the space, as if his frame were larger than it actually is.

He is wearing a casual beige polo shirt loosely tucked into mocha-colored trousers, paired with loafers. His dark hair is perfectly coiffed around his eyes, and the sleeves of his shirt fit tightly around his biceps.

It seems he wore it intentionally for that reason, and you don’t mind. You can appreciate some muscle; there’s nothing wrong with showcasing something you worked hard for.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything for you. You matched with him because of his impressive profile. He works as a financial manager, which shows he is skilled with money. He has a dog named Luna, who is a husky. In his free time, he has hosted multiple charity events and volunteers at homeless shelters.

Derek seems like the perfect guy on paper. From your conversations with him, he checks all the right boxes: he’s kind, caring, and communicates well. The only downside is that he left you waiting for almost two hours. However, you believe in not judging someone based on first impressions, so you’re genuinely excited to see how this date unfolds.

You eventually wave him over. “Derek, hey!”

He immediately responds to the sound of your voice, greeting you with an easy smile as he checks you out.

Being examined by an objectively handsome man should elicit some feelings, right? You might expect butterflies in your stomach, your skin to heat, or your heart to skip a beat. But it does nothing for you. Not like when Bucky even glances your way, then your palms become instantly sweaty.

Stop thinking about Bucky and focus on the man approaching you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a quick hug while you drape your arms around his neck. You might feel rigid in his embrace, like stiff cardboard. As he steps back, you remind yourself to relax and not let your nerves get the better of you.

Derek leans back to get the full view of you up close. “Damn, you’re hotter in person.”

Oh, what an interesting way to start a conversation. You can't help but think of Bucky and how gently he spoke about your appearance, as if it were difficult for him to express what he was seeing in just a few words. In contrast, Derek is quite bold. Perhaps that's a good thing?

”Thank you, you’re very handsome in person.”

He smirks at you like he knows it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He pushes his hair back and deliberately flexes his arm muscles. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

Well, that’s vague. It’s fine, you’re over it. At least he’s here now.

“All good,” you gesture toward the bar seats. “Would you like to sit?” He nods, climbing onto one of the stools, while you take the one next to him.

“What‘re we drinking?” Derek claps his hands and rubs them together. 

“I’m on the job, so unfortunately, it's just water for me. You can go ahead, it's an open bar.” 

“Come on,” he pokes you in the side. “Just one, I won’t tell anyone.”

You lightly giggle. “No, really, I shouldn’t.”

He rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

Derek turns to the bartender and orders a rum and Coke. Your water is refilled. You turn in your seat, resting your jaw on your hand, and wait for the conversation to flow.

As the night progressed, the date hadn’t. Derek only seemed to want to talk about himself, which would have been fine if he had included you in the conversation. Instead, he spoke right over you and didn't ask about you once.

You nod along and actively listen. He takes full advantage of the open bar while you stay hydrated. He is not at all what you expected and is completely different from the man you texted daily.

There’s a beat of silence, and you take that opportunity to finally get a word in. “I read on your profile that you do charity work. What charity did you last host for?”

Derek shrugs. “No idea, my dad is in charge of all that shit.”

“Huh?” You give him a perplexed expression.

“My dad runs the company where I work and organizes the charity events. Sometimes I don't even bother showing up.” He chuckles as if it’s funny, but you don’t laugh.

You change the topic since he doesn't know anything about it. "What kind of volunteer work do you do at homeless shelters?"

“That was a lie.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Look, it's tough out here for us men. Sometimes, you have to lie to even get a date with these self-absorbed women.”

You suppress your growing anger. Why would someone lie about that? You feel like you need to make an excuse to run to the bathroom.

Derek leans closer to you. “But you’re different, sweetheart.” His hand wraps around your waist, and you can smell alcohol on his breath.

He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Maybe we can find a private room in this place.” Derek’s hand drifts down your back and he grabs your ass.

Your body tenses up, and you feel extremely uncomfortable. He just squeezed your ass as if he had the right to do so. You hadn’t given any indication that such behavior was acceptable. Even if you had, he should have asked for permission before touching you in that way.

You hardly know each other. You know almost everything about him, but he knows very little about you. You’re trying to lean away from him to breathe air that isn’t his, but he’s holding you close.

You almost convince yourself that this is what you want, but your body rejects the idea. The thought of having sex with him makes you feel physically ill. He’s drunk and would only be using you for his own pleasure, which wouldn’t be enjoyable for you at all. You crave meaningful sex, not a brief distraction to forget about your boss.

Your breathing is shallow, and you begin to shake. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Silently, you pray for anyone to come to your rescue. Although you could push him off you, you can’t find the strength; you feel frozen.

Save me, please, you think. You don’t know exactly who you’re pleading to, but you hope someone can somehow hear you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky has been watching you all night, especially when Derek arrived. He was supposed to go over and introduce himself to your date, but he didn't have the courage to do it. 

He’s fine with watching from a distance. He doesn’t have to hear you laugh at Derek’s jokes or look at him with your beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He places himself so that he can catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye during every conversation he has with the wealthy assholes. He hardly pays attention to what they are saying because he is concerned about you. While he adds a few remarks to each topic, he isn’t genuinely interested in their responses.

Bucky becomes especially interested in your date when Derek leans in closer. He clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. He almost looks away, but notices how uncomfortable you appear. Though Bucky is quite a distance away from you, he knows exactly what he saw.

You attempt to pull away from Derek, but he only draws you closer. Meanwhile, Bucky has vanished without a word to the person he was talking to. He moves through the crowd with purpose, as if on a mission that no one can interrupt.

Derek leans back to examine your face, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Bucky feels a wave of nausea; he can tell you're not interested in Derek's advances because you appear to be panicking internally.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands behind you. Derek eventually lowers his hand, and the tension instantly leaves your body. You glance back at Bucky, and your breathing becomes lighter.

”Can I borrow you for a second?” Bucky nearly grits the words out through his teeth.

“Sure.” You turn in your seat and begin to get off, but Bucky is there with a hand out to help you. You grin in appreciation and use his hand to leap down.

After you’re down, Bucky’s hand falls back to his side. You turn to Derek while motioning towards Bucky. “This is my boss, Congressman Barnes.” You swivel around to Bucky. “Barnes, this is Derek.”

Bucky nods in Derek’s direction but avoids making eye contact. Derek stumbles out of his seat, clearly drunk and struggling to hold his liquor.

“Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Derek slurs as he stands in front of Bucky, extending his hand. “Let me just say, your campaign was inspiring.”

Bucky takes a moment to push down the raging fire crawling up his throat. “Thanks.” He grunts and takes Derek’s outstretched hand with his metal one. His grasp is unyielding, as if one wrong move could snap all the bones in Derek’s hand.

“Shit,” Derek growls as he grimaces in pain. ”Strong grip you have there.”

Bucky grins mischievously as he claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. "Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength." He then releases his hand and steps back, offering his arm to you.

You link your arm with his, resting your hand on his forearm. “I’ll be right back,” you assure your date, but he secretly clutches his hand as if the bones have shattered.

Bucky guides you away, his expression marked by irritation. You glance up at him and squeeze his bicep with your free hand. “What’s wrong, grumpy?”

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Bucky mutters, keeping his eyes forward, as if you’ll see the reason swimming there if he looks at you.

“I don’t know; you tell me.” You stop, making Bucky halt and glance in your direction. Your eyes show concern. “Are the rich bastards stressing you out?” 

You reach up, placing your thumb on Bucky’s forehead, rubbing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation as he lets you melt away the tension with your touch.

You hum and remove your thumb from its spot when you register that all the strain in his forehead is long gone. Bucky peels his eyes open again as he speaks. “What stress, darlin’?”

You giggle, and it lights up the entire room. “I swear it was there a second ago.” You tease, patting his forearm. “What’d you need me for, Barnes?” 

Shit. Bucky didn’t fully consider the consequences; he just wanted to help you escape that uncomfortable situation.

So, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I need a second opinion. Could you listen in on the conversation? Let me know what’s worthy of my attention.”

“Of course, lead the way.” You answer with warmth in your voice.

Bucky guides you towards a group of people in suits engaged in conversation. You both join the discussion, and Bucky introduces you. You shake a few hands and receive a warm welcome. As the conversation resumes, you actively participate in it.

Bucky is impressed by your enthusiasm for political topics. Words come easily to you, and you have a wealth of knowledge. He always knew you were intelligent, but witnessing you in action is captivating. 

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, including families, properties, and everyone’s golf score. You and Bucky don’t participate in that section of the discussion. 

You angle your mouth to Bucky’s ear and whisper. “I should get back, but let me know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t want you to leave. Things are easier with you around. Bucky can’t let you return to that jerk, who’s drunk and trying to take advantage of you.

Bucky gently grabs your arm before you leave and leads you away from the suits for a private conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

”Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You respond, trying to avert Bucky’s gaze.

”Darlin’,” He begins. “I saw him touch you.”

You shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. “That’s typically how things go on dates.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that.”

”Please, stay out of it.” Your voice is small, like you don’t want to argue with him right now.

“What if he tries that shit again?” Bucky doesn’t mean to raise his voice at you, but he loathes this situation. He wants more than anything to protect you, even if you're not his to protect.

“Then, I’ll handle it. I’m very capable of doing things myself.” You match his tone, clearly showing that you’re getting upset with him.

He wants to avoid making you angry, so he tries to make his voice sound lighter and more compassionate. “I know you’re capable, but I want you to be safe. I’m not convinced you're safe with him.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and Bucky sees this as a signal to continue. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't waste your time on him. He disrespected you, and I don’t think he deserves a second chance.”

“Well, I believe everyone deserves a second chance.” You state calmly.

Bucky scoffs. “Not everyone, doll.”

You don’t miss a beat. “You did.”

Bucky's shoulders slump as he reflects on your words. He has always struggled to believe he deserves forgiveness for his past. Although he knows, on some level, that he had no other choice, that doesn't erase the lives he took and the families he destroyed.

Those feelings will never fade, no matter how often he’s told ‘it wasn’t him’. He still has to live with the screams and gore he witnessed with his own hands. When he relives those memories, it’s his hand that is doing the killing, even if it’s dark now instead of the silver one in his nightmares. 

It's not an out-of-body experience where he watches the soldier do his bidding. No, it's all Bucky; that's clear to him. Now, he's questioning his judgment all because of you. With just two simple words and that twinkle in your eye, you convinced him that he deserved a second chance and that he is worthy of the life he’s living now.

How does she do that? That must be a superpower or something.

“Listen,” you begin again. “I appreciate your concern, but please let me do this.”

Bucky’s hand drops from your arm as if he's enchanted. He doesn't want to tell you what to do; God knows he's had enough of that in his lifetime. He shouldn't do that to you either.

“You’re going to give me wrinkles with all this stress you’re puttin’ me through, darlin’.” His gaze narrows at you.

“Aw, you poor thing,” you smirk. “Seriously, please don’t stress. You're first on my contact list, if anything goes wrong.”

First on your contact list? Bucky won’t dwell on that too much, for his own sake. He rolls his eyes, and you chuckle at his disapproval. 

You step towards him and quickly kiss his cheek. Bucky practically melts at the brief contact. As you pull away, your eyes shine with forming tears. “Thank you for always looking out for me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

Bucky is stunned into silence as he stares at you, dumbfounded, as if you just told him the world is falling apart. He wants to say it's the opposite—that he doesn’t deserve you—but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he’s choking on them.

You smile at him as if you can read his thoughts, and one of the tears rolls down your face. You turn and stride away. Before he knows it, the crowd has engulfed you.

There's a sharp pain in his chest. For some reason, he feels like he just lost you. Bucky should have fought harder for you. Although he doesn’t deserve you, he would treat you right.

If it were Bucky instead, he would have a hand on the small of your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and asking you to dance. He would take his time with you, making you feel like you were something special, because you are special.

Now he has to spend the next hour drifting in and out of meaningless conversations while he worries about you. 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you return to the bar. You’ve never felt so deeply cared for in your life, and you refuse to take it for granted. Already, you’re planning ways to show your gratitude to Bucky, making sure he knows how much you appreciate him and everything he has done for you.

You spot Derek still at the bar where you left him. His head is resting in his hand, and it looks like he has switched to water. Sneaking up behind him, you say with a hint of amusement in your tone, “Did you drink them dry of all their alcohol?”

Derek spins around, and upon seeing you, he bursts out laughing. “No, I thought this would help me sober up faster.” He lifts his glass.

You hum in response. Derek jumps down from his stool and faces you. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. First, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk on a date. Work was frustrating me, and you were making me nervous. I thought the alcohol might help, but I realize now that it only made things worse.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Second, I talked about myself the whole time. That was not fair to you. I didn’t even ask you anything; I just rambled on and on about shit that doesn’t matter.”

“Third,” he rubs the back of his neck. “The biggest mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. That was highly inappropriate, and I should have asked you before even thinking about it.”

Wow, you weren't expecting that, but you're pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t justify what he did, but at least he’s taking accountability. 

“I think we need a do-over. What do you think?” You offer.

Derek seems relieved by your words. “That sounds great.”

You give him a kind smile. “How about a walk?” 

He glances down at your attire. “In heels?”

You snort. “I’ll take them off.”

“I’ll carry them for you.” He winks at you. You already feel more at ease with this new start.

Derek motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you do. You stroll side by side through the hallway. His fingers gently brush against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You feel warmth in your chest and heat rising in your cheeks.

He pauses by the coat room and motions to it. “I gotta get my jacket quick.” You nod for him to go ahead, and he steps inside. 

You lean against the doorframe as you pull your phone out of your purse. “I should send my boss a text before we leave.” You swiftly type something out and send it to Bucky.

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Derek grabs his leather jacket and throws it on. “I thought you’d never get away from him.”

You put your phone back in your purse, and your brow furrows. “Hmm?”

“I thought he was going to hold you hostage all night.”

“Well, he is kind of my job.” You shrug with a grin on your lips.

“I know that,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a nice guy, he just asks a lot of you.”

“I don’t think he asks enough of me, honestly. I have the easiest job.” 

He tilts his head. “You don’t think he’s demanding or testy?”

“Not at all. Sure, he sometimes gets grumpy, but I know he means well,” you admit. Derek quirks a brow, then dips his head and shakes it. He stays quiet for a moment.

You press the matter because you're curious. “You seem like you want to say something else.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek waves you off.

“Come on, just say it.” Your tone is playful..

Derek takes a deep breath as he contemplates whether to say what’s on his mind. “I mean, he’s kind of a murderer.”

Your body stiffens, and you frown; you are entirely disgusted by the fact that he said that.

"No, he's not." Your voice is firm and unwavering.

“You’re defending him? I get that you work for him, but you don’t have to follow him blindly.”

You scoff. “Of course, I’m defending him. He was brainwashed for fuck’s sake and he didn’t have a choice. How would you like to be stripped of your choices and used as a weapon?”

Your blood is boiling. Why were you so naive to think that this guy was anything other than a jerk? Derek disrespected you, and now he's doing the same to Bucky. You should have listened to your boss when he advised you not to give this guy another chance.

“You believe that shit? He almost broke my fucking hand, shaking it. That seems like a conscious mind, freely being violent, to me.” Derek shouts.

You could laugh because you weren’t aware that Bucky tried to break his hand. You thought Derek was exaggerating, but now you realize he wasn’t.

You’re finished with this discussion. You need to walk away before you become ‘freely violent.’ You start to march away, but stop and turn around when Derek speaks again.

“Hold on, I see what this is. You follow Barnes around like a lost puppy because you want something from him.”

You let out a dry laugh. You can’t believe you’re still listening to this guy like he has anything relevant to say.

Derek gets closer to you again. “No wait, I got it. You’re trying to get in his pants for a promotion.”

Your heart pounds with anger as you glare at Derek. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I truly love my job, asshole.”

“No one wants to be an assistant.” 

“Well, this date is over.” You stomp down the hallway, attempting to get some distance from him.

“It’s a shame.” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s giving you a condescending smile. “You would have been a decent fuck.”

Your hands ball into fists tightly, and your fingernails dig into your palms. You shouldn’t even be entertaining Derek, but you yell back anyway. “That’s your problem, huh? You think with your two inch dick rather than your brain.”

You can tell that bothered him. “You’re just mad because I figured you out.” You roll your eyes, and your feet shift forward again. “That’s right. Go cry to your boss and beg him to fuck you.”

You keep moving, unbothered by his shouts. Derek continues, much to your dismay, “I knew you were desperate, but I didn’t realize you were also a slut.”

Your movements falter slightly. Out of everything Derek said, that’s what affects you the most. It feels heavy on your chest. Everything he mentioned about you and Bucky feels like weights tied to your ankles, dragging you down. Your vision blurs as tears prick your eyes.

You hear a door shut in the distance, and you hope that means he’s gone because you can’t hold back your tears any longer. You need to sit down, but the waterfall of tears obstructs your vision. You find a wall to lean against and slowly slide down into a sitting position.

You pull your knees to your chest and sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for air in a broken cry.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Bucky has been standing in the same spot for several minutes, staring at your text. He’s thinking about whether to find you and take you home or stay put like you asked him to.

He struggles to follow your precise instructions; stay out of it. He strides out of the room like a tracking dog following a scent. As soon as he exits the ballroom, he hears it.

Muffled cries fill his ears, and he knows it’s you without even looking. Your back is against the wall, but you’re curled in on yourself. He tentatively steps over to you, so he doesn’t startle you.

“Darlin’?” Bucky’s tone is tender, full of sympathy. He’s never seen you like this, and it breaks his heart.

Your head snaps up from your knees. Your red, tired eyes dart over Bucky’s form. You quickly wipe the tears from your face and force a weak smile.

You point your thumb toward the ballroom. “I’ll be in; I just need a minute.” Your voice is thick with unshed tears.

“No,” he declares as he walks over to you, positioning himself against the wall while maintaining a little distance to give you space. He grabs the fabric of his dress pants at his thighs and adjusts them before sitting down beside you.

Bucky stretches out his legs and lets the quiet settle between you, interrupted only by your sniffles. After a while, he decides to continue his statement. “You’re going to sit with me for as long as you need.”

Once you can breathe clearly and the occasional tear falls, you mumble, “You should have broken his hand.”

Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle. “You saw that?”

“Sort of, but…Derek confirmed my suspicions.” It’s a struggle for you to get his name out as if it’s strangling you from the inside.

He clenches his jaw, furious that Derek hurt you and that Bucky could have prevented it. But then again, you’re stubborn, and he knows you would eventually find a way to return to your date, even if he physically tried to hold you back. Yes, he’s a super soldier, but he doesn’t stand a chance against you when your heart is set on something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not right now, maybe later.” You wipe a stray tear from your jaw and rest your chin on your knee, examining a point on the opposite wall.

Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't know what to say or do. When he feels pain, he prefers to sit in silence. Maybe that’s what you want, so he chooses not to speak.

You break the stillness with a question. “You know how we said no secrets?”

He nods his head even though your focus isn’t on him. “Yeah.”

You slowly turn your head to meet his gaze. The color of your eyes is dim, and the skin around them is swollen.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Your voice cracks as if there’s a threat of more tears yet to come.

Bucky's throat tightens as he watches you. The sight is like witnessing a butterfly losing its wings yet struggling to stay aloft. You keep falling, desperately pleading for someone to save you from your impending doom. Bucky has been there for you, arms wide open; he’s just waiting for you to notice him.

“Could we do our post-gala recap tonight instead of tomorrow morning?” you ask, sounding uncertain, and his heart shatters.

“Works for me, doll.” Bucky’s lips lift at the corners. You return his smile, albeit smaller. At least he got that much. 

“Damnit,” his eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. “I didn’t bring my keys for the building. I can swing by my apartment-”

You interrupt him. “We can go to your apartment instead.” Your following words tumble out of you like you can’t hold back your growing anxiety. “If that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” He reassures, and your expression softens.

You nod and relax against the wall behind you. “I think I’m going to wait in my car, if that’s alright with you. I don’t feel like being in a crowd.”

Bucky scoffs in amusement; he wouldn't leave you alone in your car, especially not like this. You just admitted that you didn't want to be by yourself.

“No,” he stands up to his full height. You were baffled, staring at him with wide eyes. Your expression read What do you mean ‘no’, but you were hesitant to question his authority.

He offers you his hand and clears up your confusion. “We’re leaving.”

“Now?” You inspect his outstretched hand and then his face.

”Yes, now. You’re ridin’ with me.” 

“But, my car-”

Bucky cuts you off. “I’ll bring you back.” He waves his extended hand around. “Take my damn hand.”

You comply, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Always telling me what to do,” you smirk, and he can't help but chuckle. You brush off invisible dirt from your dress and look up at him.

Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even with your exhausted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You’re like a sunset, with colors in full vibrancy. Reds and oranges swirl together to create the masterpiece that is you.

“Is there something on my face? Oh shit, did I cry all my mascara off? The packaging said it was waterproof.” You grumble as if you’re furious about your makeup. He can just see you writing a lengthy review about how you bawled your eyes out, and the mascara didn’t hold up.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, your mascara is fine." He doesn't know why, but he admits the truth about why he was openly gawking at you: "I was staring because you're beautiful."

You blink multiple times at him, then he notices your cheeks flush. “James, I—I know I look like a wreck. Don’t lie,” you stammer out.

Bucky smirks at the sound of his first name. He rarely hears you call him anything other than ‘Barnes,’ but when you're serious or scolding him, you use ‘James.’ He lives for those moments, just to hear you say his name that way.

He shrugs. "Logically, you should. But you're beautiful, no matter the circumstances."

You’re attempting to suppress a smile, but failing. “You can’t say things like that.”

A charming smirk appears on Bucky’s face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you’re searching for the best answer, “you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you hold it up.” He winks at you.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. You playfully roll your eyes and slap his arm. “Are you going to keep flirting, or are you taking me to your apartment?”

Is that what he was doing? Talking to you like this felt so effortless that he didn’t even realize he was flirting. He enjoyed it and wanted to continue. He liked seeing you all flustered—the way you tried to pretend you didn’t like it, but your flushed cheeks gave you away.

Bucky tilts his head. “I can do both. I’m a great multitasker.”

Your lips part and you suck in a breath. Now he’s thinking that little comment he just made could have a double meaning. Maybe he intended it that way because you definitely took it like that. And, damn, now he’ll be thinking about it the whole way home.

“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” You reply in a mocking tone.

Bucky could do this forever with you and never tire of it. However, he knows that this is extremely inappropriate. No matter how much he wants you, he understands he can’t have you.

He wants to be the person who makes you laugh, comforts you on tough days when you're feeling anxious, kisses your shoulder when he wakes up beside you, and holds you in his arms to relieve his stress, as you melt away his tension. He craves all the cheesy, romantic moments that come with being in a relationship with you.

But you are unattainable. You’re his assistant. Bucky feels like all the other creepy political figures who fantasize about being with someone who works for them. They get a sickening power high from it. 

That’s not how he sees it, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Unlike the other wealthy assholes who view their employees as mere possessions, he perceives you as something precious that he doesn’t deserve. Perhaps that’s why he believes he can’t have you — because he thinks you’re too good for him.

“Ready, darlin’?”He eventually asks. You nod, still grinning. If he sees you smile like that one more time, he might not be able to stop his common sense from flying out the window.

Bucky offers you his arm, and you wrap yours through the opening, gripping his bicep as he leads you out of the building. He calls for the car to come around and helps you into it, placing a protective hand over your head to prevent you from bumping it.

Once he knows you’re safely inside, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feelings within him to stop burrowing into his heart. It’s like a festering wound he can never quite be free of. 

One hell of a wish that is. He’ll never get rid of these maddening feelings for you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The car ride to Bucky’s apartment is mostly quiet, which is fine with you because your mind is keeping you thoroughly entertained.

Congressman James Barnes was flirting, and he was flirting with you. He called you beautiful and meant it, even when your face was streaked with dried tears. He winked at you, and you felt your stomach flutter instantly.

You were foolish to think one date would erase these feelings, because now that you know him, no man will ever compare. You’ll constantly hold everyone to the standard set by Bucky.

Bucky's driver approaches his apartment building, which appears to be quite expensive based on its exterior. You know that this apartment was provided to him by the government upon his return to the States; it was part of the deal for his pardon. He received a nice apartment situated high enough that no one would disturb him, but the government was keeping a close eye on him.

It made you feel nauseous just thinking about it, even though he wasn’t being monitored closely at the moment. It was absurd that he had been under constant surveillance in a home he never chose. Hydra had taken away all of Bucky’s choices, so why couldn't he even decide something as simple as where he lives?

You open the door to get out, but you hear another door slam, causing you to stop. Then, Bucky jogs around the car to stand in front of you with his hand out. Ever the gentleman.

You smile and take his human hand to help you out of the car. His metal hand rests gently atop your head again as you exit. You feel like a princess with this kind of treatment.

Bucky subtly waves to his driver as the car pulls away. He then guides you inside, takes you to the elevator, and directs you down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, you were surprised by how charming and modern it was. It wasn't at all what you had imagined, but you liked it.

“Make yourself at home.” Bucky passes you and wanders into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water, please,” you murmur, still taking in your surroundings. You take off your heels at the door, not to be polite, but because your feet are killing you.

You pad into the kitchen after him, and he’s putting ice in a glass. The kitchen is bright white with a splash of color. There’s an island with stools lined up along it, and that’s where you decide to ‘make yourself at home’.

You lift yourself onto the stool, and Bucky slides your water glass over the counter. You nod in thanks and take a sip. He then disappears down the hallway that you’re certain leads to his room.

He returns without his tuxedo jacket, bowtie, and shoes. His collar is unbuttoned, and he's rolling up his sleeves as he rounds the island to sit beside you. Every time you see him like this, you can't help but internally freak out.

You nearly choke on your water, and he’s there with a hand gently patting you on the back. “You okay there?”

“Of course, just drank it too fast.” You nervously smile, hoping he misses your lie. Bucky drops his hand when you stop coughing.

You need to change the subject because you have to stop thinking about how dreamy he looks. “Where would you like to start?” 

You take your purse from your shoulder and place it on the surface to dig for your phone. “I don’t have my laptop, but I can write your thoughts down on my notes app and transfer them to a document later.”

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist, pausing your action. “We can do that tomorrow. Relax, talk to me.”

You glance up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Breathing feels pointless because you can't seem to exhale. His eyes are shifting in a way that makes it seem like his smoky blue gaze conveys something entirely different from what his mouth is saying, but you're struggling to understand their message.

He releases your wrist, and you come back to reality. You set your purse off to the side as you inhale oxygen properly again. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened?” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready to talk.

You take a deep breath and begin to explain. “When I returned to the bar, he had sobered up a bit and apologized to me. I foolishly believed he was genuinely sorry and asked if he would like to start over.”

You let your eyes fall away from him, examining the drops of condensation running down your glass. “But, then, he insulted you, and that apology didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly. “What’d he say?” You shake your head, unable to tell him the vile words bouncing around in your skull.

”It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He insists.

You meet his gaze once more, and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Not out of pity for him, but because it pains you to hear someone speak negatively about your favorite person. The most heartbreaking part is that the worst of it comes from his own mind.

Hydra is long gone, but now he is torturing himself. You wish you could take away all that pain and those awful thoughts, replacing them with something pure.

From your experience, you understand that the healing process is a slow journey. It requires time and energy to rebuild your mental and emotional state and regain a sense of humanity. You want to be the person he trusts enough to share that process with.

Bucky doesn’t need fixing because he wasn’t broken to begin with; he needs someone to confide in and rely on. You want to be that person who’s there for him through it all, just as he is for you.

“That’s the problem. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice quivers slightly. 

He scans your face like he’s trying to find the lie hidden in your features, but he won’t find one.

“Okay,” he lets out a long sigh. “You’re right.”

“Absolutely, I am.” You agree matter-of-factly, then deepen your voice to impersonate Bucky: “I’m always right.”

He scoffs. “I don’t sound like that.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. ”I know, I’m working on it.”

Bucky smirks, shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. His expression becomes serious again. “What else did he say?”

You wave him off. “It’s not important.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a disapproving look. You roll your eyes and say, “Why do you need to know?”

He shrugs. “For research purposes.” 

You purse your lips, but eventually concede. “He suggested that I was trying to…get in your pants for a promotion.” 

His jaw ticks, but you reluctantly carry on. “On top of that, he called me desperate and a slut, so truly the highlight of my week.” You release a dry laugh.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems he might break a tooth. His hands are balled into fists, and the raging fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Don’t.” You warn.

“What?” He grits his teeth.

“Don’t get mad. He’s not worth the energy.”

“Not mad.” He growls. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Well, I’m over it, you should be too-”

Bucky interrupts you. “Hold on, I’m plotting his murder in my mind.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you stifle a giggle. “Okay, now I’m at the part where I hide the body.”

You playfully slap his arm, and his eyes shoot open, amusement evident on his face. “Are you making me an accomplice to your imaginary crimes?” you tease.

“Who said imaginary?” He smirks. You laugh, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. You shouldn’t find planning a murder comical, but it feels nice to laugh again.

After a beat of silence, Bucky speaks. “Can I ask why you went back to him?”

Your smile fades as you lean forward, resting your elbow on the surface in front of you and propping your head in your hand. "If this is your way of saying 'I told you so,' just save it. I already know I was being stupid."

“That’s not-” he blurts, but cuts himself off to start over. “I just wanna know. And, you’re not stupid, don’t say that.”

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts before revealing yourself to him. "I haven't been on a date in a couple of years, and I had a lot riding on this one. I know it sounds naive, but I thought it would be a one-and-done situation."

You chew on the skin of your bottom lip. "When he touched me, I thought I was the one with the problem. I believed there was something mentally wrong with me for not wanting him. But I was just making excuses for him, as I always do for horrible men who don't deserve my mercy."

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on you, intently listening and absorbing every word. This support is something you didn’t realize you needed, but it’s helping tremendously, and you hope he understands that.

You sit up a little taller in your seat, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you as you open up to him. “I tried dating before, and it was terrible—one bad date after another. I made a silent vow to myself that the next guy I met, I would settle for, because I’m tired of coming home alone. I want love, and if that makes me desperate, so be it.”

You give him a weak smile as you finish your rambling. You avert your gaze and start glancing around the kitchen, suddenly embarrassed.

“Look at me,” he orders in a soft voice. You find his eyes again, and they’re earnest. “Never settle, darlin’. You are something special, and you deserve nothing less than perfect.”

You're looking at him as if he has cleared your cloudy sky and made the sun shine brighter. You don't know how to react or what to say. Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, as if it's trying to escape.

Bucky clears his throat and hops off the stool. He veers around the island and picks up an old-fashioned radio that you notice for the first time.

“What are you doing?” you mumble. He turns the dial, and the crackle of the radio fills the air. The noise fades as he finds the station he was searching for. Right away, you recognize that the music is from the forties, instantly bringing a smile to your lips.

“I found a station that still plays music from my era some time ago. I listen to it occasionally, and it takes me back.” A broad smile lights up your face as you notice his relaxed demeanor, as if the mere sound of the music puts him at ease. 

Bucky rounds the counter again, standing in front of you. He offers you his flesh hand with a charming smirk. You tilt your head. “What?”

He nods to his hand. “I’m showing you how a real date should go.” 

Your stomach does somersaults and you bite your lip. “Are you smooth-talking me, Barnes?”

“Maybe, is it working?” His voice is deep and suave.

“You know it is.”

He extends his hand further. “Dance with me.” 

You take his hand, and he helps you down. He leads you to an open space between the kitchen and the living room.

He grabs your arm with his metal hand and places it on his shoulder. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your arm to grip your waist, sending a shiver down your spine. With your hands still interlocked, he raises his elbow and points outward.

“I should probably tell you, I don’t know how to dance.” You mutter.

“Do I have the honor of being your first dance?” His expression is marked by feigned shock.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Yes.”

His face softens. “Don’t worry. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll start slow.” 

You nod, and he sees this as a chance to begin. “Watch my feet and mimic my movements.”

You glance down between your bodies, and he takes a step back. You take a step forward, then he side steps, and you follow. You register that it’s your turn to take a step back, and he takes a step forward—another side step in the opposite direction, and you find yourselves back where you started.

“Good, you’re a natural.” Bucky sounds pleased, which brings a grin to your face.

He repeats his actions while you follow, and you watch his feet several more times until you feel confident in your understanding.

Your gaze returns to his, and the expression in his eyes is undeniably captivating. This moment feels like much more than a simple dance. You search your mind for a topic to discuss, hoping to avoid getting lost in the music and giving in to the urge to kiss him.

“Do you like being here?” The question runs out of your mouth.

Bucky’s taken aback by your sudden inquiry. He gives you a perplexed expression. “You mean this apartment?”

“Yeah, this apartment. Brooklyn. I know you lived here, but Brooklyn has changed a lot since the forties.”

“Oh, definitely, but I still enjoy living here.” He answers with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” You resume your thought. “Don’t get me wrong; it's a lovely space, but do you see yourself living somewhere else?”

Bucky hums, lost in thought. “Yeah, I do. I want a house away from everything—somewhere without the noise of traffic, surrounded by nature like I had in Wakanda. Maybe I’ll finally get that cat.” He pinches your side, and you let out a snort.

You release a lengthy sigh. “And, I’ll be long gone.” You’re teasing, but there’s some truth to your words.

He shakes his head, clearly offended by your assumption. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Well, if you’re talking about settling down, you won’t be in politics anymore, and I won’t be your assistant.” You clarify.

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t want to stay friends?” 

“Yeah, I do.” You squeak.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Bucky presses, and he’s caught you in a lie.

Your heart is racing now. Are you really about to tell him how you feel? You can’t imagine a future without him in it, but if you remain just friends for the rest of your life, it might break you.

You open and close your mouth before spitting it out. “Because I want to be more than just your friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His metal fingers twitch on your waist, causing more chills to run through your body. He scrutinizes you as if you had said something obscene.

You part your lips to interrupt his thoughts. As soon as you do, his attention shifts to your open mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as his gaze traces the outline of your mouth.

“Fuck,” He grunts. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

You must've forgotten you were still dancing, as you're tripping over your feet. You recover, getting back into the rhythm of the movements, but your mind feels like it's short-circuiting.

“Th-then,” you stutter, “kiss me.”

“It’s a bad idea.” His tone is serious, though a soft smile plays on his lips.

You contemplate this for a moment. He’s right; your situation is complicated, and kissing your boss would be a bad idea. Yet, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Maybe, but you tend to have many of those.” You quip, smirking.

Bucky huffs air through his nose as if it’s funny, but when he speaks, his voice is firm. “No, I mean, it’s a terrible idea.”

You scoff, lightly hitting his shoulder where your hand rests. “That’s not making me feel any better, James.”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. He looks as if he’s been longing for you, and now that he has permission to have you, he’s still contemplating the situation.

He comes to a sudden stop, causing you to halt your footwork as well. He still hasn’t released his grip on you, almost as if he physically can’t. You hear a deep, frustrated sound coming from his throat, indicating that he's angry with himself.

“Fuck it,” Bucky grumbles. 

Before you can fully register what he’s doing, he pulls you in by your waist and crashes his lips against yours. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. His lips bruise yours with a desperate intensity, as though he’s starved, and you’re the only one who can satisfy his hunger.

You reach out and cup the back of his neck with your palm. His hand falls away from yours as he grips the side of your neck, right under your jaw. With your hand now free, you run your fingers along his back, drawing him closer. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip before invading your mouth. It explores every crevice like he’s committing your mouth to memory. You swirl your tongue around his and moan into the kiss.

Bucky shifts his weight, struggling to find his footing, as if the sound alone weakened his knees. His tongue retreats, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth before he pulls away completely.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find him studying you intently as you both try to catch your breath. His fingers gently brush against your rosy cheeks and swollen lips. He sweeps your hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“We need to stop.” His voice is strained, as if the words are forced from his throat.

“Why?” You breathe.

He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see you in this state, flushed and desperate for more of him. “If we continue, I won’t be able to hold back.”

You smooth the loose strands that hang in his eyes back to their original place. “Don’t hold back.” Your tone is low and sultry.

Bucky's eyes fly open, breathing hard through his nose. His metal arm envelops your torso, pulling you close until you feel him, thick and hard against your lower stomach.

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your eyes dart between his features, unsure of where to focus because you desire all of him. Your hand travels down the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling the quick thump of his heart beneath your fingertips. You grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until you're only inches apart from his lips.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Now, shall we continue, or do you have any more objections?”

He releases a shaky breath against your lips and shakes his head. You must’ve stolen his ability to speak. “Fantastic,” you whisper.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time more slowly. Your lips brush against each other gently, savoring the moment. You relish the soft curve of his mouth, the way his stubble tickles your delicate skin, and the feel of his nose nudging against your cheek.

Your tongue delves into his mouth uninvited, but he welcomes it with a satisfied hum. Now it’s your turn to explore his mouth with your tongue. You don’t get an adequate exploration because his tongue is sliding against yours, making it hard to focus on anything but his taste.

His warm hand slips into your hair, gently tugging at the roots to intensify the kiss. You whimper into his mouth, and suddenly, it feels like a switch has flipped. The kiss quickly becomes heated, as if your mouths are battling for dominance.

You unclasp your fist from his shirt as both of your hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, you start to undo them. Once you’ve finished, he removes his hands from you and shrugs the shirt off. You hear the light fabric drop to the floor, and his hands quickly return to their previous positions.

Bucky begins to step forward, pushing you backward while your hands explore the firm contours of his chest and stomach. Your calves bump against something soft, and you realize it's the couch. You break the kiss, but his lips follow yours as if he's not finished savoring you.

“Sit.” You coax.

His eyelids flip up to reveal dilated, icy eyes. He inclines back and smirks. “Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

He sits down reluctantly with a huff. You back away from the couch, taking a moment to admire the view. As you scan his shirtless body, you notice the defined muscles. The black metal of his arm glimmers under the dim light.

You reach behind you to pull at the navy ties on your back as he proceeds to complain from his seat. “Y’know, this is my apartment.” 

The ties give way, and you start to slide the thin straps down your shoulders. “I feel like I should be tellin’-” Bucky stops himself as the material of the dress cascades down your body, pooling at your feet. You’re completely naked save for the steel blue panties you're wearing.

“What were you saying?” You poke fun at his stunned expression.

He swallows hard as he observes the angles and curves of your form. "It's irrelevant."

You giggle, warm and breathy. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Should I take these off, too?”

“No,” he blurts. “Keep ‘em on.”

You let go of the band, relaxing your hands at your sides. Bucky stretches out his arm and beckons you closer. “Come here.”

You saunter over to him. Once you’re close enough, he grips your hip with his metal hand. His cold touch sends shivers down your body. You sink onto the couch, positioning your knees on either side of him as you straddle his thighs. 

His flesh hand drags along the length of your figure, fingertips ghosting over you like he’s touching petals on a flower. “You’re stunning, doll.”

Your heart skips a beat at the compliment. Bucky’s eyes shift from your body to gaze up at you, and you cup his cheek. Your thumb strokes his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“Me?” You mutter. “You are perfect.”

His lips curl as he tilts his head up to peck your jaw in gratitude. When he leans back, his head dips to examine your panties again, his fingers toying with the waistband as he bites his lip.

“Do you know why I bought these?” you ask sheepishly. He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the steel blue fabric. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

Bucky looks up suddenly at your confession. "You're tryin’ to kill me, aren't you?"

You tilt your head back and chuckle. When you glance down again, he pokes your side. “That’s not funny! I swear, you’re going to give me a heart attack. You can’t just say that and expect me to stay calm,” he scolds, but you can’t help but keep laughing.

You tip your head forward and trail kisses from his cheek to his ear. “Sorry, baby. I wouldn’t want your heart to give out,” you whisper.

As you lean close to his ear, you gently nibble on his earlobe, and he lets out a soft grunt in response. You begin to kiss your way down his neck, focusing on the spots that elicit the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue flicks out to taste his skin, and you feel him shiver beneath you.

Bucky’s metal fingers press into your hip, as if he’s struggling to resist the urge to take you right here and now. His other hand lightly traces the wet spot on your underwear, making you groan against his neck.

“Hmm…you’re soaked,” he announces as he applies more pressure to your pussy. Your hips jerk when his fingertips move in circular motions on your underwear clad clit. 

You place lazy kisses along the area where metal touches skin. It's too hard to do anything beyond that now, as your head spins from his actions. You lean your forehead against the cool metal, finding a soothing comfort in it.

“There you go, just relax for me.” His voice is raspy as he speaks in your ear. 

He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your slick folds. Bucky slides a single digit into your entrance and you suck in a breath. He languidly pumps his finger into you while gently kissing your shoulder.

Your warm, heavy breathing against his chest quickens as he increases his pace. He inserts another one, stroking your walls with his long fingers. You let out a throaty moan and reach up to clutch his metal bicep to ground yourself.

You tip your head back to see him as he thrusts his fingers deeply into you. A delighted sound escapes your lips as his fingers crook deliciously inside of you. You grind against the palm of his hand as he works at your core.

“That’s it. Take what you need, darlin’.” He encourages.

You tilt his chin up and press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He responds with equal enthusiasm as his fingers expertly plunge further and faster. Lips connect roughly as his teeth graze your bottom lip to nip at it. Your mouth separates from his, and your hot breath brushes across his lips. 

“I—I want to ride you.” You pant.

His fingers falter as he processes your comment. He inspects you as if he can’t believe you’re real. His metal fingers brush against your collarbone to tuck your hair back.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, awestruck by you. “If that’s what you want.” 

He gradually reduces his pleasing movements as you nod your head in agreement. His fingers slip out of you, and when he holds them up, they’re glistening with your juices. He puts the digits to his mouth and wraps his lips around them, sucking them clean.

Your jaw drops at the sight; it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You didn’t realize he could turn you on even more than you already are. 

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a hum. “You taste divine. I would eat you out, but I guess we’ll save that for another time.” He states with a wink.

You aren't sure you can get off the couch now because your knees feel weak and your stomach is a fluttering mess.

He snaps the band of your underwear, pulling you from your daze. “How ‘bout you take these off for me while I take off my pants, sound good?”

You clamber off the couch as Bucky starts to unfasten his belt. You watch him intently while your thumbs hook into your panties. Sliding them down your thighs, you realize you’re both observing one another getting undressed.

You step out of your underwear and toss them somewhere in the living room. You hear him grunt from his seat now that you are completely bare.

He lifts his hips off the sofa and tugs his pants and boxers down the length of his thighs. You watch his cock spring free and your mouth begins to water. You want to drop to your knees for him, but the thought of him inside you is too tempting to resist.

Bucky tears the fabric from his legs and mimics your actions by tossing it across the room. He reaches out and holds you by your hips, then leans down to place soft kisses on your waist. He pulls you closer, and you both settle back into your spot on the couch.

His dick rests against his stomach, hardened and demanding. You take him firmly in your grasp and he sucks air through his teeth. You pump him a few times, spreading the precum with your thumb.

Your core is throbbing with anticipation. You decide you need him now. You position yourself over him, swiping the head of his cock through your slick. You line up his tip with your entrance, teasing it.

Bucky glances up at you with pleading eyes, and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. “Please, darlin’. I need to feel you.”

You didn’t know how beautiful begging could sound, but hearing it from his sweet lips is like silk blanketing your ears. “I know, honey. I need you too.” 

His eyes soften at the nickname. You’ll save that knowledge for later. 

You don’t waste any more time. You grab his shoulder with your free hand in preparation. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him as if you have all the time in the world, wanting to memorize every second of this moment.

He releases a strangled moan as his body goes rigid beneath you. He’s stretching out your tight pussy luxuriously as you inch down his cock. You maintain eye contact with him, observing the way his face twists in pleasure.

You settle onto his thighs, and he bottoms out inside you. You feel incredibly full, it’s a sensation you could easily get addicted to. As you take your time to adjust to his sheer size, you brush your knuckles across his cheekbone.

“You feel so good.” You praise. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bucky’s flesh hand loosens on your hip to take your wrist and kiss your palm. “Right here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You lean in, kissing him desperately because you’re already addicted to him and can’t get enough. Your lips move tenderly against his, pouring every ounce of adoration you feel for him.

You ease up on his cock, moaning into each other's mouth. You fall back down, his dick filling you once more. You maintain a steady pace up and down on him, using his shoulder as leverage.

He breaks the kiss, allowing his hand to wander into your hair. He gently tugs on the strands at the base of your scalp to angle your head upwards. His mouth finds your neck like a magnet, kissing and licking the soft flesh.

Your hips roll at the pace of his languid kisses on your neck. Your greedy pussy is taking every delectable inch of him, drawing him in deep. Bucky groans against your throat, sending vibrations through you.

He caresses his way down your body, letting your hair fall as he trails his fingers over your thigh. Your hips pick up speed, riding him quicker. His forehead rests against your chest due to the sudden change of pace.

“Doll-” he drawls. “You feel incredible.”

Bucky licks a line up your sternum as his metal hand glides up your side. His touch is feather-light on your breast, a cool sensation sweeping over your nipple. His mouth moves to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along the opposite breast. 

He eventually finds your nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. He latches onto it, sucking and swirling his tongue around it. You arch into him, a lewd noise escaping your parted lips.

He palms at the other breast, massaging and swiping his thumb over the delicate skin. The pleasure you’re feeling from his skilled tongue only spurs you on, and it drives you to ride him faster, harder, and deeper.

He grunts and bites your nipple. Your mind feels overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Has sex always been this magical? Not for you, at least. 

Bucky is the missing piece you’ve been searching for, not just because of the sex, but because of everything he brings to your life. The sex is incredible because he is incredible. It’s that simple.

“Just like that. Fuck—you’re doing so good.” He mumbles in between kisses as he trails over to your opposite breast. His metal hand moves back to your hip to help guide your movements.

He backs away from your chest when he knows he’s given equal attention to each of your breasts. He concentrates on your face, observing the way your lips part and the sounds that flow from them.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he begins to massage it. Bucky kneads the pliable skin, moving up and down the flesh until he’s squeezing your ass. With the leverage he has, he bucks up into you with the same rhythm you set. 

Your voice breaks into a guttural moan as he pulls you down forcefully onto his cock. You continue to match his tempo, but your hip movements are becoming more erratic.

“Let me take over, darlin’.” He groans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

How did you get so lucky to have a man who is more concerned about your pleasure? He makes it his mission to satisfy your every need; you just have to allow him to do so.

You softly smile. “I think you underestimate what your cock is doing to me.”

“Well, let me make you feel even better,” Bucky reiterates. You nod in response and stop your actions.

“Good girl,” he rasps. He scoots to the edge of the couch while still fully inside you. Carefully, he positions your legs to wrap around his hips, and his metal arm covers your torso. Then, he effortlessly picks you up as if you weigh nothing and begins moving across the apartment.

You cling to him, though you know he would never let you fall. He steps into his room and gingerly sets you down on the end of the bed. Leaning over you, he kisses the tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“You didn’t want to fuck me on your couch?” You tease.

“No,” he lowers his mouth to your ear and growls, “because you’re not some random hook up.”

Bucky punctuates that statement by slamming his dick into you. You whine and squirm beneath him. He inclines back and clutches your hips, thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace. You throw your head back against the mattress because he was right, this is even better.

He’s touching parts inside of you that you never knew existed. Your legs tighten around him as you reach for his neck, craving the sensation of him beneath your fingertips. His gaze is locked on you, and his eyes sparkle with a desperate desire to please you.

“Tell me how that feels, doll.” 

“Fucking fantastic.” You breathe, your lungs are working overtime, as he effortlessly drains the oxygen from your chest.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips; that's exactly what he wanted to hear. Bucky's hand moves down to the underside of your knee. He takes hold of it and lifts it up, so your knee presses into your side. Finding the angle he desired, he pushes into you with renewed purpose.

You arch your back, and you wail when he hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. The head of his cock pounds against your g-spot repeatedly, reducing you to a writhing and whimpering mess.

He’s bringing you to the edge, and it’s happening quickly. The pressure is rising within you like a tidal wave, and you feel like you might drown in it. Your senses seem heightened, and Bucky is surrounding you, integrating himself into every one of them.

“James–” His name feels like a prayer on your lips.

“I know you’re close, pretty girl. Let me get you there.” His metal hand reaches between your bodies and his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit. 

Your cunt instantly clamps down on his dick and you moan loudly. You were already close, but now you’re teetering on the edge. Your free hand fists the sheets, and your thighs begin to shake.

“I’ve got you, darlin’. Let go. I’ll be right behind you.” His words drift over you like steam rising from a hot spring, warm and enticing.

Your body obeys immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. The pressure coiled in your stomach releases and your pussy clenches hard around him in waves. You scream out in a breathless cry, your grip tightening on his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re a shuddering, aching mess under him. Your eyes are sewn shut, and you feel as though you’re floating. A wave of euphoria washes over you, leaving you high on the sensation.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like a mantra. He grabs both your hips again, as if afraid you'll slip away.

His cock proceeds to ram into your pulsating cunt, working you through your climax until he’s twitching inside you. His cum spills deeply into you with a low groan from his lips. He’s coating your walls and warming your core with the thick liquid.

His hips come to a stop, and his head rests in the crook of your neck. Bucky wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You lazily fold your arms over him, holding him as if you never want to let go. He nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. You gently scratch his upper back, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters right below your ear. “You’re real, right? This isn’t a dream?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I’m very real, honey.” You kiss his shoulder softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky hums contentedly and leans back, gently slipping out of you. “Good.”

He strolls away from the bed and into the bathroom, turning on the light. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see what he’s doing. The sound of running water becomes audible, though you can’t see it.

He returns with a damp washcloth and completes his thought. “I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re smiling broadly. “I don’t believe this is a hostage situation if I’m here willingly.”

“Are you sure you don’t already have Stockholm syndrome?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head as he moves closer. He opens your legs and steps between them to wipe down your inner thighs, gently gliding his hand over your dripping cunt.

The sight gives you a warm feeling, knowing this isn’t the last time Bucky will take care of you. “Well, aren’t you the king of aftercare?” you joke.

“I can't leave my pretty girl in a mess, especially since I'm the one who made it.” Once he's finished, he tosses the dirty rag into his hamper and lies down beside you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close into his embrace.

You hum in contentment, burying your head into his chest. “I have a sneaky suspicion this won’t be the only mess we make tonight.”

Bucky squeezes you, running his hand through your hair to cradle your head. “I think you read my mind.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The door clicks softly behind Bucky as he treads carefully through the hall. His heavy boots thud against the floor, so he decides to take them off at the door to avoid waking you from sleep.

He changes out of his tactical gear and puts on a pair of sleep shorts. Gingerly, he moves the blanket aside to crawl in beside you. You are facing the opposite direction, and your light breathing indicates that you are still asleep.

Bucky wraps his arms around you and kisses your shoulder, unable to help himself. You stir slightly, resting your arms over his and melting into him. 

“Where’d you go?” Your sleepy voice breaks the quiet.

His chest warms at the adorable sound as he whispers against your neck, “I had some business to take care of.”

You hum and snuggle into the pillow, settling back into a relaxed state. Suddenly, your head pops up, and you peek over your shoulder at him. “James, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky retorts.

You let out a heavy sigh; it's clear you know he's lying. You kick off the covers and hop out of bed, moving toward his closet. He ogles your naked form; fuck, he wants to take you again.

You grab a random shirt from a hanger and slip it on. Turning to face him, you cross your arms over your chest with a blank expression. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

It's as if you see right through him. One glance into his eyes reveals exactly where he's been and what he's done.

“What? I’m fine. Come back to bed.” He pats the spot next to him.

You narrow your gaze at him, and your expression says it all: you don’t want to make me mad, James.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky points to the bathroom. “Cabinet. Top shelf.”

You practically stomp to the bathroom. He hears the sound of you rummaging around, and you exit with the opened first-aid kit in hand. You set it on his nightstand and search through it.

“Sit up,” you command in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

He smirks and does as you instructed him. “Always tellin-”

You hold up a finger, stopping him. “Not the time.”

“Don’t be upset.” He mutters.

Your shoulders, once tense, relax as you shake your head. “I’m not upset.” Your voice is softer and more gentle now.

“Then what’s wrong, doll?” Of course, he knows what’s bothering you, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. You haven’t seen this side of him; he’s afraid that because you have, you might leave.

“You paid Derek a visit, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods stiffly. “I did.”

You rub your forehead with your thumb and pointer finger. “Do I have to help you hide a body?”

“No.” He states simply.

You let your hand fall to your side now that you have confirmation that no murders occurred tonight. You point to his bloody and bruised knuckles and say, "If your hand is any indication, you beat the shit out of him."

“He got what he deserved. I actually let him off easy,” he grumbles, wishing he had done more to the bastard. He didn't use his metal arm; that was an act of mercy. Now he's regretting that decision.

“That’s not the point.” You release a long breath. “What if someone saw? Or worse, what if he talks? Your job could be in jeopardy.” You give him a worried expression.

“No one saw, and I doubt he’ll be saying much, if anything at all.” Bucky’s mind drifts back to the condition he left Derek in. His face was swollen, bloody, and bruised. Yup, he won’t be talking for a while; I made sure of that.

“Not helping.” You scold.

"Listen, nothing is more important than you. I would gladly lose my job if it meant keeping you safe." Your expression softens at his words, and he continues, knowing he has your full attention. “That asshole doesn’t get to speak to you like that, and get off scot-free.”

Bucky adjusts his tone to be light and caring as he takes your hand in both of his—flesh and metal. “I will always protect you. You never have to doubt that.” 

After a beat of silence, your lips curve into a smile. “Okay.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay? That’s it, no more arguing?”

“What’s there to argue about?” You shrug. “Like you said, the asshole got what he deserved.”

He returns your sweet grin and kisses your hand gently before letting it go. You bite your lip and turn around to search in the medical kit. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, you extend your hand toward him. "Now, let me clean you up, honey."

“Yes, ma'am.” He offers his hand willingly. You clean the blood from his knuckles, scrubbing deep into the grooves between his fingers.

“Did Derek at least cry?” you inquire, tilting your head as you examine his wounds.

“Like a baby,” he replies. You snort as you toss the dirty wipe into his trash can. Taking out some ointment from the kit, you apply it to the sores on his skin. He doesn't really need it since he’s a super soldier with rapid healing, but he lets you do it anyway because he appreciates the way you care for him.

“He apologized, by the way,” he adds. “At least, I think he did. I couldn’t understand him through all the blood in his mouth.”

"Bucky," you scoff, but then you break into laughter. "That's awful."

He wants to laugh with you, but is caught off guard when you call him by his nickname. He’s never heard you say it before, and it sounds so pleasant to him. You put away the ointment, and then he grabs your wrist. You whip your head around to meet his gaze.

“Say that again.” His voice is low and rough.

You furrow your brows in confusion but then understand his meaning, and your expression softens.

“Oh,” you shift to face him, your voice becoming seductive and breathy. “Bucky.”

He basically melts; his lips part, and all his muscles loosen up. “Again. Slower. I like the way it sounds.”

You giggle and gently cup his face in your hands, obeying his request. “Bucky…” You lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed; he believes he has died and gone to heaven, with you as the angel welcoming him at the pearly gates.

You lean back, and he looks up at you with hooded eyes. “Alright, my hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky's face is etched with amusement as you utter the words ‘my hero’. He has never been called that, nor has he felt like much of a hero anyway. But honestly, that word wouldn’t matter if it came from anyone else because he only ever wants to save you.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

[mooningningg]

 notes, i was actually chuckling at myself. ty anon for requesting

★ Roommate!Sukuna when someone hits on you with him.

You were just comparing the backs of two cereal boxes.

Really. That’s all.

You and Sukuna had run out of coffee creamer and got distracted in the cereal aisle. You were bickering about marshmallow-to-grain ratios like civilized adults when Sukuna walked off to grab eggs and left you behind.

Now here you were, alone, mid-comparison, when a guy sidled up beside you.

Not aggressively. Just… with a little too much confidence for someone in a Walmart.

He gestured to the cereal in your hand and said, “You know that one has more sugar than the one you’re holding?”

You blinked.

“…Yeah, that’s why I picked it.”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that people do when they’re trying too hard. “You’re funny. That your favorite?”

You didn’t answer right away. There wasn’t anything threatening about him — just annoying. Vaguely frat-boy energy in board shorts and a fake chain. He leaned in a little.

“You know,” he said, flashing a grin, “I was actually gonna say something earlier when you passed the produce section. Couldn’t help noticing your smile.”

Jesus Christ.

You gave a polite, tight smile. “Thanks.”

“Got a name, pretty girl?”

You were about to lie and say “Tax Fraud” when—

“The fuck’s goin’ on here?”

A voice cut in. Low, scratchy, and pissed.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Sukuna was back.

And he was standing behind you with a carton of eggs in one hand, a frozen bag of fries in the other, and a look on his face like he was ready to use either as a weapon.

The guy glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Uh—hey, man. Just talkin’ to her—”

“Yeah?” Sukuna cocked his head. “Looks more like you’re talkin’ at her.”

You tried to step in, raise a hand. “It’s fine—”

Sukuna didn’t look at you. Didn’t blink. He took a step forward, close enough that the guy had to instinctively lean back.

“She look interested to you?”

“Woah, okay—” the guy laughed awkwardly, taking a visible step away. “Didn’t mean to disrespect—”

Sukuna gave a humorless snort. “Disrespect?” he echoed, loud enough to make an old lady from aisle six poke her head around. His tone was slow, like he was tasting the word and hating every syllable. “Nah. See, disrespect is when you bump someone in line and don’t say ‘scuse me.’”

He stepped closer. The eggs in his hand were tilted sideways now, as if he had no problem letting them crash to the floor if things went south. “What you just did?” His grin spread, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “That’s some ‘I wanna die in aisle seven’ type shit.”

The guy laughed nervously, eyes darting toward you. “I didn’t know she was with anyone—”

“You don’t need to know,” Sukuna said, voice low, like a fuse being lit. “You see someone standing alone, you keep walkin’. You don’t roll up with your Dollar Tree smile and ask her what cereal she likes.”

You winced. Ouch.

“Bro, it’s not that serious—”

“Don’t ‘bro’ me,” Sukuna snapped, finally breaking eye contact with the man long enough to glance at you. His voice dipped. “You good?”

You blinked. “I—yeah. I was just looking at cereal—”

His eyes flicked back to the guy. “Yeah? She was looking at cereal. Not you.”

The dude threw his hands up. “Alright man, alright. My bad. Enjoy your, uh… whatever this is.”

He turned, practically sprinted out of the aisle, knocking into a soup display on his way out. A can rolled across the tile floor like a dramatic punctuation mark.

Silence.

You blinked at Sukuna. He still looked vaguely pissed. He glanced down at the eggs in his hand like he was debating whether or not to chase the guy and throw them.

Instead, he tossed them into the basket and finally turned toward you.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You can’t threaten people in public just because they talk to me.”

“He flirted with you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

The words came out too fast. Too serious. Even he looked surprised he said them.

You paused, one eyebrow raised. “We’re just roommates, you know.”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah. You tell everyone that.”

“I am everyone.”

He scoffed, reaching for a box of cereal and dropping it in your cart without looking. “Shut up.”

You glanced at the box.

It was the one you wanted.

You smiled to yourself and didn’t say a word.

But damn, you were never grocery shopping without him again.

Taglist, @humeysaga.

[himasgod]

May ı req Leona,Jamil,leech twins and Vil with reader suddenly starts kissing them and showing their love for something they did so simple? Like they just smiled or said somethinf and bum! reader jumos on them.

(sorry for bad english)

LEONA, JAMIL, JADE, FLOYD AND VIL X READER

When you kiss them suddenly out of nonwhere

You were helping him prepare dinner, slicing vegetables while he stirred the pot. You reached for another ingredient when he gently took it from your hand.

“It’s okay. You’ve helped enough. Sit down and relax for once.”

He gave you a small smile— tired, but soft.

It caught you completely off guard. You stared for a second, then leaned in without thinking and kissed him.

Jamil froze mid-movement, the spoon clinking against the edge of the pot. “What…?”

You pulled back quickly.

“I—I’m sorry. You smiled and said something kind and I just… couldn’t help it.”

He blinked slowly, then looked away to hide the rising flush on his cheeks.

“You’re dangerous, I just wanted you to take a break. Didn’t expect that.”

You panicked a little. “Are you mad?”

“…No. But don’t go kissing me like that unless you’re ready for me to return the favor.”

Then, with a little smile. he leaned in and kissed your lips with more care than you'd ever imagined from him.

You and Floyd were walking around campus when he suddenly grabbed your hand and twirled you like you were dancing. Out of nowhere. He laughed loudly, that happy glint in his eyes.

“Shrimpy’s in a good mood today~! I like it! Let's dance!”

Then, with absolutely no warning, he stopped spinning you and just kissed your head, grinning wide.

That warmth hit your chest like a thunderbolt. Without a second thought, you pulled him down and kissed his lips.

He blinked hard. “Eh?!”

You stepped back, stunned by your own boldness.

“I—I’m sorry! You were just so happy and I—”

Floyd looked stunned for all of two seconds before a wide sharp grin spread across his face.

“Heeeeh~? Shrimpy’s getting bold! I like it~ I love it!”

He scooped you up like a plushie and spun you again, this time holding you closer. “Kiss me like that again and I might get addicted~!”

You giggled into his shoulder.

You were watching Vil from the sidelines during a rehearsal. He was directing someone with his usual poise, but when he looked your way, his expression softened.

“You’ve been watching quietly this whole time,” he said, walking over to you during a break.

“I’m proud of how you carry yourself lately. You've grown.”

It wasn’t said with fanfare. Just a sincere compliment from Vil himself. He even reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear gently.

Your heart leapt. You surged forward and kissed him. He went still for a second, then slowly returned the kiss.

When you broke away, you were flushed and flustered.

“Sorry—I just… you praised me. And I wanted to show you how much that meant.”

Vil chuckled quietly, voice smooth as silk.

“Darling… if that’s how you react to praise, I’ll be far more generous with it.”

He cupped your face in one hand, leaning in again.

“But next time, allow me the pleasure of making the first move.”

You and Jade were walking through the greenhouse, damp moss and rare flowers around you. He was telling you about a peculiar glowing mushroom that only bloomed at midnight.

“...It’s said to glow brighter when someone it favors is nearby,” he said, casting you a sideways glance with that smile of his.

“Does that mean this one likes me?”

“It would seem so. And perhaps, I do as well.”

His tone was soft. The smile was small, quietly affectionate.

You didn’t even think—you stepped in and kissed him, hands grabbing his uniform before your brain could catch up.

When you pulled back, Jade looked momentarily stunned.

“…Oh my,” he said, touching his lips. “That was unexpected.”

“I—sorry. You were just… really sweet.”

He laughed softly. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be sweet more often, won’t I?”

He bent forward to kiss your hand.

“And next time, let me initiate.”

You found Leona exactly where you expected: sprawled under a tree, eyes closed. You sat beside him silently, letting him doze. After a while, he cracked one eye open to glance at you.

“…You’re still here, huh? Thought you’d have gotten bored.”

Then he smiled—lazy, half-awake, but just for you.

That simple smile hit you like a tidal wave. You couldn’t stop yourself—you leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

“Hey—what the hell was that for?”

Your heart thudded, cheeks heating up.

“You smiled. It was… cute.”

A slow smirk replaced his surprise. “You’re ridiculous,” he snorted.

“You kiss me for that? You better be careful, herbivore, or I’ll start flashing you smiles just to mess with you.”

He tugged you down beside him, your head landing on his arm.

“Don’t complain if I kiss you again, then” you warned.

“Tch. I dare you.”

[stzrgirl4norris]

handle with care - GR63 & MV33

summary: reader told George she would like him to be rougher in the bedroom, and he doesn't quite know how, but has a friend more than willing to teach him.

word count: 5k

warnings: this is FILTHY, okay? the idea came to me in a dream, i had to. we have degradation, praising, fisting, rough, dom!max, switch!george, sub!reader.

I had to do this I'm sorry.

The night had been glittering, loud, and annoyingly glamorous.

You weren’t supposed to be nervous. After all, this wasn’t a date. Well, not the traditional type, at least. It was just George. The same George who knew how you took your coffee, who sent you voice notes that made you laugh when you were supposed to be working, who texted you random thoughts at 2am like you were the first person that came into his mind before he fell asleep. That’s all it was—texts, looks, stolen touches in cars, messy, soft-edged hookups in hotel rooms. A carefully constructed “no strings” agreement that both of you were pretending to believe in.

However, lately, it has been frustrating. Not because of George. Not exactly. But because the sex fell into something… Predictable. You missed that feeling in your stomach when you got your hair pulled, when someone kissed you roughly. You wanted to be pushed, ruined, treated like something breakable and owned. And George, sweet and desperate to please, had tried. He’d wrapped a hand lightly around your throat like he thought you might shatter. He asked “you like that?” in a tone like he was trying on someone else’s voice. But it all felt unnatural, forced, too much of a bad porn performance.

You were still stewing in the aftermath of it when you ended up clustered with the driver as your date in the corner of Susie Wolff’s birthday party. A beautiful room with chandeliers, good music, and even better cocktails. Not exactly your kind of party, but you could appreciate the feeling of the silk dress wrapped around you.

Somewhere, between the Cosmopolitans and glasses of Champagne, Max approached the two of you, holding sharp smirks and blunt truths, casually sipping from his drink, slightly frustrated from the boredom of the formality he wasn’t acquainted with. Max wasn’t a friend, not exactly, but he knew you both well enough to insert himself in the conversation with confidence. He always had an intensity in the blue of his eyes. Unlike George’s warmth, he was icier, sharper, as if he could read all the secrets beneath your skin.

You had to admit, Verstappen was a breath of fresh air and a damn conversationalist. George and Max were making you laugh with intensity, distracting you from the rich people around. It was good conversation, the flowing type, like talking to a random drunk girl in the bathroom of a frat party. 

You didn’t even realize you’d said something out loud until Max raised a brow and turned to you.

“You asked George to be rougher?” he repeated, like it was funny. Like it was charming and idiotic all at once.

George flushed, clearing his throat. 

“Well, I… I tried. Didn’t I?”

“You were very polite about it.” You gave him a pointed look. 

“That’s your problem, mate. You still want to be liked. Even while you’re inside her.” 

Max said it with the naturality of someone who was sharing secrets with his best friend. Of someone who knew exactly the kind of sex you liked.

George blinked, his mouth twitching in embarrassment, but he had no argument to give back. You were about to say something sarcastic when Max tilted his head, eyes on you now—not teasing anymore, but with curious intention.

“I could show him.”

It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a challenge, laced with a quiet promise.

Your stomach flipped the same exact moment George’s jaw tensed.

“I didn’t mean—” George started, but you cut in, voice low and level.

“Show him what, exactly?”

Max leaned in, closer, invading the space just enough to make you feel like your breath belonged to him now.

“How to take what he wants. How to break a girl down so she forgets her own name. You know… How to make you cry, beg, thank him for it.”

You said nothing, but your body reacted without permission, not being able to resist the primal urge that appeared in the pit of your gut. A spike of arousal. A flush beneath your skin. George saw it lit up in your eyes, and Max saw him see it.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” Max murmured, to George this time. “Or maybe you´re just too good of a boy. Don’t have it in you.”

George held your gaze. There was something in his expression—tight, hot, cornered. But not afraid, never that.

“Fine,” he said. “Teach me.”

The hotel room door clicked shut behind you. Your heels hit the carpet. There was a moment—just a moment—where no one moved.

George looked nervous. His hands were in his pockets. You knew he didn’t quite know what came next, but to be fair, this was new territory to you too. You stepped past him and sat on the edge of the bed, letting your legs cross, letting your dress adjust to your body position. 

“Are you going to watch?” Your voice was soft, bearing fake innocence.

George glanced at Max, who looked at you. Then he smiled like this was his favorite track, and he’d been waiting for it.

“I think he should watch,” Max said. “Learn with his eyes first. That okay with you, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, nodding. Every nerve in your body was lit like a fuse. You saw, from the corner of your eyes, George move somewhere else, enough to make him blurred in your vision.

Max approached slowly, deliberately. He didn’t touch you at first. He just stood in front of you, watching your breath quicken. His voice dropped to a low, hungry murmur.

“Gorgeous girl like you shouldn’t have to beg to be handled right. You know that, don’t you?” You nodded again, heart pounding. “Use your words.”

“Yes, Max.”

George shifted in the chair by the wall, eyes locked on you both, fists clenched tight against his thighs. There was obvious jealousy blooming on his face, but it wasn’t mean. It was insecure. Possessive. A crack waiting to split open.

Max leaned down and tilted your chin up with two fingers. 

“Tell me what you asked him for.”

You were blushing now, but you forced yourself to answer. 

“I asked him to be rough. To take control.”

“And did he?”

“No.”

“Did you want him to?”

You glanced at George, only with your eyes. 

“Yes.” The tension in his face made you even hotter, like, somehow, you had power over him.

“He’ll get there.”

Max smiled, then he kissed you. Not gently. His hand curled around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to make your head dizzy, make your body react. His tongue claimed your mouth, slow and filthy. He kissed like he’d already decided you belonged to him. Your hands clutched at his shirt, body already pliant beneath his grip.

“Let him see what it’s supposed to feel like,” 

Max said against your lips, then dipped his head lower, dragging his mouth across your neck, down to your collarbone.

You gasped when his teeth grazed skin, and he chuckled, having the most fun he had in years.

“Every little sound she makes? That’s your lesson. Every time her thighs twitch, every time she begs me not to stop… I want you to memorize it.”

George’s breathing was audible now, shallow, uneven.

Max’s hands were exploring every outline of your body—squeezing your hips, sliding up the curve of your ass, toying with the straps of your dress. He wasn’t rough, not yet. His fingers carried unmistaken softness, enough to leave you shaking with anticipation.

“You want to show him how wet you are?” He kissed down your sternum and whispered against your skin, 

“Yes…” You whimpered, your voice broken with need. 

“Then take your dress off, schatje. Slowly, put on a show for us.”

You obeyed, letting the luxurious fabric slide down the goosebumps on your skin, looking at Max underneath your lashes, giving him proper doe eyes.

And when George finally stood up, crossed the room with fire in his eyes and his fists still clenched—Max stepped back, smiling like a proud teacher.

George hesitated, frozen at the edge of the bed. His eyes were on you—in lacy white panties only, flushed, lips kiss-swollen and breath caught in your throat—and there was something fractured in his expression. Like he was caught between need and uncertainty, envy and hunger. His fingers twitched at his sides, like they didn’t know what to reach for.

Max didn’t give him the chance to spiral.

He walked back towards you, hands curling around your shoulder as he guided you back to bed, forcing you on your knees, facing George, hands shaking, dying to touch the gorgeous man in front of you. 

You could hear Max’s smile in his voice when he spoke again.

“Look at her,” he said to George. “Fucking trembling. All you’ve done is sit and watch, and she’s already falling apart.”

Your eyes flicked up, locking with George’s. He looked wrecked. Not devastated with sadness. But as though he wanted to devour you.

Max climbed the bed, standing behind you, both hands holding the soft skin from your arms, rubbing up and down. His right hand slid up your spine, his fingers spreading over the back of your neck like he could break it at any point. 

“Touch her, George.”

“Where?”

Max laughed, low and dark. 

“Anywhere. That’s the point. She’s not made out of glass.” You let out a soft gasp as Max’s palm slipped down to your lower back and then slapped your ass—a sharp sting to your ass that left you gasping, eyes wide. “She likes that, by the way.”

George swallowed, the tightness in his pants getting harder to control.

Max leaned in, his mouth against your ear. 

“You want him to try, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Ask him, then.”

You turned your head just enough to find George again, your voice soft but firm. 

“Touch me, George. Please.”

It was the so innocent, desperate please that cracked something open in him.

George stepped forward. His hand lifted like it didn’t belong to him, hovering over your hip before settling there, tentative. Max guided him with one firm nod.

“Grab her. Like you mean it.”

George’s grip tightened.

Your eyes fluttered shut as George’s fingers pressed into your skin—not harsh, but not afraid either. You could feel the tension humming through him, the hesitation turning slowly into intent. He slid his hand along your side, up to your breast, and cupped it, squeezing gently at first, then firmer when he felt your body respond with shivers.

“She’s so fucking soft, isn’t she?” Max murmured, his own hand still splayed on your lower back. And then—without warning—Max slid your panties down to your knees, and he chuckled, low and mean. “Look at that, George. She’s soaking. All yours.”

George dropped to his knees in front of you like he’d forgotten to breathe. He paused, hands hovering again. But this time, when he looked up at you, it was different, you could see it in the darker shade of blue that took over his eyes and in the way his lips were parted.

“Can I taste you?”

The question shot straight through your core.

“Yes. Please.” You nodded, breathless. 

Max laid back on the white pillows behind him, moving your body so that you pressed your back against his chest and fit between his thighs. He stayed behind you, one had on your right arm, the other brushing your hair back, while softly murmuring little dirty words into your ear.

George leaned in—hot breath against the inside of your thigh.

“You’re gonna do it slowly,” Max said to him. “Let her feel every second. Make her beg.”

George’s tongue was tentative at first, until the moment he tasted you. Then he groaned, loud and desperate, the vibrations of his voice touching you. His hands gripped your thighs now, holding you open as his tongue moved with growing confidence. 

Max hummed approvingly, watching over your shoulder.

“See that? You train the softness out of someone. He’s starting to get it now.”

You whimpered, your body shuddering as George licked and sucked like a man starved, while Max’s voice kept you grounded. Dirty little instructions. Praise like poison honey. Occasionally his hand would slide between your thighs and tap George’s jaw, guiding him, correcting his rhythm.

When your legs started to tremble and your hands gripped into Max’s thighs, the Dutch pulled you even harder against his chest, enough to make your back arched and expose more of you to George’s mouth.

“You gonna come like this?” Max whispered against your temple. “Against me while your sweet little George learns how to ruin you?”

You moaned, too far gone for shame, ignoring the flush of redness in your cheeks.

Max chuckled, holding too much power ad pride in his chest, then looked down at George again. 

“Use your fingers now. Just two. Give her something to squeeze around.”

George obeyed. Slowly. One finger, then two, sliding in easily. His eyes widened at how wet you were. How tightly you clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re so…”

“So perfect,” Max finished for him. “Such a good little toy for us.”

That word—us—made you cry out, hips bucking into George’s mouth, into Max’s grip. Your hands were clawing at the fabric of his pants now, and your whole body burned with the edge of release.

“Don’t let her come yet,” Max ordered.

George groaned, but pulled back—his lips wet, his face flushed.

You whined at the loss, your body twitching with need.

“Look at her,” Max said to George. “Begging for it. That’s what she’s supposed to look like.”

He pushed you forward again, repositioning you between them, your body loose and dazed. They swapped places. You noticed the way Max was looking at George, smiling like, for the first time, he respected him.

The room was humid now, soaked in the heat of need and desire and craving.

You barely registered how fast they swapped. Your body was pliant, trembling, suspended somewhere between dazed and desperate. George was behind you now—propped up against the headboard, legs open, and you cradled between them like he couldn’t bear to let you go. Your back pressed tight against his chest. His arms wrapped around your middle, anchoring you in place. His breath was warm against your ear, ragged and uneven. One hand splayed across your stomach. The other held your thigh open.

You felt caged. Cared for. Claimed.

“Just like that,” Max said, voice rough and satisfied as he took in the sight of you both. “Good boy.”

You shivered at that—both from the praise, and the sound George made when he heard it.

Max stood at the foot of the bed now, stripped down to his boxers, slow and unhurried. There was something feral in his eyes—like having you like this had awakened a darker kind of hunger in him. One he had no intention of suppressing.

He knelt between your spread thighs, eyes flicking up to George as he placed his hands on your knees, widening them further.

“You hold her open,” Max said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

You whimpered.

George’s grip tightened on your thigh, jaw locked. His voice was low, possessive, right at your temple. 

“You okay?”

“I want it.” You nodded, breath shaky. 

“Cover her eyes, George.”

George’s hand moved from your stomach to your throat, holding you gently, possessively, before it reached your eyes, blocking out the room, the light, everything except their voices and touch.

“Don’t think,” George whispered. “Just feel.”

The loss of sight made every sensation sharper. Max’s hands slid up your legs—slow and reverent, but purposeful. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, closer. His breath ghosted over your soaked core, and your head lolled back against George’s shoulder, overwhelmed.

Max’s fingers traced ever so carefully inside your inner thighs, until they were curling inside you. The obscene wet sounds filling the room. Your body tightened around his hand, the burn and fullness blurring into pleasure.

George shifted behind you, just enough that you could feel the thick press of his cock through his boxers. He was achingly hard. His hips flexed once—instinctive, barely restrained.

Max glanced up. 

“Feel that, love? He’s fucking twitching. Can’t take watching you fall apart without him.”

His touch was deliberate as he trailed his fingers through your slick folds, coating them. You gasped sharply, clenching around him instantly. Max groaned at the sensation, dark delight flashing in his gaze. 

“So fucking tight.”

You felt yourself stretching even further, unable to place a thought on what was going on. You whimpered, hands scrambling for purchase against George’s thighs.

Max kept his slow, deliberate rhythm, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the quiet space. 

“You feel that, sweetheart? How many do you think I have inside you?”

You whimpered, mind spinning, body trembling. 

“Th-three?” you stammered.

Max chuckled, voice thick with amusement. 

“Wrong.”

You sobbed, biting your lip. The stretch was intense, toes curling from the pressure, and yet you needed more.

“Try again,” Max purred, his thumb now circling your clit in steady, cruel strokes. “Tell me, baby.”

“F-four,” you gasped out, voice breaking. “It’s four.”

“That’s right.” His tone darkened, delighting in your helpless honesty. “And you’re taking it so fucking well.”

George’s breath was hot against your neck, his hand firm over your eyes, his hips flexing involuntarily beneath you. 

“She’s perfect like this,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked.

Max’s fingers shifted again, testing your limits, spreading you wider. You sobbed when he paused, applying a gentle pressure as though teasing you open further. 

“Do you think you can take one more?” he whispered.

You shook in George’s hold, desperate, overwhelmed. 

“I—I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” George’s voice was dark and coaxing in your ear. “You want it.”

“I want it,” you whispered, barely audible.

“That’s my girl.” 

Max grinned wickedly.  And then, slowly, deliberately, he eased a fifth finger inside. The burn was exquisite, your entire body tightening around the impossible stretch. You cried out, trembling violently, both of them holding you firmly as you writhed.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Max rasped, his voice low, breath hot against your skin. “Take them. You can take it, can’t you?”

You nodded frantically, a soft sob escaping as Max pushed against your walls..

“Fuck, you’re swallowing my fingers, schatje.”

You sobbed at the threat, trembling violently, but desperate for it. Max eased his thumb to your clit, circling with maddening pressure while his four fingers worked inside you. Your entire body writhed in George’s hold, caught between too much and not enough.

“Easy,” George whispered in your ear, but his voice was shaking too. His lips brushed your neck, his teeth grazing skin. “Let him.”

You tried to speak. Tried to tell them both how much you needed it, how close you were already—but George’s hand in your stomach started to move to your throat, holding you gently, tilting your head back.

“Don’t talk,” he murmured. “Just take it.”

You whimpered, hands grabbing at George’s thighs behind you, desperate for something to hold onto.

“She’s close,” Max said, tone dark and delighted. “Tight as hell. Feel her clenching?”

George nodded, barely breathing.

“She’s gonna come soon,” Max said. “You ready to watch her break for me, George?”

“Yeah. Let me see her.”

And you did break.

You came with a cry—loud and sharp—your entire body spasming in George’s arms, Max’s fingers dragging you through it like he wanted to wring every last bit of pleasure out of your bones. You thrashed against them, sobbing something incoherent as George held you through it, whispering low curses and soft praises into your hair.

“Good girl,” Max murmured, licking you through it. “That’s it. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

George released your eyes, letting the dim lights hit your cornea, then kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw—his grip never loosening, like if he let go, you might vanish.

Max looked up, eyes locked with George’s now. 

“Your turn. She’s all yours.”

Your body still hadn’t stopped shaking when George shifted behind you.

He’d kissed your cheek like he always did—tender, instinctive—but something had changed in the way his hands touched you now. They were heavier. He gripped your hips like he wanted to bruise them into memory. His breath against your skin was harsher, less controlled. Your come was still slick on your thighs, but George pulled your legs apart wider anyway, just to see how far you’d let him go.

Max watched from the edge of the bed, one hand stroking lazily over his own thigh, the other resting near your head, almost close enough to touch but not quite. He wasn’t in control anymore, not directly. He didn’t need to be. His work was done.

“You feel how wrecked she is?” Max asked George, voice low and amused.

George didn’t answer. He just hummed, sliding two fingers into you without warning, groaning at the resistance, at the way you clenched down hard around him even after everything.

“She’s so fucking wet,” George muttered, almost to himself. “Can feel her all the way down to my wrist.”

You gasped, head falling back against his shoulder. 

“George—”

“No,” he said. His voice—firm. Unrecognizable. “Don’t talk unless I say you can.”

Your body went still at the command. It was quiet, unpracticed, but it hit hard. Like he’d finally found the switch inside himself. And Max smiled watching it all unfold.

“Good,” Max murmured. “That’s more like it.”

George hooked an arm under your knees and shifted, manhandling you until you were flat on your back in the center of the bed. He came down over you after stripping from his clothes, as if the fabrics were the restraining him. His chest brushed yours, one arm braced beside your head. 

You looked up at him, wide-eyed and panting.

“You like it when I’m rough, right?” he asked, but this time the question was rhetorical. He was already dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance without giving in.

You nodded quickly, your hands grabbing at his arms. 

“Please—”

“You want it?” George asked again, voice sharp now, testing the words. “Want me to fuck you like you’ve been begging for?”

“Yes—George, yes—”

“Say it,” he growled, and when you hesitated, he slapped the inside of your thigh—light, but deliberate.

Your hips jumped. You moaned.

“I want you to fuck me like you own me,” you said, the words tumbling out.

George inhaled sharply. And then he did.

He thrust into you in one stroke, hard and deep, making you arch off the bed with a strangled cry. He didn’t wait—he couldn’t. His rhythm was brutal from the start, hips slamming into you, hands pinning your wrists to the sheets. His skin slapped against yours with every thrust. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—just moaned helplessly beneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist like you needed to keep him there.

“You hear her?” George spat out, half to Max. “This what you meant? All that begging?”

Max nodded slowly, his eyes locked on where George’s body met yours. 

“Yeah. That’s it. Don’t slow down.”

George growled, leaning in closer, his lips at your ear now. 

“You take me so fucking well. Like your cunt wants to be ruined.”

You shuddered. Mot just from the words, but the voice. The confidence in it.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarled. “So fucking tight. Can feel you milking me already, God…”

He kissed you hard, teeth scraping your lip, tongue demanding. And then Max was touching you again, stroking your hair, murmuring against your neck.

“You’re such a good little toy,” Max purred. “Letting us break you open like this.”

George didn’t stop. He just went deeper.

Max’s hand slid down your chest, pinched your nipple, and you cried out—overwhelmed and fucked-out and falling.

“You gonna come again, baby?” George’s voice cracked with effort. “You gonna come on my cock like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, legs shaking, back arching. 

“I’m—George. Fuck-”

“Do it,” he snarled. “Come for me. Fucking show him who you belong to.”

You broke.

The orgasm hit hard—louder, messier than the first. Your whole body convulsed, your hands clawing at George’s back, at the sheets, at anything to ground you. You screamed something that didn’t sound like language, your vision going white around the edges.

George groaned deep in his chest, nearly losing it at the way you clenched around him. He fucked you through it, hips faltering only when Max leaned down again and whispered in his ear:

“Now stay inside her. Make her feel you. Make sure she knows you’re not done.”

Your body was humming with aftershocks, too soft, too sensitive, too everything. You barely registered that George was still inside you until he shifted slightly, just a subtle roll of his hips, and you whimpered, grabbing at his forearm like you needed him to stop or to never leave you again.

“Fuck,” George breathed, his voice wrecked. “You’re still squeezing me.”

You were. Your walls fluttered around him like you couldn’t help it—like your body was begging for more even if your mind was short-circuiting.

Max watched you both from above. Chest rising up and down, broad and calm and in control. His mouth curled into a sharp smirk when he saw the way you tried to catch your breath, blinking up at him like you couldn’t remember what planet you were on.

“She’s not done,” Max said. “You’re not either.”

George looked at him, flushed and panting. 

“She came twice—”

“And?” Max raised a brow. 

George hesitated.

Max stepped forward slowly and grabbed George’s jaw with one hand—not rough, but firm enough that it made George go still. 

“You think just making her come means you’re finished? She’s cockdrunk, yes. But she’s still clenching you, isn’t she?” Max’s voice was low now, quiet and lethal. “Still open for you. You want to keep her like that, you hold her. Stay buried. Let her feel what she does to you.”

He released George’s jaw, and then turned to you. His expression had changed. Still dominant, but now tinged with something dangerously tender.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, slow, dazed. 

“I… Yeah. I just—”

Max leaned down, brushing your hair away from your face. 

“Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, “just… Burning. Too sensitive.”

“Good.” Max smiled. 

He climbed onto the bed and sat beside you, fingers brushing down your stomach, then lazily circling your clit. You jerked in George’s arms, a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

“She’s not gonna break,” Max told George calmly. “You want her trembling. You want her so sensitive that every little touch makes her whimper.”

Your whole body was shaking now, legs spread wide, George still thick and hot inside you while Max played you like an instrument, light pressure, gentle circles, relentless stimulation.

George buried his face against your neck, arms tight around your waist. 

“She’s squirming so much,” he murmured. “Can’t hold still.”

“That’s the point,” Max growled. “Let her fight it. That’s what cockwarming really is. Control. You don’t move, even when it feels so good you want to lose it. You stay deep. You keep her full. You make her come without thrusting.”

Your mouth fell open.

You didn’t know whether it was Max’s words or his fingers, or the stretch of George still rooted inside you, but suddenly it all crested again. Another orgasm built faster than it had any right to. No warning. No rhythm. Just heat slamming through you like lightning.

You sobbed something broken. Arms flailing, toes curling, thighs twitching. And Max didn’t stop. He watched you fall apart again, watched George hold you tighter through it, whispering frantic praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” Max growled. “That’s what she fucking needed. Begging for it. One orgasm isn’t enough. Not when she looks like this.”

George groaned against you, his self-control fraying at the edges. 

“Max… I can’t… If she keeps squeezing me like that I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” Max grabbed George’s hip, steadying him. “You want to fuck her again? You earn it. You make her beg for it. You look at her face and claim what is yours.”

You were babbling now—nonsense, pleasure-struck, tears on your cheeks as Max’s fingers finally left, leaving you throbbing and full and panting.

Max leaned down, kissing the corner of your mouth, his voice gentler now. 

“You want more?”

You nodded, barely audible. 

“Please…”

He looked at George. 

“That sound like begging to you?”

George’s eyes were blown wide, pupils dark with lust and something deeper. 

“Not quite.”

“Try again, baby.”

Max leaned in close to your ear, one hand cupping your jaw. His tone went razor-sharp again.

“Please, George, baby, fuck me. I need you. Please ruin me.”

“And now?” Max stared at him, serious.

“Good enough.”

“Then fuck her.”

You barely had time to breathe before George moved. It wasn’t gentle this time either.

Max’s command hung in the air like smoke and George obeyed like it had been burned into him. He pulled back, just enough to make you feel the drag, and then slammed back in, hard and deep, punching the air from your lungs.

You cried out, head falling back onto the soft pillow, and George groaned, his voice low and wrecked. 

“Fuck… She’s so tight, still… Can’t… Can’t believe—”

“She’s yours,” Max cut in, sharp. “Take her like it.”

George’s arms wrapped around you, pinning you to his chest as he began thrusting; not wild, but relentless. Deep strokes that made your thighs shake, made your clit ache from the overstimulation. 

You felt yourself being moved by both of them, getting to your hands and knees. Your body tried to retreat from the pleasure but couldn’t, not with George holding your hips, not with Max standing in front of you again, his hand stroking your jaw.

“Open your mouth, pretty,” Max murmured.

You obeyed without thinking.

Max’s fingers tapped lightly against your cheek, encouraging. 

“Good girl.”

Then he pushed his cock into your mouth, letting you suck it, watching as your lips wrapped around him with a messy whimper. Your eyes rolled back slightly. It felt too much and everything was going on too fast. Meanwhile, Max smiled like he owned the reaction.

George groaned again, thrusts stuttering for a moment at the sight of you like that. Wrecked, between them.

“Look at her,” Max said, cock still in your mouth. “She loves being used like this. Loves being full.”

George’s grip tightened. 

“She keeps clenching down… Feels like she doesn’t want to let go of me.”

“She doesn’t,” Max said. “She wants to be ruined. So give her what she wants.”

You moaned around him, mouth opening wider, as he fed it to you slowly, letting you taste him inch by inch.

“That’s it,” Max growled. “Suck me while he fucks you. Let both of us feel how desperate you are.”

Your mind blanked. All you could do was feel; George’s cock dragging in and out of you, Max’s thick heat stretching your throat, your body trapped between them, stuffed and shaking and blissed-out.

George was losing rhythm now, panting hard, voice rough in your ear.

“She’s… fuck, Max, she’s squeezing me so tight I can’t—”

Max pulled your mouth off him with a soft pop, one hand fisting in your hair. 

“You come when I say, not a second before.”

George groaned like it physically hurt. 

“She’s shaking—”

“Good. She’s going to come again.”

Max’s cock returned to your lips, but this time he started moving, fucking your throat with cruel precision. Your throat twitched, sounds of choking leaving you like silent cries while you spiraled toward the edge, again, with George still pounding into you from below, his grip bruising, his cock relentless.

Max leaned in, voice right against your ear. 

“Come on his cock. Come like you’re nothing but something to fill.”

That’s what broke you.

Your orgasm tore through you, violent and uncontrollable. You screamed, toes curling, thighs shaking. You didn’t even know what you were mururing, they were just sounds, sobs, whimpers between breathless cries of their names.

George roared, hips snapping up once, then twice, before he came deep inside you, heat flooding your cunt, his body trembling as he held you through it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

At the same time you felt the hot load feeling your mouth, tasting the saltiness while you watched as Max’s face twitched in pleasure, letting his dominance out the room so he could feel the ecstasy.

“That’s it, baby, so good to us.”

You collapsed against the bed, boneless, overwhelmed, tears drying on your cheeks. 

You felt George’s arms around you again, soft now, shaking from the effort. He was still inside you, still twitching with aftershocks.

Max watched you both, chest rising and falling, his breathing gradually slowing.

Then, without a word, he lay down beside you, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the weight of him grounding you. George’s heartbeat drummed beneath his chest as he moved away. The room was thick with heat, sweat cooling on flushed skin.

No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.

You let your eyes close, your body finally still, carried by the quiet hum of spent pleasure that settled over all three of you.

And for a while, there was only silence.

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ The Forbidden Room // Poly!Marauders x F!Reader

Summary: A forbidden part of Hogwarts calls to the Marauders. What starts as curiosity quickly turns into something deeper, darker. The room gives them what you desire… but it takes just as much in return. A dark, magical descent into pleasure, pain, and love that refuses to break—even when everything else begins to.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, dark(!), dubious consent, magical coercion, forced orgasms, dom/sub, restrained, dvp, big dick! Remus, rough nipple play, belly bulge, rough sex, gaping, subspace, praise kink, oral (f+m receiving), injuries from rough sex, passing out from sex, aftercare

Words: 6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The start of the term feast had always been a loud and brilliant affair, but this year, the air was tense. Tension radiated from the professors. Something about the way Dumbledore had stood a little too straight. How his eyes hadn’t twinkled quite the same. Hogwarts was older than any of them could truly grasp, but tonight, even the stones felt older still, as if the building was holding its breath.

Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering from invisible drafts. The chatter of students buzzed around the Great Hall, but at the Gryffindor table, four students huddled in close, caught in their own gravity.

You were pressed between Remus and Sirius, one of your lers draped over the other as you absently picked at your treacle tart, while James leaned in across the table, whispering in a voice that was far too conspiratorial for a school setting.

“He’s going to say it,” James said in a hushed tone, eyebrows furrowed. His jet black hair curling slightly from the effects of the misty rain that you’d all just walked through. “I bet he says it this year.”

Sirius rolled his eyes dramatically. He was lounging back with his boots propped on the bench, looking like royalty slumming it in school robes. “Prongs, love, if you say that again, I swear I’m hexing your eyebrows off your pretty little face.”

Remus huffed beside you, ever the calm anchor to their chaotic buoyancy. He wasn’t touching his food either, but that was because he was watching the staff table with an unnerving stillness, his fingers tapping silently on the table beside your hand.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, “Remus.”

He turned, his eyes softening. “Sorry, my love. Just…  watching.”

James wiggled his fingers dramatically. “The wolf senses are tingling.”

“He’s always like this before a full moon,” Sirius added, fond despite the teasing.

“It’s not for another week,” Remus muttered absentmindedly, but his hand finally found yours beneath the table, lacing your fingers together as his thumb stroked over a scar on the back of his hand.

Then Dumbledore stood.

The hall fell instantly silent. Cutlery paused mid-air, conversations cut off mid-sentence. Dumblefore scanned the room with that eerie kind of stillness, his beard resting neatly against his robes.

“Welcome back, students,” he began, voice echoing without magic. “Before we celebrate the return to our halls, a reminder: as ever, sme areas of the castle remain offline. But this year, I must be absolutely clear: the corridor at the far end of the East Wing, beyond the silver Stair, is not strictly forbidden.”

He paused. The room remained silent. Even the boys seemed to be holding their breath. “An uncontrollable magical accident occurred over the holidays. Do not attempt to enter. We cannot guarantee your safety. And I heed this warning to everyone.”

He emphasised his last word, tilting his head to stare over the rim of his spectacles, looking pointedly at the Marauders.

Your heart dropped. Remus stiffened beside you. James sat upright for the first time all night. Sirius, he smiled. “Well,” Sirius whispered as everyone continued with their conversations and eating. “That sounds like an invitation to me.”

By the time the four of you stood before the Silver Staircase three nights later, the hallway was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten stone. The Marauder’s Map, clutched in James’ hand, glowed faintly with enchanted ink, its intricate lines twitching like veins.

You were wrapped in your cloak, arms crossed against the chill. “You know this is stupid, right?”

“Oh, darling,” Sirius said, grinning, “You know we never let a little stupidity stop us.”

“She’s right,” Remus said quietly, though he stood a step behind you, hand on your lower back. “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“But it’s the last bit,” James said, the boyish excitement in his eyes making him appear hyper. “The map’s complete except for this wing.”

You looked up at him, at the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, the smudge of ink near his thumb, and felt your resolve waver.

Remus leans in close, his breath warm on your ear. “We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

And so you walked.

The corridor was narrower than expected, the ceiling lower, the stone darker. Tapestries hung rotted and ripped, as if time had moved faster here. The silence was different. It had a weight to it, thick like velvet.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius whistled lowly. “I think I like it.”

“That says more about you than the hallway,” you tutted.

James let out a short laugh and then paused. “Wait. Look.”

At the far end of the corridor stood a door. It hadn’t been there a second ago. It wasn’t on the map. No knobs. No markings. Just deep, polished wood and the thrum of magic in the air. Remus stepped in front of you. James moved closer, fingers twitching.

“It feels wrong,” Remus voiced wearily.

“It feels like fun,” Sirius replied, never backing down from caution.

Your palm pressed to the wood before you even realised you’d done it. Being drawn to the door. The door clicked.

It opened.

The room was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Not just heated, warm in the way skin feels after a fever breaks. The air shimmered faintly, like mist catching candlelight. The chamber was draped in deep crimson and gold, fabric floating lazily from the high, invisible ceiling. A fire crackled somewhere beyond sight. There was no dust. No cobwebs. The room breathed.

“It looks like the Gryffindor Common Room if it got sagged by a bordello,” Sirius said reverently.

A single four-poster bed stood in the centre—giant, scarlet and velvet. The mattress indented as if someone had just risen from it.

“It reacted to her,” James said suddenly, his voice a little too quiet.

You turned. “What?”

“The door. The room. None of it happened until you touched it.”

Remus steps toward the bed. “This is powerful magic.”

“It wanted her,” Sirius mused, no longer joking.”

You felt it then, a hum under your skin, as if the room were listening. Waiting. Your mouth was dry. Then the door slammed shut behind the four of you.

The moment the door slammed shut, silence swallowed the air around you. Spinning instinctively, fingers fumbled with your wand, but there was no handle on the door anymore—just flat, polished wood behind you, warm to the touch and pulsing faintly with magic. No seams. No lock. It had simply vanished into the wall.

A flicker of unease clawed its way up your spine.

“Well,” Sirius broke the silence, his tone light but his eyes flicking with alertness, “That’s ominous.”

James stepped forward and tried pushing the wood with both palms. Nothing. Not even a creak. He pulled the map from his pocket, only to find it blank. The ink bled away the moment he opened it.

“Blood hell,” he breathed.

Remus’s eyes were scanning every corner of the room. Always methodical. Always looking for the source. He took a step closer to the four-poster bed and crouched, running his fingers over the floorboards beneath.

“There’s something here,” he said under his breath. “Something old. This isn’t just a concealed chamber. It’s woven magic. Sentient.”

You stayed near the doorway, pulse loud in your ears. “Why would Dumbledore leave this?” you asked, voice softer than you intended.

Remus stood again, brushing his palms together absently. “He didn’t leave it. He did warn us not to come here.”

“We just didn’t listen,” James added, glancing over his shoulder at you. His eyes softened when he saw your expression. “Hey. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“And if we don’t,” Sirius said, slinging his arm over your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple, “ we live here now. It could be worse. Good lighting. Silky bedding. Plenty of wine-coloured drapes to make me feel dramatic.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

But the magic in the air didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like it was listening. Reacting. The bed was no longer. Instead, the sheets had arranged themselves neatly, smooth and inviting. Four long silk ties now hung from the bedposts, dangling just enough to catch the flickering golden light.

Your stomach twisted. Remus noticed. He stepped toward you and rested a hand gently on your waist. “Do you feel it too?”

You nodded. “Like it knows I’m here.”

Sirius leaned against the bedpost and tilted his head toward you. “Does it feel bad?”

You hesitated. The boys watched you quietly. They always did this– held space for you to speak, even when the room didn’t. You searched for the right word.

“It doesn’t feel bad. Just…intimate. Like someone’s already touched me and I didn’t realise until just now.”

A beat of silence. Then Remus whispered, almost impressed. “It’s reading your magic. Your intent and your need.”

James looked between the three of you. “And if that’s true, what is it finding?”

The question hung there. You didn’t answer. But the room did.

The fire flared, not violently, but in acknowledgement. The bed shifted. The mattress dipped ever so slightly, as if it were inviting weight to settle upon it. One of the silk restraints lifted somewhat off the post, curling gently, lazily, like a finger beckoning.

Remus’ eyes darkened. Sirius stood straighter. James exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.

“It wants to give you something,” Remus wondered. “Or take something from you.”

You swallowed thickly. “But what if it’s both?”

James stepped forward first, not toward the door, not toward the exit that no longer existed, but toward the bed. He brushed his fingertips across the silk, watching it dance around his knuckles.

“I think it’s safe,” he said, glancing back at you. “I think it only does what we ask. What you want.”

Sirius was already toeing off his boots, as if he’d decided the room wasn’t a threat but a gift. “If this is a trap, it’s a blood luxurious one.”

You caught Remus’ eyes. He hadn’t moved; he never rushed. He watched you with careful understanding, his voice quiet and subdued. “We don’t have to. You say the word, and we sit on the floor and wait this out together.”

But you didn’t want to sit on the floor. You wanted to feel them.

The air trembled as your decision took form in your chest. You took one step forward. Then another. Until your knees brushed the edge of the mattress.

“You want us?” James asked again, voice low.

You nodded. “Always.”

Remus moved behind you, hands warm on your waist. Sirius took your hand, kissing the knuckles. James leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder. And the silk restraints, almost gleeful, curled tighter around the bedposts.

The room pulsed like a heartbeat, and the magic began to hum.

As James brushed his lips along your shoulder and Remus’s hands gripped your waist from behind you, you felt the first flickers of it: the room responding to you. Not to your words, or your touch, but something deeper. Something primal.

Your desire.

The air shimmered again. The velvet curtains above pulsed like lungs, inhaling slowly. Candlelight flickered lower, deeper. A chaise longue you hadn’t noticed before melted into the floor. Everything extraneous faded away, until it was just you, your boys, the bed and the tension widening between all of it.

The silk ties coiled tighter around the bedposts, no longer lazy in their movements. They stretched invitingly, waiting to wrap around your wrists. The bed seemed larger now, too, stretching beneath you, padded, soft, perfectly shaped to your body.

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s reading me.”

Remus’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Then tell it what you want.”

And you did without a word. You lie back.

The bed caught you like a lover’s hands, the sheets cool against your spine and then warming instantly. Silk restrains slid gently around your wrists, not tight, not binding, just enough to remind you that you were giving up control. But only to them.

James straddled your legs, dark eyes blown wide with adoration and lust, hands skipping up your thighs to push your skirt higher. “She wants to be touched first,” he murmured. “To be wished.”

The roomflared.

Sirius was already at your side, kissing your neck, sucking marks beneath your ear, one hand splayed against your ribs as he whispered, “so pretty like this. All laid out, waiting for us.”

Your shirt unbuttoned itself.

A gasp escapes your lips as the room joins them in the teasing, fabric slipping open with no hands at all, revealing your bra and barestomach. You saw James’ jaw clench. Remus exhausted through his nose. Sirius groaned.

Then their hands were on you.

James kissed down your stomach with urgency. Sirius took yourbra covered breastsin his mouth and hands, his tongue hot and wet, groaning as he sucked your nipple through the material. Remus, still clothed, stood watching for a long moment, eyes glowing gold, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t speak. He simply watched them devour you. You could feel the heat of his hunger from across the bed.

James slipped down between your thighs, pressing kisses over your knickers, teasing you with maddening gentleness. “This is what you want, love? You want my mouth here first?”

Theroompulsed again, and the remainder of your clothes disappeared.

James let out a strangled laugh. “Right. Got our answer.”

And then he was burying his face between your spread thighs, groaning against you, licking long, slow stripes with practised precision. You cried out, back arching, wrists pulling instinctively at the restaurant's. Sirius hummed approvingly around your breast.

“Oh, she’s wound tight already,” James mumbled between licks. “You’re gonna come so fast for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You barely managed to nod, too distracted by Jjames lips sucking harshly on your throbbing clit. The room grew hotter. The air sang with magic, like it was anticipating your orgasm too, and when it hit, you shattered.

The walls shuddered with a golden ripple. The lights brightened, then dimmed again. The bed groaned low beneath you.

James kissed your thighs as you twitched. “One down.”

Sirius kissed up your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses to your lips as his fingers pinched your hardened nipple. “Think you’re ready for me now, darling?”

You were dazed, breathless, already nodding.

He slide between your legs, chanting soft words against your skin as he gripped his cock, pushing the tip into your eargly awaiting hole, stretching you just enough, curlinghis hips perfectly, pulling pans from your mouth. He didn’t thrust hard. Not yet. The room wouldn't let him. It wanted to savour.

Sirius bent low, forehead against yours, chest pressed to your breasts, whispering, “You feel so good. Every time. So warm. So tight. Like you’re made for us.”

You were already sensitive from your first orgasm, your inner walls tightening with every thrust as Sirius moved without urgency, in and out with slow, methodical movements. His pelvis pushing down against your clit as he moved.

He held eye contact, intense and nodding as your whimpers become more desparate, your cunt clinging to him like a lifeline as everything tightened and tightened until you were peaking into euphoria.

Sirius came with you, a groan and a kiss, his tongue carressing yours as he spilt deep inside of you, whispering your name like a secret.

And then Remus finally moved. 

You felt it before you saw him. The weight in the room shifted.

James kissed your knee. Sirius pulled back slowly, reluctantly, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face.

You turned your head. Remus was naked but your eyes zoned in on his huge cock.

Even after everything, even after knowing him, being with him, you were still at the sight of him. His cock was long, thick, heavy and already leaking. You could barely wrap your fingers around him when you tried.

Sirius and James were already well endowed, filling you to your limit and leaving your pussy pulsing from use. But Remus? You’d be limping after a quick fuck.

He crawled onto the bed, eyes never leaving yours.

“She needs to be ready,” he said, voice hoarse as his eyes continued to search over your body.

James and Sirius helped, moving into action at Remus’s voice.

James kissed you again, fingers dipping between your thighs to spread their release further, prepping you. Sirius rubbed your hips, “breathe, baby. You can take him. You always do.”

Remus lined himself up. His hand shook. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“I want to hurt a little,” you whispered.

The room moaned with you.

When he slid in, slowly, carefully, stretching you wider than you could ever prepare for, you gasped. The sting made your toes curl. Even after James and Sirius, even after the teasing, Remus still made your walls ache to accommodate him.

“Fuck,” he grolwed. “You’re so tight. So good. So fucking perfect.”

He moved with care, but with growing force. Each thrust left you whining. Each drag of his cock made your body feel more open, more raw, more claimed.

The room sang with every sound you made. It matched you.

He was so big. You were already so sensitive, it felt like an endless orgasm was contorting through your cunt as he moved with more vigor than Sirius. By the time he came, his deep inside you, you were whimpering beneath him, stretched wide and panting.

He pulled out slowly, and the movement he did, you felt it, the emptiness. And wet.

Sirius let out a soft sound of awe as Remus gently opened your thighs again. “Fuck. She’s gaping, Moons. You wrecked her.”

Remus brushed a kiss to your knee. “She’s perfect.”

The room dimmed slightly, holding you in that warm, dreamy space after. Magic still pulsed softly in the walls.

And deep in your belly, where Remus had been, you could feel the aftershock of him, the ache, the emptiness, the echo of fullness so deep it had nearly touched your core.

The room knew what you wanted. And it had only just begun.

The room has changed now.

The afterglow from Remus had barely faded. You were still sprawled on the velvet sheets, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and slick. Yet the air shifted again, like the bed exhales beneath you —a slow, thick breath of darker magic curling around your thighs.

James noticed first. He had been tracing shapes into the bare skin of your leg, soft and seamless, when his fingers slowed.

“It changed,” he whispered.

Sirius, lounging nearby, cock still halfhard, blinked up toward the ceiling. The gold light had dimmed to a deep garnet. Shadows spilt in from places they hadn’t before. The concerns bled into black.

Remus sat at the edge of the bed, and when he looked at you, his expression had changed. Hungrier, darker, as if some leash inside him had slackened.

“She wants more,” he said. But it wasn’t a question.

The bed creaked once more. The sheets beneath your body grew warmer again, slicker, almost damp like arousal made fabric.

You wanted to close your legs. You couldn’t.

The silk ties reformed around your thighs. Not your wrists and not gently either. They slide across your inner thighs and pull. The room opened your legs for them. For you.

James swallowed audibly. “It’s rereading her. Fuck.”

“No,” Remus said lowly, standing now, looking over the bed. “It’s obeying her.”

You whimpered. You weren’t afraid. Not really. You were high on them, on magic, on the flood of something warm and subspace-sweet dripping into your chest like melted sugar.

Remus knelt between your legs. You could already feel the wetness there, your body leaking from earlier—the soreness and the stretch. You were so open, so exposed to them.

He didn’t touch you yet. Not with his hands.

He blew a breath against your slit, and your whole body jerked. “Still so sensitive,” he spoke deeply. “And you want more.”

A mewl slipped past your lips. The shadows on the wall shifted in response.

Sirius stood next. His smirk was gone. His face was stern. But his cock was hard again. And James? He looked dazed. Flushed. Gone somewhere deeper, his pupils blown.

“Tell us to stop,” James said firmly. “Please. If it’s too much, remember your safe words. Red to stop. Yellow to pause. Green to continue.”

You nod in understanding, breathing their names like a blessed dream. They took that as permission.

Sirius straddled your chest, his cock heavy and flushed and pressing against your lips. James took his place beside you, hands tangling into your hair, turning your head as Sirius pushed in.

“Open up, darling,” Sirius cooed, his voice dark silk. “There we go. Merlin, you look perfect with my cock down your throat.”

You gagged, just once, and the bed moaned. The walls pulsed.

Remus was watching it from between your legs. Watching your throat stretch around sirius whilst your cunt twitched open for him. You were soaked—a mess. And still, you wanted more.

“You want to be used,” he said gently. Not cruel. Just stating a fact.

And then he slid in.

You screamed around Sirius’ cock, a wet choked nosie, as Remus’ massive length stretched your sensitive alls again. It hurt and burned. You were still so raw from earlier. But your body welcomed him like it always did – clenching, fluttering, dripping.

He didn’t wait.

He fucked into you with a pace that left you sobbing. Deep, deliberate thrusts that made you feel it in your gut. Your stomach bulged slightly with each push. James saw it first.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, hand splaying across your lower belly, jsut above your pubic bone. “Look. She’s taking all of him. You can see it.”

Remus growled. Ferally growled. He gripped your thighs, pulling them higher, tighter. The silk at your thighs pulled too, straining to let him in even deeper.

“Can feel her clenching,” he bit out. “She loves this.”

Sirius came down your throat with a low groan. Pulled out slowly, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Subspace had dragged you under.

You weren’t speaking anymore; you were just whimpering. Moaning and letting it all happen. James replaced sirius at your mouth, but not with his cock–with his fingers. Two of them, down your throat.

“Breath for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Take it. That’s it. So fucking good for us.”

Your throat spasmed around his fingers. Your cunt spasmed around remus.

He fucked you harder and faster. Like he needed to break you open.

The room shifted, breathing with you. And then, a mirror appeared on the ceiling.

You could see it. Your body, tied down and used. Remus’ cock spltting you open, visibly bulging your belly. James shoved his fingers between your lips; your eyes rolled back.

And shadows.

Other versions of you. Reflected on the walls.

Naked. Begging. Crying. Taking cock after cock. Smiling through tears.

One shadow whispered, Please don’t stop.

Another: break me.

You came. Harder than before. Your entire body locked, then convulsed. Your legs shook violently. Your vision went white.

Remus didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it. Forced orgasm after forced orgasm, even as you sobbed and begged and arched into James’ chest.

You didn’t remember your safe word. Couldn’t even think what it was. Couldn’t speak it. The room knew. It dulled your fear, thickened your haze, and made your body crave.

James kissed your temple. “Just one more, darling. Let Sirius have a turn. You can do it. One more.”

You moaned in agreement, tears streaking down your cheeks. Remus pulled out, and Sirius slid into your already-gaping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re ruined,” Sirius groaned. “So swollen and so messy. Still begging for more.” He fucked you rough and fast. His hands found your nipples and pinched, tugged, and rolled them until you sobbed.

James joined him. He leaned in and bit your breast, tongue flicking over the peaked flesh. One of them sucked. One bit. Again and again until your nipples were raw, and puffy just like your pussy.

Remus hovered near your head, hand stroking over your scalp. “That’s it, love. You’re so good. So fucking good for us.”

You whmpered. Your body jerked. Sirius’s pace faltered. He was close.

“One more,” James said again, eyes locked on Remus. “Let’s give her everything.”

Remus moved behind you.

“No,” you gasped. But it wasn’t a safe word. It didn’t stop. The room knew the difference. James lifted your thighs.

Remus pressed against your perineum, his tip pushing against Sirius’ cock.

And then, you took both of them.

Sirius and Remus, both in your swollen cunt, stretching you impossibly wide.

You screamed. It was too much. It hurt. It split you. But it burned with something deeper, a need you didn’t understand. They moved in tandem. Both of them, in and out, thrusting, grunting and praising.

James kissed you, held your face, and let you sob into his mouth.

You didn’t know where you ended and they began/ and then you came.

Again. Again. You lost track until you passed out. Until your body gave in, and the room purred, sated again.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You lay in the bed, limp and slick with sweat, throat sore, limbs trembling from the aftershocks of something you couldn’t even name. The air was still thick, but the magichaf slowed, coiled inward, resting, like a beast that had finally fed.

Your body felt hollow. Overused. Your cunt throbbed from being stretched too wide, too deep. Every breath scraped against your ribs. But it wasn’t just your body that ached.

Your mind was fogged, bruised at the edges. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. But beneath it, something else. More.

The room still whispered.

Sirius sat on the floor with his back to the wall, arms around your knees, head bowed low. He hadn’t spoken since he’d pulled away, breathless, his release cooling on your chest.

James was pacing. Not like Sirius had. James was unsteady, frantic, running a hand through his hair again and again, muttering under his breath.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t have–we shouldn’t–”

Remus hadn’t moved. He sat at the edge of the bed, hunched over, holding his hands. His body was still naked. His cock half-hard. His thighs are slick with you. He hadn’t even cleaned himself.

You managed a breath. “Remus,” you rasped. It didn't sound like your voice. He flinched. Your voice was the thing that broke the silence.

Sirius looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. James stopped pacing and looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time. Remus turned slowly.

“I hurt you,” he said, voice cracking. “I–Merlin, I knew it, I felt I–but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to.”

You blinked at him. He looked devastated. Haunted.

“No,” you whispered. “I wanted it.”

“You didn’t want that,” Sirius said, finally finding his voice. “Not all of it. Not like that. That wasn’t us.”

James’s hands were shaking. He held up the Marauder’s Map. It was still blank.

“I think it’s affecting us. The room. It’s inside us. It’s changing what we think we want.”

You tried to sit up, but your body screamed in protest. Your belly was tender. Your thighs felt like jelly. You collapsed back with a small gasp. Remus was beside you in a moment. His hands were gentle now, trembling as they hovered over your skin without touching.

“I should have waited, I should have seen it.”

You looked up at him. His green eyes were full of guilt, full og longing. Full of love. “I wanted it,” you repeated softly. “But something’s wrong. I don't know where the wanting ends and the magic begins.”

James knelt beside the bed, his hand came to rest on your ankle. “We need to get out,” he said. “This place, it's not just responding to desire. It’s creating it.”

You glanced toward the mirror. Still there. Still full of your reflections. But they looked different now. No longer cruel. Now they were watching. Some pressed their hands to the glass. Some mouthed words you couldn’t hear. Yu looked away.

Sirius pushed himself off the floor, his limbs stiff and uncoordinated. He crossed to the bed and lay down beside you, carefully, pulling your hand into his. He kissed your knuckles.

“This isn’t us,” he admitted. “We’re us. We tease, we protect, we love, we never hurt.”

You looked between the three of them—your boys. Remus, still shaking. James, frantic. Sirius, silent and circled your hand like a man who’d almost lost it all.

You closed your eyes. “We have to fight it,” you said.

The room listened. Feeling the ripple through the mattress. The whispering stopped. But the shadows didn’t leave. And in the corners of the room, the magic held its breath again. Waiting.

The air shifted again. Not with heat or hunger, but with tension. A stillness that felt final. Like the room knew, you’d made a decision.

James was the first to move. He reached for the Marauder's Map again, though the parchment was useless at present. He held it close.

“I think it’s listening,” he said. “Like it always was. But now we’re speaking back.”

Sirius stood behind him, arms wrapped around himself. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by something quiet, worn.

Remus, now dressed, was not his usual calm, but was trying to cover his shame. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours. But his hand never left your leg, resting there like an anchor.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to sit up again, slowly.

It took effort. Your body still throbbed, but not in pleasure. “We have to try, together.”

James nodded.

“I think it’s a door. Or a prison. But it’s built on what we want, right? So maybe–maybe we have to want out more than we want to stay.”

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “Easier said than done. It gave us everything. Dark, twisted, perfect little fantasies. And we liked them.”

“I hated it,” Remus said, his voice hoarse. “Even when I liked it.”

The room heard that. The candles dimmed further. You stood. Slowly, with Sirius’s help. Your knees wobbled, but you managed to stay upright.

Then you said it: “I don't want to stay.”

Remus rose beside you.” I didn't want to lose myself.”

James clutched the map. “I want to leave.”

Sirius looked around one more time. The bed, the mirror, the reflections, the shadows of yourselves. He leaned down and kissed your temple. “I want you safe.”

The room groaned. The walls shuddered. The bed unravelled, literally, seams tearing into threads, velvet turning to smoke. The mirror cracked once, twice, then shattered, sending glimmering shards into the darkness.

The door appeared. Plain wood. Just like before. Remus reached for it. It didn’t open.

The magic fought back. The air turned hot again, pressing in. The walls began to pulse, like a heartbeat speeding up. Like rage. The shadows screamed in silence.

The reflections didn’t disappear. They began pounding on the glass walls, dozens of versions of you, of the boys, crying, moaning, clawing to stay.

But you stepped forward. You took their hands—James to your left, Remus to your right, Sirius at your back.

“We don't want you,” you whispered to the room. “We want us.”

Remus took a deep breath and reached again. The door opened.

A single breath of cold air rushed in, real, sharp and clean. Like the castle again. Like freedom. No one spoke. You all ran.

You stumbled down the corridor, James holding you upright, Sirius behind you, wand out, even though he couldn’t explain why Remus ahead, opening every hallway, guiding you back toward the Silver Stair. 

And then, you crossed the threshold, back into Hogwarts proper. It was like waking from a fever dream, clothes reappearing on all of your bodies, like you’d not been naked for the many hours stuck in that room. 

The corridor was dusty, cold and empty. The door was gone. No mirror, no magic. You all stood there maintaining. Then James dropped the map. Sirius sat down hard on the floor. Remus fell to his knees.

And you… You began to cry. Not sobs. Just hot, quiet tears. Because you were safe, but part of you still felt that hum. That echo. Like the room hadn’t let go entirely. And maybe it never would.

The hospital wing was quiet. Not silent, the soft clink of potion bottles, the rustle of parchment as Madam Pompfrey shuffled papers, but calm enough that the breath of your boys filled the space like music.

You lie beneath crisp white sheets, your body still tender, wrapped in soft linens and healing salves. Bruises bloomed beneath your skin, covering your thighs. Your hips ached. Your cunt swollen, sore and overused, still pulsed with the ghost of everything the room had taken from you.

You could barely walk when they’d carried you in.

James had cradled you, whispering soft things against your temple. Sirius had paced behind, snapping at Madam Pomfrey with uncharacteristic tension, until she made him sit. Remus hadn’t spoken, not at first. He’d just held your hand, silent and trembling.

Lies had been told to Madam Pomfrey, about falling down some stairs and needing help because there was no way on Earth any of you would admit to her that you’d all been fucking for hours and now you were ruined.

Now, hours later, you were clean, rested, but still hurting. And your boyfriends hadn’t left your side once.

James sat beside your bed, one hand tucked under your blanket to hold your fingers. He was stroking small shapes against your palm, rhythmic and grounding.

“You scared the hell out of us.”

“I scared myself,” you whispered back.

Sirius was lying at the foot of your bed, his head resting lightly near your knees, one arm curled possessively across your legs. He hadn’t let go of you either.

“You’re not allowed to die in haunted sex rooms anymore,” he muttered. “It’s a new rule.”

You gave a weak laugh. Even that hurt. But it was good. It was light. Remus sat nearest your head, a little hunched, as if he were afraid to touch too much, to cause more pain. His hand ran lightly through your hair, over and over.

“I should have stopped it,” he said defeatedly.

“You did,” you replied. “You all did. We came back.”

Remus finally looked down. There were shadows beneath his eyes, guilt still clinging like a fog. But you reached up. Slower now, sore and trembling, and cupped his jaw.

“I wanted you to touch me, Remus. And I still want you.”

His expression cracked, the relief bleeding through. James leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You’re going to be sore for days.”

“She can’t walk,” Sirius added. “Not even a bit. I had to help hold her while she pissed.”

“Sirius,” you groaned, face heating.

He grinned. “Just saying. You’re fucked. Like, literally. Ruined. And it’s kind of hot, ignoring all the nearly dying part.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “She needs rest.”

“I need you,” you whispered.”

That quieted all of them. You shifted slowly, painfully, and James helped you lean forward enough to rest your head on Remus’s shoulder. His arms came around you like they always did, strong and secure.

Sirius pressed a kiss to your knee, fingers trailing gentle patterns over the bruises. James curled against your other side, his lips brushing your collarbone.

They held you. You all stayed there for what felt like hours—whispering, laughing gently, apologising and kissing each other’s hands, shoulders, and cheeks.

James stroked over your ribs, “We’re still us”

Remus pressed a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

Sirius rested his forehead against your leg. “And when you’re better, when you’re ready, we’ll take care of you properly, safely.”

You smiled, eyes falling shut.

“I know. I love you.”

Outside the window, the sun began to rise. And inside the hospital wing, wrapped in love and softness, you healed.

[xylatox]

hate to have you || pjs

I have finally made it to the last fic of the crossing the line series! This was such a time and Im so happy that I got to read it from the beginning. It makes me so happy and a bit sad that its over. I cant even choose my favourite yet but I just wanna say; Rain, congrats on finishing this series :) it was soso good and honestly I loved every minute of this emotional ride I was on hehe. Excitied to read more of your work.

The diner always smelled like old coffee and fried memories. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, settling into the cushions of red vinyl booths and the strands of your hair no matter how tightly you kept your hood drawn. 

You always manage to have the most amazing openings for fics and I think I just love that about your writing honestly.

You were just…tired. Tired in the way only daughters of distant fathers could be, tired in your bones, your breath, your blood.

Love this line because this is such a particular feeling, to be a daughter of a dad who’s still present in your life but is still very much distant and honestly it sucks and takes such an emotional toll on you and honestly just warps your perception of relationships forever.

I think what hurts about this is that so early on you see that its so much easier for their relationship to not be that for father and daughter and more so what she can do for him and that just breaks me.

Also I am totally freaking out in my head over MC and Jay’s first interaction like. Hes so respectful and its so darn sweet to me and so Jay coded that it warms my heart.

Coach Bennett’s office smelled like old sweat and ambition. The kind that settled into the corners, into the folds of jackets slung over chairs, into the woodgrain of the desk itself, soaked in over years of lost games and close calls. 

God, Rain, I really do  love your writing and hope to achieve one day a way to express myself like this.

“Don’t,” you cut in, quiet but sharp. Not angry, just done. The kind of tone that grows in the lungs of girls who have been left at too many diners.

God, their relationship hurts me in so many ways. She doesnt only feel done but exhausted by the entirety of it. It feels like a relationship where too many apologies were said. The same thing over and over again, the same expectations which all ended the same.

Jay felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible thread pulling taut. Because the words made perfect sense. They were rational. They were fair. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her from the night before. The way she stood with snow melting on her coat, headphones tucked like secrets around her neck. The way she didn’t smile with her mouth, but with the corner of her eyes. The way she said thank you like it wasn’t a gift, but a necessity. Polite. Distant. And now she would be here, every day. A ghost walking among them. Not haunting; but changing the temperature of every room.

I love that there’s already the undeniable pull towards her because of how she portrays herself and it immediately helps increase the stakes/ tension of their relationship.

I love that despite the obvious tension between MC and her dad he still clearly loves her and its so painfully obvious its just that he unfortunately has his faults as a human and it prevents her from seeing the fullness of the love her offers her and shows that despite the distance he loves her much more than she’ll ever know.

You didn’t want to be here because it meant being near him, Coach Bennett. Your father. The man whose love always came in second to a scoreboard. You hadn’t even told anyone he was your dad until college forced your hand.

And this shows us from the daughter’s perspective how things really seem and his lack of words and actions makes her have such a strained relationship with her dad. And I feel like even if he were to try now, it would be of no use because her brain already filled the gaps missing in their relationship and ugh. This makes me sympathize with her dad and all dads who have been on the receiving end of this because its honestly so easy for daughters to do I think.

Also I love how MC views Jay on ice, I genuinely love the way you had her phrase it. But I think my favourite part was this;

When he saw you, just for a second; only a second, his eyes met yours. The glance was sharp and immediate, but then he looked away, just as quickly, like the connection had burned too hot, too fast. You didn’t think much of it. 

Because this, though it means nothing to her since theyve only now met, it shows that Jay immediately respects Coach Bennett’s words and wants to maintain his distance from her (while simultaneously looking out for her) because he has this attraction to her but its in like an intriguing way because shes so mysterious and its like he knows that can cause problems.

For a heartbeat, time stalled. Not in a romantic way; no, you didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But in the way a deer pauses when it senses it's been seen, body still, breath caught. And then he looked away.

I love this because we also get a further insight into how the MC views romance and it just makes the progress towards their eventual relationship even more fulfilling 

He shrugged. “My girl’s a figure skater. Taught me how to fall pretty.” That made you smile. A real one. One that cracked the ice around your ribs a little. You nodded in approval. “She taught you well.” 

Did I absolutely giggle at the reference? Yes. I did and ugh </3 living through them again.

I love how Jay immediately has his walls up and ugh I am obsessed with the tension it creates between them and its such a contrast to their first very sweet interaction honestly. And even something simple as such touching him (which is expected in sport) you can see hes so startled and guarded by it and I feel like Jay is so layered here and Im living for just every part of him to be unraveled. 

And for the record I understand where he’s coming from in terms of the touch. An an ex-tennis player Ive only had the unfortunate fate of having male coaches and everytime theyve tried to touch me to help explain techniques I always stepped away and told them to show me/ explain with theri words because why on earth is a grown man touching a child (at the time)? Absolutely not. I mean obviously this situation is different but still I feel like the base feelings around that persist, you know. Apologies for the rambles :’)

I love that her father tries to reach out but I also love that the only thing in her mind is the way her dad seems more fatherly with Jay than with her and i think it hurts because hes so outwardly proud of him and its so different when it comes to her and she doesnt see the pride he has because he doesnt show it. I genuinely feel that this is the case with most dads and they just dont like showing how proud they are to their daughters and when they do it's just too late, I think.

And what hurts the most is that you can feel the jealously and its such a valid thing because when your own parent gives another child that isnt their own a kind of outward pride that you only hope for, it hurts even if the parent is proud of your in a different, quiet way.

It was easier now, hearing Jake talk about his daughter, his eyes softening in the way only a father’s eyes do, even a young, exhausted one.

It makes me so giggly to see another reference from your other crossing the line series :) look how far youve come hehe, this makes me so happy. I love how Jake talks about her with so much warmth and softness.

I also love Jay’s dilemma where he clearly has the biggest respect for Coach because of how he has treated and believed in him and hes so interested in his daughter and she’s untouchable which makes it so much more frustrating for him as something simple has her touch gets to him.

Im so glad that at least she has a good relationship with her brother :( Also Jaehyun (Is it NCT?? Mention?)

Also hre dad suggesting Jungwon in that way is so insane to me. He’s such a cutie pie but its so obvious how emotionally detached she is regards to everything with them. And its clearly normal as her mother literally moves on like its nothing. You can feel the awkwardness and strain in their family and it just makes me cringe from how everything pertaining to them is.

“We just thought you could use someone stable. Jungwon’s a good kid.”

This comment is insane??? HELLO???? Use someone stable? What???

“You don’t get to be their father and mine only when it’s convenient,” you whispered. “You don’t get to show up now and act like you’ve earned the right to guard my future.”

I love that shes able to stand up against her father and its just sad to see because Im sympathizing with the idea that the Dad is trying to look oout for her but from her perspective it will never feel like that and the only thing it feels is controlling.

Appreciating the soft moment between Jungwon and MC that was super sweet and I honestly think necessary for her.

Jay hadn’t seen him before, which made something in his chest curl tight and sour. He felt it at once, sharp and unexpected: that gnawing sense of displacement, of not being in on something, of something already being taken. 

Oh my god, Rain I love this eek!! Ugh Im living for Jay forming this narrative in his head to explain the sight and just the jealously he has is amazing.

“Who was that boy you were talking to in the beginning of practice?” His voice isn’t biting, not sharp or mocking like you expected. It’s careful, too careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but failing entirely. It lands in the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples that reach far deeper than he’ll admit.

Jay is so insane for this. He doesnt even hide it, he justs fully asks it not even caring they havent talked much. The jealously is so evident oh my god.

You’re close enough now to see the faint freckle at the corner of his jaw, the smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes, the scar just above his brow. You are close enough to kiss him. And you want to. God, you want to. But just as your lips begin to close the distance, just as the air tilts toward something irrevocable, Jay turns his head sharply to the side. You freeze. Mid-motion. Mid-breath.

Rain you will kill me with this tension oh my god. The pull between them is so undeniable its actually insane.

“I was thinking we could try a different form of therapy,” you say. “Something that focuses more on low-impact stretches and deep tissue. It might help more long-term.”

He exhales, and it’s not frustration or anger; it’s confusion, maybe even hurt. “That’s not what I was going to—” 

I love that, that one moment makes reader build back up her falls and it feels like her saying, “that was too close” ugh. I love her. I love that she assumes its rejection and it breaks my heart to even fathom what caused her to even be like this in the first place because she doesnt even spare him a glance or waits for an explanation, she just leaves :( My poor baby

You glance to your left where Heeseung and Sunghoon’s girlfriends are perched on the edge of their seats, wrapped in puffy coats and scarves and radiant with adrenaline. They’re shouting their boys’ names at full volume, jumping and gasping and squealing at every near miss and every stolen goal.

Oh this is just too cute. I again, love MC’s internatlized thoughts and I resonante with her words—to be able to be that close to someone and wear your heart of your sleeve must be such an amazing feeling. To not be afraid of someone taking your feelings for granted to worst yet, taking advantage of them or completely ignoring you must be amazing, truly.

And when his lips finally meet yours, soft and uncertain and tender in a way that rips the breath from your lungs, it’s not fireworks that you feel. It’s silence. That same kind of silence you chase in the early mornings. That rare, impossible peace that only exists when the world forgets to spin. His kiss is reverent, hesitant, but aching beneath its restraint. 

I think this is my favourite kiss in the series. Theres something in the rawness I appreciate. Maybe its the way the MC is, maybe its how I relate to her the most. But the way her walls slowly break in a kiss just speaks to me. Loving the way that this kiss is that early morning silence to her, the one you crave when you want the time alone, just you and your mind; its swirling thoughts. Something we dont get often in today’s world.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” he says quietly, his voice low, almost pained.

I’d probably just cry if I heard these words honestly because hello??

ALso Soobin catching them is so funny and sweet. I love that she laughs at it all and ugh, I want to protect her so much. I just love how unapologetically happy she feels.

You don’t move right away. You just stand there, smiling like a girl who has a secret no one else knows, eyes dazed and warm and so full of something sweet it could carry you away. You’re on cloud nine, weightless, golden, floating. And maybe, just maybe, starting to fall.

Every bit of my body loves her. I wish everyone can be this happy, no kind of problems to take root and consume you, just unapologetic happiness, its what we all deserve.

So instead, he settles for silence. The kind that tastes like regret and fear all at once. The guys let it go, at least on the surface. They start talking again, lighter topics, shallow water.

Glad the boys chose to let it go n the surface because its obvious that there’s such a fear in him, kissing the daughter of the Coach who has done nothing but give you the most endless support andit probably feels like a betrayal to him :( 

Jay’s hand finds yours and it’s instinctual, the way your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. He tugs gently, leading you across the crowded room toward the far couch where Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung are half-lounging, half-sitting, deep in a conversation about the game that had them all riding high with adrenaline.

Ill sob this is so fucking sweet.

Also, Im so glad that they were actually able to speak about her dad and just the contrasting treatments they received and it makes me so happy that they both agree to tell him :) 

God, the way they were so ready to talk to him and her Dad just basically scares him with guilt ugh. I do not like this

“What the fuck, Jay?” you shout, voice rising like a wave crashing against the shore. “What the hell is this? What are you doing?” He can’t look at you.

Rain I cant do this I feel sick oh my god.

Coach Bennett’s face darkens. “I can’t dictate your life,” he says lowly, “but I can dictate theirs.”

Thats so crazy what the hell, I do not like this. Ive honestly tried to sympathize with him but this just goes to far for me.

Then, quietly; so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I love you.” The air left your lungs. He looked up at you now, and his eyes were nothing like the confident boy you first met on the ice. They were soft, and tired, and afraid. “I know it’s soon,” he said. “I know everything’s a mess. But I do. I love you.” 

Will genuinely throw up, I cant do this

I dont even blame MC for reacting like this because she had such these high walls and Jay broke them down to literally break her trust by siding with the same man who did nothing to love her as his daughter. I think its also so insane that even after Jay did what Coach said despite being with MC he has the audacity to suspend him.

And still; through the rage, through the betrayal, through the cracks, you carried one thing with you as you walked: Jay's words echoing soft as snowfall. I love you. That, at least, was still yours.

Rain you always break my fucking heart girl.

“I see you,” you say softly. “Even without the jersey. Even without the captain’s C.”

This also breaks me because its such a shitty position to be in when you feel like you’re only seen if you do a certain thing and the way she reassures Jay that she sees him despite that means everything to me.

Also MC’s mom surprised me! After she felt so submissive and quiet it s a pleasant surprise to see her ask for her MC and Jay to come to the rink.

God, I love that the end is a happy moment of reconciliation with the dad and you can feel his regret. I think oftentimes dad’s a way too prideful for theri own good and will hate to admit to things until its already gone. I’m glad that MC’s dad was able to ironically as it sounds, “man up” and apologize for his behaviour. I think after I’ve read this one, it may be my favourite for a multitiude of reasons. Im starting this by saying I absolutely love the others in this series but I think I felt the most when it came to the MC and her relationship with her dad. I just love her views on love as a whole, the walls she had built up and I just love that Jay was her person to bring them down.

With the series finally coming to an end, I hope people who read this are able to find love in theri unique ways and find their person who’s able to break down their walls and just have them feel so unapologetically that it makes them forget why they had their walls up in the first place. Rain, again, I will always support you and your work. I firmly believe you’re a person that deserves the world and I just think that not only your writing is amazing but you as a person (from the tiny moments on tumblr) are amazing just the same. You genuinely have such a beautiful heart and thank you’ for choosing to write, for publishing and for many ways that I cant say, saving me from so many times that truly, have seemed bleak <3

HATE TO HAVE YOU p.js

synopsis ⤑ You were here for work. That was it. You didn’t even like hockey players. They were too raunchy, too noisy, just too much. You were a put your head down and listen to classical music through your headphones, type of girl. Your brother was a hockey player, your dad as well. All you wanted to do was help people, not fall in love with clients that were off limits. Clients who were the captain of the hockey team your dad coached. No, he was very much off limits and he would most certainly hate to have you. 

pairings ⤑ hockey player!jay x coaches daughter!reader word count ⤑ 34k

warnings ⤑ smut, oral (m. rec.), forbidden romance, mentions of hockey injuries, angst, parental angst, kinda yearning jay???

crossing the line masterlist here.

a note from rain; it's done. crossing the line is finally finished, and the last one this one is the longest. Honestly, my favorite one is Sunghoon's but this one is i will hold dear to me since it is the conclusion. Thank you to everyone who has read and loved crossing the line as much as i have. ily

The diner always smelled like old coffee and fried memories. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, settling into the cushions of red vinyl booths and the strands of your hair no matter how tightly you kept your hood drawn. Outside, Seoul had cracked open into winter’s throat, grey light pressing through the glass like fogged breath on a mirror, leaving halos around the fluorescent signage. You sat in a corner booth by the window, jacket still zipped, hands tucked into your sleeves like you could hide your disappointment in the folds of fabric. The waitress didn’t ask for your order; she knew you. You’d been here before, many times before, waiting for a man who never came. So she brought your tea without a word and left it there to steep and grow cold. You were not surprised.

No, this sort of thing had long ago stopped being shocking. You were just…tired. Tired in the way only daughters of distant fathers could be, tired in your bones, your breath, your blood. You stirred your tea absentmindedly, watching the bag swirl like a limp ghost tethered to nothing. Your phone sat face-up beside the cup, silent and useless, save for the three unanswered texts and one call that had gone straight to voicemail. You didn’t leave a message. What was the point? If Coach Bennett cared to call you back, he would. But he never did, not when you scraped your knees learning to ride a bike, not when you stood alone at your middle school science fair, not when you left home for university. Hockey always came first. Always. 

And yet, somehow, impossibly, you still wanted his help. 

You weren’t here to be his daughter today. No, you were here for something more transactional, something clinical, something you thought he might be able to handle better than love. You were studying to be a sports therapist. Four years of aching backs, anatomy charts, injury reports, textbooks that read like they’d been translated from another language. You wanted to help people. Heal them. Tape their fractures, ease their bruises, guide them gently back to the things they loved. It made sense, in some twisted, ironic way, that your professors had suggested you intern under your father’s team. He was a seasoned coach, after all. Revered. Tough. Efficient. And you were nothing if not logical, so despite the rotting ache in your chest, the cold cup of tea, the flaking vinyl under your thighs, you had agreed to meet him and ask for the position. You’d rehearsed the words. I’m not asking for favoritism. I just want experience. I can do the job. I’ll keep my head down. I promise.

But now, the booth was empty except for you and your churning disappointment. Even the jukebox refused to play, the silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional bell over the door. Your eyes drifted to the window again, catching your own reflection faintly superimposed over the world outside: still, with shadows under your eyes and something hollow about the mouth. Not sad. Just used to it. There’s a difference. Eventually, the weight of waiting tipped you out of the booth, and you slipped your coat back on like armor. Your headphones dangled around your neck, the edges of a Bach concerto still humming faintly from the right side, but you didn’t lift them up. Not yet. You needed clarity, not comfort.

There was only one place he ever went this time of day. The ice rink. And so, you walked. Outside, the wind curled under your scarf like fingers seeking a pulse. Streetlamps flickered overhead, their bulbs blinking like tired eyes. Seoul was a city that didn’t sleep so much as dream with its eyes open, neon blinking against concrete, traffic lights blinking in cold Morse code. You passed through it like a shadow in motion, barely noticed, anonymous. Just the way you liked it.

When you reached the rink, it loomed like a cathedral of frost and echo. You could see your breath crystallizing in the air as you stepped inside, the glass doors groaning shut behind you. The chill wrapped itself around your bones, but you welcomed it. Cold was easier to handle than hurt. Cold made you sharp. Precise. Focused. The fluorescent lights buzzed above as you made your way down the corridor, the familiar scent of rubber and sweat filling your lungs. The hum of skates on ice reverberated faintly through the walls, scrapes, stops, a dull thud against the boards. Music, in its own rough language. You passed trophy cases lined with glimmering relics, photographs of boys with helmets crooked on their heads, their eyes wild with victory. One of them was your father, decades ago; before he grew bitter and distant, before he learned how to love the game more than he could ever love a family.

You expected the rink to be quiet, still and empty as a prayer unspoken. But as you stepped through the doors, the cold air kissed your cheeks with the gentleness of a ghost, and you heard it: the unmistakable scrape of blades against ice. Not chaos, not the frenzied thunder of a team in motion. Just one. A lone figure gliding back and forth, carving perfect arcs into the surface like a calligrapher with a silver pen. You paused at the boards, the glass cool beneath your fingertips, watching him move, fluid and sure, even in solitude. He skated like someone who didn’t need an audience. Who wasn’t chasing applause, just clarity. Repetition. Discipline. He wove through imaginary obstacles with practiced grace, the sound of his skates echoing like poetry in an empty room. You could almost forget how much you disliked hockey in moments like this, when it looked like dance, when it sounded like breath, when it shimmered with something close to silence.

You lifted your hand, tapped gently on the glass. Just once. He startled. The boy spun with a sharp jerk, arms splaying briefly for balance before he caught himself, chest rising with the kind of laugh you could only hear in body language. He glided toward you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes beneath the helmet. He stopped just before the boards, breath fogging the space between you, and when he pulled his mouth guard down, his voice was warmer than you expected.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, with an apologetic nod, “but this is a closed practice.” You blinked. Not at the words, but at the way he said them, so earnestly, like a knight gently turning away a princess at the edge of a battlefield. His voice didn’t have the bite most hockey players used with girls near the boards. No teasing arrogance, no swagger. Just simple, practiced courtesy.

You smiled without thinking, soft and shy and almost surprised by your own reaction. “I’m too young to be called ma’am,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He blinked, then fumbled for a response, cheeks blooming with something faint and pink, even in the cold. “Oh—God, I—sorry. I just—my mom raised me that way. To be respectful. To women. Not that you’re old—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying that—” He trailed off, face contorting with the kind of mortified sincerity you rarely got to see outside of romantic comedies.

You let yourself laugh. Quiet, melodic. Just enough to lighten the air. “It’s okay,” you said gently, your voice muffled just slightly by your scarf. 

He blinked again, eyes flicking briefly down, then back up, as though recalibrating everything he assumed about the world and his place in it. His hands fidgeted with the edges of his gloves, and he glanced over his shoulder, as if remembering that he was the only one on the ice. “Still, I’m sorry, really. The rink’s closed to non-personnel. I — I can’t really let anyone just come in. Even if you’re not a… ma’am.” His smile was a little crooked now, tilted with humor at his own expense, and you couldn’t help it, you liked the way it softened his face. You liked the way he stood there, unsure, waiting, instead of telling you to leave outright. You lowered your hood, let your voice rise just enough to reach him clearly.

“I’m looking for Coach Bennett,” you said. “He’s my father.” The effect was immediate. He straightened like he’d been struck by lightning, helmet tilting back slightly as he stared at you with wide, stunned eyes.

“Wait—Coach Bennett’s daughter?” he echoed, like the words didn’t quite fit in his mouth. Then again, more flustered: “You’re—oh my God, I—I didn’t know—I mean I would’ve—God, I’m sorry.” He scrambled to unclip his helmet, fingers tangling in the strap before he finally pulled it off, revealing a mop of dark hair and a face flushed with either embarrassment or exertion, or both. He was handsome in a way that didn’t feel intentional. His features were sharp, yes, and he had the jawline of a boy who could ruin hearts without meaning to. But there was something open about him, something too human to be threatening.

“Really sorry again,” he said, standing straighter now, as though trying to look more official. “Coach is in his office—I can show you where it is. If you want. I mean, of course you want. You’re here to see him. So yeah. Come with me.” You bit your lip to hide another smile and nodded, falling into step behind him as he pushed open the side gate and stepped off the ice with surprising grace. The blades of his skates clinked against the rubber matting as he led you down the corridor. He didn’t speak at first, and neither did you. It was comfortable, the silence. Not the awkward kind. Just… quiet. Reverent. As though something soft and strange had entered the air and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

When he stopped outside your father’s office, he turned to you again. His eyes were warmer now. Curious. Kind. “I’m Jay, by the  way,” he said. “Captain of the team.” Of course he was.

You nodded once. “Nice to meet you, Captain.” And then you knocked. But for a heartbeat before your father’s voice called you in, you could feel Jay still looking at you, like he was trying to solve a riddle written in your eyes. And in that fleeting moment, you didn’t feel like a coach’s daughter. You felt like a secret worth keeping.

Coach Bennett’s office smelled like old sweat and ambition. The kind that settled into the corners, into the folds of jackets slung over chairs, into the woodgrain of the desk itself, soaked in over years of lost games and close calls. The room wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It felt clinical, hollow, like it didn’t belong to a person so much as to the idea of one. Hockey posters curled slightly at the edges, clinging to cinder block walls. The light overhead flickered with a low hum, casting everything in a tired, blue-toned glaze. He was there, hunched over a chaos of papers like a priest at his altar, eyes scanning injury reports and scouting notes as if he could rearrange fate with a red pen. You didn’t knock. Not this time. 

The door creaked open like a protest, and your footsteps broke the hush as you stepped inside. He didn’t look up at first, so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t hear the threshold of silence cracking like ice beneath your presence. But when he finally did, when your shadow crossed into his peripheral and your scent, faintly like jasmine and old books, stirred the air, he looked up, and his whole body stilled. His eyes widened with something between guilt and surprise, the pen in his hand faltering mid-sentence. The creases in his brow deepened like riverbeds. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the papers aside like they were something shameful. “I forgot. I—I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t,” you cut in, quiet but sharp. Not angry, just done. The kind of tone that grows in the lungs of girls who have been left at too many diners. “It’s whatever.” You stepped closer, not to bridge the gap, but to exist plainly in the room; as yourself, not a child in need of anything emotional. Just a student now. A professional. Someone with a clipboard of her own, even if metaphorical. You kept your coat on. Your scarf still looped tight at your throat. You weren’t here to unpack old things. You were here to ask for a favor. He sat back in his chair, watching you warily now, like you might say something he wasn’t prepared to hear. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. 

“I need a team,” you said simply. “For my internship.” He blinked, clearly caught off-guard. You inhaled slowly, pressing your hands into your coat pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they curled. “For the school. I’m in the sports medicine track. Therapy. I need a team to tour with. Help the players after games. Manage muscle strain. Recovery. Things like that.” 

You watched his face shift as he absorbed the words. Something almost like pride flitted behind his eyes for a moment, brief, cautious, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he was allowed to feel it. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “You can work with us.” That fast. No negotiation. No warnings. No conditions. Just an open door.

You didn’t smile. Not really. But a breath left you; just one. Like the first note in a song you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, not out of gratitude, but necessity. The way you might thank a stranger who held a door open. Polite. Distant. You turned to leave. But of course, he had to say it. Had to reach across the gulf between now and then. “I really am sorry,” he murmured, just as your fingers grazed the handle. You paused. Not long. Just long enough for him to hope.

Then you shook your head once, gently, like you were brushing a snowflake off your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Because you’d learned long ago how to build yourself from all the words he didn’t say. You didn’t need apologies. You didn’t need explanations. You needed a future. And you’d just stepped into it.

Outside, the sound of skates had stopped. Silence had settled again like fresh snowfall. And somewhere in the belly of the building, Jay was probably unlacing his boots, running his hands through his hair, wondering about the girl who tapped on the glass like she belonged on the outside looking in. And maybe she still did. But not for much longer. Because from here on out, you would walk through every door like it owed you something. And whether they liked it or not, you were on the team now. 

The rink always had a certain silence before practice, like a church before mass, where the faithful trickled in one by one, lacing up their skates like ritual, shrugging on jerseys like armor. The air was sharp, biting, clean in the way winter mornings were clean, unforgiving but pure. Jay had always liked that about hockey: the brutal grace of it. How something so violent could also be so precise. How blades could slice through frozen water like poetry written too fast. He stood at center ice, tapping the butt of his stick against the boards while the rest of the team gathered, jerseys fluttering slightly in the wake of their motion. There was a quiet hum of voices, low laughter, murmured complaints about the early hour, the chill, the drills surely to come. Jay felt the same pre-practice electricity that always curled under his skin, warm and charged and constant, but there was something else today. Something different. A shift in the air.

Sunghoon slid up beside him, eyes narrowed. His movements were slower than usual, still cautious after weeks of physical therapy. But there was that familiar smirk, like mischief lived permanently in his mouth. “Any idea why Coach called us early?” he asked, stretching one leg experimentally behind him. 

Jay shook his head, brows furrowing. “No clue. This wasn’t on the schedule. Even I just got the text.” 

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “And the great Captain Jay doesn’t know? Guess it’s serious.” Jay didn’t answer, but his mind turned. Coach Bennett didn’t do things last minute, not unless something was off, or something was about to change. And Jay had learned, over the years, to pay attention to change. To study its rhythm. To anticipate the way it could shatter routine like glass beneath a puck. Coach appeared then, stepping out from the tunnel with that familiar commanding presence, clipboard in hand like a sword, whistle bouncing lightly against his chest. His expression was unreadable. It always was. But today there was a glint in his eye, a sharpness, like he was bracing for something no one else could yet see. The team quieted instantly. Skates stilled. Conversations stopped.

“Listen up,” Coach said, voice firm but even. “I’ve got an announcement.” Jay felt his spine straighten out of instinct. He always did when Bennett spoke like that; like something important was about to be carved into stone.

“My daughter,” the coach began, pausing just a second too long, “will be joining the team.” A beat of silence. Then confusion cracked through the ice like a jagged fault line. Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. A few muttered responses, some curious, some amused.

Sunghoon leaned in again, voice low. “Wait — coach has a daughter?” Jay didn’t respond. He was too busy sorting through the flicker of memory from the night before: the knock on the glass, the girl with the music still folded around her like armor, the soft voice that said I’m too young to be called ma’am. The gentle dismissal, I’m here to see Coach Bennett. 

Coach cleared his throat. “To clarify, she’s not playing.” A few guys chuckled awkwardly, one of the rookies whispering something under his breath about whether Coach’s daughter could skate. He was promptly elbowed. “She’s a student in sports medicine,” Bennett continued, eyes scanning them like a general addressing soldiers. “She needs an internship. She’ll be traveling with us, working with you all post-practice, post-game — helping your muscles recover, monitoring fatigue, treating strain. You’ll see her on the bench. In the locker room. On the road.” 

Jay watched as the team absorbed this. Some looked impressed, some still confused. A few clearly still processing the idea of a girl, the coach’s daughter, no less being part of their inner circle. Coach’s gaze fell to Sunghoon. “You’ll be working with her the most at first.” 

Sunghoon blinked. “Me?” 

“You’re still coming off that leg injury. She’ll be helping your mobility and monitoring your recovery. You miss any check-ins, I’ll know.” Sunghoon nodded slowly, the surprise quickly replaced by professionalism. Jay knew he hated being treated like glass, but he’d also never refuse a chance to speed up healing. Not when playoffs were on the horizon.

Coach looked back at the group as a whole then, jaw set like he was preparing to say something final. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Watching your style. Observing how you move. How you break down. How you come back.” He paused again, the silence stretching like a taut wire. “She’ll be with us every day. Every game. Every trip.” Then his voice dropped just slightly, softer, but more dangerous. Like frost underfoot you didn’t notice until you were falling.

“And she’s off limits.” That silenced even the whispers. “No dating. No flirting. No ‘accidental’ drinks after practice. She’s not here to be your distraction. She’s not here for you to impress. She is a part of this team now. And that means she’s under my protection.” Jay felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible thread pulling taut. Because the words made perfect sense. They were rational. They were fair. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her from the night before. The way she stood with snow melting on her coat, headphones tucked like secrets around her neck. The way she didn’t smile with her mouth, but with the corner of her eyes. The way she said thank you like it wasn’t a gift, but a necessity. Polite. Distant. And now she would be here, every day. A ghost walking among them. Not haunting; but changing the temperature of every room.

“Understood?” Coach asked, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. The team nodded. In uneven unison. A few shared glances. One or two looked like they’d already started mourning the idea of flirtation. Jay just said nothing. He wasn’t planning on breaking any rules. He never had. But something in his gut told him that this particular rule wouldn’t break loudly. It would break quietly. Like a blade slicing through ice. And the sound wouldn’t be heard until it was too late.

The locker room after practice was its own kind of cathedral, sacred, exhausted, and a little broken. The air still hummed with the echoes of movement: the scrape of blades off concrete, the thud of pads being stripped away, the muffled laughter of boys who were half-wolves when they played and half-children when the ice was gone. It always smelled like the aftermath of effort, sweat, steel, cold leather, and adrenaline fading into silence. Jay moved like a ritualist through it, toweling off damp hair, peeling away his jersey, hanging it neatly in his locker like a soldier laying down his colors. The room had grown quiet now, most of the team already gone, off to late dinners, to laugh about drills over ramen and muscle aches. Jay remained behind, as he often did, not because he had to but because some part of him needed the stillness. 

He liked to stay until the air was empty. Until it was just him and the hum of fluorescent lights above, buzzing like tired thoughts. He didn’t hear Coach Bennett at first. Not until he felt the weight of a presence at his back, and then the familiar sound of heavy boots on tile. Jay turned, towel slung around his neck, hair dripping dark at his temples. The man stood there, shoulders squared, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t speak immediately. He never did. He was the kind of man who let the silence do the talking until the words felt necessary. 

“Coach,” Jay said softly, straightening a little, though the comfort between them ran bone-deep. “Everything alright?” Coach’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating, not as a player, but as a person. He gave a small nod, stepping forward. “Got a favor to ask you.”

Jay nodded instantly, without thought. “Anything.” And he meant it. Because if Jay had a compass in this world, it pointed north toward Bennett. Always had. He didn’t come from much, not stability, not praise, not the kind of family who cheered at games. But Coach saw him. Had plucked him out of obscurity like a diamond mistaken for coal, shaped him, believed in him when no one else even bothered to learn his name. Made him captain. Made him better. Taught him that strength wasn’t loudness, but consistency. That leadership wasn’t glory, but showing up, day after day, even when no one clapped.

Coach laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and solid like a benediction. “It’s about my daughter.” Jay stilled, just slightly. The name unspoken but implied, hanging in the air like frost, delicate and dangerous. He swallowed once, slowly.

“She’s new to all this,” Coach went on, voice quieter now, like the edges of him softened when he spoke of her. “And I know this team. Hell, I built this team. I know how boys act when there’s someone soft in the room. And she’s not here for that. She’s here to work. To learn.” 

Jay’s jaw tensed faintly, but he kept his voice even. “Of course, Coach.” 

“I need someone to make sure the guys don’t get any ideas. That they remember she’s not a conquest, or a game, or something to write about in a group chat. And she doesn’t need to know I asked. She’d hate that. She’s got my pride.” He gave a small, humorless chuckle then, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession cost him something. “She already thinks I don’t see her. If she finds out I’m watching her through other people’s eyes, it’ll just make it worse.” 

Jay nodded again, slower this time. The weight of the request sank into his skin like bruises not yet visible. He could feel it, the invisible line being drawn, taut and fine and humming with tension. The line between loyalty and temptation. Between what was right and what had already started to stir quietly in the marrow of him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jay said, and his voice didn’t falter, not even once. “I’ll make sure the guys don’t bother her. She’ll be safe. I promise.”

Coach’s eyes lingered on him, long and searching. For a moment Jay wondered if he saw it, whatever it was that had flickered in Jay’s chest when she knocked on the glass, when her eyes met his with that quiet, disarming clarity. But if he did, he didn’t speak of it. He just gave one firm nod, and a clap on the back that thudded like approval, or gratitude, or maybe a little bit of both. “Good man,” he said simply. “I knew I could count on you.” Jay smiled faintly. It was small. Hollowed. 

And when Coach walked away, leaving the door to his office open behind him, Jay sat back down on the bench. The metal was cold beneath him. The silence returned, thick and echoing. Only now, it felt different. Because promises, he’d learned, were like the game itself. 

They seemed simple from the outside, pass, skate, score, but beneath the surface, they were brutal. They cracked bones. Split skin. Cost you more than you realized when the puck first dropped. And now he’d made one. To the man who had given him everything. About the girl who didn’t know he existed yesterday. And something about that equation already felt like a game he wouldn’t win. Not cleanly. Not without bleeding a little. 

The next day you walk into the rink with your headphones on like armor, like a barrier of strings and sonatas against the roar of blades slicing across frozen ground. The music didn’t have words; just aching violins and mournful piano keys, the kind that curled around your ribs like ivy and whispered things no one else could hear. You liked it that way. Preferred it, in fact. A world where no one expected anything from you but observation. Where you could move quietly, head bowed, tucked into yourself like a letter never meant to be opened. The rink was alive with noise, the kind of chaotic, youthful clamor that echoed endlessly in the domed cavern of the arena. Hockey boys were everywhere. Loud, brash, laughing with the type of ease you had never possessed. They moved like wild creatures in a frozen jungle, owning the space with the kind of confidence that repelled you. You wanted none of it. You were here for school. For requirement. For the credits that would get you closer to your degree, to a future far away from this cold-blooded sport that had always taken more than it gave.

You didn’t want to be here because it meant being near him, Coach Bennett. Your father. The man whose love always came in second to a scoreboard. You hadn’t even told anyone he was your dad until college forced your hand. Until the paperwork made you declare your internship, and your professor raised a brow when you mentioned the team he coached. "Isn’t that your father’s team?" they'd asked. And you had smiled, thin and bitter, the kind of smile that knew it was a confession more than a truth. Now, standing at the edge of the rink, you felt the cold creeping through the soles of your boots, settling into your spine. You scanned the ice, eyes drifting lazily across the players in warm-ups; men with sticks and padded shoulders, like warriors readying for a war made of bruises and bloodied lips. You didn't know most of their names. Didn’t care to. But one face stood out, again.

Jay. The captain. He was skating like it meant something, like each stride was a prayer, a promise. His eyes were focused, intense, not like the others who grinned and jostled and cracked jokes. He skated like he was carrying something, like the weight of the team sat across his back and he had no choice but to bear it. When he saw you, just for a second; only a second, his eyes met yours. The glance was sharp and immediate, but then he looked away, just as quickly, like the connection had burned too hot, too fast. You didn’t think much of it. You barely knew him. And besides, you weren’t here for moments. You were here for muscle strain and injury reports. 

You made your way to the benches, setting your things down with clinical precision. Notepad. Pen. Clipboard. You moved like a doctor in a morgue, dispassionately pulling back the veil. You were already scribbling notes about posture, alignment, joint tension, before the first whistle blew. And then it did. Your father stepped out of his office and blew the whistle with the kind of command that could stop time. It pierced through the air, slicing straight through conversations and momentum alike. In a heartbeat, every player stopped. The way they lined up felt orchestrated, almost like choreography, the kind of order that came from months, maybe years, of discipline drilled into bone. They formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, eyes alert. Soldiers in helmets. Artists in blood and bruises.

Coach Bennett tilted his head toward you. It was subtle, but it might as well have been a spotlight. You straightened awkwardly, your headphones still dangling around your neck like a noose of quiet rebellion. Your legs moved toward him before your heart caught up, and soon you stood beside him, exposed and scrutinized, every eye on you like you were some strange new species being introduced to a pack. “This is my daughter,” he said. No warmth in it. Just the words, dropped like a coin into a vending machine. Clink. Fact delivered. Move on. 

There was a flicker of confusion in the air, brief and bewildered, but your father cut through it before it could grow. “She’s not here to play. We already discussed this yesterday. She’s here as part of her medical program. She’s going to be working closely with Sunghoon—” he nodded toward the boy in question, who shifted his weight onto one leg with a lopsided smile, “—but she’ll be observing all of you. Watching how you move. Learning how to help you recover.” He paused, and then added, with a finality that could crack glass, “She’s officially part of this team now. That means she’s under my protection. Act accordingly.” And then, just like that, practice began.

You faded back to the bench, taking refuge in your notebook like it was the only world that made sense. Scribbling notes as the players moved, trying to catch the little things, the slant of a shoulder, the twist of a knee, the strain in a calf that hinted at fatigue or overuse. You wrote like you were solving equations, like the body was a riddle you could unravel with enough observation. But part of you was still listening. Watching. You paid attention to Sunghoon especially. His recovery was evident, he moved smoothly, mostly, but every so often you’d catch a limp, a shift in balance that told a different story. You jotted it down: Left leg bears less weight on turns. Compensation in hip angle. Follow up post-practice. His injury had been bad. You remembered reading about it. The kind of injury that ended careers. But he was back. They always came back, stitched together with willpower and tape and the kind of stubbornness only athletes seemed to possess.

Your eyes flickered once more to Jay.  He moved with that same elegance, only sharper. Cleaner. Like he was made for the ice. Like the rink recognized him as its own. You wanted to look away. But something about him made you linger a little longer. 

The whistle blew like a sudden gust, sharp and liberating. It sliced through the rhythm of skate blades and sent a collective exhale through the room, a pause carved into the body of practice like a rest note in a long and relentless symphony. Coach’s voice echoed through the chilled air "Ten minutes" and the boys broke off in various directions, some slouching against the boards, others throwing their helmets onto the bench with a satisfying clunk, already gulping down water like it could cure every bruise they've ever earned. 

You sat at the edge of the bench, body still and stiff, the kind of ache blooming at the nape of your neck that only comes from too much focus, from staring at bodies in motion, at joint tension and gait compensation and every angle of athletic wear and tear. The muscles of your own body felt coiled from stillness, from quiet endurance. You pulled your headphones down around your neck and exhaled, shaking out your head like a bird flicking off water from its feathers. Your eyes burned slightly, not from emotion but from overexertion, your thoughts running laps, your pen still ink-stained from the first hour of meticulous note-taking. And then, instinctively, you looked up. And he was looking at you. Jay. 

It wasn’t a curious glance. It wasn’t fleeting or accidental. It was… deliberate. His gaze held weight, anchored like a stone skipping across still water, disrupting something in you that you’d carefully kept dormant. For a heartbeat, time stalled. Not in a romantic way; no, you didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But in the way a deer pauses when it senses it's been seen, body still, breath caught. And then he looked away. Too quickly. Like he’d been caught committing some small crime. Like your eyes had burned him and he hadn’t expected the flame. You tilted your head, puzzled but unwilling to overthink it. Not your business. Not your problem. You were here for work, not curiosity. You weren’t a girl who chased after glances. You weren’t here to peel back the layers of hockey boys with brooding eyes and sharp cheekbones. You were here to help, to heal. Not to unravel. 

Still, the interaction clung to your ribs as you stood, notebook in hand, purpose hardening your spine like steel beneath silk. If your father wasn’t going to introduce you properly, then you’d do it yourself. You’d show them that you weren’t just the coach’s daughter, you were the intern, the analyst, the healer. You walked with quiet authority across the ice-chilled floor, each footstep sure, your notes pressed tight against your chest like scripture. First, Lee Heeseung. Tall, almost too tall to be real, with a kind of radiance that caught light like polished glass. He moved like he was made for attention, but your trained eyes saw what others didn’t; the slight forward hunch, the overextension in his reach, the way his shoulders bore weight wrong, unevenly, like a house built on a tilted foundation. You stepped toward him, gentle but firm. 

“Do your shoulders ache?” you asked, voice calm but clear. 

He blinked at you, eyebrows pulling upward in bemusement. “Uh… yeah, actually. Constantly.” 

You nodded. “Because your form’s too open. You reach too far with your stick and overcompensate with your back muscles. You’re burning out your deltoids before you even get to the second period.” He stared, dumbfounded, as if you had read it off a hidden manuscript folded inside his bones.

“If you rotate more from your hips instead of your upper back, you’ll take pressure off the joint. I’ll show you how to fix it after.” He said nothing, only nodded with an almost reverent curiosity, as though he were seeing you for the first time. You moved on.

Next, Sunghoon. He was lounging against the wall, sweat dampening his dark hair like ink spilled across paper. You studied the subtle shift in his stance, the way he favored one leg. It wasn’t overt, but to you it was a glaring neon sign. He didn’t wince, but his left side moved slower, more cautiously. “You’re compensating,” you said, making him look up. 

He grinned. Not a cocky grin, but the kind that folded warmly around the edges. “Can’t help it.” 

“You’re doing well, considering. You land softly, roll through your hips, you don’t put too much pressure on the joint; but I can still see it.” 

He shrugged. “My girl’s a figure skater. Taught me how to fall pretty.” That made you smile. A real one. One that cracked the ice around your ribs a little. You nodded in approval. “She taught you well.” 

And then, Jay. You approached him last. His expression was unreadable, but something in the air around him shifted as you neared, like the temperature dropped a few degrees. He sat on the bench, helmet resting beside him, forearms braced on his thighs. Up close, he looked even more cut from marble, angular and quiet, a monument to restraint. He didn’t look up at first, not until your shadow settled over his lap like a silent challenge. “Does your knee hurt?” you asked, flipping a page in your notebook. 

His head rose slowly, his gaze flickering over your face like he was trying to piece something together. There was no trace of the sheepish boy you’d startled in the rink a few nights ago. This Jay was guarded, mouth tight, voice low. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes didn’t waver. “You favor your left side. Every time you cut left, you hesitate. You don’t fully extend through the glide.” 

He scowled faintly. “It’s nothing. I know how to stretch.” 

You raised a brow, the edge of your mouth tugging upward; not in amusement, but something sharper. “Obviously you don’t. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

His jaw ticked. “I don’t need help.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” you said, your voice steady as a blade sheathed in silk. “You’re not exempt just because you’re the captain. If you want to avoid tearing something before playoffs, meet me after practice. I’ll show you the stretch.” And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving the weight of your words lingering in the air like smoke after a firework. 

Practice ended not with a bang, but a slow unraveling, a sigh across the rink, the hiss of skate blades leaving ice, gear clattering into duffels like thunder softened into memory. The tension of the game dissolved into the scent of sweat and the chill of melting frost on players' necks. You lingered by the boards with your notepad, pen scribbling observations in swift, decisive loops. Notes about posture and movement, pain disguised as endurance, tight shoulders masked by bravado. Each boy became a puzzle, a map of injuries and habits and patterns, bodies writing stories in the snow, and you were trying to read them in a language only you understood. You made your rounds with professionalism sewn into your spine like armor. Softened your voice for Sunghoon, smiled gently at Heeseung, offered a shoulder tap and quiet praise where it was earned. But your eyes kept slipping, to the back corner of the locker room, where the Captain sat like a storm gathering in silence. Jay, half-shadowed, alone.

He was stretching. Technically. But he was doing it all wrong. The angle of his knee, the twist of his ankle, the way his weight was distributed, off, completely off. It wasn’t just inefficient; it was dangerous. You watched him for a minute too long, notebook momentarily forgotten. Something about the way he moved, so precise and careless at once, frustrated you. Like watching someone trying to read with their eyes closed, convinced they didn’t need light. You sighed, a breath curling like frost against your throat, and tucked your notepad under your arm.

Your footsteps echoed lightly across the tiles as you approached him, the hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzing like the wings of an insect trapped in amber. “You’re doing it all wrong,” you said simply, voice even but firm. Not mocking. Just true. Jay didn’t look at you at first. He exhaled hard through his nose, like your presence was an ache he didn’t know how to stretch out. Then, he rolled his eyes with all the weariness of a boy who’d spent his life hearing people tell him what to do. 

“I told you already,” he muttered. “I don’t need help.” You laughed. Not a bright laugh, not one made of bells or sunlight. It was dry and sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot, unexpected, dismissive, real. “Yeah, well,” you said, stepping a little closer, “I’m here whether you like it or not.” 

He didn’t respond. He stayed seated, hands braced behind him on the bench, jaw tight. You knelt beside him carefully, knees folding like paper cranes, your movements deliberate. You reached for his leg, intending to guide it gently, to correct the twist in his stretch; But he flinched back, gaze snapping to yours, guarded and immediate. “Why are you touching me?” he asked, low, almost startled. As if your hand were a flame and he hadn’t expected to get burned. 

You froze, hand hovering midair, your breath catching in your throat like a note not quite played. “Sorry,” you murmured, retreating an inch. “But I kind of need to touch you to show you how to bend your knee properly. That is… if you want to stop tearing ligaments before you’re twenty-five.” He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes weren’t angry, just… unreadable. The color of storm-drenched bark, of something old and rooted and worn by wind. Then, finally, a single slow nod. Permission granted.

You inched forward again, carefully, the space between you electric and small. Your fingers found his knee, warm through the thin fabric of his compression pants, and turned it just so, guiding his leg into a safer, smoother line. You spoke softly, explaining the movement, the angle, the way the muscles needed to engage. Clinical, composed, but your voice wavered just slightly beneath it all, like a violin string drawn too tight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But his eyes never left your face. You felt the weight of them, like moonlight poured too heavy, like winter sun through an old windowpane, quiet but inescapable. You tried not to notice. You focused on your task. You were a professional. You were your father’s daughter. You had no room to blush under scrutiny. 

But still, his gaze burned. Not cruel, not invasive, just… watching. Like he was trying to solve something about you. Like he didn’t expect you to exist the way you did. Like you were a song in a genre he’d never listened to before and suddenly couldn’t stop playing. Your hands paused, still resting on his leg. You looked up, the air between you catching on your ribs. “You’re holding your breath,” you said quietly.

Jay blinked, startled. Then slowly exhaled, a sound so faint it could’ve been mistaken for silence. “I didn’t realize,” he said. You nodded, pulling your hands away, letting the warmth of his skin fade from your fingertips. You stood slowly, brushing off invisible dust, the ghost of contact lingering like the smell of smoke on fabric. 

“Well… now you do,” you replied. You didn’t look back as you walked away, not even when you felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t need to. You knew. Something had shifted. Not broken. Not begun. Just shifted. And shifts, small as they seem, have been known to start avalanches. 

The ice rink hums behind you, echoing with the aftertaste of exertion; shouted jokes, distant thuds of sticks dropped to concrete, the hiss of showers roaring to life. You’re gathering your things slowly, as if the weight of your bag is heavier now, as if the moment you shared with Jay, fleeting as a spark, has thickened the air around you. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your notebook pouch, and the stretch in your chest still lingers, not quite tension, not quite ache. Your pulse is a quiet metronome, steady and unhurried, but a part of you wonders, why did it feel like he was looking at more than just the position of your hands? You shake the thought loose, like snow from your shoulders. You’ve always been good at untangling what doesn’t belong. 

You slip your headphones over your ears out of habit, though the music hasn’t started yet, and turn to go, ready to leave behind the clattering cold, the conversations you’re not a part of, the ache behind your eyes that only fluorescent lights and long-held disappointment seem to bring. But just as the door brushes open, his voice stops you. “Hey—wait.” It’s your father.

Coach Bennett. To them, just Coach. To you… a name wrapped in thorns and fatherhood, a man who taught you to ride a bike and then promptly missed every school play after. You turn, slowly, shoulders still braced with the tension of too many unsaid things. He’s leaning by the locker room threshold, towel looped around his neck, clipboard in hand, a man caught between work and worry. There’s something weathered about him, eyes rimmed in fatigue, mouth tight as if every word is weighted with the pressure of needing to win. Always needing to win.

“You headed out?” he asks, trying for casual, like he didn’t leave you waiting in that diner with a glass of tea  sweating between your fingers and a heart already resigned to being forgotten.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve got notes to type up.”

He clears his throat and glances down, as if suddenly remembering something that’s been burning a hole in his clipboard. “Right, well, your mother and I… we were hoping you’d come to a dinner at our place.” You blink. The sentence feels foreign. Bent out of shape.

“Dinner?” you echo, like it’s a language you haven’t spoken in years.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s cooking. We’re having the Yang family over. You remember them? They used to come to your birthday parties when you were little.” You remember. Vaguely. A woman with kind eyes and a son with sticky fingers who pulled your hair when he thought you weren’t looking. You remember the way your mother always smiled too hard when she hosted, like she was trying to win some unseen game. 

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I have stuff to do. I was gonna —”

“Your mother would really like you there.” The words land gently. But they wrap around your ribs like guilt. You stare at him, this man who knows how to rally a team, who can read the trajectory of a puck midair but never quite learned how to read you. Still, something in his voice is softer than usual. Maybe it’s the way he says her name. Maybe it’s the fact that he said we. You sigh. Your fingers tighten around your strap. You tell yourself you’re doing it for her, not for him. That there’s a difference. That the knot in your stomach isn’t because he asked you like he meant it.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’ll go.”

He nods, relief flickering in his features for just a breath. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to. You both know that this is just another quiet truce in a long line of unspoken compromises. And just like that, you step out of the locker room, into the sharp wind curling through the corridor, your footsteps echoing down a hallway that always felt too wide for love. The evening air slips beneath your jacket, and you slip your headphones back on, press play. A cello fills your ear, slow and mournful, dragging its bow across your bones. You walk alone, music in your blood, but the memory of Jay’s eyes watching you refuses to fade. Like a handprint pressed to glass. Like a ripple after the stone is gone. 

Your dorm smells like lavender detergent and pencil shavings, the remnants of college life settled like dust in corners you’ll never quite reach. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let the weight you’ve been holding all day slide off your bones. Your bag slumps to the floor with a thud that echoes like a memory, and your limbs follow suit, dragging you toward the bed like gravity’s favorite child, like weariness itself lives beneath your skin. You plop down with all the drama of a sigh swallowed whole, limbs sprawled like you’ve been dropped by life itself. The mattress dips beneath you, cradling your exhaustion like it knows every ache by name. You stare at the ceiling. That blank, indifferent canvas.

The plaster above you doesn’t blink when you ask it silent questions. It doesn’t flinch when your heart tugs in that old, familiar way; a tender throb behind your ribs that speaks not of heartbreak but of something older. Something more foundational. A longing not for romance, but for recognition. You think about the way your father spoke to Jay earlier today. The firm hand on his shoulder. The way he called him “son”  with that gravelly voice full of trust and something perilously close to affection. You picture Jay, upright, respectful, attentive. A good soldier. A son made in the image of the game your father worships. And somehow, it makes sense. Of course he sees Jay like that. Like someone to be proud of. Like someone worth asking anything of.

You turn over, your cheek pressing into the cool cotton of your pillow, and let your eyes flutter closed. But sleep does not come. Instead, there’s that image again: your father, standing tall and certain beside Jay. There’s something about the way they fit together, coach and captain, like two sides of the same coin. A partnership born on the ice, forged by whistles and drills and the quiet understanding of shared purpose. And you? You were always just orbiting that world. A speck caught in the gravity of pucks and sweat and chalk-drawn strategies on whiteboards you weren’t supposed to read. You learned early on how to be quiet in a room full of roars. How to braid your silence into usefulness. How to stitch your dreams into shadows.

You swallow hard, turning again, burying your face deeper into the pillow as if it could erase the bitterness clinging to the edges of your thoughts. There is no use in comparing. You tell yourself that. You chant it in your mind like a prayer you almost believe. But it doesn’t stop the twinge. That sting of jealousy, quick and sharp like the slap of cold air when you step out of the rink. You hate it. You hate feeling this way. It makes you feel small, like a child standing in the doorway of a room where they were forgotten. You were never enough to pull him away from the ice. Not really. Not when it mattered. 

Your thoughts spiral, curling tighter and tighter, like leaves drying in the sun, until they crack and crumble into a quiet resentment you’ll never say out loud. It isn’t rage. It isn’t even hurt. It’s that soft, bruised ache of a girl who stopped asking a long time ago. Your fingers clutch the edge of your comforter. You inhale deeply, try to ground yourself in the scent of fabric softener and the faint trace of your shampoo clinging to your sheets. This is your life now. Your space. Your silence. You’re here to work, to help, to heal. You are not here to unravel. You are not here to bleed. You exhale slowly, trying to empty yourself of all the noise you never say aloud. 

And yet, as your body finally begins to still, mind untethering from the day’s demands, you can’t help but remember the way Jay had looked at you. Eyes tracking your every move like you were a constellation he didn’t expect to find. As if he didn’t understand you, but wanted to. And worse still… the part of you that didn’t mind it. You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut harder. No. You’re here to observe. To support. To become what you’ve always wanted: a healer. Someone who listens to pain and knows what to do with it. Someone who helps others move forward, even when she’s stuck in place. You are not here to fall. Not for the captain. Not for the boy with tired eyes and a voice that turned cold when you got too close. Not for the one your father already loves.

You curl beneath your blanket, trying to block out the sound of the skating rink still echoing in your head, like ghosts tracing figure-eights across the floor of your memory. But they linger. All of them. Every step, every look, every word not spoken. And outside your window, the moon begins to rise like a watchful eye, silver and silent, bearing witness to your quiet war.

The frat house buzzed with the soft murmur of voices and the low thump of bass-heavy music, vibrating faintly through the wooden floors like a second, impatient heartbeat. The air was warm, too warm, thick with the scent of beer-soaked upholstery, half-eaten takeout, and a kind of restless boyhood energy that lingered like smoke. The overhead light flickered with a kind of tired stutter, casting shadows that leaned against the walls, distorted and lanky, as if even they were eavesdropping on the night. Jay sat perched at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, fingers absently turning his water bottle in slow circles. It squeaked quietly against the condensation pooling beneath it, an accidental metronome keeping time with his drifting thoughts. Around him, the world blurred into soft focus. Heeseung lay sprawled like a cat on the floor, his hair a mess, flipping a bottle cap into the air with lazy grace. Sunghoon was halfway into the armchair, legs dangling, his voice doused in mischief as he picked apart the drama of someone else’s heartbreak with all the casual cruelty of young men who’d never had their own hearts split open properly. They were all happily in love anyway. 

“Swear to God,” Sunghoon was saying, “the second Yunjin started that book club she didn’t invite him to? I knew she was checking out.”

Heeseung scoffed, his laugh low and sharp. “Nah, it was when she posted that solo beach trip pic. The one with the mysterious shadows and cropped-out shoulders? Amateur breakup announcement.”

Jay should have laughed. Should’ve said something clever and mean. But the words got lost somewhere between the memory of your hands on his knee and the way you’d looked at him, not like he was special, but like he was stubborn and wrong and in desperate need of correction. He didn’t know why it stuck with him. There’d been dozens of people who’d corrected him before, coaches, trainers, even professors. But you... you’d done it with a tilt of your head, a certainty in your voice that was almost tender and almost cruel. As if you weren’t trying to prove a point, but trying to protect him from himself. And that smile you gave afterward. Small. Smug. So real he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

“You good, Jay?” Jake’s voice slid in, calm and grounding, like a stone skipping across water.

Jay blinked, head snapping toward him as though waking from a fever dream. “What?” 

Jake gave him a look, familiar and knowing. “You’ve been staring at the coffee table like it offended your ancestors.”

Jay exhaled, trying for a laugh. It came out more like a sigh. “Just tired.”

Jake grinned, leaning back, fingers running through his messy hair. “Join the club. Sera’s been doing these 3 a.m. concerts lately. I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of sleep-deprivation competition.” At that, Jay smiled. It was easier now, hearing Jake talk about his daughter, his eyes softening in the way only a father’s eyes do, even a young, exhausted one. It reminded Jay that not all responsibility weighed the same. Some burdens were chosen. Some were gifts disguised as sleepless nights.

“How is she?” Jay asked, voice quieter than before. At once, Jake lights up. It’s the kind of brightness that’s hard to fake, pure, paternal, cracked wide open with joy. “She’s perfect,” he says. “I mean, I don’t sleep anymore, and I’ve memorized the words to like six lullabies I didn’t know existed, but... when she grabs my finger with her whole hand? Man.” He grins, shaking his head. “I get it now. That stupid thing people say about how it changes everything. It does.” Jay listens. Really listens this time. There’s something grounding about Jake’s voice, the softness of it, the awe. It steadies the storm in his chest for a moment, like wind pressed flat under a gentle palm. “We are...figuring it out. But yeah. She’s everything.” 

Jay nodded slowly, absorbing it. He tried to picture it, being someone’s anchor, someone’s whole world before they even knew what a world was. He wasn’t sure he could. His own childhood was too quiet, too cold. His father’s hands had never lingered in his hair, never tucked in his jersey, never taught him how to be soft. But Coach Bennett had. In his own gruff way. He’d shown Jay how to lace up ambition like skates, how to hold his chin up even when the game turned against him. He’d made Jay captain when everyone else had told him he was too intense, too focused, too rough around the edges. Coach had believed in him, and Jay never forgot that kind of loyalty. It was the kind that carved itself into your bones. 

Which is why it was maddening, this new pull, this flickering tension every time your eyes met his. You were Coach’s daughter. A line drawn bold and black across the ice. He couldn’t even skate near it. But still. He kept remembering the way your brows furrowed while watching the team, the soft movements of your pen against paper like some orchestral conductor writing a silent symphony of muscle and breath and pain. The way you didn’t flinch under the weight of so many eyes. The way you didn’t once search the crowd for your father’s approval. That part, especially, had lodged itself in his throat. Because it wasn’t just that you were off-limits.

It was that you were untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with the ache he’d spent years learning to ignore. Jay shifted on the couch, elbows tightening against his knees. “She’s different,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Jake raised a brow. “Who?” Jay looked up, startled, caught.

“No one,” he lied. But his thoughts were already spiraling, your hand on his knee, your voice in his ear, that laugh, dry and sarcastic, like a dagger wrapped in silk. He didn’t know what game this was, but it wasn’t one he knew the rules to. And worse still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play fair.

It was the kind of night that felt like a sigh, long and low and inevitable. The sun had dipped behind the hills hours ago, leaving behind a sky bruised in soft purples and melancholic blue, like the hush before a confession. And still, here you were, standing at the edge of your parents’ driveway, dread curling around your ribs like ivy. You would’ve given anything to turn around, to walk back into the familiar solitude of your dorm room where silence hummed in soft harmonies and your music knew how to hold you without asking for anything in return. But no, the pull of obligation was a cruel thing, thick and choking, and tonight, it dragged you home. The house was lit up like a stage set, warm lights glowing from the windows, casting golden halos against the glass. You inhaled once, twice, steeling yourself, then stepped inside. 

“Sweetheart!” your mother’s voice lifted into the air like a melody composed of saccharine niceties and desperate hope. She wrapped her arms around you before you could brace for it, her perfume, something powdery and expensive, sinking into your coat like memory. “I’m so glad you made it,” she whispered into your shoulder, though it felt less like a welcome and more like a plea. You nodded, lips pressed into a polite smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes. The scent of roasted garlic and marinated meat drifted in from the kitchen, thick and inviting, almost enough to distract you; almost. But then you heard your name called, and when you turned, you were met with the carefully curated smiles of two strangers standing too close to the polished mahogany of the entryway table. People you’ve seen before but don’t really know. 

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Yang,” your mother said, her voice bright with a rehearsed kind of joy. “And their son, Jungwon.” Jungwon. His name hit the air like a pebble in still water, creating gentle, rippling waves of expectation. You gave them a nod, soft, distant, the same way one acknowledges clouds passing in the sky. He was handsome in the clean, quiet way some boys are, shirt tucked in too neatly, posture molded by years of piano lessons or polite dinners just like this one. He smiled at you, polite and kind. But your heart remained unmoved. There was no stirring, no ache, no static hum beneath your skin. He was fine. But you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Without a word, you slipped past them and made your way into the kitchen, the sound of your boots echoing against the tiled floor like the punctuation to a sentence no one had the nerve to say. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice low but warm, as you stepped behind your brother, who was busy laying out silverware with an absent frown. Jaehyun didn’t look up at first, just kept folding napkins like it was some kind of test. 

“You made it,” he said flatly, glancing over his shoulder.

You bumped his arm with your knuckles, a small sibling gesture of truce. “Unfortunately.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. They made me help prep. Felt like I was in culinary boot camp.”

“How’s hockey?”

At that, he shook his head, tousled brown hair falling into his eyes. “Brutal,” he muttered, the word pulled like a string from his throat. “We lost by five. My shoulder’s still sore from that last check.”

You laughed, though it was more of a breath than a sound. “You’ll live.” He rolled his eyes, but you could see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before your mother’s voice called again, floating in from the hallway like a chime in a storm.

“Dinner’s ready!” Just like that, the spell broke. Jaehyun gathered the last of the glasses and followed behind you into the dining room where the long table waited like an altar, gilded with candlesticks, lace runners, and plates of food that looked too pristine to eat. You took your place near the end, far enough from the guests but close enough for civility, your back straight, your hands folded in your lap like the good daughter they always hoped you'd remember how to be. The Yangs spoke in soft, lulling tones, words that barely scratched at the surface of anything real. Their son sat across from you, occasionally meeting your gaze like he wanted to say something, something clever, or thoughtful, or maybe just nice, but you weren’t in the mood for pleasantries. Not tonight. Your smile was a veil, your laugh a curtain. You were not here. Not really.

Your father sat at the head of the table, his expression stoic, eyes moving from plate to plate, from person to person, as though dinner was just another meeting he had to manage. He asked about hockey like it was the weather, predictable and detached. He spoke more to Jaehyun than he had to you all week. And as the meal wore on, you found yourself chewing more on thoughts than on food. You thought about how he called Jay “son” sometimes in passing. How his voice softened when he talked to his players, how he clapped them on the backs with the kind of praise you used to dream about. You thought about the way Jay had looked at you today, the way his eyes followed your fingers, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the tension of muscle and meaning that neither of you dared acknowledge. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, pushing your fork through a piece of untouched chicken. You were tired of feeling second. Tired of the way your family only saw you when they wanted to show you off, when your presence meant something shiny and packaged. You thought about how Jay had rolled his eyes at you earlier, and how, weirdly, that had made you feel more seen than this whole table full of curated smiles and forgotten birthdays.

Dinner dragged on like a clock with too many hours, and you responded when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, said thank you when dishes were passed. But your mind wandered, to the rink, to the feeling of being useful, of having something to offer, even if the captain of the team found you irritating. At least that irritation was honest. And honesty, you were learning, was a rare delicacy in this house.

The clink of forks against porcelain had become a steady rhythm, a kind of soft percussion to a dinner that already felt twice its length. Small talk meandered between sips of wine and half-hearted compliments, your mother commenting on Mrs. Yang’s earrings, your father asking about Mr. Yang’s latest business venture with the polite detachment of a man doing what he was told. Across the table, Jungwon answered when spoken to, his voice low and kind, a boy raised to be gentle, to make eye contact, to smile when he felt uncertain. You didn’t mind him, not really. He seemed sweet. But sweetness, you were beginning to learn, rarely held weight when placed against the fire of ambition or the ache of unmet need. You chewed on a piece of bread, nodding along to a joke your brother made, when your father cleared his throat. The kind of clearing that meant a shift, a tone, a pivot into purpose.

“So,” he began, looking down the table as though he weren’t already directing the spotlight right at you. “Jungwon will be joining the team this semester. Equipment assistant.” Your eyes flicked to the boy across from you, his cheeks pinkened slightly, bashful beneath the weight of your father’s pride. You gave him a polite smile, one that said, Good for you, but not I care.

“He’ll be on the sidelines with you,” your father added casually, as if mentioning the weather again, but there was something careful in the way he said it, something staged. You caught it immediately, the way his gaze slipped from Jungwon to you and then lingered just a moment too long. You stiffened slightly in your chair, already sensing the script he had in his mind.

“That’s great,” you said lightly, reaching for your glass. “We’ll be co-spectators then.” But your father wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

“You two should spend more time together,” he said, letting the suggestion unfurl itself with the soft force of velvet gloves. “Jungwon’s a good kid. Focused. Thoughtful. Comes from a good family.” His smile flickered toward the Yangs like a candle catching draft, then returned to you, heavy with intention. And there it was, the curtain lifted, the illusion gone. You blinked slowly, letting the silence settle just a beat too long before speaking.

“I’m not dating right now,” you said plainly, though your voice was calm, even lyrical. A stone skipping across still water. “Not planning to until after I graduate next year. Boys are a distraction.” You said it like fact, not defense. Like gospel truth carved into stone tablets handed down by a wiser version of yourself. And maybe it was. After all, how many years had you sacrificed for perfect scores, for internships, for the dreams that danced just beyond reach like distant galaxies? You had no room for curated love stories or staged introductions masked as fate.

Your mother chuckled softly, a little forced. “Darling, no one’s saying you need to rush anything.”

But your father leaned forward ever so slightly, elbows on the table like this was suddenly a negotiation. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.” You met his eyes then, really looked. Not through him, not past him, but at him. The man who gave his softness to the boys on his team, who wore fatherhood like a jacket he could take off when it became too warm. You didn’t glare, didn’t raise your voice. But your gaze was steel behind a glass window. Clear. Unyielding.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said, barely above a whisper. “And I’m not interested.” The room went still for a moment, the way a violin string quivers just after it’s been plucked. Jaehyun looked down at his plate, chewing slowly. Jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed to have been made a piece on someone else’s chessboard. 

Your mother, ever the conductor of delicate recoveries, let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Well! Why don’t we pass the salad around again? There’s more in the kitchen.” But you’d already pushed your plate aside, appetite gone, your chest tight with the strange ache of not quite belonging anywhere, not even here, not even with the people whose house you were raised in. You weren’t angry, not really. Just tired of the orchestration, the planning of your life as though it were a charity auction item passed between polished hands.

You didn’t want curated affection. You wanted to be chosen for who you were, not for who you were supposed to be. And outside, behind the thick curtains, the wind picked up in a hush, as though it, too, was trying to say something no one else could quite hear.

After dinner the table sat stripped of its former warmth, plates cleared, wineglasses emptied, napkins folded in the hush of a meal that had long since soured in your mouth. The laughter had faded like perfume lingering on a dress after the wearer has gone, and the only sounds now were the distant humming of the dishwasher and the shifting of chairs against hardwood as the front door shut behind the last of the guests. The air was still, thick with the kind of silence that waits to be broken, and you could feel it crawling up your spine like a storm on the edge of breath.

You stood there for a moment in the half-light of the dining room, your arms crossed against your chest like armor, your lips pursed in a line that threatened to break. Your mother moved quietly through the kitchen, her hands busy with cleaning, like always, her fingers always searching for distraction. Jaehyun yawned and leaned against the doorframe, phone in hand, already halfway out of the scene. But your eyes were fixed on the figures seated at the kitchen island: your parents, still playing their parts, still pretending that everything had been done out of love and not control. You stepped forward then, your voice calm but edged with the kind of cold that burned. “I didn’t appreciate what you tried to do tonight.”

Your mother looked up from the sink, the sponge pausing mid-scrub. Your father set his glass down, the click of it against granite too loud in the stillness. “We were just trying to help,” your mother said, gentle and practiced, the way someone might approach a wild animal, afraid of startling it.

You shook your head, swallowing down the heat that rose in your throat. “No. You weren’t helping. You were arranging. You were deciding for me.” Your father’s brow furrowed, his voice firm, that coaching tone slipping through like oil under a door. “We just thought you could use someone stable. Jungwon’s a good kid.”

“I don’t care,” you said. “That’s not your choice to make.”

There was a beat of silence before your father leaned back, his arms crossing, his jaw tightening like the locking of a gate. “Well, I already told the boys not to even think about you. I made it very clear; you’re off-limits to that team.” And there it was. The line drawn in blood. The decision inked into law without your consent. Your chest rose, breath shallow and burning, and for a moment all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat in your ears, like the distant roar of a tide pulling away from the shore.

“You what?” you asked, though you had heard him perfectly. You just needed to hear it again, to confirm the absurdity.

“I told them you’re off-limits,” he repeated. “I won’t have distractions on my team. You’re not there for that.” Something inside you cracked, quietly, the way a branch bends too far before it finally breaks. It wasn’t about boys. It wasn’t about Jungwon or Jay or anyone else on that ice. It was about you, your choices, your agency, your life being treated like a project in his playbook, another thing to coach into submission. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of everything you’d carried. “You don’t get to police my life just because you missed out on being a part of it before.” Your mother gasped softly, the words hitting her like a gust of wind through an open door. Jaehyun had long gone silent, his eyes darting from you to your father like a spectator at a match he didn’t want to see. Your father looked stunned, as if he hadn’t expected the defiance, as if the girl he’d always seen; dutiful, distant, quiet, had finally stood up and lit the room on fire.

“You don’t get to be their father and mine only when it’s convenient,” you whispered. “You don’t get to show up now and act like you’ve earned the right to guard my future.” There was nothing left to say. Not really. You turned on your heel, grabbed your bag with trembling hands, and stormed toward the door, your footsteps loud against the wood like drumbeats announcing a war. No one stopped you. No one dared. The air behind you folded in on itself like paper, creased, tense, ready to tear.

Outside, the night was cold, the stars bleached white against a velvet sky. You walked fast, like maybe the wind could carry your fury away or the moon could catch the tears you refused to let fall. You didn’t cry, though. You were done crying. You had your own life to live.

The rink was a cathedral of stillness when you arrived, the kind of sacred hush that only exists before the world wakes up fully, before blades scratch across ice, before whistles pierce the air, before voices rise like a storm. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the rink’s frozen surface, a pale, dreamy silver that shimmered like moonlight trapped beneath glass. You moved quietly, your footsteps muffled against the concrete, setting your things on the bench with the kind of careful intention that comes from routine born out of necessity. The cold curled around your ankles and fingers like a ghost; familiar, but not quite welcome. You slipped your headphones on, the music like a balm against the clutter of your mind. It dulled the noise from last night, dimmed the echo of your father's voice, the barbed twist of his authority. You had buried your anger beneath a layer of icy professionalism, telling yourself that this was work, just work. This was about anatomy and muscle tension, about tape and breath and recovery, not about fathers who try to cage you or boys with dark eyes and heavy gazes who can make your pulse falter with a look. 

You sat with your notebook open, sketching out plans, rotations for dynamic stretches, observations from the last practice, notes about posture, fatigue, habits of the body you were learning to read like language. You were deep inside your own head, scribbling something about joint stabilization and impact absorption, when a gentle tap on your shoulder sent a shock through your bones. You turned fast, heart stuttering as you tugged your headphones down, blinking up to find Jungwon standing just behind you. His hands were up in mock surrender, a soft smile pulling at his lips like sunshine trying to break through a curtain of clouds.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let out a breath and gave a small shake of your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s okay. I was just… somewhere else.” 

He nodded, eyes flicking to your notebook, then back to you. “I just, uh, I wanted to apologize. About dinner. I had no idea our parents were planning that.” His voice was genuine, and something about the tilt of his head and the nervous shuffle of his feet told you he meant it. You relaxed, the tension in your shoulders loosening like laces unthreading.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, voice softening. “I could tell you were just as surprised as I was.”

He smiled at that, a little embarrassed, and glanced toward the cooler by the far wall. “I’m here early to fill water cups. I like getting everything done before the chaos starts.”

You glanced at the rows of plastic Gatorade cups lined up like soldiers waiting for orders and raised your brows, amused. “You take your job seriously.”

“I try,” he replied with a small shrug. “I’m not on the ice, but it still matters.”

You nodded, watching him for a moment, then turned back to your notebook. “I come early for the quiet,” you said after a pause, almost without thinking. “It’s like…the silence here has texture. It feels like something you can fold yourself into, like a blanket that doesn’t expect anything from you.” He looked at you then, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the way the words left your mouth, the way your eyes stayed downcast even though the thought you’d just spoken hung shimmering in the air like frost on windowpane. There was a flicker in his gaze, surprise, understanding, maybe a touch of admiration. Something tender bloomed between you, unspoken and strange, the way dawn makes you pause even when you’ve seen it a thousand times before.

You talked after that, quietly at first, about nothing and everything. The weather, school, how strange it was to be pulled into something bigger than you without consent. You learned that Jungwon liked history podcasts, that he hated the taste of mint and that he had a younger sister who adored figure skating. You told him about your internship, about your coursework, about the way you sometimes felt like no matter how hard you tried, your father would never see you as someone separate from his plans. And Jungwon listened, nodding, offering soft words that didn’t feel like pity but presence. You didn’t notice when the first skates hit the ice. Didn’t hear the buzz of the locker room doors or the scuffle of blades being adjusted. Time warped, folded into something tender and slow, and it wasn’t until a burst of laughter echoed from the tunnel and the boys began to file in like birds in flight, loud, messy, full of life, that you realized how long you’d been talking.

Your eyes flicked up instinctively, scanning the incoming flood of players, and there, in the midst of them, Jay. He looked good with the morning light painting silver into the dark of his hair, but his gaze was unreadable, distant. For a moment, just a flicker, your eyes met. He didn’t look away this time. But he didn’t smile either. And then the moment was gone, swallowed whole by the whistle of your father calling for warm-ups, the clash of skates against ice, and the ache in your chest that you didn’t want to admit had settled in for good. 

Jay pushed open the doors of the rink with purpose, his duffel slung over one shoulder, skates clinking softly against the strap. The air hit him like a second skin, cold and sharp, the kind of cold that woke you up and carved clarity into your bones. It smelled like ice and effort, like old sweat and tape and victory dreams long since frozen in the boards. The kind of air that said this is where we fight, even if the war is only against the self, against time, against the nagging voice in your head that says you’ll never be enough. The week had been long, coiled tightly around the pressure of expectation. Their first game loomed on Saturday, close enough to taste, close enough that even his sleep had taken on the rhythm of the game, his dreams broken by phantom goals and aching limbs and the roar of a crowd that may or may not come. He was ready. Or at least, he was supposed to be. 

He was lacing himself with determination as he stepped into the rink, threading it into every muscle. His footsteps echoed in the early hour, crisp and measured. He knew his role. Captain. Enforcer of grit and order. No time for softness, no space for distractions. Today was about execution. Focus. Edge. But then he saw you. You were perched on the lower bleachers, a notebook open on your knee, a pen in your hand like a wand drawing invisible maps through the air. You weren’t wearing your headphones this time. You were smiling. That soft, crooked kind of smile that looked rare on you, like something tucked away for safekeeping, only pulled out when no one was supposed to be watching. And you weren’t alone.

There was a boy beside you, shorter than him, younger-looking, with kind eyes and easy laughter, his body angled toward you like a sunflower turning toward the light. Jay hadn’t seen him before, which made something in his chest curl tight and sour. He felt it at once, sharp and unexpected: that gnawing sense of displacement, of not being in on something, of something already being taken. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. You had spoken what, three times? You’d argued, mostly. Clashed like fire meeting stone. And yet… And yet.

Something about the sight of you sitting there with this stranger stirred up a noise inside him he couldn’t quiet. He told himself it was irritation, annoyance at having his morning disrupted by something irrelevant. That it was just the weight of practice and captaincy and pressure twisting his mood. But he knew the truth. Or at least, he feared it. He was jealous.

Not in the loud, possessive way of boys who’d already claimed something. But in that terrible quiet way that sneaks in when you weren’t even aware you’d begun to care. It crept in through the cracks, through the way you had corrected his stretch without blinking, through the way your fingers had pressed against his knee like a dare, through the way your voice held thunder even when you whispered. He hadn’t meant to remember the shape of your mouth or the way your eyes flared when you were angry. He hadn’t meant to notice the way your laugh sounded reluctant, like it had to fight its way past pain. But he had. And now here you were, smiling at someone else. Someone who made it look so effortless. And Jay, who lived his whole life wrapped in performance and grit and silence, felt, for a moment, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t name.

He tore his gaze away, jaw tight, back straight. He said nothing. Walked past you like you were a ghost and he was a man haunted. But even as the coach called the team to warm up, even as blades began to scratch their war-song into the ice, Jay couldn't help but glance back once more; just once, like a secret. And you were still laughing. God, he hated how beautiful you looked when you weren’t looking at him.

Practice begins like it always does, cold and unrelenting, the sound of skates slashing against ice like knives against glass, every player carving their hunger into the rink, hungry for speed, precision, and that brutal dance of dominance. You sit at the edge of it all, notebook in hand, eyes trained like a lighthouse beam over the curling mist of motion. The air bites, numbing fingers through your gloves, but your mind is sharp, cutting through every stride and swing with the precision of a scalpel. Your gaze is calculating, watching the way Sunghoon adjusts for his healing leg, the way Heeseung still hunches slightly too much on his left shoulder, compensating with poor posture. But today, something feels… off. Unsettled, like the silence before a storm when the trees go still and the birds forget to sing. 

And it doesn’t take long for you to realize that the eye of that storm is Jay. Jay, whose presence on the ice is usually a poem in motion, a wolf weaving through wind, disciplined and razor-focused. Jay, who has always worn his title of captain like a stitched-on second skin, no room for error, no time for weakness. But now, he’s fraying at the edges. There’s something in the way he’s skating that makes your breath catch, a subtle stutter in his turns, a tension in his shoulders, like he’s being chased by something no one else can see. His movements are all wrong, off by mere seconds, fractions of angles, but wrong nonetheless. You notice his hesitation, how he favors the leg he’s always guarded like a secret. His eyes aren’t focused, not really. They’re vacant, elsewhere, like his mind is pacing in some far-off room, and his body is merely a ghost skating through the motions. 

You frown, gripping your pen tighter, every instinct in you whispering a quiet warning. And then it happens. It’s not theatrical, no loud snap of bone, no scream echoing through the rink, but it is enough to silence the room. Jay goes down, a crack of imbalance catching in the middle of a play. His skate catches on the edge of a turn, his body unable to compensate in time, and suddenly he’s hitting the ice hard, elbow first, knee twisted beneath him in a tangle of velocity and weight. The sound he makes is more frustration than pain, but it’s guttural, and it sinks into your bones like cold water. He stays down for a heartbeat too long. Long enough for every eye to turn toward him. Long enough for your own lungs to forget how to breathe. 

And when he finally rises, it’s with a sharp grimace and a tight jaw. He limps, not dramatically, but noticeably, dragging pride along with that wounded leg as he makes his way to the bench. You’re already up before your mind can catch up, your body drawn to him by something magnetic, something wordless and inevitable. You clutch your notebook to your chest, knuckles white, as you cross the ice’s edge with quick strides. By the time you reach him, Jay has torn his helmet off and flung it against the bench with a metallic clatter, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His gloves are off next, thrown down in a storm of self-loathing. He mutters curses under his breath, short and sharp, like they’re meant to punish the very air he breathes. His hair is a mess of sweat-damp strands, stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are wild, filled with that raw, reckless anger that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pride.

You don’t say anything at first. You simply sit down beside him, close but not too close, letting the silence stretch thin and humming between you. Letting him cool like a blade just pulled from fire. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his chest heaves, the clench of his fists, the storm tightening and loosening behind his gaze. And finally, when the heat of the moment has dulled to a quiet ache, you speak. “I’ll need to look at that knee after practice.”

Your voice is soft. Not gentle, not coddling, just calm. Firm in that way that says you’re not asking for permission, but not picking a fight either. You expect the pushback, the snide remark, the roll of his eyes, the stubborn “I’m fine” that he usually keeps locked and loaded. But it doesn’t come. Jay doesn’t argue. He just nods, curt and silent, like something inside him has cracked open a little too wide to bother trying to hold it all in. Like he’s tired of fighting everything, including himself. 

You don’t press him further. You don’t say what you’re thinking, that he’s been off since the moment he walked in, that you saw him watching you earlier with that dark, unreadable look. That you can feel the jealousy clinging to him like smoke. You don’t say that maybe you understand a little too well what it means to be someone who feels everything too much and yet can’t say a word of it aloud. You just sit with him, watching the other players file back onto the ice like nothing happened, like the world didn’t just tilt slightly off its axis. And in that quiet, in that fragile space between heat and healing, something unspoken passes between you.

You glance down at his knee, at the way he’s holding it like he’s not sure if he can trust it anymore. And your hands itch to help. To touch. To fix. Not just the bruises in his body but the ones buried in places far deeper, places that you, too, have learned to protect like sacred, broken things. Practice continues without him, Coach barking out instructions, pucks ricocheting off the boards, skates slicing like silver across the white. But the two of you remain seated, tucked just slightly out of reach from the rest of the world, bound together not by words but by silence and circumstance and a tangle of emotions too complex to name. You jot down a few notes in your book, pen gliding mindlessly now, thoughts half-drowned in the electricity that hums quietly between your shoulder and his. 

Jay leans back, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub something out of his thoughts. And you don’t look at him, not directly. But you feel him there, beside you, in the weight of his breathing and the simmer of his presence. You wonder if he feels it too, the way the space between your knees barely touches, the way your shoulders almost brush, the way every breath you take feels just slightly heavier because of him. 

After practice, the rink is quieter now, emptied of the thunderous rhythm of blades on ice, the thudding pulse of pucks striking boards, the boyish laughter and the barking drills. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, a tired orchestra of static and hum that fills the cavernous space with a ghostly kind of stillness. You sit cross-legged on the bench, notebook splayed open like a journal of war wounds, a ledger of flaws you’re determined to help fix. Jay is beside you, not quite close, not quite distant, but sitting with the kind of posture that speaks of restlessness buried deep in muscle and bone. The kind that no stretch can ease. You glance sideways, pencil poised above the page, waiting for the conversation to start, for him to meet you halfway. But he doesn’t. He’s there in body only, shoulders drawn taut beneath his hoodie, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere out past the rink walls like he's seeing something far, far away. Something he won’t share.

You clear your throat softly, trying not to let the irritation creep into your tone. “Are you even listening?” you ask, voice light, teasing almost, but there’s an edge there, a sharpness hidden behind the casual. “Because if you don’t care about getting better before the game, then we’re wasting our time.” Still, no answer. Just the faint sound of him shifting his weight, his knee probably still throbbing beneath his clothes, though he refuses to complain. Jay has always worn pain like a badge, never seeking sympathy, only challenge. But this, this silence, it isn’t stubbornness. It’s something else. Something quieter, more personal. It feels like a wall rising up between you again after you’d both spent so long trying to tear it down with quiet gestures and silent understanding. You set your notebook down slowly, turning to look at him fully now. And that’s when he speaks.

“Who was that boy you were talking to in the beginning of practice?” His voice isn’t biting, not sharp or mocking like you expected. It’s careful, too careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but failing entirely. It lands in the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples that reach far deeper than he’ll admit. And for a moment, you just stare at him, lips parting slightly in confusion, the question catching you so off guard you almost forget to breathe. 

You blink. “Jungwon?”

There’s a pause. A beat that stretches too long. Then: “Yeah. Him.”

You furrow your brow, unsure whether to laugh or scold him. “What does that matter?” Jay shrugs with the lazy grace of someone pretending not to care, but you see the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his jaw ticks slightly. He’s too composed for someone who's supposedly just ‘curious.’ His eyes don’t meet yours now. Instead, he busies himself with examining the tape on his wrist, like it holds answers he’s too afraid to find in your face. 

You narrow your gaze. “That’s not really any of your business, you know.” And there it is, the truth unsaid, the fragile line you both keep walking. The tension coiling beneath every word you speak to each other, a dance of proximity and avoidance. His eyes finally lift to meet yours, something unreadable in them. A spark of something you can’t name. Not yet.

He shrugs again, but this time it feels like armor. “Didn’t say it was. Just… wondered.” You exhale, the sound heavy with frustration, but not just at him. At yourself. At how quickly your chest tightened when he asked. At how easily you could read between the lines of his too-casual tone. You pick up your notebook again with shaking fingers, trying to will the heat from your face, trying to shove the moment back into something clinical, something safe.

“Well,” you say after a pause, voice clipped as you flip a page, “I’d like to get back to your stretches now, if you don’t mind.” Jay doesn’t respond immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly toward you. He watches the side of your face like he’s trying to memorize it, trying to see something in your profile that you won’t say out loud. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask again. Just lets the silence stretch between you like a fraying thread. And still, even in the stillness, you feel the weight of him beside you like a gravity pulling at the edges of your restraint.

You begin to talk again, reciting what needs to be done, which muscles he needs to target, what angles he needs to avoid to stop aggravating the joint. But your voice sounds strange to you now, too tight, too careful, like it’s been dressed in armor. You glance up briefly and catch him staring again, not at your hands, not at your notes, but at you. Always at you. 

Time stretches, slow and sticky like sap from a wounded tree, as you move through the remainder of your notes, explaining each stretch again in patient, measured tones. Your voice is soft but firm, the kind of gentle insistence that comes from knowing what you’re talking about and caring too much to be dismissed. Jay listens this time, even if his expression is unreadable, more shadows than light. He sits with his back curved, eyes lowered, brow furrowed in a quiet storm of frustration and focus. You ask him if he’s been doing the stretches you assigned and his reply is a low grumble, almost a growl, as if admitting defeat to the air rather than to you. 

“Tried,” he mutters, voice roughened by pride and something he can’t quite name, “but they hurt more than they helped.” 

You sigh, the sound carrying a weight that doesn’t belong solely to this moment. You kneel before him, brushing your hair behind your ears like a soldier tying back their banner before battle. “Then you were doing them wrong,” you reply, the words not scolding but certain, like the slow unfolding of spring after a bitter winter. You rise and move toward him, slipping into the space beside his seated form on the bench, your fingers brushing over his wrist gently as you coax him to stand. He obeys, but not without reluctance, the kind of resistance that doesn’t come from distrust, but from something deeper, something tangled in his own ribs, knotted in the cords of his heart. You demonstrate the posture again, turning slightly to show how your knee aligns with your hip, how the stretch should feel like a pull and not a tear. But as you step back to make room for him to try it, your foot catches on the edge of your own bag, traitorous and silent, and suddenly the world tilts. You flail forward with a gasp, arms reaching for something solid, and Jay catches you before your body can meet the cold, uncaring floor.

His arms come around you swiftly, instinctually, like muscle memory, like he’s caught you a thousand times before in dreams he doesn’t remember. His breath escapes him in a hiss as the movement jars his knee, and you gasp in tandem, both of you locked in a suspended, breathless moment of mutual alarm. You straighten in his hold, hands resting lightly against his chest now, your palms splayed over the steady drumbeat of his heart. It’s only then that you realize he’s still holding you. And you’re still letting him. For a heartbeat; no, for a whole symphony of heartbeats, you don't move.

His arms, warm and trembling ever so slightly, are wrapped securely around your waist. His eyes, dark and lit with something you can’t quite decipher, stare down into yours with an intensity that steals the air right out of your lungs. The fluorescent lights above seem to fade, casting the moment in a softer glow, as though time itself has folded inward and left only this suspended pocket where nothing exists but you and him. And then, without even thinking, without fully realizing what your body has decided, you begin to lean in.

Your breath catches. His lashes lower. The world narrows to the mere inches of space between your mouths. You can feel the heat of him, his breath, the soft rustle of the fabric at his collar, the barely-there tremble in his hold. You’re close enough now to see the faint freckle at the corner of his jaw, the smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes, the scar just above his brow. You are close enough to kiss him. And you want to. God, you want to. But just as your lips begin to close the distance, just as the air tilts toward something irrevocable, Jay turns his head sharply to the side. You freeze. Mid-motion. Mid-breath.

He clears his throat awkwardly, a hand coming up to grip your arm, not harsh, but firm enough to guide you back to earth. “Sorry,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear. “I — my knee, I shouldn’t be holding you like that.” And then, carefully, gently, like you’re made of spun glass or secrets too delicate to break, he sets you down on your own two feet again.

The warmth leaves you immediately, as though someone has opened a window to let in the cold. You step back, confused and suddenly small, the edges of your confidence curling in on themselves like burning paper. You blink down at your shoes, cheeks heating, pulse racing as if your body hasn’t quite caught up to the rejection your heart just received. “Is there anything else you want me to do?” he asks, his voice quieter now, strained and formal. He doesn’t look at you.

You hesitate, your throat tight, your pride frayed. You shake your head, a whisper caught in your chest. “No. That’s… that’s all for now.”

Jay nods, expression unreadable once more, a mask of cool indifference pulled over the face of a boy who just looked at you like you were made of starlight. “I better get going then.” You say nothing. You can’t. You watch as he limps slowly away, each step echoing like a closing door, like a heartbeat fading in the dark. And then he’s gone.

You sit down slowly, notebook still open in your lap, pages fluttering in the draft he left behind. The silence that fills the rink is different now, thicker somehow, as if it holds echoes of things unsaid. And you’re left there alone, heart stinging, face warm with humiliation, and a bitter taste blooming at the back of your tongue. You want to scream, or laugh, or cry, or maybe all three. But instead, you sit there with your hands still trembling slightly, wondering what exactly just happened. Wondering if it meant something. Wondering why it couldn’t.

The days pass like breath caught in your throat, never quite exhaled, never quite released. You keep your head down, hands busy, heart shelved like an old book collecting dust behind your ribs. You move through practice with the cold efficiency of someone who knows what they’re doing and refuses to be shaken by sentiment; at least not anymore. If Jay notices the way you don’t linger by the benches anymore, or how your gaze drifts anywhere but in his direction, he doesn’t say anything. Or maybe he does notice, maybe he notices everything and simply doesn’t know what to do with it, with you, with the heavy silence left in your wake. You’ve found a temporary anchor in Sunghoon, who’s been limping slightly on his left leg for a few practices now. He’s easier to work with, smiling, receptive, appreciative without crossing invisible lines. You offer him techniques, adjustments, reminders to ice and rest. He listens. He thanks you. And though your mind drifts back to Jay more times than you’d like to admit, flashing in those brief seconds between movements, appearing like a shadow every time you blink, you push those thoughts down, burying them like seeds in winter soil. 

But you notice.

Of course you notice.

Jay’s limp, though masked well beneath his stubborn pride and athletic grace, returns the day before the first game. Subtle to the untrained eye, just the slightest falter in his stride, the tiniest hesitation when he pivots too hard on his left side. It cuts through your self-imposed indifference like a blade, sharp, inevitable. You clench your jaw, fists tightening around your clipboard, war playing out behind your eyes. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to still care. But here you are, caring anyway. Coach calls for a ten-minute break, his voice echoing through the rink like a church bell, and you take that sound as your cue. You move toward Jay without thinking, clipboard held like a shield, resolve coiled tight in your chest. You tell yourself you’re here to be professional, that this is part of your job, that your heart is nothing but a quiet organ beating behind your ribs, it has no business interfering with tendons and joints and routines. Jay sits on the edge of the bench, pulling at the tape around his wrists, and your shadow falls over him before your voice does.

“I noticed your limp’s back,” you say, even and clinical, like you’re reading out symptoms from a chart instead of acknowledging the ache that’s been burning a hole in your chest for days. You don’t look at him. You can’t. He straightens slightly, wiping sweat from his temple with the back of his glove. “I’ve been doing the stretches.”

You nod once, still focused on your clipboard, though the words blur and bleed together on the page. “Before tomorrow’s game, stretch early and ice immediately after,” you say. “Don’t skip it.” He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s waiting for something more, like he’s holding something in his mouth, something fragile that might shatter if he breathes too hard. Then, carefully, his voice cracks the air between you like a pebble on glass.

“About the other day in the locker room—” Your spine stiffens. Your pulse stumbles. But you don’t let your mask falter. Instead, you cut in, your voice brisk and precise.

“I was thinking we could try a different form of therapy,” you say. “Something that focuses more on low-impact stretches and deep tissue. It might help more long-term.”

He exhales, and it’s not frustration or anger; it’s confusion, maybe even hurt. “That’s not what I was going to—” 

“It’s fine,” you say, and this time your voice does falter, just slightly, like a violin string pulled too tight. “You don’t have to explain. It was clear.” His mouth opens. You keep going. “You don’t feel the same way,” you say, and now your eyes lift, finally meeting his. And it’s a terrible thing, because he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth, like he’s never been more stunned in his life. But you don’t let yourself get swept up in it. You keep your voice level, sharp with embarrassment, honed by the weeks of silence and avoidance and pretending. “I’d appreciate it,” you say, and your voice is soft now, almost breaking, “if you wouldn’t bring it up again. Just… spare me the humiliation, okay?”

And then, before he can speak, before he can call out your name or reach for you or cast another look that might make your knees weak, you turn and walk away. The sound of your boots on the ice-polished floor is the only thing you hear. Not the beat of your heart, not the breath caught in your throat, not the echo of your name behind you, only the silence that follows you like a shroud, thick and unyielding. You walk until the cold air bites at your cheeks and the rink fades behind you. You walk until you are just a girl again, alone in the echoing hallway, heart bleeding quietly inside your chest. 

Finally, It’s game day. 

The air feels heavy with electricity, like something important is about to break. The rink is abuzz with the quiet war-drum of preparation, sticks clacking against the ground, skates carving soft grooves into rubber, the rustle of jerseys being pulled on like armor before a battle. You stand in the back corner of the locker room, tucked away from the fray but still inside its rhythm, your clipboard abandoned for now, your laughter light and warm as it floats into the stale air. Jungwon is beside you, easy company with a boyish grin and a kind sort of curiosity that doesn’t ask for anything more than what you’re willing to give. His presence is uncomplicated, a balm to the storm that’s been churning in your chest for the past week. He’s cracking jokes, a little sharp but clever, and you laugh freely for once, like the sound doesn’t cost you anything. There’s something about today that feels strange though, like you’re standing at the edge of something. A precipice. A cliff with no railing.

Jungwon nudges your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in to whisper something only you can hear, something stupid about the way Heeseung tapes his socks too tight or how Jake brought his baby’s pacifier instead of his water bottle. You giggle into your hand, shoulders shaking, just in time for a voice, deep, commanding, like thunder cracked through a glass sky, to slice through the locker room. “Huddle up.” Everyone moves instantly.

Jay’s voice is unrecognizable from the one you’ve grown accustomed to, the one laced with sarcasm or irritation or those low, quiet murmurs you’ve only ever heard in the in-between moments when it was just the two of you. No, this voice is a war cry. It’s sharp and magnetic, dragging the eyes and ears of every player to him like he’s the only sun in the room and they’re just desperate, orbiting things. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you exhale. Jay stands in the center of the locker room, tall and broad, chin tipped up, one fist closed around his helmet and the other gesturing with subtle but unshakable control. His dark hair is damp and pushed back, beads of sweat just beginning to prick along his brow from the warm-up, and his eyes are twin daggers, focused, deadly. You realize, then, that this is Jay as captain, Jay in his final form, Jay as the version of himself that eats pressure for breakfast and spits out excellence. You’ve never really seen him like this. And it hits you square in the chest. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. Beautiful and terrifying. Like lightning dancing across a frozen lake. Like something wild that could burn you alive if you got too close. You stand frozen, wide-eyed, caught in a kind of reverent silence that only deepens when Jungwon leans close again, voice low and teasing: “You’re staring.” You laugh — too loud, too quick, startled out of your daze, and that’s when it happens. Jay stumbles. Not on his feet, no, his posture stays rigid, his stance the same, but the words in his mouth, once flowing like riverwater, trip over themselves. A stutter, subtle but jarring, breaks the air like a skipped heartbeat. You blink, confused at first, and then you follow the line of his gaze; his eyes locked directly, unflinchingly, on you. Your laughter dies in your throat.

Jay looks away fast, like your face was too bright, too blinding. He shakes his head once, hard, trying to dislodge whatever momentary ghost took hold of him, and when he speaks again, his voice is firm and clean. No cracks. No hesitation. But the pause, the falter, it lingers in the air like perfume. And everyone felt it. Maybe they don’t know what it means, but you do. Oh, you do. You stand a little straighter, Jungwon now just a shadow beside you as your focus returns wholly, helplessly, to Jay. He commands the huddle with renewed authority, drawing the team in like stars around a sun. And still, beneath all that composure, you know it, you can feel it, the tension that thrums in the silence between his words. The weight of what was left unsaid in that locker room. The awkwardness of that almost-kiss, that half-second eternity where your heart had leapt and his had pulled back. You wonder if he feels it too.

When he finishes the pep talk, the team breaks with a unified roar, sticks thudding against the benches, skates scraping as they rise to storm the ice, but Jay doesn’t look your way again. Not once. He keeps his gaze forward, unyielding, captain-steady. And yet, for that one fractured breath, he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like maybe the words he couldn’t say had filled his mouth all at once and rendered him speechless. And it lingers. Like smoke after fire.

The arena is alive. Electric. It thrums with the kind of energy that only belongs to game night, shouts and whistles, sneakers scraping against concrete, the distant reverberation of blades cutting across frozen ice like poetry etched in glass. The crowd swells and hollers and surges in waves like a storm kept just barely at bay, but you, you are still. Poised at the edge of the chaos, pen between your fingers and a notebook cradled in your lap like it holds the whole universe. You’re supposed to be calm. Collected. Clinical. But beneath the soft tap of your pen against paper, your pulse is racing like something wild caged beneath your skin. They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it.

Every note you wrote, every correction you whispered beneath fluorescent locker room lights, every careful observation you tucked into the quiet margins of your planner, it’s breathing now. It’s real. The team is moving like a single beast, every shift on the ice more seamless than the last. Their passes are tight, clean, threaded like silver through the seams of the opposing defense. Their positioning is sharp, adjusted just as you suggested, and Jay, God, Jay is a storm in motion, skating with such relentless precision it nearly makes you dizzy to watch. There’s a moment when he pivots on a dime, receives a pass from Jake, and nails a slap shot that rockets straight past the goalie’s glove with a sound like thunder, echoing, undeniable, final. The whole crowd erupts. And your chest swells with pride so fierce you forget to breathe for a second. You don’t cheer. You don’t scream. You don’t jump up and throw your arms around like the rest of the spectators who are all giddy limbs and painted cheeks. But your smile; quiet, soft, almost secret, could light the whole rink. 

There’s a strange ache in the joy. Because it’s not just about the win. It’s the knowledge that they trusted you enough to listen. That the time you’ve spent, invisible and tireless, is finally seen in the way they skate, in the way they communicate on the ice like a language you helped translate. And maybe, just maybe, you matter here, something more than a daughter, something more than a placeholder. You’re part of the architecture. The bones beneath the flesh. Jungwon darts past you in a blur, a clipboard under one arm and a trainer’s bag in the other, his cheeks pink from exertion. You call out something teasing, and he shoots back a reply that makes you snort into your scarf, the two of you slipping into that easy rhythm that’s started to settle between you, like an echo, like something familiar that never needed to be explained. He’s good at what he does, even if he’s still learning. And there’s something charming in his eagerness, his instinct to over-prepare, to over-perform. You can’t help but admire it. He’s not trying to impress you, and maybe that’s why it’s so refreshing to be around him. He doesn’t want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give. 

You glance to your left where Heeseung and Sunghoon’s girlfriends are perched on the edge of their seats, wrapped in puffy coats and scarves and radiant with adrenaline. They’re shouting their boys’ names at full volume, jumping and gasping and squealing at every near miss and every stolen goal. Normally, the noise would drive you crazy, but there’s something endearing about the way their voices crack when they cheer. You watch one of them grab the other’s arm and shake her when Sunghoon skates too close to the boards, laughing like she’s afraid and thrilled all at once. There’s love in it. Raw and sweet and loud. You wonder, absently, what it must be like to feel that kind of closeness, to wear your heart on your sleeve without fear of how hard it might be broken.

And still, your eyes find him. Jay.

Every time you think you’ve pulled yourself out of the orbit of his gravity, your gaze is drawn back like a tide to the moon. He skates with his teeth gritted and his shoulders tight, every movement packed with intensity. He’s not reckless, but he’s ferocious, like something is burning behind his eyes and this is the only way he knows how to put out the fire. You see the slight limp in his stride, the subtle favoring of his left leg, but he masks it well, well enough that your father hasn’t caught on, but you notice. Of course you do. You know him too well now, even if you pretend you don’t. Your fingers tighten on your pen. There’s a moment when he looks toward the bench during a shift change, breath fogging up in the cold, jaw clenched. His eyes sweep the stands, and for a breathless second, you swear they land on you. You sit frozen. His gaze holds, unreadable. And then, he’s gone again, swallowed up by the game. You pretend not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The scoreboard blinks and buzzes, a mechanical hymn to their success, and the crowd surges forward in delight. The game marches on, and you try to return to your notes, to professionalism, to detachment. But it’s hard when your hands are trembling, not from cold, but from something far more dangerous. From hope. From confusion. From want.

The air is electric in the aftermath of victory. The walls of the locker room hum with the echoes of triumph, whoops ricocheting off metal lockers, the sharp clatter of skates being kicked off, towels slapping wet skin, voices riding high on adrenaline and pride. It smells like sweat and ice and something more sacred, like the echo of glory, like the start of something golden. The boys move through the space like kings returning from battle, bumping shoulders and laughing with that rare kind of joy that only comes from shared struggle turned into triumph. Heeseung’s lopsided grin is as bright as the scoreboard, his arm slung over Jake’s shoulder as he recounts a moment on the ice with exaggerated flair. Jay gets the loudest praise, backs patted, hands clapped, helmets nudged against his in celebration. He stands at the center of it all, looking like something carved out of fire and iron, stoic and silent, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that betrays the satisfaction he won’t speak aloud. You keep your distance.

It’s become your safe place, that edge-of-the-room observation. You smile when spoken to, you nod when needed, you laugh when the jokes make their way to you, but your heart is folded up tightly, tucked beneath the quiet task in front of you. You’re kneeling by the therapy corner, setting up Jay’s post-game ice bath, something you insisted on weeks ago when the limp first returned, something he never complained about, not even after the... moment between you. The container is half full already, the ice bucket humming beside you as cubes tumble in with mechanical rhythm. Your fingers are cold from testing the water, your breath fogs lightly in the sterile air, but your mind is far, far away, adrift on memories of locker room silence, almost-kisses, and the sound of his voice when it turned soft for you and only you. Most of the team is gone now, filing out with damp hair and open jackets, loud voices echoing down the hall. Even Jungwon gives you a wave goodbye before disappearing with your father to inventory the equipment one last time. You murmur your farewell, gaze flickering, pulse steady. Or at least it was, until the warmth of a hand wraps suddenly around your elbow. 

You startle, spinning halfway as a gasp lifts in your chest, but it’s Jay. His hand is firm but not rough, callused fingers pressing into the crook of your arm as if trying to tether you to the moment. The look on his face is unreadable, carved from stormclouds and moonlight. You straighten, trying to compose yourself, your lips parting for a question you never get the chance to voice. He cuts you off before it can form. “Are you dating Jungwon?”

The words are sharp and blunt at once, like being struck with something soft but heavy. You blink up at him, confusion furrowing your brows, heart stuttering in your chest. “What?” you manage, voice more breath than word, but he interrupts again, more urgent this time. 

“Just, please. Are you dating Yang Jungwon or not?” There’s something vulnerable hidden behind the edge of his voice, something frayed and fierce. He looks at you like the answer might shatter him, like he’s already halfway broken by the not knowing. 

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper. “Not that it’s any of your business.” But he doesn’t seem to hear that last part. Or maybe he does, and chooses to ignore it entirely. His eyes are still locked on yours, black as night and brimming with something you don’t yet have the language to name. Something heavy. Something real. He leans in. Not fast, not abrupt, no. Jay moves like he’s afraid to break the air between you. Like every inch is sacred. Like he’s measuring the distance to your mouth with centuries of longing compressed in his chest. And when his face is so close that his breath brushes yours, he murmurs, “Say the word, and I’ll stop.” It’s the gentlest threat you’ve ever heard. The sweetest cliff you’ve ever been asked to jump from. But you don’t stop him.

And when his lips finally meet yours, soft and uncertain and tender in a way that rips the breath from your lungs, it’s not fireworks that you feel. It’s silence. That same kind of silence you chase in the early mornings. That rare, impossible peace that only exists when the world forgets to spin. His kiss is reverent, hesitant, but aching beneath its restraint. It tastes like all the things he’s been trying not to feel, all the things he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. You make a sound, small and startled and aching, and then you're leaning into him, reaching up, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. He kisses you again, deeper this time, and everything unravels. His hand finds your waist, the other rising to cradle your jaw like something precious, something fragile. You feel your back press against the wall as he walks you backward, the air around you thick with want. He kisses like a man who’s been waiting too long, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he wants to carve the shape of your mouth into the backs of his eyelids. And then it gets deeper, hotter.

His body presses into yours, anchoring you to the wall with a force that makes your breath catch, that makes your knees feel untrustworthy. His lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, your throat, breath warm and desperate. You arch into him, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the scent of him, sweat, cedarwood soap, something uniquely him that drives you mad with the simplicity of it. But then, he pulls back. He lets go with a gentleness that makes the moment worse, like the kiss had been holy and ending it was sacrilege. He exhales slowly, still so close his breath dances across your skin.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” he says quietly, his voice low, almost pained.

“Keep going.” You breathe, the air shot from your lungs as his mouth found yours once again, soft but urgent. Like he was giving himself to you slowly and deeply, like his heart was a locked box with the key now in your hands. 

The kiss deepens, not in haste but in gravity, as if time itself has bent its laws to accommodate the want simmering between you. Jay’s hands are a prayer pressed against your waist, the curve of your jaw, the span of your back as if committing you to memory beneath his palms. He kisses you like you’re not just a girl but a revelation, like he's been wandering ice-covered roads for years and you’re the first warmth he's felt. His body shields yours from the cold tile of the locker room wall, and you can feel every inch of him, tense and trembling with the weight of restraint, of something that borders on reverence. You’re gasping softly into him, losing all sense of place, of direction, of anything that isn’t the taste of his mouth and the staccato rhythm of your pulse thundering between your ribs.

There is nothing polite about this desire, it is vast and raw and aching, a tether pulled taut between you, stretched across every stolen glance and unsaid word since the first time he looked at you and didn’t speak. Every second of tension in the past weeks has culminated in this: the electricity when your bodies align, the reverberation of heat low in your belly, the way his lips move against yours like he’s not just kissing you; he’s trying to say something in a language only the two of you can understand. And then, The sharp groan of a door creaking open cleaves the moment like a blade through silk.

You both jolt as if shocked by lightning, Jay stepping back just enough to break the kiss, though his hands linger at your sides, still warm, still trembling. Your breath catches in your throat as you both snap toward the sound, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, is Soobin. Tall, sweet-faced Soobin, with wide eyes and a half-twist of a smirk he’s trying (and failing) to suppress. “I was just coming to get my water bottle…” he says, his voice pitched high with embarrassment, words slow and uncertain like they’re skating across black ice. He gestures vaguely toward the benches, where his half-drained bottle sits beside a crumpled towel.

Jay doesn’t move. Neither do you. You’re still pressed up against the wall, lips flushed, heart a living drumbeat in your throat. The silence stretches out, taut and teetering on awkwardness. Finally, Jay gives a tight nod, measured, unreadable. Soobin grabs his bottle in the silence that follows. “I’m gonna go… good game,” he mumbles, already halfway out the door before the sentence finishes falling from his mouth. And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the click of the door echoing in his wake and a sudden rush of cold air that feels like the world snapping back into its natural order. And for a second, the tension remains suspended, like a note left hanging at the end of a song.

Laughter. 

It bubbles up inside you so quickly you can’t hold it back. It starts as a breathy exhale, then spills out of you in waves, warm and full and uncontrolled. You lean forward slightly, your head falling against Jay’s chest, laughter shaking through your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that comes only after a release of something heavy, something long held in, the absurdity of the moment, the sweetness of it, the fact that you were just caught making out with Jay in the locker room like a scene pulled from the pages of some high school drama. You can’t stop. Jay watches you for a beat, stunned and dazed, and then a smile slowly curves across his lips. His own laugh escapes like a sigh of relief, low and rich, a sound like melting snow in spring. His arms circle your waist again, tugging you close, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck for a moment like he’s trying to hide from how much he’s smiling. You feel the sound of his joy vibrate against your collarbone and it feels so impossibly intimate you almost tear up. When the laughter fades, you look up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Jay reaches out, tender and slow, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing the shell of it like a secret. His touch is feather-light, reverent, and it stills something wild in you. You swear the whole room stills with it. He leans in again, but this time it’s gentle, slow. No rush. No chaos. Just him, kissing you like you’re the calm in his storm. His lips move over yours with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut, with a quiet longing that tastes of something deeper; something that might become love if left to bloom.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is soft, his voice even softer. “Good night,” he murmurs, a whisper sealed against your skin, a kiss wrapped in syllables. And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes hold yours for a moment longer, and then he turns and walks toward the exit, leaving you still leaning against the locker room wall, your lips tingling, your heart dancing somewhere halfway to the moon.

You don’t move right away. You just stand there, smiling like a girl who has a secret no one else knows, eyes dazed and warm and so full of something sweet it could carry you away. You’re on cloud nine, weightless, golden, floating. And maybe, just maybe, starting to fall.

The night air wraps around them like a loose scarf, warm enough to leave their jackets slung lazily over their shoulders as they leave the arena, the scent of ice and sweat still clinging to their skin like ghosts from the game. Their footsteps echo on the pavement, scuffed sneakers and boots dragging over gravel and cracks, their voices a low current of triumph and teasing that rides on the heels of victory. Jay walks with Jake on his left, Heeseung and Sunghoon trailing a step behind, their laughter low and lazy, the kind of carefree sound that always blooms after a win. There’s a looseness to them, shoulders unknotted, mouths grinning wide, and Jay finds himself smiling too, just enough, just the corners of his mouth, but there’s a subtle difference in the curve of his lips. Because while they talk about the game, about Sunghoon’s near goal, about the idiot who almost got benched for not backchecking, Jay’s thoughts are stuck in the locker room, with your lips against his, your laughter blooming like a secret in the hollow of his chest.

Jake throws an arm over Jay’s shoulders, leaning into him as they walk. “So,” he says, voice drawn out and heavy with mischief, “we thinking post-game celebration at the house? Open invite? You know… keep the momentum alive.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Jay murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, still damp from his quick rinse after the game. “Maybe we invite… her,” he adds, not daring to say your name but letting it hover like perfume in the air, thick and noticeable. Heeseung, ever the perceptive one, arches a brow, lips quirking into a half-smile that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Her, huh?” he echoes with a lilt of curiosity and amusement, shooting a look over Jay’s shoulder. “You mean Coach’s daughter?”

Jay just smirks, the kind of smirk meant to deflect without answering, one corner of his mouth curling while his eyes give away nothing. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says casually, like it’s a motto, a rule etched into his spine. Jake lets out a low laugh, nudging Jay in the ribs, his grin all teeth. “Guess Coach’s orders don’t apply to the golden boy, huh?” And that’s when it hits. The truth of it. 

Jay’s smile falters, not dramatically, not so much that anyone watching would think he’d been struck, but inwardly, he feels the fault line open just beneath his ribs. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten. Forgotten that you weren’t just you. That you were Coach’s daughter. That there was a silent border etched in the ice between what was allowed and what wasn’t. That all this, the kiss, the way his heart had lunged forward at the sound of your laughter, the heat that had stirred when you leaned into him, wasn’t just a risk. It was forbidden. He’d let himself feel weightless with you, floating in the space of almost, and now gravity pulls him back down with a vengeance.

Sunghoon sees the shift, quick as a cut. His eyes sharpen, his joking tone dropped like a stone. “Oh no,” he says, not unkindly, but with an edge of understanding that slices clean. “Coach doesn’t know, does he?” 

Jay shakes his head, once, the movement short and stiff. His jaw flexes. “There’s nothing to know,” he says, too quickly. Then again, slower. “It means nothing.” A beat passes. It’s the kind of sentence meant to close a door, but it doesn’t quite shut. It hangs there in the air between them, fragile and unconvincing, like a paper shield against a rising tide. Jake looks over at him, not buying it. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, but the raise of his brow deepens, a silent accusation or maybe just concern. And Sunghoon, ever observant, watches Jay like someone looking at a puzzle with one corner piece missing.

Jay stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, heart dragging behind his ribcage like an anchor. The truth echoes loud in his head, though he won’t speak it: it didn’t mean nothing. It meant everything. The way your lips trembled against his, the way your laughter cracked something open in him, the way he felt more like himself, more like someone he didn’t have to guard, when you looked at him with those eyes that didn’t expect him to be the captain, or the golden boy, or anything but just… Jay. But he says nothing. Because what can he say? That he kissed the one girl he’s been told to stay away from? That in the span of a few moments, he’s already losing the fight against the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have?

So instead, he settles for silence. The kind that tastes like regret and fear all at once. The guys let it go, at least on the surface. They start talking again, lighter topics, shallow water. The conversation shifts toward what drinks to bring, who to invite, how late to stay up. But Jay barely registers it. He’s lost inside himself now, knee-deep in thoughts he can't outrun. The stars overhead glimmer faintly, veiled by the streetlamps and campus haze. He thinks of you again, of how soft your lips were, of the gentle way you laughed like you had the sun inside you, of how your hands felt when they pressed against his chest like a heartbeat, unsure and wanting. And beneath all of it, like the faint growl of distant thunder, he hears your father’s voice. The warning. The rule. And wonders just how far he’s willing to fall to keep touching the one thing he was never supposed to have.

Still, he picks up his phone and sends you a text. Even if it was wrong, it felt right.

You step through the threshold of the frat house like a swimmer entering the ocean at dusk, hesitant, but pulled in by the current of something irresistible. The air is thick with warmth, buzzing with music that pounds like a second heartbeat beneath your ribs. The lights are dim, golden and hazy like candle flames through whiskey-stained glass. Laughter echoes against the walls, tangled with the clatter of red plastic cups and the stutter of music that skips every so often when someone leans too hard against the stereo. Bodies move around you like a tide, fluid and flushed, the scent of beer and cologne clinging to everything. You feel a bit out of place, dressed more nicely than most, a little too alert to be fully one with the crowd. But there’s something thrilling about it too, about being here, in this noise and light and heat, as though stepping into a life just slightly tilted off your usual axis. You belong to the world your father tried to keep you from, and even though you’re standing still, your heartbeat is already racing.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, through knots of people, couples kissing in dark corners, teammates whoop-laughing over some inside joke you can’t hear. You spot Heeseung near the window, kissing his girlfriend like it’s the last night on Earth, hands tangled in her hair, their bodies pressed together in a way that makes you look away with a soft laugh caught in your throat. You weave your way further in, bumping shoulders with strangers, eyes searching. And then, just as you pause near the base of the staircase, two arms wrap around your waist, strong and familiar, pulling you backward into warmth that makes every nerve in your spine flare. You whirl around with a sharp breath, only to find Jay grinning down at you like the world just tilted in his favor. His smile is boyish, easy, but his eyes, they hold that steady fire that always seems to look right through your defenses. “You came!” he says, surprised but pleased, voice barely audible over the hum of music and laughter. You nod, letting a smile curl slowly over your lips. “Of course I did,” you murmur, and you don’t say it, but it’s the truth, you would’ve followed him anywhere tonight. 

Jay’s hand finds yours and it’s instinctual, the way your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. He tugs gently, leading you across the crowded room toward the far couch where Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung are half-lounging, half-sitting, deep in a conversation about the game that had them all riding high with adrenaline. Heeseung’s girlfriend is curled up next to him, glowing with affection and soft laughter, and you’re pulled into the circle like a ripple in still water. The jokes start almost instantly, teasing remarks flung like soft snowballs, warm and harmless, and you laugh in return, each giggle shaking loose the tension that had clung to your shoulders since you stepped through the door. For a few moments, you forget about boundaries. About who you are and who Jay is. You forget about your father’s rules and the ache of rejection that had lived in your chest not so long ago. Here, among Jay’s friends, among your friends, maybe, you feel light. Like you’ve found something that belongs to you, something you’ve been missing. That is, until Soobin stumbles in like a storm no one saw coming.

He’s already glassy-eyed and red-faced, his gait loose and uncoordinated, that unmistakable sway of someone who’s a few drinks past his limit. He barrels into the living room like a wrecking ball, slinging an arm around Jay’s neck with the kind of heavy-handed affection only drunkenness can excuse. “Chill out on the drinks, man…” Jake says, reaching for Soobin’s cup, which is dangerously tilted and threatening to soak Jay’s shirt. His voice is careful but not unkind. “I’m good,” Soobin slurs, blinking as he tries to focus. His voice is too loud, too relaxed, carrying a reckless kind of weight. “Anyone know any single girls around here?”

Sunghoon chuckles, tossing a comment over his shoulder about Soobin’s breakup with Yunjin. There’s a teasing edge to his words, but Soobin doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs like the loss of someone he loved is an old wound he’s decided to stop tending. Then his gaze shifts, and lands on you. Recognition hits his face like a lightning strike. “Hey—” he slurs, pointing at you with a crooked smile. “Did coach lift the ban on dating his daughter—?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. But Jay is quick. “Shut up, Soobin,” he snaps, voice low and sharp enough to cut. His arm tightens slightly at your waist. Soobin blinks, confused for a beat, then throws up his hands in surrender. “Damn. My bad.” Jake grabs him gently by the arm, steering him away toward the kitchen, his voice hushed but firm. “Come on, man. Let’s get you some water.” 

The group’s laughter doesn’t return. The bubble pops. The easy lightness vanishes. And suddenly, all you feel is every pair of eyes that had glanced your way during that too-loud moment. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until Jay’s hand gently slides into yours again. “You wanna go upstairs for a bit?” he asks, voice soft this time, quieter, like he’s asking if you want to escape. You don’t hesitate. You nod.

Jay’s room is quieter than the rest of the house, sealed off like a snow globe from the riotous storm downstairs. When you step inside, you pause for a moment just beyond the threshold, unsure of what to expect but immediately hit by a surprising stillness. The air is tinged with something faintly woodsy and familiar, maybe his cologne or the way his jacket always smells when he leans too close. You drift further in and lower yourself slowly onto the edge of his bed, fingertips brushing the neatly tucked comforter, as your eyes sweep over his space with a subtle curiosity. Everything is tidier than you imagined it would be, books lined up like soldiers on his desk, sneakers in a straight row near the foot of the bed, a single jacket hanging from the back of his chair. It’s lived-in, but purposeful. A room that carries him in every corner. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t try to impress. It’s just... him. And maybe, for some reason, you aren’t surprised by that. Jay is a boy of precision, quiet control, even when the world around him spins out of balance. He closes the door with a soft click, leans his back against it for a moment like he’s collecting himself, and then lets out a breath. “Sorry about Soobin,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft. It’s not the first thing on your mind, not even close. But it’s easier than diving straight into the waves crashing inside your chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you aren’t saying. Jay crosses the room slowly, but not to sit beside you. He hovers near the desk for a second, hand drifting across a stray pen, eyes lost in thought. You know he feels the tension, same as you. And maybe, for once, silence isn’t the answer. So you break it.

“I don’t care what my dad says,” you tell him, your voice low but steady, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “He can’t dictate my life.” That catches him. Jay turns to look at you fully now, the weight of your words visibly landing in the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. But he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a rough sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to clear the thoughts clouding his mind.

“Your father’s been like… a father to me,” he finally says, voice strained and quiet. “I don’t think I’d still be playing if it wasn’t for him. He’s given me so much. And now—” He exhales sharply. “Now I feel like I’m betraying him.” You swallow hard. Not because you’re angry, but because you understand. You know what your father has meant to Jay, how he took him under his wing, coached him, mentored him, praised him in ways you only ever watched from a distance. But it still hurts, because the man Jay reveres has always kept you at arm’s length.

“At least he acted like a father to someone,” you say, and there’s something quiet and broken in your voice you hadn’t meant to let slip. Jay straightens, confusion flickering in his gaze.

“What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, fingers laced tight in your lap. “I mean… he was never really there for me. Not in the way that matters. He was always on the ice, always yelling plays, chasing glory. And when he wasn’t focused on the team, he was focused on Jaehyun. Because Jaehyun played hockey. Because Jaehyun was his golden boy. And me?” You shrug, bitter laughter bubbling in your throat. “I was background noise. Just a complication he had to keep out of the way.”

Jay doesn’t speak, but he moves, slowly, cautiously, sitting beside you now, close enough that your knees brush. His eyes are on you, unreadable but soft, like he’s seeing pieces of you he hadn’t known to look for before. “He doesn’t get to tell me who I can care about,” you say, voice firmer now. “Not when he didn’t care enough to be a father to me when it mattered.”

Jay swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything he’s holding back. And then, almost cautiously, he reaches for your hand. When your fingers touch, it’s like the air shifts again, warmer, charged, trembling with something unspoken. “Then we should tell him,” Jay says quietly. “We shouldn’t hide it. If this is real, if you’re willing, then we should tell him. Together.” 

You stare at him, heart thudding, and slowly you nod. “Okay. Together.”

And something shifts in his expression, relief, maybe, or quiet awe. But you don’t have time to name it, because he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, slow and uncertain like he’s afraid to break you. His lips press to yours with the care of someone tasting something they never thought they’d get to have, a wish whispered into reality. Your hand lifts instinctively to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and he deepens the kiss, his fingers finding your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The air around you grows softer, heavier, your breaths mingling in the small space between your bodies. And when the kiss turns into something more — when it becomes less about proving something and more about being seen, there’s no fear. Only trust.

He touches you like he’s memorizing you. Like every moment might be his last. You guide him just as much as he guides you, hands and lips and hearts speaking in the language only the two of you understand. There’s nothing rushed or reckless about it, only an aching tenderness that bleeds into every motion. You hold him like a promise, and he holds you like a prayer. He moves inside of you with practice poise and heavy breathing. “You feel so good.” He breathes onto your shoulder, his forehead stuck to the skin, leaving feather-like kisses along the column of your neck. You arched into his touch with gasp leaving your mouth like wind. 

“Jay” You whined, nails scratching at the skin of his back. No doubt leaving marks in their track. “Jay Jay Jay” His name became a chant, a prayer. Your heat in tandem with his movements, your bodies so close it leaves little room to be desired. You loved him, in this moment you loved him. You don’t know how real it was, or if the euphoric feeling of being so close to him was clouding your mind but you didn’t care. This is where you wanted to be. And when it’s over, when the hush settles around you once again, Jay wraps his arm around your waist and draws you against his chest, your legs tangled under the sheets, your head on his shoulder.

Neither of you says anything for a long while. There’s nothing that needs to be said. His fingertips trace idle patterns along your spine, and you close your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you into something peaceful. Something safe. You know the world won’t make this easy. You know the storm is still waiting just outside the door. But here, in this small, stolen moment, it’s just you and Jay. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like that’s enough.

Morning clings to your skin like sunlight through gauze, gentle, golden, slow to wake. Jay’s room is dim, the blinds cracked just enough to allow the earliest threads of dawn to filter in and cast warm slants across his bare shoulder, across the soft rise and fall of his chest where your cheek had rested not long ago. You’re still tangled in his sheets when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, his skin tasting like sleep and dreams and something sweeter still. He hums, barely conscious, but his arm curls around you reflexively, keeping you close for a second longer, like even in sleep he can’t quite bear to let you go. “I’ll see you at practice,” you whisper, brushing your fingers across the mess of his hair. And Jay, with eyes still heavy and lips curled into the faintest smile, murmurs, “Yeah. You will.” It’s not a promise, exactly, but it feels like one. A truth passed quietly between two people who’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross. A line they don’t want to.

You leave his room feeling like you’ve been rewritten. Every step down the stairs, out the door, into the crisp morning air is wrapped in the strange, shining veil of newness. The sky above is still pale and sleepy, the trees rustling with the hush of an early wind, and the world, for once, seems like it’s moving in rhythm with your heartbeat. It’s all the small things you notice now. The way the clouds stretch like long strokes of white across soft blue. The way your lips still buzz with the echo of his. The way your heart tugs you back toward him even as you walk away. 

You don’t want to leave this bubble. You don’t want to break the illusion, the sweet, delicate dream you and Jay carved for yourselves in the safety of his room. But the real world waits, loud and sharp and unavoidable. And as you climb into your car, as the engine hums to life and your fingers grip the steering wheel, a new weight settles in the space behind your ribs, the knowledge of what’s coming. Because sooner or later, this secret won’t stay wrapped in soft cotton and whispered kisses. It’ll be exposed. Confronted. And though Jay hadn’t said it with urgency or fear, you could tell in the way he looked at you last night, bare and serious, that it mattered to him. That this thing between you wasn’t something he wanted to hide in shadows, even if it meant facing the hardest part of all: your father. You sigh as you pull into your neighborhood, the sun climbing higher behind you like a slow, burning truth. You’ve gone over it a dozen times already in your head — what you’ll say, how you’ll say it, how your father will react. But the words never quite line up. Not in a way that doesn’t twist your stomach into uneasy knots. Because you know your father. You know his pride, his protectiveness, the fire behind his eyes when someone breaks the rules he’s set in stone. And this? You and Jay? You’ve broken more than just a rule. You’ve stepped directly into the one place he made clear no one was allowed to go. But how can you explain that Jay is worth the fallout?

That behind the hard shell of his quiet and his discipline is a boy who holds you like you matter. Who listens when your voice wavers, who catches you when your steps falter, who kissed you like he was both terrified and thrilled to finally get to do it. Jay isn’t just a boy on your dad’s team. He isn’t just another name on a roster. He’s the reason your heart races when you walk into a room. The reason practice feels like more than just routine. He’s the one who’s made you feel, truly feel, after years of being tucked into the corners of someone else’s life. But will your father care about any of that?

You pull into the driveway and sit there for a moment, your hands trembling faintly over the wheel. The house is quiet. The world is quiet. But inside you, a thousand questions scream to be answered. You wish it could be easy. You wish you could walk through the door, look your father in the eye, and tell him that for once, you chose something for yourself, and that you’re not sorry for it. Instead, you think about how to crack the surface. How to ease into the truth without igniting it like a fuse. Maybe over dinner. Maybe after the game next week, if the mood is good. Maybe if he sees that Jay respects you, if he knows this wasn’t reckless or flippant. Maybe then, Your phone buzzes softly in your bag, drawing you out of the spiral. A message from Jay. “Made it out of bed. Barely. Miss you already.”

And just like that, a smile tugs at your lips. Even in the shadow of what’s to come, he finds a way to make the light reach you. And maybe that’s enough to keep going. To brave the hard conversations. To start telling the truth, piece by piece. You text him back.

“See you at practice, golden boy. ❤️” Then you take a deep breath, open the car door, and step out, each footfall soft and deliberate, like walking a tightrope strung between the memory of last night and the weight of the day ahead.

Practice is a familiar rhythm now, a melody you’ve memorized without meaning to, clipboards and crisp notetaking, laced-up skates echoing against the boards, the low bark of your father’s voice commanding drills like a general at war. You drift through it in your usual way, purposeful and observant, always keeping one eye on movement, posture, the subtle twitches of discomfort or strain in the players’ bodies. You jot things down. You offer suggestions to Jungwon, who takes your advice with a grateful grin and a chuckle. He’s become a good friend, easy to talk to, funny without trying too hard, unbothered by your silences when you’re deep in thought. And today, like most days, he’s helping your father by handing out gear and managing water bottles, moving with that natural rhythm he has, an ease like he was born for this, even if he doesn’t have the bruises or battle scars of the guys on the ice.

But today is different. Not for any visible reason, not for any change in the air, but because Jay is here, and he’s looking at you like you hung the stars he’s been skating under. And you? You’re trying your best not to look back. You fail, of course. Miserably. You catch yourself glancing at him over the rim of your clipboard, pretending to check a stat when in truth you're watching the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused, the way his brows furrow as he lines up a shot. There’s a softness to him now that you know what his kisses feel like. A gravity in the way he moves that you notice only because you’ve seen him at his most unguarded, tangled in sheets and moonlight. Every time your eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a lopsided grin, and once, when your father is turned and barking instructions at Heeseung, Jay has the audacity to wink at you. You nearly drop your pen.

It becomes a game. A subtle, delicious one. Eyes across the rink. Smirks hidden behind hands. He bumps shoulders with Jake and Sunghoon like normal, but every time he skates past your side of the rink, he finds an excuse to glance your way. And though you keep your expression mostly neutral, dutiful, professional, you feel like a teenager sneaking glances at a crush across a crowded cafeteria. There’s something electric in the secrecy of it, something young and stupid and wonderful. Then break is called. Water bottles pop open, helmets are tugged off, and the room settles into temporary chatter. Jay meets your gaze again, this time not playful, not teasing, but something more. A tilt of his head. A quick nod toward the hallway. You blink, then lower your clipboard and move, careful, subtle. You duck past the bench, past Sunghoon and Jungwon chatting near the entrance, and slip into the hallway like you were meant to be there all along.

The moment you round the corner, he’s there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours instead of seconds. He straightens when he sees you, that familiar smile blooming across his face, and before you can say a word, he steps forward and kisses you. It’s fast and warm and a little clumsy from urgency. You make a surprised squeak against his mouth, but the sound dissolves into laughter as you push playfully at his chest. He chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at you, and there’s mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that all practice,” he murmurs, still close enough that you can feel the breath of the words on your lips. You shake your head, heart racing, but your grin is impossible to hide. “I’ve been wanting you to do that all practice.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, like he wants to memorize it, the way you taste like mint gum and something undeniably you. His hands settle at your waist and for a moment it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There’s no ice, no drills, no clipboard or game or coach waiting to shout your name. There’s just this hallway, and the silence between your joined mouths, and the pulse of something bright and blooming in both your chests. When he finally leans back, brushing his thumb across your cheek, his tone softens. “Did you think more about what we talked about? Telling your dad?”

The smile slips a little from your lips. Not completely; but enough to show the weight of it. You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I think we just need to do it. Rip the bandaid off. Clean, quick, no waiting around for the perfect moment.”

Jay lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-nerves. He leans back against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “God. You’re braver than me.”

“You’re the one who said we should tell him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually agree.” You laugh, but there’s truth nestled in the heart of it. “He’ll get over it,” you say, but the words taste like hope more than certainty. “Eventually.”

He nods. The silence is longer this time, but not uncomfortable. It’s thick with unspoken things, what-ifs and maybes and fears that neither of you are ready to voice yet. Then, from the far end of the rink, your father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Hey! Where’d you go?”

Jay straightens like he’s been electrocuted. You stifle a laugh as he leans in quickly, kisses your temple with exaggerated tenderness, and says, “Guess that’s my cue.” You roll your eyes, turning to follow him back into the rink, but then, like he can’t help himself, he smacks your butt lightly with one hand. You yelp in surprise, twisting back to glare at him, but he’s already walking away, grin stretching wide across his face. He tosses a wink over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

The weight of practice has barely settled into Jay’s muscles before he hears it, his name, sharp and unmistakable, barked across the rink like a slap. “Park!” Coach Bennett’s voice booms above the low hum of skates and post-practice chatter, and it lands like a stone in the pit of Jay’s stomach. He straightens instinctively, spine stiffening, turning his head toward the source. The coach is standing at the threshold of his office, arms crossed, brows low with that permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s furious or just...being himself. But Jay knows that tone. Knows it too well. It’s the tone that means come here. Now. 

He nods once, respectful, as if he isn’t panicking inside. As if his hands aren’t suddenly clammy and his heart isn’t hammering against his ribs like it wants out. He gives a fleeting glance back toward the ice, where you’re still collecting equipment with Jungwon, your eyes catching his for a moment, just a flicker. He doesn't smile this time. Just turns and walks. The office door clicks shut behind him, sealing out the familiar chaos of the rink. In here, it’s quiet. Sterile. A single desk lamp casts a dim, amber light over the papers scattered on Coach Bennett’s desk. Framed photos of past seasons hang on the walls, championships won, trophies hoisted high, a dozen versions of the same proud scowl that the coach wears now, as he motions silently for Jay to sit.

Jay obeys, lowering himself into the chair like he’s done a hundred times before. But today, the air feels thicker, like it’s pressing down on his chest. He keeps his expression neutral, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Captain’s posture. Soldier’s stance. Coach Bennett doesn’t beat around the bush. “Jay, I’m going to be honest,” he begins, his voice rough as gravel, fingers laced tightly together as he leans forward on the desk. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

Jay’s mouth goes dry. The coach continues, eyes boring into him like a spotlight. “Rumors that someone on this team has been fooling around with my daughter. Even after I forbade it.” Jay blinks, once. The seconds stretch and bend like rubber bands. His throat tightens.

“Do you know anything about this?” He wants to lie. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to rip the words from his chest and lay them out plain. He swallows hard. “No, Coach, I–” But Coach Bennett doesn’t let him finish. He leans back, cutting him off with a raised hand.

“I trust you,” he says, voice suddenly softer. And for a flicker of a moment, a single heartbeat, Jay feels relief. His breath catches on the cusp of hope. Maybe this is his way of saying it’s okay. Maybe he knows, and he’s offering a backdoor blessing. Maybe, just maybe — 

“I trust you,” the coach repeats, voice firm now, “to nip these rumors in the bud.” Jay’s heart stops. “You’re the captain. That means handling this, loudly and clearly. In front of the whole team. If someone is messing around with my daughter, I want to know who. And I want them dealt with.” Jay opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Coach Bennett isn’t finished.

“Whoever it is, if I find out, they’re suspended indefinitely. Until I decide if they ever come back.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t care how good they are. Rules are rules. And I don’t break them for anyone.” Jay’s stomach churns. Then the killing blow. 

“You’re like a son to me, Jay. That’s why I made you captain. I trust you.” Jay tries to swallow the guilt rising like bile in his throat, tries to keep his features smooth and unreadable. But it’s like a knot has formed in his chest, thick and tangled and impossible to ignore. Like a brand seared into his ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream, it smolders.

He nods once. “Yes, Coach. I’ll take care of it.”

The coach leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

Jay stands, body on autopilot, legs heavy as stone. He walks out of the office slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. The air out here feels colder. Sharper. Like the truth is a knife pressed against his neck. He should feel proud. He said the right thing. Wore the right mask. But he doesn’t feel proud. He feels hollow. There’s no ice bath waiting for him now. Only the silent weight of guilt, trailing him like a shadow as he heads for the locker room. And for the first time in years, Jay isn’t sure if he deserves the “C” stitched to his jersey, or the way you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting. Because he’s lying to the only two people who’ve ever mattered. And that lie is starting to rot in his chest.

Practice ends beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of skate blades scraping against ice, but Jay’s world has long since tilted off its axis. He doesn’t even register the ache in his body anymore, not the dull throb in his knee nor the stiffness in his arms. He’s moving on instinct, eyes only searching for one thing, you. You’re by the bench with Jungwon, laughing at something he said, your hair falling in a way that makes his heart clench. For a moment, Jay forgets the weight in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes. You look so soft in the cold of the rink, a calm tucked away in chaos. He doesn’t have time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words falling from his lips like lead. You turn to him, confused, eyebrows furrowing, lips parting to ask what he means, but he’s already walking away, like a man marching toward his own execution. And maybe that’s what this is.

He doesn’t glance back as he calls for the team to gather. “Line up,” he shouts, his voice sharp and firm, echoing off the walls. The players shuffle toward him in loose lines, shoving each other, still high off adrenaline from drills. You’re watching now from the sidelines, your clipboard held tightly in your hand, curiosity pinching your expression. Jay forces himself not to look at you. If he does, he’ll lose the will to speak. “I have an announcement,” he begins, loud enough to silence the chatter, his voice ringing out into the stillness. And then the words leave him, like poison.

“There are rumors floating around that someone on this team has disobeyed Coach Bennett’s orders regarding his daughter.” The moment your name hangs in the air, not spoken, but pointed at, like a dagger, everything stops. You freeze, blinking at Jay, disbelief warping across your face like a crack in glass. Your breath catches in your throat. It doesn’t make sense. Is he —?

“She is off limits,” Jay continues, his jaw clenched, every word a betrayal. “If you’re caught with her, you will be suspended pending review by the coach. If he decides you’re no longer necessary to the team, you’ll be removed entirely.” The silence is deafening.

You step forward like your bones are no longer willing to sit back and let this happen. Your face is a map of fury and heartbreak, eyes blazing, jaw trembling. “What the fuck, Jay?” you shout, voice rising like a wave crashing against the shore. “What the hell is this? What are you doing?” He can’t look at you.

You shove past the stunned players and stomp into the center of the rink, your voice climbing in volume, sharp and sure. “I’m not a fucking piece of meat. I’m not something you can pass rules about like I’m property.” Your voice wavers with rage, with disbelief, with the sudden sting of being betrayed not only by your father, but by the boy who kissed you like you were everything. “I’m my own person. You don’t get to control me.”

Coach Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip across the silence. “Rules are rules.”

You spin on him now, eyes flashing, years of buried resentment erupting like magma. “Your rules are bullshit! They’ve always been bullshit. You think you can control everything with a whistle and a clipboard, but you can’t. You were never there for me. You were there for Jaehyun. For hockey. But not for me.” The entire team is frozen. Nobody dares to breathe.

Coach Bennett’s face darkens. “I can’t dictate your life,” he says lowly, “but I can dictate theirs.”

That’s when it snaps. You feel it inside your chest, the last strand of restraint snapping like a violin string under pressure. You look at him, then at Jay, and the pain in your eyes could shatter the ice beneath you. “Go to hell,” you spit, your voice like fire. “All of you.” You throw the clipboard. It hits the ground with a clatter that echoes like a gunshot. And then you turn, storming out of the rink, each footfall hard and fast, your breath shallow, your fists clenched at your sides. No one calls after you. Not even Jay.

He just stands there, alone at the center of the storm he helped create, watching the person he loves disappear through a door he may never be able to open again. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any punishment Coach Bennett could ever give.

The hallway smelled like stale sweat and antiseptic soap, like frozen water thawing too fast, and your breath came in jagged pieces, lungs aching against your ribcage as you tried to contain everything you felt, humiliation, betrayal, rage. They were blooming in you like rot, black and furious, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. Your fingers were trembling as you pushed open the locker room door, letting the chill of the empty room swallow you whole. It was quieter in here, almost sacred in a way, the clatter and chaos of practice replaced by the muffled hum of old air vents and the distant drip of melting ice. You moved robotically, grabbing your notes, your clipboard, your stupid pens that you didn’t even like, stuffing them into your bag like they’d wronged you personally.

If this internship wasn’t so damn important, if you weren’t so close to the future you’d been clawing toward for years, you’d quit right now. Walk out of this rink, toss your badge in your father’s face, and never look back. But you couldn’t, not yet. How dare he try to dictate your life. And how dare Jay let him? You blinked hard, the sting of unshed tears biting at the corners of your vision. The boy who kissed you like he meant it, who whispered against your skin like you were precious, who looked at you like he was seeing something holy, that boy stood in front of an entire team and threw you under the bus like you were just some distraction. Just some problem to be managed. After everything you’d shared. After what you gave him. The door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The room felt different with him in it, weighted and warm in that way that used to make you feel safe, but now made you want to scream. Jay stood there in silence for a moment, his mouth parted, like the words were caught behind his teeth. His eyes searched your face like he could still find a trace of forgiveness there. Like maybe if he looked long enough, the damage he did might disappear. “I’m sorry—” he started, voice soft, pleading.

You spun around fast, eyes wild, your voice sharp like a blade. “You humiliated me.” He flinched like the word was a slap, but you didn’t stop. “You took his side. After everything we said. After what we did. How could you?” Jay opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No excuses. No explanations. Just silence.

You shook your head, bitterly, lips tight with disbelief as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Forget it,” you muttered, walking toward the door like you could outrun the hurt. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known better than to think I mattered more than him.”

“Please—” he called out, voice cracking. “Just… let me explain. Please.” You turned to him, hollow laughter spilling from you like a broken song. “Why should I? What I say doesn’t matter, Jay. You’ll just do whatever my dad says anyway.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face like he could pull the guilt off himself. “He’s like a father to me—”

“And he’s my father,” you snapped, your voice rising with the full weight of all the years you’d held this in, “Mine. And he treats me like I’m a fucking ghost. Like I’m not even there unless I’m making his coffee or holding his clipboard. You think it feels good to watch someone who isn’t even his blood get treated like a golden child, while his real child gets nothing? Not praise. Not love. Nothing.” Jay’s face softened with something that looked like heartbreak, his mouth trembling with words he didn’t know how to say. “He cornered me in the office today,” he said, his voice rough. “He demanded I make a statement in front of the team, to put the rumors to rest, and if I didn’t — he made it sound like I’d be finished. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Tell the truth,” you breathed. “You should’ve told the damn truth.” He sighed, defeated, and sat down on one of the benches like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. His shoulders curled forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp.

Then, quietly; so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I love you.” The air left your lungs. He looked up at you now, and his eyes were nothing like the confident boy you first met on the ice. They were soft, and tired, and afraid. “I know it’s soon,” he said. “I know everything’s a mess. But I do. I love you.” 

Your heart clenched. You hadn’t expected it, not here, not like this, not in the middle of a locker room still echoing with betrayal. But even now, even bleeding, you knew your feelings hadn’t changed. So you sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, and reached for his hand. “And I hate that he wasn’t a good dad to you,” Jay whispered, his voice cracking. “I hate it. But I can’t lie to him, not after everything. I owe him.”

You nodded slowly. “I agree, Jay. I’m not asking you to lie.” You turned to him, your voice quiet, but firm. “But I won’t be with you if we keep this a secret. I won’t be your dirty little secret. We tell him. Or this ends.”

Jay nodded, gripping your hand tighter. “Okay. Let’s—” A voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

“Too late.” You froze. 

Your head whipped toward the door, and there, standing in the frame like the ghost of a thousand disappointments, was your father. Coach Bennett. Face hard. Shoulders squared. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, but the fire beneath them was unmistakable. Every nerve in your body screamed. Jay stood up slowly, but you didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. It was too late. You didn’t need to tell him. He already knew. The moment felt frozen in amber, suspended between one breath and the next. You stood beside Jay like you were both statues cast in shame and defiance, the silence between the three of you straining at the seams.

His eyes bore into Jay with something colder than ice, sharper than skates on glass. His voice came low and level, but the weight of it dropped like an axe. “I trusted you.” 

Jay didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his eyes dropped, the way his shoulders curled inward slightly like he’d taken the hit straight to the chest. You wanted to speak, to say something, but you felt your pulse in your throat, thick and rising. Jay looked at his shoes, then at your father, then finally at you, his eyes steady, jaw tight. And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached down and took your hand in his. “I love her,” he said. No embellishment, no excuses. Just truth. Laid bare like a wound. “I’m sorry.” For a heartbeat, it almost felt like that might matter. Like maybe love could be enough to change something here.

But your father’s eyes darkened, his lips pulling into a grim, tired line. He didn’t even blink. “You’re suspended.” The air in the room imploded. The silence that followed was so deep it rang in your ears. You felt the earth tilt under your feet, the ripple of that sentence echoing in your bones. You didn’t move. Neither did Jay.

“Dad—” you started, your voice raw.

“No.” The word came fast and sharp, slicing through your protest before it could fully form. He didn’t even look at you. His eyes were still locked on Jay like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re suspended,” he repeated, voice like splintering wood. “Until I’m ready to let you back. Heeseung will be acting captain. Now get out of my rink.”

Jay inhaled sharply, something like heartbreak flashing behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, voice trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t gotten the chance to say. “Coach—”

“Get out.” There was finality in those words. No room for argument. No crack to slip a plea through. Jay stood still for a moment, eyes flicking to you one last time, and there was something in his gaze, something that said I’m sorry. He picked up his bag without a word and walked out, the door shutting softly behind him, the sound so gentle it felt cruel. And then it was just you and your father, the air still vibrating from all that had just broken apart.

You turned toward him slowly, your heart pounding, your face flushed with fury. There was no more space left inside you for restraint, for tiptoeing around his silence or swallowing your feelings like they didn’t matter. “How dare you?” you breathed, your voice a whisper and a scream at once. 

His eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress. “Rules are rules.” But you weren’t having it. Not now. Not anymore.

“No.” You stepped closer, heat radiating off you like a wildfire. “What is your problem? Why the sudden urge to act like a father now? What, because it finally gives you control over something? Someone?” He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his stare hardened, and you could see it, that wall he always kept between the two of you, the one made of pride and coldness and hockey schedules and missed birthdays. 

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, like he was reading from a goddamn script.

You scoffed, bitter laughter escaping before you could stop it. “Of course it isn’t. It never is with you. It’s always do this, don’t do that, be quiet, be useful, don’t embarrass me. You never listen to me. You never see me.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink. Just turned back to his desk like he could will you out of the room by ignoring you.

So you did what you always wanted to do. You left. You turned on your heel, your throat burning, your heart thundering, and walked out without another word. Not because you were giving up, but because there was nothing left to say to someone who never heard you in the first place. The door clicked shut behind you with a sound too small for how big this moment felt. And still; through the rage, through the betrayal, through the cracks, you carried one thing with you as you walked: Jay's words echoing soft as snowfall. I love you. That, at least, was still yours.

Jay’s house is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The kind of quiet that sinks into your skin, that makes you wonder how long he’s been alone with his thoughts, how long he’s sat in this silence with the weight of your father’s words pressing into his chest like stones. Sunghoon answers the door after only a few knocks, and his face softens when he sees you standing there. There’s something in his gaze that reads like understanding, like he knows exactly where you’re headed and what you need to say. He steps aside without a word and gestures upstairs. “He’s in his room,” he murmurs, voice gentle, as if not to disturb something sacred.

You nod your thanks, offering him a small, grateful smile, and begin to climb the steps. As you approach the top, a sound reaches you, soft, melodic, aching in its simplicity. Not loud or showy. Just… honest. It takes you a second to realize what you’re hearing: music. Guitar strings plucked with care, each note falling like a raindrop into still water. The sound is fragile and deeply personal, like a secret you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. You pause just outside his room, heart slowing to match the rhythm of the melody, and close your eyes for a moment. You let it wash over you, the way it trembles, the way it yearns. It speaks of sadness and of hope, of loss and love all braided into the same fragile thread. You push the door open gently and there he is, Jay, sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar nestled in his lap, his fingers dancing across the frets with a kind of quiet reverence. His brow is furrowed in focus, his lips slightly parted as he hums along, completely unaware that the world is watching. That you are watching. And something in you splinters, because how can someone look so heartbreakingly beautiful in their stillness?

He looks up and startles slightly when he sees you, his cheeks flushing the softest shade of pink like you’ve caught him baring something intimate. He moves to set the guitar down quickly, a sheepish laugh escaping his throat. “I didn’t think anyone was home,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting away.

You step into the room, closing the door behind you. “It was beautiful,” you say softly, like speaking too loudly might break the magic still lingering in the air. He lets out a small breath, almost relieved, but shrugs modestly. “I only play sometimes,” he murmurs. “When it’s quiet. When I need to think.”

You walk closer, until you’re in front of him, your gaze soft but steady. “I’d love for you to play for me sometime,” you say, and you mean it. There’s something deeply vulnerable in the way he held that guitar, something that speaks more truth than words ever could. Jay looks at you then, really looks, and you see the shadows behind his eyes, the questions, the uncertainty, the pain he’s been hiding under that quiet exterior. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if asking it too loudly might cause him to retreat into himself again.

He exhales, his shoulders sinking as he leans back slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know who I am without hockey.” You nod, understanding that ache all too well, the feeling of being untethered, of having the one thing that defined you ripped away before you were ready to let go. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

But Jay reaches for your hand and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours with surprising tenderness. “Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You didn’t do this. I made the choice. I just… wish it didn’t feel like losing everything.” 

Your heart aches for him, for the boy who’s spent his whole life trying to be good enough for a man who only saw his potential on the ice. You lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss into his knuckles. “I see you,” you say softly. “Even without the jersey. Even without the captain’s C.”

Something flickers in his expression, gratitude, adoration, a flicker of something deeper. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips against yours, tentative at first like he’s afraid you might still be angry, still slipping through his fingers. But you lean into him just as hungrily, and the kiss deepens, your hands finding their way to his hair, his neck, pulling him closer like you never want to be apart again. The guitar is long forgotten, resting gently on the bed as your bodies lean into one another. The heat builds slowly, quietly, in the soft sighs between kisses, in the way his fingers trace along your spine, in the way you fit together so naturally. There’s no rush, no desperation, only the steady, quiet need to be known. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, and you respond with forgiveness, with fire.

The room fills with the sound of breath, of whispered names, of two people trying to love each other through the wreckage. And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with your heart pounding in tandem, you realize that even in the ashes, something new can grow. That maybe love is the one thing strong enough to stand after everything else falls. 

You lean back only slightly, your lips leaving his. “I have something that might make you feel better.” Your voice carried a heavy lit to it, sultry and sweet. Jay’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah?” He asks his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his hands finding your waist to pull you impossibly close. “How, so?” 

You fall to your knees in front of him, your hair hanging around you like a veil waiting to be pushed aside. Jay let out a low groan, one that stems deep within his belly — deep and guttarl. He wore grey sweatpants, your nimble hands finding the jaw string to pull at. His eyes drank in every movement. The way you lowered his pants to his ankle, the way you pulled him out of his boxers with a hiss, a small knowing smile on your face. 

“Fuck.” He choked out his hands finding your hair. Your mouth found his tip, sucking slightly. Jay’s eyes fluttered a shaky breath leaving his lips as he gathered your hair into a tight ponytail, tugging just lightly. “Agh fuck.” 

His groans were only encouragement for your movements, a rhythm settling in as you bobbed your head up and down on his shaft. The hand that wasn’t holding your hair, settled on your cheeks as his fingers grazed the indentation of himself inside your mouth. “Don’t stop.” He praised, his grip on your hair tightening “Don’t fucking stop, i’m close.” 

You speed your movements up — a gag in the back of your throat sounding over the harshness of Jay’s ragged breath and gurgling moans. “Where do you want it, baby?” He asked you. You nodded at him, signaling for him to finish in your mouth and that he did. His eyes squeezing shut, his hand yanking at your hair like it was a lifeline. He came down your throat – hot. You pulled away, your breath harsh swallowing all that he gave you. 

“Did that help?” You smirked, whipping your mouth with the back of your head. Jay laughs his head lazily, nodding a smile on his face. “I’m glad.” 

The morning is crisp and cold, the sky still tinted with the faded gray of pre-dawn. The air bites at your cheeks as you walk across the familiar parking lot, one last time. You’ve arrived early, earlier than anyone else, before the team, before Jay, even before the locker rooms have truly come alive. The hum of the arena is low and steady, the kind of hush that exists only in those sacred minutes before the world begins to move again. You clutch the envelope in your hand tightly, the edges slightly curled from how many times your fingers have clenched it overnight. It holds not just a few simple documents, but the manifestation of your decision, your first true act of defiance not rooted in emotion but in intention. Your choice. You make your way through the maze of hallways you know by heart, each echo of your footsteps reverberating off the walls like a goodbye. When you reach the door to your father’s office, you hesitate for just a second. Your fingers hover over the woodgrain, and you let out a slow breath, steeling yourself. Then, you knock.

The door opens shortly after, and your father blinks in surprise when he sees you. He’s not dressed in his usual suit and tie just yet, still in his fleece-lined warm-up gear, clipboard tucked under one arm. You hand him the envelope without a preamble. Your voice is level, your gaze steady. “I need you to sign these.” 

He furrows his brow, flipping the envelope open and scanning the first page. “What’s this?” 

You don’t flinch. “They’re transfer papers. I’ve accepted an intern position with the university across town. Their hockey program offered me a place to work starting tomorrow.” The silence is sharp and immediate. His eyes snap up to meet yours, laced with confusion, the beginning edge of protest in his throat. “You’re transferring? You don’t have to do that. This is rash. You’re not thinking clearly.”

But you don’t budge, don’t shrink under his stare. You won’t be talked down from this cliff. “No,” you say calmly, each word deliberate, crystalline. “I’ve thought about it a lot. This isn’t just about what happened with Jay. This is about years of feeling small around you. Of being overlooked. Of being managed instead of raised.” He opens his mouth again, some protest half-formed on his lips, but you don’t give him the space. You don’t come here for a fight, you’ve had enough of those. Instead, you keep your tone measured, professional. You say everything you need to say without a single trace of venom.

“I won’t let you ruin my life more than you already have,” you tell him. “I’m not your soldier. I’m not your project. I’m not a pawn on your team board. I’m your daughter.” And for the first time, you see something flicker behind his eyes; not anger, not frustration. Something quieter. Smaller. Maybe even guilt. But you don’t wait to hear what he has to say. You simply turn and walk away, papers left behind on his desk like a verdict. Your spine is straight, your chin lifted, but your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. Not from fear, but from the quiet, powerful rush of choosing yourself. You don’t pause. You don’t look back. And behind you, in the stillness of that office, your father is left alone, left with the papers, with the silence, and with the heavy weight of everything he’s done to bring you here.

It had been a week of something close to heaven, a fragile but precious interlude where love bloomed without restraint. Mornings tangled in soft sheets and half-spoken promises, afternoons chasing sunlight and teasing kisses, evenings curled into each other like pages of the same chapter. Jay held your hand like it was sacred, touched your face like he still couldn’t believe you were real, and kissed you like he wanted to make time stop. And for a while, it did. For a week, the world outside didn’t matter. But the silence had started to hum. Not the sweet kind, no, this was the brittle, broken silence of something missing. You caught it in the way Jay paused when the boys group chat lit up with win updates, locker room jokes, team photos without him in them. He never said it aloud, never dared to pull at the thread unraveling slowly in his chest, but you could see it. He missed it. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to Jay; it was his identity, his language, the thing he’d bled and bruised and burned for since he was old enough to grip a stick. And now, stripped of it, he smiled with his mouth but never fully with his eyes.

You missed it, too. The chill of the rink, the warm camaraderie of the team, the way Heeseung grumbled every time you corrected his posture but secretly appreciated it. You missed teasing Sunghoon, calling him a ballerina every time he accidentally twirled like a figure skater on a bad turn. And then there was your father, a ghost in the hallways of your heart, haunting the edges of your mind. As much as his choices hurt, as much as his anger pushed you away, there was still a child inside you who missed their dad, no matter how absent. 

So when the boys decided to have a barbecue that Saturday, burgers sizzling on the grill, laughter echoing through the backyard, bottles of soda clinking together like makeshift champagne, it felt like breathing again. The world righted itself for a moment. Heeseung and his girlfriend were playfully arguing over the best way to season corn, Sunghoon was making a mess of the grill, smoke billowing in a way that made Jake dramatically declare they were “all going to die,” and Jay, your Jay, was watching you with soft eyes and Sera babbling in his lap, gripping his thumb with her tiny hand. You leaned into the warmth, into the joy, just as your phone rang. 

The screen lit up: Mom. Your heart stumbled. You hadn’t heard from her in a while, she was always somewhat removed, orbiting your life like a distant moon. Not unloving, but not present either. Always polite. Always brief. Her voice on the other end of the line was calm, collected, and surprisingly direct. “I’d like you and Jay to come to the rink,” she said. “Just the two of you.” The words hit you sideways, strange and off-kilter. You blinked at the grill smoke, at the glow of the afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the yard. Jay noticed your expression, his brows furrowing in gentle concern.

“Why?” you asked your mother, confused. “Why the rink?”

She didn’t explain, not really. “I think it’s time,” she said instead. “Please.” 

And somehow, despite every piece of your rational mind screaming confusion, your heart said yes. Not because you knew what waited at that cold rink. But because something inside you, some sliver of hope still left unspoken, whispered that maybe, just maybe, the ice didn’t have to be a battlefield forever. So you turned to Jay, hand still wrapped around your phone, and told him. “She wants to meet us at the rink.”

His face mirrored your own disbelief. But he didn’t ask why. He just nodded. And said, “Okay.”

The sky is beginning to gray by the time you and Jay reach the rink, that familiar stretch of parking lot empty and echoing beneath your footsteps. The glass doors hiss open, letting out a breath of cool, sharp air that prickles against your skin like old memories. The sound of skates against ice, the steady drone of a Zamboni finishing its last lap, the scent of chilled rubber and piney disinfectant; it's all the same, unchanged, and yet nothing is the same at all. 

Jay squeezes your hand as you walk in, and you squeeze back, his warmth grounding you. You keep expecting to see your mother, her sleek coat, her warm expression, her sunny voice carrying across the echoing lobby, but when you step fully inside, it's not her standing under the buzzing fluorescents. It’s him. Your father. You freeze. Rage unfurls in your chest, slow and molten. You turn immediately, heels pivoting toward the exit with cold finality, but Jay is quicker; he gently catches your wrist, his voice soft, pleading. “Just… stay. Please. Hear him out.”

And you don’t know why, but something in his tone, in the quiet steadiness of his gaze, makes you stay. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s hope, shriveled but not yet dead. Your father’s shoulders look heavier than you remember. There’s a strain to his face, like he’s been carrying something too long. And when he speaks, it’s not the usual bark of orders or that razor-edge tone laced with judgment, it’s low. Gentle. Sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words hit you like the crack of a puck against the glass.

You blink. “What?”

He nods slowly, eyes on you with something startlingly close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For everything. For… not being there the way I should have. For choosing the game over you. For being too proud to see what was right in front of me.” You don’t know what to say. This is the man who turned away when you cried, who praised your brother's goals but never your straight A’s, who ran drills longer than dinners and could name every stat in the league but forgot your favorite color. And now he's standing here, shoulders sagging, saying sorry like it costs him everything. 

“I lost my daughter,” he continues, voice gruff with the weight of what he’s admitting. “And I lost the best player I ever coached. The best captain I ever trusted.” He glances at Jay, who stands beside you, spine stiff but eyes glistening. “It was like a slap in the face,” your father murmurs. “And I deserved it.”

Silence settles, a snowfall between you all. “I wish I could go back,” he says. “Wish I could change a lot of things. But I can’t. I can only move forward. And moving forward means trying to be better. Not just as a coach. As a father.” Your eyes are glassy now, throat tight. You look at Jay, and he’s watching you; not your father, not the rink, but you, like you’re the only one that matters in the world. 

Your voice comes out small, trembling around truth. “Jay makes me happy.”

And that’s when your father finally turns to him, arms crossed like a coach, but not unkind. “Then I want you to be with him. If he treats you right.” Jay blinks, startled, then nods quickly, a smile breaking slowly over his face like dawn cresting the horizon. Your father lifts a brow, his voice tinged with dry humor now. “If he doesn’t… he’ll regret it.”

Laughter bubbles up, genuine and breathless. You laugh, and Jay laughs, and even your father chuckles, shaking his head like he’s only just beginning to understand what it means to let go of the past and step into something new. And in that moment, everything shifts. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. You walk out of the rink hand in hand with Jay, the weight in your chest lighter than it’s felt in years. The past is behind you. The cold can’t touch you. And ahead lies only the warm unfolding of a future finally, finally your own. 

@hoonjayke @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

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@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

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[inkieun]

The Packaged Deal - Yeon Sieun x Ahn Suho x F!Reader

"Fuck,” Suho groaned, head falling forward against your chest as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight…” You cried out, the sound raw and shattering, but Sieun caught it, swallowed it with his mouth against your cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, voice like silk. “Let him in.”

cw : dark!virgin sieun, dark!suho, noncon, oral (both) fingering, overstimulation, praise kink, degradation kink, phone recording, virgin!reader.

The way they moved was like buy one, get one free. If you saw Sieun, Suho wouldn’t be far behind. You’d been avoiding Suho ever since that night the awkward, claustrophobic moment when the group met for dinner, and a casual game of pool. It was just the two of you left when everyone else drifted away. The air was thick with something unspoken, the dim lighting casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten.

“I didn’t realize how late it got,” you said, already reaching for your bag. “I should head out.” You moved to step past him, but Suho blocked your path with his pool stick, the sharp crack of it hitting the table making you flinch. Your pulse jumped. His voice came next, smooth and eerily measured, like he enjoyed the sound of each word too much. “Do you know Sieun likes you?”

A sharp inhale. “Wait—what?” you asked, your voice barely above a murmur. Suho tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the half-light. “Wait. Are you really so stupid you can’t see how much he likes you?” Each word sank in slow and deep. Goosebumps chased down your arms. “Of course I didn’t know!” you snapped, anger flaring. “And why are you calling me stupid?”

Suho’s smile was tight. He always remembered your favorite drinks. He asked about your day even when you forgot his. He showed up when your heart was breaking over someone else.’ His voice didn’t crack. It didn’t even waver. Each sentence more like a judgment than a memory. Just facts delivered in a tone so smooth it scraped. Resentment didn’t need volume. It was there in the silences, in the way he never looked at you when he spoke. 

You swallowed hard. “That’s… what friends are supposed to do, Suho.” He took a step closer. The space between you felt charged, dangerous. “You should ask him out,” he said, soft but firm. Your stomach twisted. “I don’t like Sieun like that.” Suho’s gaze hardened. “If you know what’s good for you, you should.” A chill ran down your spine. What the hell? You grabbed the pool stick, shoving it aside with more force than necessary. “I don’t like being threatened,” you hissed. “And for the sake of this friendship, I’m going to forget this ever happened.” You didn’t wait for a response. You walked out, the echo of your footsteps too loud in the empty hall. But as the door swung shut behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Suho wasn’t done.

You didn’t realize you were standing frozen in the middle of the hallway until Sieun’s hand waved in front of your face. “You good?” he asked, his brow furrowing. You opened your mouth to answer but then you felt it. Arms sliding around your shoulders from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest. Your body locked up, breath catching. Suho. “Hey,” his voice was smooth, too close to your ear. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. His smile was easy, pleasant but his eyes were dark, unreadable. Like he was waiting for something. Like he knew you’d been avoiding him.

You forced a laugh, brittle. “Oh, sorry. Just been busy with school stuff.” Sieun opened his mouth to speak, but Suho cut in, his tone light, almost playful. “Huh. That’s weird.” He tilted his head, feigning thought. “I can’t remember us having any projects or exams lately.” A beat of silence. Your pulse thudded in your throat. “I—I meant, like, after school lessons and stuff,” you stammered. “Oh.” Suho’s fingers flexed against your shoulders, his thumbs pressing in just a little too hard as he massaged the tension there. “That makes sense.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked between you, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything, but the way he watched you like he was noticing something off but couldn’t place it. It made your skin prickle. You let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, let’s head to class.” You shrugged Suho’s hands off, stepping forward a little too quickly, putting space between you. Behind you, you heard him sigh long, exaggerated, like he was amused. Like this was all some game. The walk to class was silent. But the moment you sat down, you felt it again the weight of eyes on you. Heavy. Unblinking.

You turned. Suho was already staring. Your breath hitched. His expression was blank, but his gaze sharp, calculating locked onto yours like a predator watching prey. A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. You whipped your head back around, heart hammering. You hadn’t realized until now just how scary he could be.

Suho’s eyes didn’t stay on you for the whole class and against all logic calmed your nerves. Maybe you’d overreacted. Maybe he was just being a good friend to Sieun, looking out for him. The thought settled in your chest like a weight lifting. See? Nothing to worry about. “Okay, that’s all for today. See you all Monday,” Mrs. Jung said, already halfway out the door. You slumped in your seat, exhaling. All you wanted was to go home, bury yourself under blankets, and forget the last few days ever happened. But fate had other plans. A tap on your shoulder made you jump. Sieun stood there, grinning sheepishly. “Oh, you’re stuck here too?” You smiled back, relief flickering until movement behind him caught your eye.

Suho. He strode in, broom in one hand, mop in the other, his usual easygoing smirk in place. “Looks like we’re all stuck here,” he said, tossing the broom to you with a lazy flick of his wrist. You caught it on instinct, your fingers tightening around the handle. Suho turned to Sieun. “Let’s move the tables out of the way.” No lingering stares. No loaded comments. Just… normal. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Maybe things really are okay.

Cleaning duty turned into something almost fun. Sieun started it dunking a chalk-stained eraser into the water bucket and flicking droplets at you. You gasped, feigning outrage, before retaliating with a swipe of your dust rag. Suho laughed, as he shoved a desk aside with exaggerated effort. “You two are terrible at this.” “Says the guy who’s just pushing chairs around,” you shot back, grinning. He clutched his chest in mock offense. “I’m creating space. It’s essential labor.” Sieun snorted, tossing a wadded-up paper ball at him. Suho dodged, but not fast enough, it bounced off his shoulder. For a moment, it was easy. Just three friends goofing off, the tension from before dissolving like chalk in water. You let yourself relax.

The laughter died down as you finished up. Sieun wiped the last chalkboard clean while you stacked chairs, humming under your breath. You saw movement at the edge of your vision. Suho was watching you again. Your breath hitched. He didn’t look away. Just tilted his head, slow, considering, like he was memorizing the way your fingers gripped the chair legs. A beat too long passed before Sieun’s voice cut through the silence. “Done!” He clapped his hands together, oblivious. “Let’s get out of here.” Suho blinked and just like that, the moment shattered. You brushed it off, pretending it was just your imagination. He slung an arm around Sieun’s shoulders, grinning. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Sieun's question should have been innocent. Just another after-school hangout, nothing unusual. "Hey, you guys wanna stop by my place before you head home? My dad's not home." Suho didn't hesitate. "Oh, let's go!" His grin stretched too wide, his teeth just a little too bright under the fluorescent street lights. Eager. Like he'd been waiting for the invitation. Like he already knew the answer. You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. Just an hour, you told yourself. Then you'll leave. "Nice!" Suho yelled, loud enough that a few strangers on the street turned to stare. Sieun laughed, shaking his head, and you let out a breathless chuckle.

The walk to Sieun’s apartment was too short. The elevator ride up, too quiet. The only sound was the mechanical hum of the lift. You watched the numbers climb on the display *3... 4... 5* your reflection warped in the metal doors. Behind you, Suho leaned against the railing, smiling at you. Sieun unlocked the door, stepping aside to let you both in. The apartment was dim, the curtains half-drawn, slicing the afternoon light into narrow, dusty stripes. You moved toward the couch, your shoes sinking into the floorboard, already calculating how quickly you could leave without seeming rude.

When— "Ready?" Sieun's voice, low, from behind you. Suho hummed in response. A soft, satisfied sound. Your stomach dropped. Ready for what? You started to turn then a hand clamped over your mouth. Roughly, the palm was warm, the fingers splayed just so the thumb was pressing into the hinge of your jaw, fingers curling behind your ear, holding you in place like you were something fragile. Something to be handled carefully. The cloth came next, pressed against your nose and lips. Damp. Sweet-smelling, like artificial cherries, like children’s cough syrup. Your lungs burned as you sucked in a startled breath—No!?. You thrashed, elbows jabbing backward, nails scraping at the arm locked around your ribs. But whoever held you—Suho? Sieun?—was stronger than they looked. Their grip tightened, crushing you against their chest like a lover’s embrace. You could feel their heartbeat through your back steady, unhurried. "Shhh," a voice murmured in your ear. Lips brushed the shell of it, the word curling into you like smoke. "Just sleep."

Your vision tunneled. The room tilted. The last thing you saw was the ceiling fan above the couch, its blades turning lazily, casting wobbling shadows over the walls. Somewhere, distantly, you heard laughter. Like this was all a game. Then the darkness swallowed you whole.

Your ears were ringing when your eyes first fluttered open. A dull, static hum filled your skull, your thoughts slow and syrupy. Where am I? The room came into focus in pieces, the white wall, the too-bright overhead light and the scent of lemon disinfectant. And then your eyes found Suho. He sat across from you in a wooden chair, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped in his hands. Watching. A smile curled at the edges of his mouth when he saw your eyes focus. "Suho?" Your voice cracked. "What's going on?" 

“You should’ve done what I told you.” His voice was calm. Like he was talking about something mundane. But beneath that softness was something sharp, waiting to cut. "Do what?" Your mind was still fogged, your tongue thick in your mouth. He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, studying you the way someone might examine a butterfly pinned under glass. "I wasn’t honest with you last time we were alone," he said finally. That caught your attention. "Sieun isn’t the only one who likes you." A pause. "I do too." Your stomach lurched.

"We were trying to figure out our dilemma," he continued, tapping his temple in mock thought. "And then we went—oh!" His eyes lit up, like he'd just remembered something delightful. "We could share you." A cold sweat prickled down your spine. "But you being so dumb couldn’t notice the way we changed acting towards you." He leaned forward, elbows pressing into his knees, close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that you could smell the mint gum on his breath.

"Suho, whatever you're thinking—let’s not," you begged, your voice thin. "Please." A hum from beside you. Your head snapped to the side and there was Sieun, sitting so close his thigh pressed against yours. You hadn’t even noticed him. His hand settled on your leg, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles into your jeans. Trying to ease your nerves. It wasn’t working. "Fuck this," you hissed, lurching to your feet. "I’m leaving."

Suho moved faster than you expected. One second, he was in the chair the next, he was blocking your path, his body crowding yours. "Nah, babe," he murmured. "Sit back down."

"No, Suho, I’m leaving—"

"You don’t like to listen, do you?"

His hands tangled in your hair yanking you. You screamed, the pain sharp and sudden, your scalp burning as he shoved you backward. You crashed onto the couch, landing half in Sieun’s lap. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you tight against his chest. "Shhh, it’s okay," Sieun whispered into your hair. "It’s okay." He glared at Suho over your head. "I thought we were going to play nice. So she could be comfortable." Suho rolled his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck like he was the one who’d been wronged. "Well, she doesn’t like to listen."

"I’m sorry," Suho said, ducking his head, suddenly sheepish. The whiplash of it made your head spin. Sieun squeezed you. "See? He said he’s sorry. You should forgive him." "Forgive him?!" You shoved yourself upright, scrambling off Sieun’s lap. "Whatever this shit is, I don’t want any part of it. Let me go home. My mom—" "It’s 6 PM," Sieun interrupted, nodding toward the wall clock. "Your mom won’t be home for another three hours." Your blood turned to ice. "How do you know that?"

"Well, babe," Sieun sighed, his voice dripping with false patience. "We've been friends for over a year. You really think I don't listen when you nag about your mom always coming home late?" The air left your lungs. His smile had vanished. In its place was disappointment, edged with something darker. "And babe? I don’t like it when you lie." Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. "We just wanted to show you how much we like you," he continued, his voice softening into something almost tender. "How perfect we’d be together." His hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw too gentle for the way your pulse was rabbiting in your throat. Then his grip tightened, tilting your face toward his.

You shoved at his chest. "Don’t—"His other hand snapped to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking. Your lips met his in a hard, bruising kiss. You stayed frozen, your body rigid until you felt hands on your hips, dragging you backward. Suho. He hauled you into his lap, his breath hot against your ear. "See?" he murmured, his arms locking around your waist like a vise. "This isn’t so bad." Sieun pulled back just far enough to look at you. His thumb swiped over your bottom lip, wiping away the sting of the kiss. "You’ll get used to it."

Your hand cracked against Sieun's wrist, slapping him away with a violence that surprised even you. The room froze. For one suspended second, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing then Sieun's expression darkened, something primal uncoiling behind his eyes. "I was being so sweet with you," he murmured, voice dripping with false calm. "So gentle. Knowing how fragile you are." His fingers flexed. "But it looks like you like it rough, huh, babe?" The slap came fast a starburst of pain across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. Your lips stung, throbbing where your teeth had cut into them. Behind you, Suho let out a low, delighted laugh, his breath hot against your ear.

"Oooh, you got him mad," he teased, fingers already working at the buttons of your shirt, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something precious. "Now you’re really in for it." You squeezed your eyes shut, but you could still feel Sieun watching you could picture the way his gaze tracked Suho’s hands as they parted the fabric, exposing you inch by inch. A gift being unveiled just for him. The last button gave way. Suho peeled the shirt from your shoulders with a reverence that made your skin crawl, his lips brushing the curve of your bare shoulder. "See?" he whispered. "Isn’t this better?" You turned your face away, refusing to look at Sieun. Refusing to give him the satisfaction. But he caught your chin anyway, forcing your gaze back to his. His thumb swiped over your bruised lip, smearing the blood. "You’ll look at me." he said softly.

Suho's voice slithered through the charged air, saccharine and sharp as broken glass. "Come on, baby. Stand up for me." You didn't want to be slapped again. Your body moved before your mind could protest, muscles obeying out of sheer animal instinct. You stood on trembling legs, turning deliberately away from them both. The front door swam in your vision ten feet of scratched wood and peeling paint that might as well have been a mile away.

A warm hand slid around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against Suho's chest. His lips found the delicate shell of your ear. "Don't even think about it," he murmured, fingers digging into your hipbone hard enough to bruise. "I'd catch you before you made it two steps." His other hand trailed up your spine. "And then I'd fuck you against that door so hard the neighbors would hear."

Behind you, Sieun let out a soft, approving hum. Your reflection stared back at you from the darkened television screen wide-eyed, disheveled, bracketed between their bodies. A fly caught in honey. Suho's teeth grazed your shoulder. "Be good," he whispered. "You know how much better it feels when you're good." Sieun reached around to unzip your skirt.

The skirt pooled at your ankles like a fallen curtain. Suho crouched behind you, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties with deliberate slowness. The elastic stretched taut, then slackened as he inched the fabric downward not ripping, not tearing, but peeling, like he wanted to savor every millimeter of exposed skin. "Look at you," Sieun murmured walking to the front of you, his voice thick with something that made your stomach twist. His hands framed your face, forcing your gaze to stay locked on his. "So pretty like this."

The air was too cold against your bare thighs. Suho’s breath was too hot where it ghosted over the small of your back. "Shhh," he soothed, as if he could feel the tremors wracking your body. His thumbs pressed into the dimples above your hips. "We’ll take care of you." Sieun’s eyes met yours, "You’re ours now," he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Suho had retreated to the couch, his weight making the old leather creak as he settled back to watch. Sieun’s hands guided you down with a gentleness that didn’t match the way your knees hit the hardwood. The sharp jolt of pain wringing a whimper from your throat. The floorboards were cold under your knees.

"Oh, baby," Suho cooed from the couch, his voice syrupy with mock concern. "That sounded like it hurt." You kept your eyes fixed on the floor on the scuff marks in the wood, the dust gathered in the grooves. Anything but them. Then came the click of a belt buckle. The hiss of leather sliding free. Sieun tossed it aside, the sound of it hitting the wall too loud in the quiet room. His fingers found your face again, tilting your chin up with terrifying familiarity.

Your vision filled with him his flushed skin, the way his fist moved over himself, slow and slick. "Come on, baby," he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Let’s put that mouth to work." "Sieun, I—I don’t know what to—" "Wait!" Suho’s sudden bark made you flinch. He sat forward, eyes alight with something giddy. "You’re a virgin?" A moment. Then your tiny, soft voice "Yes." Suho’s grin split his face. "Woah. You really were made for us." He turned to Sieun, laughing. "Cause this idiot’s a virgin too. Couldn’t stop talking about how he wanted his first time to be with you." His gaze slid back to you, dark. "And now it’s about to happen."

Sieun’s breath hitched with embarrassed or excited, you couldn’t tell. "Wait, I should record this—" Suho lunged for his phone. "No—" "No what?" His voice went sharp. "We need to save this moment forever." He propped the phone against the TV, the red recording light blinking like a predator’s eye. "Back to me," Sieun ordered, fingers tightening in your hair.

Your gaze flicked up just in time to see the hunger in his eyes as he guided himself to your mouth. The first touch of skin to your lips made him whimper. "Oh, god—" Behind you, Suho’s laugh was low, thrilled. "Yeah," he breathed. "This is perfect."

Sieun's inexperience showed in the way his hips stuttered. No rhythm, no control, just the frantic, animal need to take. His fingers twisted tighter in your hair, forcing your head back at an angle that made your jaw ache. "Oh God, I love watching you like this—" His voice was breathless, wrecked. "On your knees for me." Behind you, the couch creaked under Suho's shifting weight. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filled the spaces between Sieun's choked-off moans. "God… look at you." Suho's words came out in a whimper, high and reedy. "I could watch this all night." Sieun’s thrusts slowed, turned uneven.

"Getting close already?" Suho teased, but his own voice was thick with want. Sieun didn’t answer. Just groaned, his grip on your hair turning vicious. "That feels so fucking good… I can’t hold it—" And then he was coming with a choked-off grunt, hips jerking forward, forcing himself deeper as he spilled into your mouth. "God—yes, I’m coming… fuck—" His fingers tightened, yanking your head back just enough to meet your gaze. "Don’t spill a single drop."

The command slithered down your spine. Across the room, Suho let out a shaky sigh. "Perfect," he whispered. "You’re doing so perfect." The praise felt worse than the violence.

He slipped out of my mouth, you gasped for air only for Sieun to pat your head like a well-trained pet before turning you toward Suho. Suho’s gaze was molten, his jaw tight, his entire body coiled like a predator ready to strike. He looked at you like he wanted to ruin you. "I know I look good like this," he said, voice rough, "but come lay on the couch. I need to work you open." A smirk. "And I doubt Sieun knows how to eat a pussy properly. You’re in for a treat."

Sieun fingers brushed your hip. "Can’t fuck you without getting you wet first. Poor thing would break apart and we don’t want that, right, love?" Like it was the simplest thing in the world. You let yourself be guided onto the couch, thighs pressed together in some last, futile attempt at modesty. Suho tsked, gripping your knee and yanking your legs apart with a single, brutal motion. "None of that."

His gaze raked over you in a hungry and ravenous before his fingers traced your most sensitive skin, feather-light, just enough to make you shiver. "Oh, God," you whimpered. "Barely started, and you’re already falling apart?" He chuckled, dark and low, before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another, lower. His breath, hot and damp, right there. You looked down. He looked up. Held your gaze as he smirked then licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your clit.

Your breath caught and not just from the contact, but from the way Suho looked up at you while he did it. Like he was studying you. Like he was waiting to see the exact moment you’d break. The moment you’d stop pretending you didn’t want this. Sieun sat beside him now, lounging where Suho had been at the start. One leg crossed over the other, fingers brushing his lower lip, his gaze heavy on your naked skin. Watching. You tried to close your legs. Suho growled, low and dark, his hands tightening around your thighs. “Don’t,” he warned, dragging his mouth back against you, unhurried, deliberate. Tongue slow and cruel. “Don’t even think about it. Keep them open.”

You whimpered. “Wait—please, I don’t—”

Sieun’s voice cut through like a thread pulled taut. “Aw, are you overwhelmed already? ”

“She’s soaking,” Suho muttered, lips brushing slick skin. “Look at you. Trembling like a whore but pretending to be shy.” You turned your face into the couch cushion, heat flooding through you. Suho’s fingers flexed, lifting your hips like you weighed nothing. “Open.” A pause. “Wider.” His voice dropped, gravel-rough. “You don’t want to make me say it again.” You hesitated, lips parted in a breath you didn’t realize you was holding. Then, slowly you let your thighs fall open, exposing yourself with a tremble that said more than any word ever could.  “Good girl,” Suho said, mock-sweet, a vicious edge behind the praise. “That’s better. I’ll teach you manners next. You’ll be thanking me before I’m done.”

His mouth returned. His pace rougher now, merciless. Tongue circling, pressing, flattening and your body betrayed you. You moaned, broken and high, fingers clawing the cushion like it could ground you. “No,” you gasped. “I don’t want—this isn’t—” But your voice cracked at the end. Suho didn’t stop. He licked deeper, harder, drawing sounds from you you’d never made before.

And still Sieun said nothing. He sat back in the chair, legs spread, hand wrapped around himself, slow and deliberate. He didn’t rush because he didn’t need to. Watching you fall apart under Suho’s mouth was enough. The way your thighs trembled, the way your moans filled the room. His gaze never left your face, even as his fist pumped lazily, thumb grazing the tip every time you whimpered like you weren’t soaked for it. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and cruelly soft. “Let him ruin you while you pretend you’re not loving every second.” His smile twisted. “Don’t worry, my love. You’ll scream for me next.” 

You tried to hold onto something, the edge of the couch, the fabric of your own discarded shirt anything to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation. You were a virgin, but you recognized the telltale signs: the tightening in your belly, the way your thighs trembled, the dizzying rush of blood between your legs. Suho noticed. Of course he did. "Oh, baby," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your inner thigh. "Are you close?" His fingers worked faster, rubbing tight circles over your clit before sliding two fingers inside you, pumping in a relentless rhythm. "Should I slow down? Or speed up?"

Your body arched off the couch, elbows digging into the cushions as you tried to twist away but then Sieun was there, his chest pressing flush against your back, his arms locking around you like steel bands. “Shhh,” he murmured, his breath damp against your ear. One hand slid up your ribcage, but there was no gentleness in his touch just heat. A sharp tug, a vicious sound of tearing fabric, and the front clasp of your bra snapped open under his grip. The cups fell apart like they never stood a chance, fabric splitting as if your body had no right to hide from him. 

His other hand didn't hesitate. Thumb and forefinger closed around your nipple, pinching just shy of pain before rolling it slowly until the ache radiated through your whole chest. “You’re gonna come, and you’re gonna look me in the eyes when you do." Suho coaxed, his voice honey-sweet. Sieun's teeth grazed your earlobe. "Good girl… give it to us. All of it.”  You were trapped between them. Suho’s mouth on you now, his tongue replacing his fingers, licking into you with obscene precision, while Sieun’s hands roamed over your bare chest, his breath hot against your neck 

The pleasure was too much. The wrongness was too much. Your body didn’t care it arched into their touches, betraying you, chasing the climax even as your mind screamed no, no, no—"That’s it," Suho coaxed, his voice muffled against your skin. "Come for us." And you did. Your vision whited out, your back bowing off the couch as the orgasm ripped through you, violent and unwanted. Sieun held you through it, his arms tightening around you, his lips pressed to your temple in something almost like tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured, lips brushing your temple like a prayer. And then Suho was moving, crawling up your body with slow, predatory ease, his smile sharp, his eyes dark with something hungry. You could feel the heat of him drawing closer, his body climbing over yours like a wave about to break. One hand dragged along your inner thigh, fingers grazing every trembling nerve as though he were mapping your undoing, memorizing the way you shook, the way you breathed, the way you tried and failed to retreat into yourself.

Then he was above you, weight settling over your hips, caging you between the couch cushions and the scent of sweat, leather, and something  that made your skin crawl even as your body arched up to meet it. His smile was different now. There was nothing playful left in it. “Now it’s our turn,” he said, and the words coiled around your ribs like wire. You flinched, almost imperceptibly. But Sieun felt it. His hand slid to your throat a suggestion of the their power over you. “No more pretending,” he murmured against your ear, his tone low, coaxing. Dangerous in its calm. “If that was a protest, sweetheart, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” You wanted to scream.

 But your voice had gone soft somewhere between Suho’s tongue and Sieun’s brutal mouth fucking and that breaking point you didn’t remember crossing. Suho’s fingers brushed your hipbone, almost reverent now. And somehow. They weren’t in a rush. They never were. Because they already had what they wanted. You. Now they were just taking their time enjoying the aftertaste. 

Suho didn’t rush. He watched you, eyes dark and unreadable, as he settled fully between your thighs. The weight of him was suffocating, his presence impossibly heavy as he nudged your trembling knees apart, exposing the last of you. “You’re still shaking,” he murmured, voice a dark melody against your skin. “Good.” Sieun’s arms tightened around you, his grip unrelenting as he leaned in, whispering at your temple. “You don’t get to hide anymore.”

You tried to twist away one final, a very useless protest but it only made them hold tighter. Sieun's fingers dug into your jaw, turning your face toward him. ““Ah, ah—stay still. I like watching you realize you can’t escape.” he said softly. “Look at you…trying so hard to stay in control. It's adorable. Pathetic, but adorable.” 

You felt it, the pressure of him, deliberate and claiming, as he pushed against your entrance. Your body tensed, a whimper rising in your throat, caught somewhere between fear and some cruel, traitorous need. There was no pretending now. No denying what was happening. He pushed in, slow and relentless, stretching you inch by unforgiving inch. “Fuck,” Suho groaned, head falling forward against your chest as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight…” You cried out, the sound raw and shattering, but Sieun caught it, swallowed it with his mouth against your cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, voice like silk. “Let him in.”

The broken little noises slipping from your throat. You gasped, fingers scrabbling against the cushions as your body clenched around him, involuntary. It hurt. God, it hurt. A sharp, invasive ache that pulsed with each slow grind of his hips. You’d never done this before your body unpracticed, untouched, painfully tight around the unforgiving stretch of him.

“Shhh…” Suho’s voice was low, soothing in a way that didn’t match the brutal reality of your position. “This stretch... this pain... this is how you know it’s real.” You whimpered, back arching. It felt like too much like you were being split open from the inside. And he knew. You could see it in his eyes, the flicker of something close to reverence as he watched your face contort.

“No more pretending,” Suho growled as he drove into you harder. “Look at your face. You didn’t know you could feel this much, did you?”  Your breath fractured into pieces, each inhale more ragged than the last as Suho began to move in earnest. His thrusts hit deeper now, each one grinding into your tender core with merciless precision, dragging another whimper from your throat even as you tried to bite them back. “There,” Suho hissed, voice thick with pleasure. “Right there. That’s the sound I want.”

You shook your head instinctively, not even knowing what you were denying anymore—his voice, the way your body reacted, the brutal, burning fullness of him inside you. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t asking. He was showing you what it meant to be taken. Sieun’s mouth ghosted over your temple, lips soft in contrast to his grip on your body. “You feel that?” he murmured, hand sliding possessively over your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw. “That wet little slap? That’s how much you love this, even if you won’t say it.” 

Suho pulled back just enough to thrust again, slower this time but deeper and you felt your muscles spasm around him, raw and unwilling, but yielding. Adjusting. Betraying you in real time. “That’s it,” Suho muttered against your neck, teeth grazing the skin there. “You’re opening up so pretty for me now.” Your hands fisted into the cushions. You weren’t sure if you were trying to push away or hold on.

“It hurts,” you gasped.  Suho’s breath was hot against your ear. ““It’s not pain, baby. It’s your body learning who it belongs to.”  Sieun’s hand tightened on your jaw again, tilting your face toward him. “And you’re paying it so beautifully,” he whispered, eyes gleaming with something dark. “Every cry, every shiver you’re giving us everything.”  Sieun’s free hand drifted down, fingers circling your clit with cruel precision. "“Fuck, look at you—so pretty with him buried deep inside," he whispered. "You're trembling so sweetly." 

Your hips jerked, a broken sound tearing from your throat as pleasure coiled tight beneath his touch, hot and insistent, wrongwrongwrong—Suho groaned, his rhythm stuttering. "Clinging to me already? You’re squeezing like you want to break me." His hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came inside you with a low, satisfied growl. Sieun’s fingers worked faster, relentless, until your vision whited out, just from the overwhelm, your body shuddering through a climax that felt like surrender. "There it is," Sieun murmured, watching the tears spill down your cheeks. "That’s our girl."

Suho didn’t pull out. Just stayed seated deep, his breath hot on your shoulder. "Now you know," he said softly. "Now you really know." Suho gave your cheek a soft, almost patronizing pat before slipping out of you. The sudden emptiness made your body jolt, the heat of him still dripping down your thighs, slick and unmistakably his. You barely had a moment to breathe before his hands gripped your waist again and lifted you like you weighed nothing at all.

“Okay, baby,” he murmured, voice low and satisfied. “Time for Sieun to get his cherry popped.” You barely registered the words before you were lowered into another pair of waiting arms. Sieun looked up at you, wide-eyed, pupils blown, lips parted like he couldn’t decide if this was really happening. His hands were hesitant on your hips. Your body was already raw, oversensitive, and trembling but Suho was still there behind you, grounding you, guiding you. He pressed closer, one palm sliding over your lower back, the other curling around your side possessively.

Sieun lined himself up to your entrance, breath ragged. His length nudged at your slick entrance, the hesitation in his eyes making your pulse stutter. “Come on,” Suho whispered against your ear, voice like velvet. “Let him in.” And then he was guiding you down, slow, steady and cruel. Sieun gasped, head falling back against the couch as you sank onto him inch by inch. He was overwhelmed every breath he took sounded like it might shatter him. His nails dug lightly into your hips, unsure whether to pull you down or hold you still.

You whimpered, the stretch making you tremble again. It wasn’t just physical. It was the way Sieun looked at you like you were something angelic. Sieun’s voice broke on a breathless moan. “I—I can’t…” “You can,” Suho said behind you, voice low and firm. “She’ll take all of you. Won’t you, baby?” You didn’t answer but your body responded, trembling around him, clenching involuntarily as Sieun slowly slid deeper. Every inch dragged a gasp from his lips, and a broken, whispered plea from yours. The stretch burned, not just from being filled again, but from way he was how careful and clumsy all at once.

Sieun was breathing like he’d run miles, his chest rising and falling against yours as his arms tightened, unsure whether to anchor himself or anchor you. His eyes were locked on your face, like he needed permission, reassurance, something to ground him. But you couldn’t give it. You weren’t grounded. You were floating in the space between pain and pleasure and the lines between your body and theirs blurring by the second.

Suho’s voice seeped into you, slow and thick like warm honey laced with poison. “He’s shaking, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing your hair off your damp forehead. “You’re too much for him already.” Sieun whimpered beneath you, the sound quiet and overwhelmed. “She’s… so warm… so tight… I can’t—” “You’re already inside her, Sieun.” Suho cut in. “Too late to hesitate.” You could feel the tremor in Sieun’s thighs, the twitch in his fingers as he tried not to move, not to finish before it had even begun. He throbbed deep inside you, pulsing with restraint he clearly didn’t have the experience to manage. And still, Suho didn’t let up. “Move,” he ordered, his hand pressing firmly on your lower back again, forcing you to rock barely an inch, but enough.

You cried out, hips jerking reflexively as the motion sent sparks across every nerve. Sieun moaned helplessly, biting his lip so hard it went white. “Good,” Suho praised, “Just like that. Make him feel what it’s like to be inside something that’s already been broken open for him.” That did something to Sieun his hips bucked upward instinctively, and you gasped, fingers clawing at his shoulders, trying to stay upright as the sensation knocked the air from your lungs. He was too close. You could feel it.

Something had shifted. Gone was the wide-eyed hesitation. In its place, raw instinct. The kind that took over when thought vanished and only feeling remained. He sat up suddenly, arms locking tight around your back. Before you could process it, he was rising, lifting you with him in one swift, shaky movement. You let out a startled cry as your legs wrapped reflexively around his waist, his hands slipping beneath your thighs to hold you in place.

The air hit your skin as he stood fully upright, your back pressed against the nearby shelf cool wood against flushed flesh. His breath came in ragged bursts, face buried in your neck as he began to move. He was rough now, uncontrolled. His hips snapping up into you, his grip bruising but desperate. The way he held you, thrust into you, didn’t feel like inexperience anymore. It felt like hunger. Like he’d been holding back and now couldn’t stop.

Each movement drove you up the shelf an inch before gravity pulled you back down, onto him again. Over and over. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room wet, sharp, unrelenting. Suho stood nearby, watching. A proud, dangerous gleam in his eye. “That’s it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Take what you want, Sieun. She can give it. All of it.” And Sieun did.

He buried his face against your shoulder, muffling a broken moan as his rhythm faltered hips stuttering, thrusts going sloppy. “Fuck… you feel so good,” he gasped, voice cracking. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” You could feel the build in his body. Every muscle straining. Every breath breaking apart against your skin as he pushed deeper, chasing the edge like he’d drown without it. “Taking me so deep,” he whimpered, helpless now. “It’s too much—too fucking good—” with one final, shaking thrust. He gasped your name like a prayer and came. You felt it. The sudden heat spilling inside you, thick and hot pulsing as he emptied himself, moaning brokenly into your neck.

You heard clapping. The sound echoed through the room like it didn’t belong there. It sliced through the haze in your head like a cold blade. You turned your face toward it. Suho was standing now, walking toward you both with that grin that infuriating, knowing grin stretched across his face like he’d already won. “See?” he said, clapping again, louder this time. “See how good we are together?” He gestured between himself and Sieun, then toward you. “You can never get rid of us. We’re in you now.”

Sieun was still beside you, fingers ghosting up your spine in a slow, possessive stroke. You didn’t know when he’d moved. You didn’t even feel your body shift but somehow, his hand was at the nape of your neck now, anchoring you in place like you were something dangerous. Suho stepped in front of you, grin softening into something colder. His gaze slid up your body like it belonged there… you didn’t move.

“You can’t get rid of us,” he whispered, voice slick with triumph. “Now you belong to us and no matter how hard you try, you’ll Never get rid of us.” Sieun’s voice rasped hot against your ear, the words more like a threat than a promise. “You get that, don’t you?” before you could respond, Suho was in front of you too close. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to remind you who you belonged to. “Smile for me,” he said. And when you didn’t.

His hand snapped up, gripping your jaw hard enough to make your breath catch. His fingers dug in, forcing your face toward his, his voice dropping to a low, razor-edged growl. “I said—smile.” This time, you did. Lips trembling, teeth clenched. And when you did, he smiled too. The kind of smile that told you this wasn’t over. The kind of smile that said next time? You’d better not hesitate. 

[softtdaisy]

_____confessions cookies

pairing. Aaron Hotchner x media liaison!reader (part of the dating game)

summary. after your conversation, Aaron needs answers: would you consider him, your boss, to start your dating game?

words count. 2 308

a/n. thank you everyone for the nice feedback on the first part, I'm so happy you enjoy this series as much as I do!! I promise the dates are starting in the next part 👀

___the dating game masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

Aaron had a problem. You.

Well, not you. But the fact you had been on his mind non-stop these past days.

“Can you just imagine how much easier it would be if we could just discover the dating world again with someone we know? Someone we trust?” 

He had learned to know these 26 words by heart. The intonation, the way you paused after your first question. The little sigh at the end, like you had been desperately trying to say these things for so long. How you sounded like you believed no one could understand your feelings.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no.

The worst part was that he felt like you didn’t care as much as he did. He felt like you didn’t care at all.

When you came back to the office on Monday, you greeted him with a very professional “Hotch.” 

The team knew you used a different tone for each one of them. You sounded protective with Spencer and in a constant private joke with Emily. 

As for Aaron, there was always this sweet and encouraging smile, telling him you would have his back no matter what. And if he could taste your tone when you said his name, Aaron would notice some vanilla hint: a safe bet, sure, but something reassuring. That was how he liked to picture it. Maybe it was indeed reassuring that nothing had changed after your conversation. You still treated him as your chief with the same kind attitude. He could count on you, even with you being two desperate lost souls. 

Yet, he couldn’t stop imagining what could have happened if you had five more minutes. Just five more minutes to end this conversation and not be left disappointed.

So now a whole week had passed, a case had been resolved, and Aaron needed answers.

Everyone had left the office except for the two of you. No surprise that this was happening very often. With the number of new files and case requests piling up every day on your desks, you could probably build a new wall. 

Needless to say, your personal life also had something to do with that. You had no one to go home to. And if Aaron was being honest, sometimes his guilt was taking over, and he couldn’t find the strength to go home early and face a disappointed Jack. Even if his son, being the angel he was, would never say anything about that.

“You should really take a break,” you heard him say when he walked in your office. 

You were so focused on your last case file that you didn’t even hear the knocks on the door. You’d like to think he maybe didn’t even knock. Your office was just a kind of extension of his, and you kept telling Aaron that he could walk in as much as he wanted. You loved to say you could always feel him coming.

The truth was that you could usually see him, from the shadow through your window to the fact the door was right in front of you.

The other truth was that, indeed, you felt like you had some kind of sixth sense letting you know when he was near you.

The final truth was that in case you missed Aaron’s presence, Blossom couldn’t. Even if right now, your dog was more interested in the little treat you gave her and didn’t move from her bed.

“You, Aaron Hotchner, are the one saying that?” You laughed, lifting your head up to watch him. “That’s a bit hypocritical.” 

More than once tonight, you considered leaving and coming back earlier tomorrow morning to finish your work. But just for the simple view of the lazy smile growing on Aaron’s face, the one he had when he got so tired he couldn’t control his facial expression nor had the strength to give a proper smile, staying late was worth it. 

You had barely seen him today. The days after the team came back from a case were always full of paperwork, and you didn’t even leave your office to eat lunch. Not even when the girls took turns to convince you to take a break and instead took Blossom with them.

You really wanted to get up, leave your office for a few minutes, and forget about the atrocity you were reading. But some other people couldn’t take a break, and their pictures were lying on your desk. So no, your propriety truly wasn’t your appetite. 

However, was it weird that seeing your chief right now was lifting a weight off your mind?

“At least I ate today.”

“Who are you?” you replied in a fake shocked tone, watching as he walked to your desk and sat in front of you. 

Yes, hearing his short and spontaneous giggle definitely made the whole staying late worth it. 

“I thought you might need some of these,” he said, finding just enough space on your desk to put down the plate he had been carrying.

One of the agents had brought some cakes and cookies from their child’s birthday. Aaron knew what it was to see the big picture, to compensate for their absence and make sure their children aren’t mad at them. Turns out, at the end, it was the Bureau who could enjoy all the leftovers.

And he was making sure that you got your daily sugar dose too.

“Don’t be too nice to me, Aaron, or I could cry,” you laughed, taking a cookie in hand before biting into it. 

You couldn’t care less about the little moan that escaped your lips when you felt the sugar melt in your mouth. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine a little paradise, peacefully away from the FBI. You clearly needed this more than you thought. 

Blossom was quick at jumping off her bed after hearing you. She ran and tried to charm you into giving her a piece of cookie too. She was absolutely not interested in the caress you gave her in exchange and even granted you a judgmental look. One that you didn’t even bother noticing. 

You were so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t think Aaron could hear too. Or noticed the little change in his posture. How he moved his thighs on the chair, clearly not as comfortable as he was a few seconds ago. Or how he played with his tie to keep his hands occupied on something else. Something that wasn’t, well…you.

Not even Blossom was nice enough to help him, going back to her bed in a lazy and disappointing walk. 

He cleared his throat, looking for his composure back. “You deserve some kindness,” he then said.

You tilted your head to the side and pouted slightly. The simple thought of someone thinking about your own good was touching. And not only was it a man, it was your boss. More than your boss, it was Aaron. That was more than what your heart could handle at 8 p.m. on a Friday night. 

You grabbed another cookie from the plate and handed it to him. “Have some too.”

Aaron looked at it and considered refusing your offer. He already ate some earlier, and the ones he picked were for you, not him. But the sweet look in your eyes made him think that you could actually cry if he said no. 

He chose the safe option and took it from your hand. His fingers brushed yours softly, and he let that moment last longer than he should have.

The view of the two of you sharing cookies in your little office made you laugh. “This is, like, the closest to a date I’ve been to in months.” 

This was enough to remind Aaron why he was there in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night.”

Your eyes grew big at the sudden thought that you might have said something controversial or problematic. You remembered the conversation—or at least you thought so. Did you say anything inappropriate to your chief? You sure had inappropriate thoughts in the past—and I, in a not-so-far-away past—but you were secretly praying none of them escaped your mouth.

To be honest, even now, totally sober, you weren't 100% sure you could trust your mouth. It wasn’t your fault his rolled-up sleeves made his arms and his veins so visible you were dying to look at them. 

Thankfully, Aaron was quick at putting a hand on your arm to stop your overwhelming thoughts. 

“About wanting to start dating again with someone you know and ttrust, he completed in such a serious tone you could forget the context of the conversation in the first place.

Your lips formed an O for a few seconds before you replied with a soft laugh: ��Yep, sounds like something I said.” 

It didn’t sound like something you said. You said that, and you knew it. 

You knew it just because your brain made sure to perfectly memorize Aaron’s face when he heard those words. His confused but also relieved expression, telling you he had been working hard to express his own feelings. But also the expression when he asked if you had someone in mind. Like it was a need for him to know. Like a part of him expected an answer you weren’t sure you were allowed to give.

“I still mean it,” you said. “I still think this could be a good solution. The whole thing now is…”

“Finding that person.” Aaron completed it, and you simply nodded.

And soon the room fell into silence again.

If you were in a movie, you would yell at the characters to speak the obvious. Because it was obvious to both of you.

How Aaron, as your chief, didn’t feel like he had any right to speak his mind and feared being accused of harassment—even though he trusted you enough to not do it. 

How you, as his agent, were scared you might lose the job of your dream for a fantasy—even though you trusted him enough to not fire you for this.

But how you both had the same idea in mind.

“Do you think…” Aaron started.

But you spoke at the time. “...Want to do it?”

Another silence. Then a shared laugh that lightened up the mood.

“This would stay between us?”

You could tell how important it was for him. The low voice he used, like he was sharing some secret. Like a child asking for something he shouldn’t be. Like a part of him still wasn't sure this was the right thing. 

It was easy to start it; it would be harder to face the consequences if anything went wrong. And the list of possible consequences was already long enough in his head. 

Starting from professional procedure for going on dates with a member of his team to potential unsub taking advantages of this. To broken hearts. Yes, broken hearts were the worst scenario, even for Aaron Hotchner.

“I didn’t plan on adding a new slide on my case presentation about this, no,” you replied, taking another cookie from the plate. 

Your sarcastic remark kind of worked when he rolled his eyes and let out an amused sigh. But this wasn’t enough.

“The only person aware of this is Blossom right here,” you said, pointing to your dog. Blossom, who apparently couldn’t care less about whatever you were talking about. But still got up from her bed and walked to Aaron.

Either she was still mad at you for not giving her any treat, or she finally noticed Aaron’s presence. In any way, it didn’t take her long to jump on his lap and get some new caresses.

You found it funny how she had a very different relationship with the members of this team, especially the men of this team. She knew she could easily get treats from Spencer, who couldn't resist her sweet face. She went to Derek when she wanted to play, and you didn’t have the time. 

And Aaron was kind of her safe place. Sometimes, she would disappear in the middle of the afternoon just to rest on his lap. Not even asking for any cuddle or anything, just like she needed to be with him.

“Can we trust you, Blossom?” He whispered in a very serious tone that you actually heard him use once with Spencer. 

And the only answer Aaron got was a cuddle against his hand and a peaceful sight from your dog. Something he seemed very pleased about from the smile that grew on his lips.

He then looked up at you, who were on the verge of freaking out from the cuteness of the situation. “I guess we’re good,” he said, making it sound like he made an agreement with your dog about you. Without you.

If it meant seeing a softer look on his face, you could accept being sidelined from this. 

“I won’t say anything, Aaron.” You finally replied for good, giving him his long-awaited answer.

“I just don’t…” he started before sighing. “You’re very important to the team. I don’t want to make things weird here because I…you know.” 

Aaron had to fight hard to not add you were important to him too.

“We don’t have to make things weird, you know.” You smiled. “We could start with a simple coffee…date, and if we find it too awkward, we call it a day and laugh about it at David’s next dinner.” 

The smile he gave you was probably the most sincere of the night. It was a thank you.

Thank you for understanding his fear and validating his feelings.

Thank you for accepting to take care of his old and still broken heart.

“Thank you," he then said. For being you.

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife@winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf @averyhotchner @liilysblog @storiesbynova@lemoncee@mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap @alediao @jsjcue @marina468 @violettablackwood @yasministration

📬FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[vertia-the-green]

You weren't sure how long you were there. Time didn't even seem to be a thing until a piece from another broken ship slowly drifted from its origin point. The cold vacuum of space was nothing compared to the eerie silence.

The view of the stars was gorgeous beyond description. You wanted to drift closer but were tied in place by that awful cable. You pulled. It didn't budge. You tried again.

Small adjustments were all you could manage, it was frustrating. Mild annoyance bubbled into slowly rising anger at being trapped in a lonely void. Was this really meant to be your existence now? You groan in frustration and let off a slight glow.

Huh. That's different. You let out a hum in curiosity. You glow a bit brighter. As memories of your old life play in your mind, you miss your old home. You absentmindedly begin humming a song from your youth, some old song about sitting by a creek.

Small bits of broken ships float in space as your quiet melody plays from you. It doesn't go unnoticed that they're drifting towards each other. Fascinated, you keep humming that song. It seems the longer you sing, the more pieces start to drift together.

With nothing better to do, you begin creating something.

With time, bigger and bigger pieces come together. The places where they join and connect have a faint glow. The ships around you break apart, bit by bit, and come back together into something just for you.

The battleship is massive, and the inside is like a labyrinth. After the pride of your creation wears off, you begin to miss seeing the stars. While your curiosity had been sated, it seemed that it had come at a cost. While the constellations were all alien to you, they were no less beautiful.

Quiet footsteps pull you out of your thoughts as small beings enter the ship. You can hear them all the way from the room you are tucked away in. There are atleast three of them. Their voices speak in an alien tongue, and you can't decipher a word of it.

After some exploring, they reach where you are and you finally get to see them. The tallest one is leading the small group. Their lanky form is holding some kind of light source. They point at you while speaking to the others. The medium sized one is bulkier than their taller counterpart and easily climbs the structure that you're strapped to. They begin trying to cut you free.

The smallest one seems nervous. Their tiny frame matches their demeanor, and they speak quietly to the others in hushed tones. They seem to be arguing about something. You can't fathom what it could be.

You don't have much time to ponder that, as you are finally freed. You fall unceremoniously with a clang against the metal floor. The creatures gather around you to get a better look. After some more conversing, it seems the smallest one is chosen to carry you. They strain to lift your crystal form as the others look around for the way out.

You are brought onto their ship. If you could sigh, you would. The company was nice, but you couldn't even understand them. At least they let you sit near a window so you could see the stars again. As their ship drifted away from the one you built, you saw the remnants of a broken planet in one of the windows.

The smallest looked at the pieces in a way that you understood far too well. In a desire for something that you couldn't remember the word for, you begin to hum again.

Their ship begins to faintly glow. The two that had been arguing suddenly stop, and look around in surprise. You could hear the engine of the ship start up, and the others cheered. Ah. That's why they wanted you.

You kept humming that song about sitting by a creek. Memories of your old home played in your mind. The gentle rain of summer, the soft breeze, sunlight filtering through the leaves. If you ignored your surroundings, it almost felt like you were there again.

‐----

Soru had been stuck in a ship with her brothers for what felt like years. They were lucky to have escaped, but there was a pit in her heart that couldn't be filled anytime she saw the remnants of her home. The chunks hung lifelessly in space as their ship slowly drifted away.

Their ship didn't have enough power to get out of their solar system, so they were forced to scavenge battlefields for scraps and ship parts. The war atleast left that for them. Her brothers were arguing again after finding some strange crystal. One was sure that it was the solution to their problems, the other thought their time had been wasted.

Soru just wished they would stop fighting. They never fought back home. She closed her eyes and thought of her old house by the forest. There was a small stream that gently ran through where it was easy to find pebbles and flowers. She thought of the soft drops of rain, of the gentle wind, and faint hints of sunlight reaching through the canopy.

Suddenly, her brothers stopped fighting. She opened her eyes and saw the ship was faintly glowing. Before she could ask what was going on, the engine came back on. The crystal in her hands was letting out a faint hum as the ship was finally given the power they needed to find a new home.

She didn't know why, but it sounded like a song.

When you died to a vehicle accident, you expected to become an adventurer in a high-fantasy world. Instead, you were a crystal tied to a broken starship, one out of many in a field of barren space. Undeterred, you start to turn the wrecks into a Dungeon, becoming a powerful battleship as well.

[rinsnumber1fan]

When you try being cute and sweet with him but he takes it that you wanna get fucked.

Includes: Michael Kaiser

"What the fuck."

,Were Kaisers first words the moment you clung onto his arm, looking up at him with puppy eyes and a diploma in "just one look and he'll give me what I want!"

Last night kaiser had done the offer of buying you dresses on a shopping spree and giving his honest opinion on all of them and to your suprise he knew some words even you didn't know about, something about "low viscosity rayon" and today, today you decided to repay the favour! Since he was always the one giving the materialistic stuff you decided to give him the physical stuff. Like cuddles and hugs! Like right now.

"Seriously, what is up with you?" Kaiser asked, a frown plastered on his face as you inched closer and closer, practically shoving yourself into his right arm. "Ready to eat breakfast?" You asked, tilting your h3ad to the side with a smile.

You felt bad sometimes.

He'd always do all the paying and you barely contributed to it but now you wanted to try something for him.

"I mean I know im amazing but.." Kaiser trailed off.

Why is she being so cute?!

Your eyes wide and puppy like, lips puckered into a pout, head titled to the side and the height difference--

Kaisers brain short-circuted for a moment, he wanted to crush your cute little face at this point but he had to hold back. So he thought,

She definitely wants some dick.

Kaiser leaned down, "alright enough. I know you want it so just drop the act. You couldve just asked you know."

You "huh"-ed.

Kaiser raises his brows like hes waiting for you to admit anything but you have no idea what he means. Till he walks closer and closer and closer untill your back hits the edge of the headboard of the bed behind you.

"Tryna act all cute for me, now?" Kaiser cooed, grabbing your cheeks and squishing them together. "Wait- I think you misun-" and his lips crash onto yours.

"Keep up that cute act a little while longer." He pushes you down against the bed and begins to go through a full blown make out session. His tounge annihilated yours, all you could do in this time of need was lay back and take him - not that you were against that.

He pulled back, straddling you, grabbing your wrists. "I-i was just-- trying to be sweet!!" You said in a muffled tone whilst his lips drive against your neck and collarbone. "Mm.. yeah sure." He rolled his eyes back and threw his jersey away somewhere on the floor with his name on it.

"Don't tell me you're gonna go through the whole way--" you gasped, and he shoved you down, grabbing a hold of your wrists again, holding them tight enough that you can't break free. Which you just tried, to check if you could break free from this grip but you couldn't.

He had a smug look on his face, "you've been cute enough for me, how about you make some cute sounds now?" He asked smugly, pulling your hair back and making you face him. "Mi-michael!!" You frown-pouted. Kaiser grinned, letting go if you before lifting your legs up and pulling your shorts down.

"Ah ah.." He mock-laughed, tilting his head to the side and letting his hair fall to the side as he did so. "You freak. Don't tell me you were into this. Look at how wet you are.." his voice trailed off and went low. He breathed in and leaned down to place a big bite on your inner thigh. "Tsk tsk, what a bad girl," He pulled his own sweatpants off and pulled your shirt up all the way to above your tits. "K-kai-"

He slid in without warning letting you whimper in pain. You cover your mouth, cheeks red as you tried to pull back but he takes your hands away from your mouth. Going out slow then shoving back in.

"You're so cute aren't you? Ah.." He groaned, thrusting into you like it was one of his last days. He felt yo7 clench around him but he grabs onto your hair tight enough to let you know "not yet"

And after a while of reckless pounding you can't take it anymore.

"M-mish..misha...c-cant. No more...!!" You whined "Gonna c-c--" He delivers an aching slap on your thigh. "I said not yet, can't your little brain comprehend that?" He mocked, "hm?" You didn't listen to him, you couldn't hold back, you came. He groaned, pulling out and making you face him. Hands rough on your cheeks, forcing your jaw to face him. "Guess you're really too dumb to understand something so simple." Kaiser pulled back, sighing and biting your neck hard and tight. "On your knees, bunny. Wanna teach you what happens when you disobey me" He rolled his eyes back, you got off the bed, shaking and excited all in one heart racing as you got down on your knees and watched him tilt his head with a shining glint in his eyes. "Be a good girl now" He gestured and you did.

You sucked him off slow and he pulled his head back with a deep sigh. "Mm.. so good. You're learning, a-ah!" He moaned lowly. Guiding your head downtown and clenching your hair tightly, "so good for me." He murmured, already pent up from the previous round so he came instantly into your mouth watching you take every last drop.

"Now that's a good girl." He smiles, patting your head. "Come here," he opens up his arms and shoves you into them. "I hope I was too much-" "you mean you don't." You corrected him and he grinned only "yeah that."

[l4wsrule]

⟢ ・⸝⸝ why are you crying ?

ׂ╰┈➤ how different one piece men would react to you crying over something stupid ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

t͟a͟g͟s͟: ace, law, kidd, sanji .ᐟ , fluff, romance, sfw, comedy(?) in some parts.

n͟o͟t͟e͟: established relationship for everyone except kidd (depending how you perceive it, up to you.) i also wanted to include sabo but i currently ran out of ideas, so lmk if i should do more!!

　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

𓇼 ⋆.˚ : The sun hangs high in a cloudless sky, its golden warmth spilling over the polished warmth of the wooden deck. Gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of the Thousand sunny.

A mild breeze stirs the sails, fluttering them lazily as the ship sailed on forward, the rigging creaks occasionally. Seagulls squawking and birds chirping from a comfortable distance in the vast horizon. But otherwise, silence reigned the vessel as everyone else was sleeping in their cabins during this peaceful morning. It was quiet, too quiet.

And then, there was you. Pacing back and forth around the kitchen, a panicked mess. You were basically a walking storm, trapped in skin. The scent of burnt food from a plate placed on the counter hitting your nose with an acrid, bitter edge.

The smell, of course, didn't go unnoticed. From a particular cook in the ship who quickly rose from his sleep and made his way towards the kitchen in quick strides. Pushing the door open in panic. His mind rushed with thoughts like : "Is it an intruder, a possible enemy attack?"

But those thoughts were soon completely erased as he was met by the sight of you standing there in the middle of the kitchen, a guilty expression on your face, like a child who just broke their mother's sacred living room vase. Taking a glance behind you, he finally identified the source of the smell, a black vapor of smoke emiting from the plate. His gaze soon shifting to yours again. His worried expression immediately softened upon seeing tears streaming down your face.

"Mon amour— What's wrong, what happened ?" He implored in a soft tone, walking towards you. His hands hovering over you as if he was scared you'd break the moment he touched you.

"Food.. it..- I cooked, and it burned, and — " You muttered out incoherently between sobs. You knew he hated wasting food more than anything else.

The cook wasted no time in pulling you in his arms, into a tight, comforting embrace. He had no idea what you were saying, but, despite whatever you thought, your tears were his biggest weakness.

" Shh.. M'lady, calm down, I'm not mad at you, please stop crying. " He cooed, deseperately trying to stop your endless stream of tears soaking through his shirt.

He didn't say anything for a while, and neither did you. Simply holding you in a comforting enfold, until you quieted down and gathered your thoughts.

You were the one ending the hush.

"I wanted to cook something for everyone before you woke up, since you always work so hard, and I burned it..." Your voice trembled slightly, as though you were confessing a sin.

Sanji simply stared down at you for a moment, before letting out a small laugh, tightening his hold on you, always ensuring and prioritizing your safety. He then lifted you up off the ground slightly, just enough to twirl you around in his arms.

"My love !! You're so cute I could die !!"

"Wh- Sanji !!" Your hands hung in the air, your eyes widening. You couldn't help but chuckle at the sudden gesture.

He eventually placed you down on the ground again.

"So.. you're not mad..?"

"Y/N, darling, if you told me you burned a man to ashes, I would blame him for standing in your way."

You chuckled at the reassurance, a faint blush dusting your already red, post-crying cheeks. He always had a certain way with words that boosted your mood in no time.

The blonde reached closer and wiped the remaining tears off your complexion with his thumbs, ever so gently. Treating it like fragile glass. His hands slightly cold, contrasting against your warm, roughed up face. Before placing a soft kiss to your nose.

"It's okay to make mistakes, let's remake it together before the others wake up, hm?" He reassured you, patting your back here and there.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ And so, the entire hassle was over, you eventually cooked the meals again with Sanji's help, he instructed you, carefully watching you, making sure you don't spill, burn yourself, anything of the sort. A proud, loving warm smile plastered on his face the entire time. It was both a means of bonding and teaching you more of his secret cooking tips he wouldn't tell a soul about.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. The moon hangs full above the idle mast, casting a spell on the currently anchored ship of the Whitebeard Pirates, lanterns swing from ropes, their golden glow flickering across their faces. The sound of crickets trilling in the grassy field ahead was loud, never loud enough to overcome their cheerful singing and laughters erupting like cannon, as they partied, for whatever reason.

Their excuse? "There is no celebration, we simply celebrate living through another day !" With half empty barrels of rum, sake.. you name it, beside them.

And you were there in the middle of them, on god knows how many bottles of rum. Probably not much, considering your tolerance. You couldn't afford to drink that much. Though you were already a tad bit tipsy, losing count of the previous ones.

Beside you, was your significant lover, none other than Ace.

"Cheers again!"

"Cheers ! To the charming lady who stole my heart ~ " He said with a cheerful smile on his face, the one he'd always wear. The one that always caused a flutter in your heart. His voice dropping down an octave at the last sentence.

You simply enjoyed eachother's presence, a bit too much. The sound of the crowd almost vanishing, that of boots stomping as the others danced with wild abandon, some arm in arm, some spinning solo.

Just as you were about to grab yourself another bottle, he did it. again. His signature move.

Ace's freckled face suddenly fell on your lap, his previous laughter soon replaced with a faint snore. Your eyes widened as you looked down at him. Hands suspended above your head, unsure of what to do.

You blinked a few times, processing it, and before you knew it, you unwillingly burst into tears. Probably due to the alcohol, but that was a conversation for another day.

"Ace !! Are you dead ?! " You whined, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Tears helplessly falling along your tinted cheeks.

Noticing your fussy state amidst the chaos, Marco walked up to you, arms crossed, he let out an amused laughter at the two of you.

"Haha ! Y/N !! You really crying? Give him a minute or two, you should get used to it by now."

That didn't go through your head. Not the slightest bit. You continued shaking him like you're trying to reach a coin from an empty penny bank.

He soon rose from his— rather short slumber, looking at you with a dead, plain expression. Like you had just insulted his entire bloodline, accessing the situation in his half drowsy, half drunken head.

He raised an eyebrow as he saw the tears on your face. Upon noticing that, you promptly averted your gaze away from him, wiping them off using the back of your sleeve.

"..Were you crying?? " Portgas asked, a mix of worry and amusement stirring in his voice, each of the two fighting for dominance.

"Absolutely not." You affirmed, your response quick and sharp.

"Pehahaha ! You wereeee ~ " He insisted in a tune-ish tone. A laugh eventually booming out of him. A laughter that always brought warmth to your chest, no matter what. Even now, when you were pretending to be mad.

Scooting closer to you, he draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against his side. His free hand curling into a fist and ruffling your hair playfully. "You thought I died or somethin' ?" The brunette teased, low chuckles escaping the back of his throat despite him. Holding himself back.

"..Could you stop doing that out of the blue? Atleast warn me beforehand!! What if you actually died?? What would I do with myself, Ace!" You dramatized, perhaps way too much. It's the alcohol, again.

He didn't exactly try to ridicule you or make fun of you, knowing how emotional you'd get in your light headed form. He leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the side of your head, patting your shoulder reassuringly.

"You're such a crybaby. I won't die, not anytime soon, and especially not because of this. Alright?"

How ironic.

"..'Better not, you fool.." You mumbled under your breath.

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. When you thought he hadn't heard you, well, he had. His earlier amused smile shifting into a warm, content one. Finding your tipsy, worried self oddly endearing. But brushing off this funny interaction aside, not wanting to bring down the mood, both of you soon placed your focus back to enjoying your quality time alongside eachother before the end of the night.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ A gruesome fight had just ended between the Kid Pirates and another rookie crew, who foolishly thought they were good enough and actually stood a chance to match against your captain.

Your crew, of course, left the attack victorious. Albeit, the ship, Victoria, was left in a tremendously bad shape. And you were so kind to offer fixing up a few loose wooden boards.

Spoiler: You had no shipwrighting experience whatsoever.

And so you struggled, for hours. Deseperately attempting to fix the mess.. and you just may have made it worse. Though your pride didn't allow you to admit you couldn't do it.. or maybe the fear of telling Kidd. So, you simply chose to drown in silence.

You sat down, leaning against the railing. Smoothing your hair back and sighing, a few tears falling from your face with your forehead in yours hands, elbows propped on your knees.

This was dumb. Why were you crying?

You thought: everyone is so strong and reliable, You thought you could at least help with some measly ship fixing.

Zoning out, your mind eventually turned off, but your tears never ceased raining down your face. Until he passed by.

A deep, aggressive voice pierced through your earlier silence.

"Oi — You done fixing that up or what ?!"

You immediately flinched, standing up abruptly, with a hammer still in your hand. Face slightly reddened and puffy from your quiet sobs.

Kidd wasn't born yesterday, he certainely wasn't the smartest one in the bunch, either. But when something was wrong, he could definitely sense it.

" What the hell. Y/N. Crying, on my ship ? In my sight?? " He scolded roughly. A growl emitting beneath his words.

"I'm not crying, I just couldn't figure out how t —" You gave him a half-assed excuse, gripping the hammer tighter around your hand.

Eustass looked back and forth between you, the hammer, and the still unfixed mess behind you. It wasn't hard to put two and two together.

"Tch— You're pathetic, give me that." He commanded firmly, his tone as gruff as ever as he took the hammer from your hand by force in one swift motion. Kneeling down where the touching up needed to be done, and getting to work without another word.

"Captain, you didn't have to, I can—" You protested quietly, walking behind him.

"Shut up and actually make yourself useful— Bring more screws. Now."

Not another word was spoken from you. You quickly hurried off to grab more supplies, sighing in relief on your way.

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ Why, relief? Because you knew. You knew he wasn't actually mad. That's just how he is. A tough exteriour, hiding a much more caring and reliable facade, especially towards you and the rest of his crewmates. You could tell he felt just a tad bit bad for your pathetic, sorry self. Though he would never admit it out loud. And he didn't necessarily have to, since you could read him like a book anyway.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ Onboard the famous Polar Tang submarine, where everyone else was busy managing whatever important stuff going on. You, on the other hand, were.. well, definitely busy, with something else.

Curled up in a ball on the couch of Law's office, wrapped around yourself like a cocoon, face buried in your knees. You weeped, uncontrollably. Like you just witnessed the sky shattering and falling above you. Your form shaking slightly with each sob errupting out of you.

And there he was, sitting on his desk, his multiple attempts at focusing on his work were futile.

He'd already tried comforting you, but those attempts were just as pointless.

He wiped a hand roughly over his face, as if he was giving up on life itself entirely.

"Will you stop crying over that already ? " He grumbled gruffly, his gaze shifting to you again.

"No !! I feel so, terribly bad, I wish the ground opened and swallowed me whole ! "

"So dramatic." Trafalgar sneered, rolling his eyes.

"You just don't get it!" You whined.

"Oh, I do get it." He affirmed amidst standing up, making his way towards you again. He sat beside you, awkwardly.

You were unconsollable.

"..Listen, I really don't think Bepo's the type to hold a grudge over you accidentally stepping on him— Hell, he doesn't hold grudges at all. He's just Bepo." Law assured you, placing an awkward hand on your back, patting it a few times.

You eventually pulled your face out of your knees, sniffling, dabbing at your tears with the back of your hand.

"But— He looked so pained, and sad, and the way HE apologized because of MY mistake —"

"He's not sad, I was with him just a moment ago, he's playing cards with Penguin and the others like nothing happened. I bet he already forgot about it."

You paused. It was a long, dramatic pause. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole once again, but this time, for different circumstances. You just embarassed yourself, crying senseless over nothing. Though your tears finally stopped their ceaseless falling.

He blinked a few times, confused by your sudden silence, and the way you stared at him.

"..Really? He's not sad? Or mad at me?" You asked again, making sure, again, and again.

"I never lied to you." Law reassured you, times over, and over. As much as you needed.

With a now relieved smile, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close for a hug. He stiffened and stilled for a moment, a small, barely there blush brushing against his cheeks. But he didn't hesitate to hug you back.

"Idiot. You should really save your tears for more important matters next time." The surgeon mumbled against your hair as he plopped his chin ontop of your head. More of an advice than a scold, he didn't exactly like seeing you crying, and it showed, in his own special way.

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ He wasn't exactly the emotional type of guy. When it came to situations like this, or any situation, really. He was always more logical, rational, and critical. He acted on finding a solution rather than giving out comfort, but he learned to know how to balance between the two when it came to you, he deeply cared, despite not showing much through his cold and distant facade. Which only seemed to collapse around you.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

[maskedbyghost]

You were facing the wall.

Arms tucked close to your chest, your back turned toward the door, and a blanket pulled up to your chin even though it wasn’t cold. Your eyes were wide open. You weren’t even trying to sleep. The light from the hallway bled under the crack in the door, and every time it shifted, your breath caught, half-hoping, half-dreading that it was him.

He’d left without another word. You’d told him to sleep on the couch, and he didn’t argue. Just looked at you for a moment, his lips pressed into that hard line he always got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. And then he walked out.

That was almost an hour ago.

You blinked slowly, eyes stinging. You hated fighting with him. Hated the way it left your chest tight and your mind buzzing. You hated the silence afterward even more. And this time… you weren’t even sure who was more in the wrong.

The fight started with something stupid. It usually did. You’d asked him why he hadn’t texted back when you messaged him earlier in the day—just a casual check-in, nothing serious. He said he’d been busy. You said you understood, but something about your tone made it obvious you didn’t. And then he said, “It’s not always about you,” and you froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, like you’d been a burden instead of someone he missed. Like he didn’t have space for you in his head that day, and you were wrong for noticing it.

You’d snapped and told him if he didn’t want to talk to you, he could’ve just said that. Told him you weren’t going to beg him for attention. He looked at you like he wanted to speak but didn’t, and you’d finally said it.... go sleep on the couch, Simon, because you didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t hurt more.

And he left.

Now you were here, pretending the pillow was more comfortable than his chest, replaying the words in your head until they lost all their meaning. You hadn’t even told him goodnight. And he hadn’t told you he loved you, not like he always did before bed.

Your throat tightened. You blinked at the wall again, trying to will yourself not to cry, not now when you’d already said your piece, already told him to leave. You didn’t want to be the one to break first. But still, your chest ached in that way that only came when something between you felt wrong.

A floorboard creaked somewhere outside the bedroom. Then silence came, a pause just long enough to make you question if you’d even heard anything at all.

And then—

The door creaked open slowly.

You stayed still. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want him to think you’d just forget everything because he came back. But your heart betrayed you, picking up speed the moment you heard his quiet footsteps on the carpet. Then the bed dipped behind you, before his arm wrapped around your waist, fast like he was afraid you’d push him away if he didn’t do it quick.

You didn’t.

“I know you’re awake,” he said quietly, his breath brushing against the back of your neck.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I thought about what you said.” His voice was low and soft. “And I thought about what I said. And I didn’t come back to fight. I just... I needed you to hear this.”

He paused, exhaling slowly.

“I fucked up,” he admitted. “I was tired and distracted, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just lookin’ for me and I made you feel like you were too much.”

Your eyes burned. Still, you didn’t speak.

“I never want you to feel that way,” he murmured. “Not ever. Not when you text me, not when you talk to me, not when you just exist near me. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re the best part of my day, and I treated you like you weren’t. I’m sorry, love.”

You felt his hand squeeze your side gently, like he was grounding himself just as much as he was trying to comfort you.

“I meant what I said before I left,” he added, “but I meant it wrong. It’s not always about you, but it should be. You’re my person. I should’ve answered you. I should’ve checked in. You have every right to need me.”

You blinked hard, finally managing to whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fight.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I know, love. You were just tryin’ to connect. And I shut down on you. I let shit get in my head and I pushed you out. I won’t do that again.”

You turned slowly, finally facing him. His eyes met yours in the dim light, and god, he looked wrecked.

“I just missed you,” you whispered. “That’s all.”

He reached up and cupped your face gently. “I missed you too. More than I can say. And I don’t want to end a single fuckin’ day with you wonderin’ if I care. I do. So much.”

You leaned in, tucking your face against his neck. His arms wrapped around you fully now, pulling you in close, holding you tight like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, before his lips pressed against your hair.

“I’m not goin’ back to the couch,” he said softly. “Even if you ask again. I’ll sleep on the floor next to you before I ever leave you like that again.”

That made you laugh, just a little.

“Sorry I got mean,” you mumbled.

He smiled into your hair. “You weren’t mean. You were hurt. And I made you feel that way. I deserved it.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “You’re really good at this. Talking about it. Most guys just shut down.”

“I used to,” he admitted. “Didn’t fix a damn thing. I’d rather talk and hold you than be right.”

You snorted. “You were wrong though.”

He grinned. “I know. Fully aware of it.”

You finally let your body relax fully against him, tension leaving piece by piece as he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Still love you, even when we fight. Especially then.”

“I love you too,” you murmured.

And you meant it. Even when it was hard. Even when things got messy. Because he came back. Because he chose to come back and say the things that mattered. Not everyone did.

But Simon did. And that was enough.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

[sebsxphia]

shoving your soaked panties in robert reynolds’s mouth to keep him quiet ! 🤭🤭🤭🤭

stay quiet.

robert reynolds x reader.

￫ summary: trying to keep bob quiet is difficult. but you’ve found a solution.

￫ word count: 700.

￫ warnings: handjobs, semi public, nearly getting caught and smut.

￫ authors notes: i didn’t know how to end this. i’m sorry 🥹 my brain can only do so much atm. my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

It was never wildly convenient that the living room space ran parallel to the kitchen area. You had been lying around with Bob all morning on the sofa. It wasn’t different from your shared bed, but you both weren’t quite ready to get up yet, and the couch seemed the next logical move. 

Multiple throws snuggly covered you as you lay beside him on the large sofa. You were curled into his toned chest, and the soft cotton on his sweatshirt provided a comfortable place to rest your head. 

Your leg was hooked around his waist, and without even honestly acknowledging it, you were shifting your hips to grind against him slowly.

“Sweetheart…” Bob croaked out, breaking the comfortable silence between you both.

You cocked your head upwards and blinked at him. “Wha’?”

“You’ve made me hard.” He guided your hand from where it was placed on his chest, down his abdomen and to palm at his sweatpants.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck and stifled out a giggle. 

“Sorry, I was just so cozy.” You gave his hardening cock a light squeeze and bob let out a choked groan. “Do you want me to help?” 

You squeezed again and his eyes fluttered shut. He nodded vigorously and shifted his hips as you slid your hand under the waistband of his underwear.

“So warm, baby. So hard.” You hummed against his neck. You began running your hand in rhythmic motions, up and down his shaft. 

Bob gasped out sweet moans. They were silent enough that they wouldn’t be heard by anyone who came to the kitchen. 

Your pace quickened beneath the pile of blankets, and as you ran your thumb over his tip in teasing circles, a louder moan got caught in his throat.

“Bob!” You giggled against his cheek, kissing his flushed skin softly. 

“I‘m sorry, I can’t help it,” He whimpered. 

You were instinctively moving your hips to grind against him as you matched his pace, and a wicked idea came to your head as his moans were becoming undeniably louder.

“Hold on…” Your hand left his aching cock momentarily and he let out a whine at the loss of contact. You manoeuvred under the blankets to slip off your underwear and bunch them together in your hand. 

“Will this keep you quiet, pretty boy?” Bob’s lips parted as he took your panties into his mouth. 

He let out a groan, which would’ve been loud enough for all to hear, but it came out muffled against your underwear. He could taste your arousal on the material, and his hips were instinctively bucking to feel your touch again. 

Your hand found his cock again and as you ran your hand over the slick shaft, he rolled his head back against the sofa arm, his eyelashes fluttering against his hot cheeks. Muffled whines vibrated against your underwear as they were stuffed into his mouth.

You were caught off guard as Bucky came into the kitchen area, a towel draped around his shoulders from his shower. 

You popped your head up from behind the sofa and smiled innocently.

“Oh, hey, Bucky.”

“Hey.” He murmured back. 

You glanced back down at Bob, whose eyes went wide. He was safely tucked away behind the back of the sofa, but if anyone came closer, they would surely see the sight. Your hand stayed on Bob’s cock, teasingly stroking him. 

“Have you seen Bob? I need to ask him something.” Bucky said, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee.

“Yeah! He’s snuggling here with me.” You nonchalantly smiled back at Bucky. 

A quiet squeal vibrated through your underwear from Bob. You felt his cock twitch in your hand. 

He wasn’t getting softer. He was enjoying nearly being caught like this. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed into the sofa. “Okay… I’ll find him later…” He slinked out of the room, not looking back.

You directed your gaze back to Bob, a knowing smile pulling on your lips. 

Bob’s eyes were gazing up at you, pleading and desperate. “You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

He nodded and moaned softly against your underwear. 

“My pretty boy,” You cooed. “So pretty like this.”

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @unmistakablyunknown @kmc1989

[alwaysanangelneverag0d]

~Fast Break to your heart~Pazzi AU

NWSL Paige x WNBA Azzi

a/n:hello yall im very excited to release the first chapter of this i of course welcome any feedback or criticism.Especially in how i write womens soccer.I promise i will get a bit more detailed on that front jjst give me time🙏🙏🙏

Wc:5.3k(i swear most chapters will be much longer then this)

Chapter 1:Collision

Early May-2026

When she agreed to go to the game, Azzi told herself it was to keep the peace. Cam had called it team bonding. Azzi had been halfway through unpacking a box labeled kitchen decorations when Cam burst into her apartment, ripped open the blinds, and announced she was picking her up at three. Azzi had no choice. It was in moments like this that she wished she didn’t coincidentally live in the same apartment as Cameron Brink.

Now Azzi sat on the couch, book on her thigh, hoping Cam would forget she was forcing her into this.

But then she heard a knock and saw Cam standing in her doorway, arms crossed like a disappointed older sister.

“We’re gonna be late,” Cam’s tone was casual but sharp. “And I swear to God, if you bring that book with you, I’m throwing it out on the freeway.”

Azzi gasped. “Wow, threatening literature now—that’s low.”

“I’m not threatening the book. I’m threatening you, Fudd.” Cam stepped inside and snatched the book dramatically. “I’m not letting you third-wheel your own social life.”

Azzi sighed, running a hand through her curled hair. “It’s not about the book, I just couldn't care less about socc—”

Cam cut her off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But consider this: it’s either sit in a packed stadium with friends or keep unpacking boxes, not knowing where you want to put your championship plaques.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “They aren’t even plaques… they’re framed jerseys.”

“Oh, my bad. I meant the Azzi Fudd Hall of Fame wall.”

Despite wanting to shoot daggers, Azzi cracked a grin, stifling a laugh.

Cam grinned back, knowing that when Azzi smiled, it meant victory. “That’s better. Now go put on something that isn’t sweatpants. You know Rickea hates waiting.”

Azzi groaned, mumbling, “The peer pressure is crazyyy.”

“Exactly,” Cam grinned. “Welcome to the team, Fudd.”

As they walked out of the apartment building, Cam reached out and bumped her shoulder slightly.

“Serious question,” Cam glanced sideways at her. “Why the hell are you still unpacking boxes for your kitchen? You’ve been here like two weeks.”

“Three, actually,” Azzi muttered. “Not that I’ve been counting.”

Cam raised a brow. “That is worse.”

Azzi didn’t respond immediately. She just kept walking through the lot, dragging her feet like her body was forcing her forward. The silence stretched long enough to make Cam look at her with concern.

“It’s not like, deep or anything,” Azzi said quickly, definitely not convincing. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“With what?” Cam added. “I have seen you read the same book three times this week.”

Azzi cracked a grin. “Hey, at least I’m consistent.”

Cam stopped walking and paused. “I get it—you don’t feel like this is home.”

Azzi’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s not about that.”

“It’s exactly about that.”

Azzi paused. She didn’t want to admit it, but Cam was right—even though she hadn’t fully acknowledged it out loud.

“I guess I just—” Azzi exhaled, “don’t feel settled yet.”

Cam didn’t say anything, letting Azzi open up at her own pace.

“I miss rhythm. The familiarity of the people, the court, routine.” She paused. “When I was at UConn, even the silence felt like it belonged to me. Here? It just feels like I’m a visitor. Like, I don’t belong here yet.”

Cam frowned, but her eyes showed understanding.

“You do belong here. Maybe just not in the ways you want to yet, but you do. You don’t have to force yourself to prove you belong every single day.”

Azzi nodded. “I know… but it’s just weird. Being without the girls. The noise. Familiarity.”

Cam bumped her shoulder once more. “Then let us be your noise.”

“You’re already loud enough.”

And then, to almost prove Azzi’s point, their moment was interrupted by a set of honks.

Azzi jumped, while Cam just shook her head with a grin.

“HELLOOOOOO!”

“Rickea, chill, we’re coming,” Azzi called back as they jogged toward the car.

“Took you long enough. I was about to start charging for loitering.”

Cam laughed. “My bad, Kea.”

Rickea shook her head. “Distractions get you nowhere when it comes to me.”

“Sorry, Kea. We’ll keep it quick next time.”

“You bet,” Rickea added. “’Cause next time, you’ll be walking to the game.”

———————————————————————-

Rickea’s Jeep vibrated with bass as Mary J. Blige blasted through the speakers, the windows rolled halfway down to let in the warm L.A. evening air. The girls were screaming the lyrics with unfiltered enthusiasm, not a single note in key, and none of them cared.

Cam was drumming on the dashboard like it was a snare, Rickea slapped the steering wheel in rhythm, and Dearica had her head halfway out the window, harmonizing so badly it looped around to charming. Azzi sat in the back, squeezed against the door, a reluctant passenger in the chaos.

But the noise was oddly comforting. Loud in a way that made silence feel impossible. Like friendship layered over static.

Azzi stared out the window, watching the city blur past in neon smudges and golden smears of sunlight. Her heart was ticking faster than it should’ve been, though she couldn’t decide if it was from nerves or something else.

She laughed when Cam tried to hit a high note and cracked spectacularly, clutching her chest like the lyrics had physically wounded her. It was ridiculous. And for a second, it felt good.

The closer they got to the arena, the more the atmosphere shifted.

Traffic thickened. Tailgates flipped open. Fans in pink and black filtered onto the sidewalks in packs. The air felt charged, like something big was about to happen.

Cam twisted sharply in her seat, dropping her sunglasses onto her lap as the chorus faded into the next track. She turned down the volume, not dramatically, but with purpose. The quiet hit harder after so much noise.

Cameron smiled at azzi as if she had something of great importance to say

“Just so you know,” she began dramatically, “there’s gonna be tons of hot, muscular women waiting for a beautiful, curly-headed basketball player like you to waltz in there.”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. This again.

The group’s obsession with trying to set her up was getting exhausting.

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m a visionary, actually,” Cam corrected, completely unbothered.

“A horny visionary.”

Rickea cackled as Cam threw her head back, clutching her chest like Azzi’s answer had physically wounded her.

“Listen, Az,” Cam said, leaning in like she was sharing sacred wisdom. “All I’m saying is—new city, new you. Let someone ruin you for once. Preferably someone with sexy thighs and a six-pack.”

Azzi groaned, already preparing to recite the same speech she’d been giving since she landed in L.A. “I’m not trying to date anyone right now. Or hook up. Or do anything other than basketball.”

“Yeah, but a basketball can’t kiss you goodnight,” Rickea chimed in from the driver’s seat, not even missing a beat.

“If it somehow could,” Azzi muttered, “it would probably still do it better than all the people you sleep with.”

Cam let out a loud snort. “BURN.”

Rickea gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like Azzi had shot her point blank. “She’s ruthless! Cam, I told you she was cold-blooded off the court, too!”

Cam and Rickea launched into a fake argument over who was the more emotionally neglected friend, their voices escalating with every fake accusation. Azzi leaned back into her seat and stared out the window, letting their banter fill the space around her.

There was something peaceful about the noise. Familiar. Like background music to her restless thoughts.

But the moment they stepped out of the car, everything changed.

The hum of the stadium hit Azzi like a wave—loud and alive. You could feel the energy in the air, buzzing with anticipation. The crowd, even from a distance, moved like a tide, their chatter and laughter rising in waves as the arena loomed overhead like a coliseum built for modern-day gladiators.

And the closer they walked, the more Azzi felt it: that quiet shift in the air. Like she wasn’t just walking into a soccer game, but into something bigger. Something electric.

The concrete beneath her sneakers felt different. The lights ahead were brighter. The sound of a thousand voices layered over one another felt like prophecy.

It was just a game.

Fans were weaving in and out of lines, most decked in jerseys, scarves, and posters in the team's hues of pink, black, and grey. But what pulled her into noticing was the name

Bueckers

Over and over again

It was on the back of jerseys in bold lettering. On colorful signs that almost felt like declarations. Even painted on the cheeks of young fans

Azzi’s breath hitched. Paige’s name might as well have been sewn into the air

They didn’t just admire. They adored her

‘’Is this normal? ’’ she asked under her breath as they headed towards their section of seats

Cam followed her gaze. “For Paige? Yes, L.A. worships her, she’s like the female Messi”.

“Shit they’d probably elect her for mayor and she wouldn’t even have to campaign” Rickea added.

Azzi let out a chuckle, but for some reason, her chest felt tight. She had played in front of sellout crowds. She saw her name on posters, jerseys, and faces, just like Paige. But this noise wasn’t for the sake of a team, it was for her.

Paige

The one the city had crowned theirs

Her eyes glazed over a sign ‘’The prophecy lives”

She didn’t know which made her feel worse. That Paige had a hype azzi dreamed to have one day.. Or the fact that she understood why.

—————————————————————-

As they weaved through the crowd towards their seats, Azzi found herself feeling weirdly off balance. Not sick, just..off.Maybe it was the lights. Or the noise.Or maybe something else.Someone else

She barely had a moment to ground herself when Cam cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed,

“PAIGEEEEE”

Azzi was mortified. “Cam, what are you doing?” Azzi hissed, grabbing the taller girl's arms in an attempt to stop the draw of attention Cam had summoned. Heads turned in their direction. Azzi immediately ducked lower in her seat. The last thing she wanted was attention, especially when it came to Cam’s antics

“I'm tryna get PB's attention,” Cam whined as she waved her arms frantically in the air like she was lost in the forest begging for a helicopter rescue.

Azzi followed her gaze towards the field. There she was. Paige Bueckers. Talking to a teammate, water bottle clutched in strong, veined hands. Azzi blinked. Something inside her hiccupped. She turned back to Cam.

“Wait, you know her?”

“ I could’ve sworn I mentioned her name once. Possibly even twice”

Azzi was truly astonished

“When you said ‘Paige’, I didn’t think you meant the Paige Bueckers.”

Can shot her a proud look. “Yep.The one and only. The chosen one, they say”

Rickea giggled, “We love Paigey, even though she looks mean, she's like a teddy bear.”

Azzi’s eyebrow raised. “She does not give off the vibes of a teddy bear’

“I mean to be honest, she has always had a certain reputation, you could say,” Rickea smirked as if she was about to reveal government secrets

“A Reputation of…?”.Azzi was curious

“Being a massive S-L-U-T,” Rickea’s smirked

“Don’t you think that's a bit harsh?” Dearica chimed in from the other side

Can let out a loud snicker at this. “Only harsh if you didn’t go to Stanford with her. I eventually lost track of the number of girls who came up to me, in literal tears, because Paige ghosted them

“Oh yeah,” Rickea added,” and always the same excuse- ’ I need to focus on soccer’.Not like she was lying.”

“I think I saw her sleep in cleats one time in spring sem,” Cam giggled.

‘She had the same line for everyone’’Rickea shook her head. “Never lasted more than a week with a girl.”

Azzi said nothing. Her eyes drifted unintentionally back to the bench. Paige was crouched, lacing her cleats. Something was mesmerizing about just that simple act. The way she carried herself in simplicity made Azzi’s stomach drop.

Azzi blinked, realizing she was staring. That’s when she felt a nudge

Dearica leaned in. “She’s hot, isn’t she?”

Azzi’s face flushed.”Um–what? No.”

But her voice was too flat for someone who was denying it.

Rickea smirked, “Mhm.”

“Seriously, I don’t have time for a distraction like that; basketball is my only focus.”

“Well, your loss.” Rickea licked her lips, “'Cause if I was into girls, I’d let Paige ruin my life.”She threw her head back dramatically .”Those gorgeous chiseled abs?That jawline? She could call me ugly, and I’d still thank her for acknowledging me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. Biting her cheeks to keep from breaking out in a grin

“I think you two would get along well.”

Azzi blinked, shocked at Cam’s sudden comment

“Me and Paige?”

Rickea and Cam nodded in agreement

“As weird as it sounds, yeah.” Cam added, “You are way more alike than you’d like to think.”

“I doubt that,” Azzi scoffed. What could she possibly have in common with Paige?

“I'm being serious, Az.” Cam paused, “You both live for the game, like, don't get me wrong, I love ball. But you both don't just play the game you love-you live it.”

Azzis breath caught

“You train it every day like it's a religion to be preached. You push yourselves even when you're long past empty. You breathe the game into your lungs. I've only met two people like that.You.And her”

Azzi was rendered speechless. She felt uncomfortable with how Paige’s dedication made her feel. How seen she felt

“Though I must say you are definitely much much nicer,” Rickea joked, earning a hard jab to the ribs from Cam in retaliation

“Still,” Cam added, “You would like her more than you think, hun.”

Azzid forced herself to let out a laugh and smile, but it came out ingenuine hollow. Forced

Might like her?Absolutely not. Liking Paige Bueckers would not be happening.

The lights dimmed slightly. The announcer's voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the walls and out of the open roof.

Azzi shifted in her seat. She hadn’t expected to come here and feel like this. Her heart ticked like it was ready to explode. Not in fear of the game . There was the unfamiliar weight lingering. A force threatening to break her walls.

A quick montage played on the arena jumbotron.Highlights flashing. Explosive cuts of goals and saves.

One by one, the announcer began calling out the starting eleven players, each name sparking a wave of applause and chants. The anticipation built steadily, like the calm before a storm.

“Starting in goal… number 19… Angelina Anderson!”

The crowd erupted with cheers, fans waving scarves and chanting her name.

“And holding midfield… number 23… Christen Press!”

A fresh roar surged through the stands, a mix of whistles and applause echoing off the arena walls.

Rickea hit Azzi’s side. “Just wait until you hear the crowd when they announce her.”

Azzi just nodded at Rickea's words. Her body began to sweat

Why is she affecting her like this

“And starting at forward…”

Cam rubbed her hands together in excitement

A quick pause of silence

“Number 5…..PAIGEE BUECKERRRSSS!”

The stadium exploded in increased volume

“PB! PB!

Chants came from every end of the arena

But this wasn’t like the names before. It wasn’t cheering.This was worship

Devotion.As if she were something holy. The entire stadium had turned into a congregation, and Paige was there gospel

She gazed up in silence as the Jumbotron showed Paige’s slow jog onto the field. Her movements were calm and easy. Like she didn’t need to meet the energy of the crowd.The energy wrapped around her.Made space for her

Azzi hated how poetic every thought in her brain felt. She was jealous that just a jersey and a name brought utter devotion from people.

The city didn’t just love Paige. They believed in her. The kind of belief where they built statues.The kind of belief that puts pressure on your soul.

But she knew then something deep inside her had shifted. Something her mind had failed to catch up with.

A warning, maybe, or possibly a pull.

And that terrified her.

___

The field was in complete chaos. players colliding like atoms, cleats slicing grass, arms jostling for space. And then, without warning, the chaos formed around her

Paige.

She didn’t just receive the ball- she absorbed it. A touch so clean it looked magnetic, as if the ball had been drawn towards her. Her back was to goal, one defender already pressing close, but Paige’s first move was so subtle it barely registered until the defender lunged and missed.

Azzi leaned forward in her seat.

Paige spun, shielding with her shoulder, and accelerated. Not in the way most players sprinted-desperate, messy-, but like a blade sliding through air. Each stride was long, hungry, clean. She pushed the ball ahead with the outside of her foot and slipped through a seam that shouldn’t have existed. Azzi blinked. The defenders were caught on their heels, like they were chasing a ghost.

One last defender closed in, a center back with broad shoulders and fast feet. Paige didn’t slow. She tapped the ball to the right with her instep, drawing the defender that direction, then cut back left so sharply the girl nearly tripped over her own two feet. Paige was through. Open.

Azzi’s pulse quickened.

The box approached. The goalie stepped up.

And Paige didn’t hesitate.

Her foot met the ball with terrifying control, a low, curling strike with the inside of her cleat that spun like it had a mind of its own. It curled around the keeper’s outstretched hand, bent at the last moment, and kissed the inside of the far post before settling into the back of the net.

Azzi didn’t even realize she’d held her breath until the crowd exploded.

A sound so huge it felt like it shifted the air in her lungs.

Paige didn’t celebrate

She turned back towards midfield

And then she did it

Lifted the hem of her jersey to wipe the beads of sweat off her face

A simple gesture

But to Azzi, it felt like her world had tilted

Her eyes caught the flash of skin. Smooth, carved with the definition that could only come from obsession,from hours of morning reps . Paige’s abs were unreal. She was convinced they were sculpted from the gods. Sharp lines traced down her stomach, flexing even more with heavy breaths. In that moment, Azzi wondered what it would be like to trace the tips of her fingers along those sharp lines.

She blinked, forcing her mind and eyes to gather themselves

Did she just stare at Paige Bueckers' abs?

Yes, god yes, she had

She glanced away as fast as she could, hoping none of her teammates had picked up on Azzi’s wandering eyes.

But to her dismay, Ricked leaned in

“Now you see what I was talking about.”

Azzi groaned, “Don’t.”

“Like I said,” Rickea whispered, “I would let Paige ruin me.” She let out a low whistle, eyes still fixed on the field.

Azzi tried to force a laugh, but she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She felt deeply unsettled and wasn’t sure if it was due to Paige’s ridiculous body or the fact that for a full 11 seconds, Azzi had frozen. Completely mesmerized

But she wasn’t interested. She swore it

She crossed her arms, trying to shut the feeling out. But her mind only drifted back toward the slow lift of that jersey. The pale skin. A strength only achieved by devotion and obsession

The way it made her feel something.A feeling that she had spent her whole career running from.

For the rest of the game, she told herself she was watching in the interest of the sport. She clapped when the crowd clapped, winced when they gasped, and nodded when Cam shouted about a missed call. But in truth?

She wasn’t watching the game

She was watching her

Every time Paige moved across the field, Azzi felt her eyes follow. It wasn’t out of her conscious-but something magnetic. Like rereading a line in a book that left her hollow

The way Paige sprinted in perfect form.The way she called for the ball-voice loud and imposing, carrying through the crowd.The flick of her hand when she made a gesture.The flame in her eyes when a pass didn’t connect.

Azzi Fudd knew nothing about soccer, but she didn’t need to. Paige made the rules irrelevant. Watching her play was not about understanding the strategy. It was about feeling intensity radiate off of every kick, every pivot.

She played like it was her god given purpose. Not cocky, but inevitable

It was irritating. And maddening

Yet Azzi couldn’t stop watching.

When the final whistle blew, the crowd cheered. Azzi felt as if she had just snapped out of a trance

The game was over, and yet Azzi couldn’t help but feel like it just started.

Cam insisted on staying behind to greet Paige.

Azzi lingered at the edge of the group as they approached, keeping her distance like a cautious observer. She wasn’t trying to be rude—she just didn’t want to intrude. It felt strange, being here. It was like she was hovering on the edge of Paige’s spotlight. Cam wasted no time. She threw her arms around Paige in one of her signature Brink hugs, the kind that squeezed the air out of you. To Azzi’s surprise, Paige laughed a soft, raspy sound that felt too human for someone Azzi had half-convinced herself was just a goal-scoring robot.

Still, she stayed back.Watching.Observing

When Paige’s eyes finally flicked toward her, Azzi turned away—too quickly, too obviously. She pretended to squint up at the arena seats, as if something up there had suddenly become fascinating. Anything to avoid the weight of her stare. Because even as Rickea and Dearica began chatting with Paige, Azzi could feel her eyes trailing across her skin like a scan. Cold.Observant.

Her skin suddenly felt too cold for a warm L.A. night.

She forced herself to glance back. Paige was still watching her, expression unreadable.

“Who’s she?” Paige asked, nodding toward Azzi. Her voice was low clipped and polite, but hollow. Void of interest. It wasn’t curiosity, just protocol.

“That’s Azzi!” Cam said brightly. “The super cool, ridiculously talented new teammate I told you about.” She shoved Azzi forward like she was offering up a shiny trophy.

“Oh. Right,” Paige said, her tone dry. She shifted her weight, hands fidgeting at her sides. “Nice to meet you.” The words landed with a dull thud, lacking warmth or care.

Azzi stepped forward only slightly, offering a stiff nod. “Nice goal earlier,” she said flatly, the compliment thinly veiled behind indifference

Her voice was cooler than usual, measured, detached. The kind of voice she used on the court when the scoreboard was close and emotions were too dangerous. Her teammates shot each other quiet looks, confused. That wasn’t how Azzi usually spoke to people. That wasn't the girl who laughed at Cam’s dumb jokes or hugged Rickea after practices.

Paige didn’t even blink. “Thanks.” Her response was mechanical, as if she were reading off a script. No smile. No acknowledgment. Just a hand held out like a formality.

Azzi shook it briefly. The handshake was firm, businesslike. Her palm was warm but steady, soft yet calloused. Azzi hated that she noticed that. Hated that, for a second, she wondered how someone could have hands like that and still feel so distant. So far from reach.

As soon as their hands separated, the thread between them snapped. Paige turned back to Cam, as if Azzi had never been there. Like she wasn’t worth more than a few seconds of transactional introduction.

Azzi stood still, pretending it didn’t bother her. Pretending she hadn’t just been dismissed. She told herself she didn’t care.

They stayed a while longer, the conversation flowing around her like a current that was too dangerous to step into. Paige talked to Cam, laughed with Rickea. Even joked with Dearica. But not once did she address Azzi again.

And Azzi didn’t try either.

When it was time to go, she gave Cam a quick hug, hearing her say, “We’re overdue for a chat and some Shirley Temples.” Azzi gave a small, detached wave in return and followed the others toward the exit. Her chest tightened, but her face remained calm.

She wasn’t offended

She just didn’t expect someone to be so good at making her feel invisible.

———————————————————————

Later, as they were walking back to Rickea’s car, the sun had dipped, causing the sky to be painted in deep blue and oranges should’ve made Azzi lighten. Usually, she would pull her phone out and take a picture, but her body still felt rigid. Her Hand still felt warm. She could still feel the way Paige didn’t acknowledge her. Like she didn’t exist

Nope.Nope.She was not letting a small interaction get in her head. Especially when that person was probably gonna forget her name the next day

She was pulled out of her trance as Rickea made a dramatic stop in front of the car

“Ok, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“Why were you acting like Elsa the ice queen when you met Paige?”

Dearica gave Rickea a look and leaned against the passenger door.” Seriously, Azzi, you shook her hand like you had just ended a business meeting.”

Rickea added, “Yeah, that’s not like you at all.”

Azzi scoffed, smirking even though she had wanted to curl in a ball at the fact they had also noticed.”I was being normal, you guys are just being dramatic.”

“Normal,” Dearica shot back, “You were stiffer than Cam’s hair on picture day. That’s not the same Azzi who tried to fight the vending machine for stealing her protein bar.”

“I'm just tired, it's been a long day,” she replied, her voice in a calm tone that signified she was done talking about it.

But she felt it in the way they looked at her. As if they could see straight through her lie.

“Ok, let's go.” Azzi opened the back door of the car and slid in. Grateful that they didn’t push. She rested her head against the hot window. Silence settled in the car as the hum of the city slowing down filled the space

Rickea and Dearica talked quietly in the front, but Azzi felt elsewhere. She was too busy fighting against her brain

Stop overthinking about someone you met once. You’re being dramatic. She’s allowed to act cold towards you if she feels like it. She doesn’t know you

She most definitely forgot your name already, anyway. Which is good because that means it will be easier to forget her, too. You are here for basketball. Not that kind of attention

Paige Bueckers shouldn’t bother her. But her thoughts still betrayed her. She had been ignored by worse. Her parents, her coaches, and teammates. But somehow, the ignorance of a stranger stung her heart deeper.

It was the effortlessness of Paige's switch to indifference that made her stomach do backflips.

She’s probably just an asshole to everyone. Cam practically said it herself

But somehow Paige's ignoring her had felt deeply personal. And thats what pissed her off most. How was she letting a stranger occupy her mind like this

You don't even know her, and you have a game tomorrow. Stay focused.

She clenched her hands into fists in her lap to regain control.

Azzi Fudd never feels like this. Curious about someone.Not right.Unsettled

And definitely not intrigued. Especially by someone like Paige Bueckers

But even as Rickea pulled into the apartment parking lot

Azzi knew the thought of Paige would still linger.No matter how far she pushed it down

——————————————————————

Later that night, after unpacking two or so more boxes. The apartment was purely quiet. A silence she had been craving all day

A blanket was pulled over her legs while Stewie snoozed between her feet. A half-unpacked box sat next to her mockingly

Azzi sipped from her second glass of wine. Or maybe it was her third? She didn’t bother to count. Staring at the book in her hand

She had read the same paragraph 7 times in the last ten minutes. Her eyes tried again to absorb the words of her book, but her brain wasn’t registering them

It was probably just nerves. She had her first regular-season game tomorrow, and that had her in her head.

But as she turned another page, she knew that wasn't true. Her only thoughts were a certain 5’8 blonde

Paige.

Not in a weird way, not like a crush or some shit. You’re just curious.

But the game had ended hours ago, and thoughts of Paige still lingered like static in the crevices of her brain. Azzi kept picturing those stupid abs and how they caught the lights in the arena. She could still feel the Vibration from when they chanted her name. Like it was a sermon at church.As if she were the Holy gospel

The way they worshipped Paige.Pure devotion. It got under Azzis' skin in ways that made her wanna squirm. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it

Before her brain could stop her, she reached for her phone. Tapped into Instagram

Just out of curiosity.Not intrigue

Her fingers typed the name like it was second nature. As if her name was something she regularly searched

@ paigebueckers

Her profile was clean. Not much personality.Serious.But here and there was the odd personal photo. Still, Azzi kept scrolling as if she were studying a code she couldn’t decipher. Then she stopped

It was just a team photo. The year Stanford won the national championship. Paige was right in the middle, and she was smiling. One that was too real to be a posed smile like in various of her other photos.Real.Genuine.And for a few seconds, Azzi just stared

So there is softness somewhere deep inside.

She zoomed in without a thought, pulling the image wider. As if she would be able to see more of her this way.

Then her thumb betrayed her and double-tapped.

Fuck.

She felt her soul leave her body

Azzis' eyes widened in fear, staring blankly at what she had just done. It wasn’t just any photo. But a photo from three years ago. And Paige would see it at the top of her notifications

Wait. She probably won’t notice. She gets thousands of likes per day. It will be buried in seconds. And she won't see it in time

Azzi set her phone down on the coffee table. And reached for the wine. Planning to finish the bottle to forget what she had just done

But the second the glass lifted to her lips, her phone buzzed

She looked. Her body suddenly felt cold

paigebueckers sent you a message request

No way.No

Her mind raced ahead, imagining the worst. A string of question marks. Or worse, Paige calling her out, sharp and ruthless: “Who the hell are you?” or “Stop creeping on me.”

But when the message loaded, it was nothing like what she expected.

paigebueckers: I didn’t take you to be a Stanford fan.

Her heart fluttered.

In that moment, Azzi Fudd wished she had chosen something stronger than a bottle of wine.