#company workstation desks

[interiorergonomics]

Modern Workstation Desk Color Theme

Choosing the right modern office workstation desk color theme boils down to overall sleek aesthetic decision. Anyway, who cares? Everyone cares, reason being that it significantly impacts employee productivity, mood, and even your entire brand perception. So, the right color palette creates a conducive environment for the different types of work. In fact, it also balances functionality with design. Now, take time to explore the factors below which induce selecting a prefect color theme for workstation desks. Learn from the leading workstation table manufacturer in Dubai how to align the prefect color spectrum with your company’s goals and workspace needs.

[sahkuna]

LET'S KEEP IT PROFESSIONAL — GOJO SATORU

synopsis: the end of your contract with GS Holding Corp. is coming to an end. well, your contract working for the company's founder and CEO, gojo satoru, as his personal assistant is ending since you no longer would work directly under him. but gojo will be damned if he lets that happen without trying to change your mind.

content warning(s): fem! + afab reader, plot-ish → eventual smut so 18+ mdni, office au, risky workplace relationship, oral (m→f), unprotected, semi-public sex??? (it's in an office), pining gojo satoru bc that's my fave to write

word count: 6.7K+ holay molay...

a/n: wanted to post this bc 1) its been a millineum since i last posted & a fulfilled req and 2) mentally rejecting that manga leak/ending -_-

“I’ll miss you.”

You stand in front of the photocopy machine unmoving. The soft buzz of ink etching itself onto paper is the only sound that floats through the air beside the voice of the persistent CEO you work under. 

Had you known that he would be following you around the building, bugging you as you tried to complete the tasks that he assigned you to finish on his behalf, you would’ve straight up told him to do it himself. 

You contribute much of your time and effort to this company, and you’re highly recognized for your work. …But you absolutely didn’t need the recognition to come in the form of being under constant surveillance from your boss.

Assuming you might’ve not heard him the first time when you don’t respond right away, he leans in closer and rests a comfortable arm on your tense shoulders. “I said, I’m gonna miss you—”

“I heard you the first time, Gojo.”

When the machine stops whirring indicating that it has finished the job, you don’t hesitate to snatch the sheets of paper from the printer and slap them onto Gojo Satoru’s chest, decked out in a baby blue button-up. All too soon, you’re sidestepping around him and heading out the door toward your office right down the hall.

“Hey!” he exclaims at your sudden early departure.

Hot on your tail, Gojo trails after you clutching the papers close to his chest. “Where are you going?” Gojo asks when you take an unexpected sharp left turn from the usual route to his secluded workroom. 

Despite your best efforts to leave him behind, his tall stature annoyingly reminds you that he can keep up with you just fine.

“Y’know,” your boss starts, catching your attention as you practically speed-stomp your way down the halls of his corporation, “Ijichi would never treat me like this!” 

You could practically hear the way he pouts from behind you. When you briefly glance back to confirm your suspicions about what expression he could be wearing, you’re not surprised to see he’s throwing a wistful gaze above your head. His soft, pink lips are downturned and tacked with his snow-white brows all bunched together, probably wishing you’d be more graceful with him.

Or take pity on him at the very least, you know?

You turn back around and continue your path toward your own office space. “Well, it’s a good thing he’s coming back next month then, huh?”

Pity denied.

Gojo swore he heard the wry smile in your voice as soon as you finished your sentence. You’re willfully teasing him and playing with his emotions. But that’s why he’ll miss you— none of his employees would dare talk to him or give him the same flack as you do.

When you step into your office, so does he. And Gojo, either painfully oblivious or simply choosing to ignore the blatant act of you purposefully and almost slamming the door shut in his face, swings it wide open and ambles toward your workstation, a smile creeping onto his lips.

“Extend your contract with me,” he starts, carelessly tossing the sheaf of paperwork onto your tidy desk once he’s within arms reach of it. He peeks at you over his shades and returns your unimpressed stare with an innocent smile. “I’ll raise your salary a reasonable amount once you do.”

While that did sound nice on paper, realistically speaking, dealing with Gojo’s antics for the foreseeable future was less than ideal for you. God forbid you start getting grey hairs at such an early age. Or a raised blood pressure. And besides…

“I still work under and for Utahime’s department though,” you say matter-of-factly, once you’ve crossed the space of your room to sit behind your desk. Your lips twist into a soft pout as you shuffle the scattered sheets together and place them into a neat pile.

Ah, right.

After Ijichi had filed for a paid sick leave after an unrelated work injury several months ago, you graciously covered your colleague’s position as the personal assistant to the founder and CEO of GS Holdings Corp., for the time being.

Pushing away the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head at the namedrop of his top leading director, Gojo deflates onto your desk.

Utahime has been on his case for the past few weeks to hurry up and file the paperwork so that you’d be back in her good graces as soon as your term with him expires. He’s been procrastinating on filing out the paperwork, mostly because he hates doing tedious work, the other half of him flat-out does not want to see you go so soon.

To say Gojo has thoroughly enjoyed you operating as his aide would be a huge understatement. 

Wherever Gojo was in his grand office building, it wouldn’t be unusual for your co-workers to spot you too far off. Outside of work is the same story, especially considering you’d be the one driving him home from work since Ijichi acted as both his assistant and driver. 

“Just switch to mine!” Gojo whines. He joins you at your desk and sits his ass right on the documents you had printed and stretches his limbs against the surface, nearly eating up all the space on your desk. He ignores your strained quips at him to get the hell off. 

“Utahime’ll be fine, let her find someone else. The job market’s already bad as is, so let another person take it and come be with me.” 

There’s a double meaning if you dig deep, and Gojo prays and hopes you’d take the time to digest what he really means. 

However, it seems like you’re not in the mood to be an excavator today.

Pushing his antics and sweet-talking to the side, you arch a questioning brow at him and lean back into your chair. There was nothing explicitly charged behind that reaction of yours, but it shook Gojo to the core realization that his attraction to you was unnerving— though not unnerving enough to have him stay away from you.

“What about Ijichi? Where’s he gonna go if I stay?”

Gojo visibly perks up at your usage of the word ‘if’, because in his mind he’s already imagined the situation to be quite likely. You see the way he sits a little taller, a little higher on your desk at the proposed question.

But alas, you dash his hopes by adding, “Which I won’t. But if I did, what then?”

“Then you guys can make it a two-person job!” he proclaims as if it were the most easy and obvious answer in the world. Gojo rests his feet on either side of your hips and the heels of his dress shoes press into the leather material of your rolling chair, prompting you to squeeze your thighs together due to the lack of room. “You know I need all the help I can get around here.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, Gojo.”

With the wheels on your chair, your boss uses it as leverage to roll you impossibly closer to him than you already were, angling your face centimetres away from his lower torso. You will your eyes to not drift down his body and toward his lap.

Lord knows the field trip the man would have with that if he were to catch you blatantly checking him out right before him. 

“Why’s it so hard to convince you to stay, huh?” he asks, knocking a soft knuckle against that stubborn head of yours. “Why? You don’t like me or something?”

Your heart stutters in your chest at his question. 

Insufferable as he can be sometimes, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel some magnetic pull towards him. 

Losing control of the situation a bit, you grab the reins again. Clearing your throat you ask, “Do you talk to all your employees like that?”

He shakes his head. “Nah.” Gojo props an elbow onto his knee and presses his cheek into the palm of his hand. His smile grows warm and gooey when his blue eyes clash with yours from where you sit a few inches below him. “Just you.” 

You’ll die. You swear you can die right now from the way he’s looking at you— which is no way a boss would ever look at their employee. Let alone assistant. 

Keep it professional.

“Wow! I’m flattered,” you reply, your tone laced heavily with dry sarcasm. You brush his legs away, successfully bringing his feet to rest on the floor and scoot back from your desk. The heated tension that once lingered in the air clears out a bit as you rise to your feet.

Soft cerulean eyes watch as you stand before him, a bit more guarded as you cross your arms across your chest. Whatever you say next is completely lost on him because unlike you, as subtle as he may be, Gojo allows his eyes to wander.

He swallows thickly. You shouldn’t do that. His gaze inconspicuously slides down to the low neck of your blouse and zeroes in on how your arms press against your chest, deliciously squeezing your breasts together and—

“Satoru!” you hiss.

Shit.

Maybe he wasn’t as discreet as he thought.

Quickly flitting his attention back to your face, Satoru offers you a half-assed apology but it’s too late for that. Your face is screwed tight with abashment and bafflement after having caught him in the act. It’s an emotion he hasn’t seen you wear lately. He wants to see more of that. More of you.

Before you could get a word out, ready to rip him a new one about how your eyes weren’t ‘down there’, he hurriedly rushes out a proposition— changing the subject and bringing you both back to the original reason as to why he’d been following you around this past hour. “If I get you to like me, will you work past your term?”

You rest your arms at your sides, completely forfeiting your motion to scold him. Now that’s new. “I never said I don’t like you.”

Satisfaction settles in his chest, warm and heavy at your statement. Gojo liked the sound of that. 

“Then how about this,” the tall CEO moves from his seat on your desk toward you. With each step you take back, he matches you in stride until he’s got your back up against a wall. Quite literally. 

“If I get you to like me more than you do now, you stay. With me. Deal?”

The gentle scent of fabric softener and sandalwood cologne wafts around you. This proximity made you squirm with anticipation. “Do what you want,” you say, craning your neck up to stare at him resolutely. “It won’t change the fact that I’ll be in a whole new department next month.”

The smirk on Gojo’s lips stretches wide as he meets you stare for stare. His voice drips heavy with confidence and a brazen spirit as he asks, “Yeah?”

You only manage a stiff nod, not trusting yourself to speak lest it comes out as a fucking moan from the sexual tension alone.

Content with your compliant state, Gojo finally backs off from you and makes his way toward your door. “Don’t forget that meeting we have with the executives this Friday.”

“I know,” you tumble out, sinking back onto your office chair, miffed that he's got you in such a tizzy. It's a miracle that you don’t melt into it right away under his gaze.

You pick up a new batch of paperwork and begin filing them into their respective folders. When you finish with the first set, Gojo’s still lingering by the doorway, watching you.

“Yes?”

“Nice top, by the way.” His hand rests on the wooden frame, eyes half-lidded with intent. “It really does bring out your eyes.”

As expected, you did not forget about that special executive meeting on Friday. Nor did you forget about the many others you’d have to host and coordinate after that, too.

Essentially, you didn’t let what had transpired the week before deter you from your respective duties as Gojo’s personal assistant. As his right-hand… woman.

But you didn’t entirely forget about what went down either. 

Whether you adhered to his “deal” or not was completely up to you. However, after that day, every personal meeting or time alone together seemed to bristle with tension, heavy with a delicious sort of pressure of the unknown. 

When Gojo would catch your eye or you’d catch his during prolonged meetings that stretched over the initial run time with the higher-ups, there would be a brief moment of shared glances. One recent instance stuck with you to the last few weeks of your contract.

You remember how he would roll his eyes sarcastically as if he were being forced against his own will to attend these kinds of things— which technically he was, but that’s the reality of being a successful founder and CEO of your own company— and his actions would rouse a stifled giggle from you, which in turn prompted an easy smile of his own.

But it was through these shared glances, these brief moments of humour that it would slip into something a little slower, a little more sweet the more you two held eye contact like dripping honey until you broke it off, hurriedly directing your attention back toward the front of the room.

It’s only a matter of time until this bundled ball of emotions displayed through knowing glances and brief moments of heated exchanges finally snaps.

You both wonder when that’ll be.

“This is crazy.”

You slide your gaze away from swirling your cup of iced cappuccino to Shoko who sits beside you. She leans her head back against the cushions of your office sofa— a complimentary gift from Gojo two weeks ago(you suspect it was his last-ditch effort to get you to stay).

“What is?” you ask.

Sitting up, Shoko crosses her leg over the other and fixes you with an exhausted look. “This!” she exclaims, gesturing her hands around the vicinity of your room. There are moving boxes scattered everywhere, which is a bit absurd considering you’re only moving one level downstairs to your old space. 

“I can’t believe you’ve only got a week left until you switch departments,” she says. “Suguru’s gonna lose his head the moment you’re gone and Satoru’s already started with the theatrics.”

Trust and believe that you already know. It’s hard not to when you’ve got the Chief Operating Officer, Geto Suguru, knocking on your door for an offer you ‘don’t wanna turn down’. But once you’d told Geto that you were still going ahead with filling out the documents to head back to Utahime and her team, it led to a hefty chunk of your lunch being taken up by him asking (begging) you to reconsider when your contract end date drew closer. 

“I just worry for Ijichi is all,” you say, shrugging as if the situation were already out of your hands. “Gojo’s been very temperamental and… well, bratty these past few days.” 

Shoko’s brown and neatly trimmed brows shoot up with interest at the disclosure.

You think back to a few days ago when you told Satoru to take it easy on Ijichi. You told your white-haired superior that he’d have to patiently reintroduce him to the new tech and procedures that Ijichi would work with as it would be his first week back. You couldn’t believe your ears when he straight-up told you, “I don’t care about a man’s hardships. He can work them out by himself!”

“Satoru’s always tormented the poor guy,” Shoko says, shaking her head at her friend’s show of obnoxious behaviour, “but he does mean well. I think.”

And speak of the devil… 

Over the curve of Shoko’s shoulder through the open blinds of your clear, glass window you spot Gojo. Noticing that he’s caught your attention, he waves incessantly at you through the glass before you hear him twist the knob of your door open.

“Which reminds me,” your friend continues, drawing your sights back on her, “the rest of the team and I were thinking of heading out for drinks later to celebrate with you one last time. Wanna come?”

“Oooh,” Gojo drawls once he’s within earshot. 

He’s looking extraordinarily handsome today, wearing black slacks and a buttoned, linen navy blue top. He’s smiling boyishly from ear to ear when he catches you twisting your lips in a tight purse as if you were trying to stifle a smile of your own. “A celebration, hm? Can I come?”

Shoko scrunches her face at the sudden question and self-invitation. She throws a bewildered look in Gojo’s direction when he settles himself onto his signature spot in your office. Your desk. “Why?”

Huh?

What kind of question was that? Why else would he want to spend an evening out with everyone? With you especially.

White brows bunch together, tight with confusion. “To celebrate with you guys?” he responds as if Shoko had just asked a one-dimensional question. 

“You’ve been a moping mess this past month after you’ve learned that she—” Shoko points her finger into the flesh of your cheek, “—wasn’t going to extend her work contract with you. So, if anyone’s gonna be celebrating, it sure as hell isn’t you.”

Yeesh! Tell him what you really think.

Knowing Shoko didn’t mean any harm by her words, you still felt inclined to soften the blow of her statement just a tad. “Plus, you don’t drink alcohol, Gojo.”

“And you don’t drink,” Shoko adds, raising her arms in exclamation as if to thank you for bringing that point up.

“Well,” pushing himself off the edge of your mahogany desk, Gojo stops a bit before the sofa you and Shoko both occupied. “I don’t need to drink to have a good time with my team!” he defends, directing a pout-induced glower at his colleague.

You’d think he’s done, but with the touch of Gojo’s large hand grabbing your wrist and pulling you off the couch that you realize he’s far from over at stating his point. “And neither do you,” he says, he pulls you behind him, steering you both toward the door. “We’ve got plans.”

Puzzlement crosses over not only yours but Shoko’s features as well.

“We do?”

“Since when?”

Gojo nods at you and Shoko’s questions spoken in tandem. “Emergency meeting. She and I’ve got important matters to discuss.” You feel the faint brush of his hand find the small of your lower back and maneuver you out the door and away from Shoko’s view. “You wouldn’t get it.” Is the last thing he says before he pokes his tongue out at the woman and ducks out of sight.

“Oh, really?” She says, rising to her feet but making no moves to follow you both out the door.

“You don’t even put your own two cents during our regular team meetings! There’s literally nothing for you to discuss, Satoru.” You hear her call after him as he guides you down the hall, past the elevators and toward his big office.

If only she knew how true that statement would be.

Gojo hates meetings. They always happen at inconvenient moments and eat up way too much of his precious time. It’s time that he could be spending doing something else… or someone. 

Which is why this “emergency meeting” was different.

If someone had told Gojo Satoru several months ago that his favourite employee, his darling assistant would be seated pliant for him on his expensive Birch Lane executive desk he would have laughed in their face with a furious blossoming blush nipping at his neck.

But right now, there’s nothing to laugh about.

Gojo’s watching you closely in the shaded dark of his room, tracking every subtle shift in your body language for any indication that you may be uncomfortable and change your mind at the last minute. But when you wrap an arm around his neck, slotting him closer in between your legs, he realizes he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Something in the air felt different. It was thicker. Electric. 

Gojo knew in an instant he wouldn’t last when your lips ghost the words, “This doesn’t mean I’m changing my mind,” on his mouth, before tipping his head to the side, giving you the space to slot your lips with his.

Game fucking over.

Sure, maybe he wasn’t able to completely get you to change your mind about working with him and his department.

But this?

You whimper into his mouth when his hands skim down back and cheekily resting right above your ass. Your body warms underneath the palm of his hands with every touch and how he kneads your hips tucked away beneath your business casual attire.

Gojo Satoru had won in his own right.

Your breaths come quicker as he steals them from you, his left-hand squeezes your side while the other slides across your lower belly and traces the hem of your blouse.

“Take this off,” he commands, his voice wrecked with reckless abandon. His forefinger hooks on the band of your pants, in a pathetic attempt to pull them down despite not having undone your button and zipper. His air of frustration is not lost on you when you see the slight furrow in his brows, the more he pulls but to no avail of getting you in a state of undress.

Not wanting to lose the momentum you both have, you unhook your arm from his shoulders to give him a helping hand.

“Relax,” you say, softly nudging his hands away from your clothing. He hungrily eyes how you pop the button of your dress pants and shuck them onto the floor. 

Once that was off though, everything came into sharp focus, and Gojo’s breath caught in his throat. 

There’s almost a crazed look in his eye the more he stares at your clothed cunt unblinking, unmoving. His breathing’s gone a bit ragged, and every so often you feel the twitch of his fingers dig into the skin of your thigh.

It was a bad idea, considering how the sight of your panties alone had him this rigid, this excited. But he still grits out a rough, “Lemme see.”

Slowly, you pull your laced underwear to the side and Gojo's teeth dig into his inner cheek at the sight. His hands mark a slow path from your thighs down to your knees, pushing them wide apart so that he could see more of you. 

The delicate spread of your folds had your boss entranced. Gojo has seen and salivated over the various outfits you wore to the workplace, always wondering what was underneath before he deemed such thoughts as inappropriate and immediately started thinking about something else. But now that he sees it for himself, it was all too tantalizing. He wanted to see all of you, taste all of you.

The tuft of snow-white hair that once obscured your vision is now gone, sinking lower to your lap.

“Oh!” you exclaim loudly at his sudden movement. Shocked by how quickly he came down to eye level with your pussy.  “You don’t—” you stammer, swallowing hard as all the blood rushed to your head. Instinctively, you snap your legs shut in a weak attempt to shield yourself from his intense, unwavering gaze. “You don’t have to do that!” 

Having one of Japan’s richest, self-made men drop down to his knees staring fervently at your cunt through you in for a loop. You’re sure by now the expression face was no less than gobsmacked right now.

Gojo’s hand grasps one of your calves, his thumb rubbing smooth circles over your warm skin before he hooks it over his shoulder leaning closer to you. “What do you mean?” 

Pulling you closer to his face, you’re forced to plant your other foot onto the ground for stability. “This!” you hiss out, tone laced with embarrassment and arousal as your finger points between his face and your body. “It’s unbecoming, you don’t have to do that to get me off. Really!”

“Why not?”

You don’t have to say what you’re thinking out loud. You were his assistant for fuck’s sake! 

You’re sure what you two are doing would be an issue with some legal policy with the company. But then again… Gojo Satoru is the founder and CEO of said company so he can technically get away with one or two things. But—

Sensing your hesitancy, Gojo’s eyes soften when he looks up at you. “Just… forget the formalities for a sec, will you?” he implores, strong hands grazing up to your knees again hoping you wouldn’t be stubborn with him this one time. “Please? I want to do this for you.”

You look searchingly into his eyes before you finally mellow out. Feeling you relax in his hold and your thighs lose that tension, that was enough of a green light for Satoru before his mouth skims along the mound of pussy. Each kiss he pressed lovingly against your skin, left you shivering in their wake. 

It wasn’t long before his tongue, firm and slick, pokes out and licks a long, slow stripe up your slit which has you keening. You feel his lips twist into a smug smile when he hears the broken sound of his first name from above him.

“Hm?” he hums, still mouthing at your pussy which encourages another ragged moan from you. “Am I doing good so far?”

You don’t know why he even bothered asking, considering the sheen shine of your arousal coating his mouth and chin. Nonetheless, you give him the answer he patiently waits for.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moaning again when the tip of his tongue circles your sensitive clit. 

And it all becomes too much when his hand abandons supporting your leg on his shoulder, to skate its way up your thigh and toward your pussy. The combination of his forefinger rubbing tight, intricate shapes on your clit and his mouth working you open have you yelping from overstimulation. 

You press your palm against Gojo’s forehead when the heat in your lower belly runs hotter, successfully pushing his face away.

“Not like this,” you protested weakly, your hand smooths down from his face to grip his shoulders. There’s a light flush that peaks beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks absolutely debauched right now. “I want you.”

With the cuff of his sleeve, Gojo wipes your arousal off the bottom half of his face. Unhooking your legs from him, you're left to shakily stand on your own, with nothing but the support of his desk to keep you upright.

“Alright,” he breathes, smiling at how your eyes follow the way his hands undo the expensive black Ferragamo belt on his waist. “How do you want me then?” 

“Um…” You look around the place for feasible places for you to get fucked on. Crude, but true. 

Behind Gojo is his office chair rolled back, looking vacant and lonely. “We could do it on the chair?” you suggest, eyes twinkling at your proposal. “If you want?”

“You want to ride me?” he asks, a proud smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

Your air of confidence softens into something more breathless and vulnerable which has his heart surging with reckless affection. “Don’t make it weird!” you yelp, giving his shoulder a light shove.

Dragging the chair closer, Gojo chuckles at how quick you are to change moods. “Come,” he says once he has sat down, patting his lap with one hand while the other pulls himself free from his boxers and slacks. “Ride me. Make yourself feel good.”

You don’t know what turns you on more: A) the way he’s speaking so dirty, so obscene with you right now or B) the sight of Satoru’s cock smacking against the pale, creamy space of his exposed lower abdomen. You stare at it for too long, the build-up of saliva gathering in your mouth the more you stare at his thick and hard shaft, occasionally bobbing on its own under your intense glare.

You could die and go to heaven right now.

Gojo’s hands grab your waist and pull you closer to him. Running your tongue along the inside of your cheek, you twist around so that you’re back is now facing him as you prepare to take him all in.

“No, no, no, no,” he rushes out when you’re about to sit down on his lap facing away from him. Within seconds, Gojo has you facing him. He grasps the back of your knee and tugs it to his side, pushing the armrest out of the way and does the same with the other. 

Oh! You didn’t know it could do that. 

“I wanna see you,” he murmurs, once you’re now straddling his lap and hovering mere inches away from his erection. His free hand moves between your bodies and grabs the base of his cock and angles it toward your slit.

“Oh.” You feel giddy. The noticeable brush of his tip stroking along your slick folds only adds to that dizzying sensation. “Yeah, I’m—”

When the head of Gojo’s cock slowly starts to push inside of you, your sentence is cut off by a broken moan emitted from the back of your throat.

With his eyes closed, there’s a lazy smile that spreads across Gojo’s mouth as he breathes out a heavy groan once he’s all the way inside you. “Yeeeah,” he whispers, the pads of his fingertips pushing tight against your bare skin.

You bite your lip and experiment with this position. Lifting your hips slightly before you sink back down, Gojo buries his face into your neck and breathes, ragged and heavy.

So much for wanting to see you.

“Shit,” you hear him hiss, as he blindly gropes at your ass, working your body to continue to slide up and down his hard cock. The heat of you had him seeing stars as searing pleasure tore through him.

Whimpering, you clench onto firm biceps, enjoying the shallow strokes he pushes into you.

It’s incoherent at first. However, when you tumble out a dazed huh? so that you could hear him repeat whatever he had said, Satoru's lips parted in ecstasy. “I forgot,” he choked out, voice raw and unhinged.

Gently tugging him away from your neck, your core tightened at the fucked out expression on his face. Curious eyes trail down to his stomach and how with each pump inside you, his muscles involuntarily spasm.

“The condom,” he states, slowing down his fevered pace. “I forgot…”

If it were anyone else, you would’ve hopped right the fuck off their lap with panic, body tense over the fact of how careless you were being.

But surprisingly there were no alarm bells and no flashing red lights in your mind. If anything your blood ran a little hotter, the need and tightness in your core taking over.

You don’t know you have it in you to completely stop everything in a search for a condom you don’t even know he might have.

“Pull out then,” is all you say before you begin to ride him again.

Gojo can definitely get behind that. He’s not complaining if it meant he got to have you completely raw.

Your pussy swallows his cock, and Satoru gathers up the bottom of his shirt— wrinkling it in the process— so that he could see the way he disappears inside you over and over.

When he shifts his gaze back up again so he can take in the expression you might be wearing, Gojo’s surprised to see you already looking at him.

There’s an adorable tinge to your lips that has Gojo flitting his gaze back to them every damn time he tries to make eye contact with you as he fucks himself sweetly into your pussy.

He’s overcome with the strong urge to kiss you. To cross the small width of space between your mouths.

So, he does.

His brow bumping yours, Gojo’s hands return to your ass and he stands up with you in his embrace. The cold press of his desk accosts you as he uses his weight to push you slowly onto your back. 

“Satoru,” you sigh your boss’s name blissfully once his lips leave yours to press them along the curve of your jaw before pulling away.

“I wanted this to be nicer,” he says, brilliant blue eyes glittering down at you through the sex-soaked shadows. His hips don’t stop pistoning in and out of you, and he exhales a particularly harsh hiss when he feels you squeeze around him. “Nicer than here.”

You drag in a breath at his sentence, its implications not lost on you. He’s thought about this before. “It's okay, there's always another time.” 

Satoru hums appreciatively, seemingly pleased with your answer. After leaning in for one last kiss, he brushed his mouth from yours and announced in a voice you barely recognize, “I’m gonna come.”

Propping yourself onto your elbows, you nod at him. “Pull out then.”

“Are you sure?” 

 Stuck between the incredulous look painted across your features and how your nails press a little tighter into his skin, Gojo listens. Not without hissing out a disgruntled, “Fine.”

Pulling out from your wet pussy, Gojo’s hand wraps around his dick and he strokes it fast and hot. He growls with sharp relief when you reach a hand down to massage his sac. He thinks he may come all over you if you continue doing that.

“Fuck,” he snarls when your fingers graze the base of his cock. 

Cracking his eyes open, he messily knocks your hand away from him before intertwining his fingers with yours and grabbing himself with his free hand, stroking hard and fast. Every so often his tip would intentionally rub up and press against your nub, successfully stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves with the main goal to climax.

With every pent-up thought he’s had about you, Gojo finally comes with you in tow. His cum dribbles out from his slit and lands on your skin— mostly between your inner thighs and folds.

“So,” Gojo starts, his hands wandering up to the middle of your back after a few moments of comfortable shared silence between you two. As much as he wanted to relax in your post-sex session and bask in its warm glow, he had to address the elephant in the room.

You hum in response as you work the buttons of your blouse, waiting for him to continue. “When you said ‘next time’, did you seriously mean t—” 

The two of you abruptly jump apart at the telltale sound of heels clicking down the hall drawing closer and closer to Gojo’s office door. In a panic, you leap off his desk, sending a flurry of sheets flying down to the floor into a sorry pile. 

“Nice going,” Gojo remarks with a sly grin, as you hurriedly shimmy your pants up your legs. The sheen layer of sweat— among other things— makes it a bit difficult for you to easily slip them on.

Once they’re settled at your hips and you tend to the zip, you cast a withering glare his way, you’re relieved to see that he’s already tucked himself away into his pants, already looking presentable by the time the door opens.

With the click of the lock giving way, you hear a woman starkly ask, “Why are all the lights off?”

You could pinpoint that voice from a kilometre away. 

Turning on your heel, you see the shadowy figure of one of your closest colleagues in the dark of the room. “Utahime!”

When the head director steps into the room and flicks on the lights, the sudden brightness has you squinting your eyes a bit. Upon catching your gaze she offers you a sincere smile, visibly lighting up at the sight of you.  

But it doesn’t last long because seconds after her smile morphs into a displeased scowl when she spots Gojo lounging boneless in his office chair a few feet away.

“And why’s it so…” Utahime fans a delicate hand in front of her face, casting a weary gaze at you two from across the room. “Warm in here?” she questions no one in particular.

Her eyes take in the setting before her, and she pauses in her tracks. You could only imagine what thoughts were racing through her mind.

“What hap—”

“—It’s warm?! I couldn’t even tell!” you respond, a bit too chipper as you cut her line of questioning off. A bit too fast. 

From behind you, you hear Gojo’s stifled laughter that’s covered by poorly by a ridiculous attempt at a coughing fit.

“Well,” you wring your hands together subconsciously, “what brings you here?”

Noticing your off demeanour, Utahime fixes you with a puzzled look that reads as if she were asking you "are you okay?" as your plastered smile only grows more strained by the second.

“I came here to grab your reports and documentation from Gojo’s outbox, but somebody,” cue Satoru slipping on his signature shades to deflect the icy stare Utahime was housing, “forgot to put them there. Hence why I’m here.”

“Oh, right!” Gojo hums, rolling back from his desk as he reaches down to gather the scattered sheets that had fallen to the floor. “They’re all here.”

You both watch in shared silence as he flips through each page, meticulously setting each one aside that wasn’t labeled with your name on the header. 

Thrown off by how long he’s deliberately taking in smoothing out the crinkles on each page, the older woman stomps up to Gojo and unceremoniously slaps her hand on the wooden table. “Give me that, will you?!” she exclaims, snatching and wrestling the papers out from his hands.

“Ah! Wait—”

Scanning the pages your department leader seems content that everything’s in order.

Until it's not?

The woman’s once sunny and bright disposition suddenly flips on his head, as there seems to be something written on that page midway that makes her freeze.

“Go ahead and hand me a new copy,” Utahime says, practically tossing the sheets of paper back onto his desk without a second glance. She smooths her hands down the silky expanse of her long skirt, once, twice, then three times for good measure. “I want it in my inbox by next Monday.”

She nods curtly at you before she turns and practically books it to his door. You don’t know why but you swear you saw the faintest hue of pink tickling the apples of her cheeks. There was also an expression that couldn’t quite put your finger on that highlighted her features. 

If you were to say though, her emotion looked between the mix of detachment, embarrassment… wait, no. It was mortification.

But what was there to be mortified over?  

“What’s wrong with the copy you gave her?”

Gojo presses his lips together in a sad attempt to keep his smile at bay as he hands it over to you to see for yourself.

Eyebrows furrowed, you skim each sheet. You don’t get it. What’s the problem with—

That’s until you notice that some of the pages are sticking together. It’s on the third page you see it and understand why Utahime was in such a rush to leave. Why she kept wiping her hands onto her clothing.

Right there among the printed hiragana and kanji was a few small white streaks of fluid covering bolded characters and numbers. 

Oh no.

“Y’know…” The sleeve of his dress shirt rests along your neck as his hand squeezes at your shoulder. Delicate fingers slide against your bare skin and pull at the strap of your bra, successfully tucking it underneath your blouse again. Had that been poking out the entire time?!  “I knew it would’ve been a good idea to finish inside.”

Horrified that you’d have to deal with the information of going back to Utahime next week knowing that she knows what you guys did, has you burying your face into Gojo’s chest and letting out a muffled scream.

“Just saying!”

FIN

i don't know how to stay within the maximum word count for the life of me... i'm not sorry!

[indig0trolls]

SIGHS SO LOUD

[ylangelegy]

cables and crackle ꩜ jihoon x reader.

♬⋆.˚ It's goosebumps when you hear the drums / The running start before the big jump / It's that feeling, so stellar / Bro, if you like her just go and fucking tell her!

🎸╰› includes: f!producer!reader, feelings realization and denial, jihoon has a crush <3, pining/yearning, fluff, [light] angst, first date, confessions, references to producing (that may or may not be accurate).

💽╰› this is part of my ongoing series, buzz (seventeen's version) + this piece is inspired by track 01, buzz. word count: 13,800+

When you first started working with SEVENTEEN three years ago, Jihoon wasn't all that excited to have you around.

Perhaps it was his pride. BUMZU and PRISMFILTER had been the company's go-to's until they decided they wanted to bring in someone fresh, new, up-and-coming. You had been the result: Someone two years younger than Jihoon. Scrappy and hungry. Experimental, ambitious.

His hesitance at your music production has morphed from begrudging respect, to genuine appreciation, to something akin to admiration. Jihoon would never say it out loud, but you've grown to be one of his favorite producers to work with. (He doesn't have to say it, really. Everyone is already privy to Jihoon's biases.)

Now, three years in, Jihoon finds himself trying to reckon with a foreign feeling—

The flutter of his chest as you walk in to the studio. The stutter in his pulse as your fingers lightly brush over the digital audio workstation. The hitch of his breath as your head, ever so lightly, falls on to his shoulder the longer the evening drags on.

Jihoon is a 27-year-old man. As he tries to stay absolutely still, there's only one thing on his mind: Wasn't he too old to have crushes?

You could usually keep up with Jihoon when it came to these long-night sessions. One had to, considering how he was practically nocturnal at this point. But it had been a long day of minor misfortunes, the type that wear you down bit by bit.

You don't even seem to notice that your head is lolling to one side. When your cheek lands on something solid, you might think it's the back of the chair next to you— except it's Jihoon's shoulder, and he absolutely freezes underneath you.

He would be the first to admit that this isn't the first time you've ever been this close. There's been many times your bodies have gravitated to the same spot on the couch, or times when your heads are practically glued to one another while your hands are both at the keyboard, or during the times your feet accidentally meet with each other under the desk.

It's just never been this close, where Jihoon can feel the brush of each of your lashes against his neck every time your eyes fall shut.

He think he might pass out if he dwells too much on it.

He watches from his peripheral vision as your eyes flutter shut, and he thinks, for a moment, that you're out of commission. But then, you mumble, "The reverb on the snare, just now."

If you hadn't been right next to Jihoon's ear, your words might have been drowned out by the speakers. But, as it is, he hears you loud and clear. "Too heavy," you go on to say, without even opening your eyes. "We need to dial it back for a cleaner sound."

There it is, he thinks with both awe and bitterness. Even half-lucid, even half-asleep, you're still as brilliant as you've ever been.

"Mhm," he hums lowly. "I'll adjust it."

He does as you've asked. When he runs the track back, you let out a soft sound of contentment and shift slightly in your seat, blissfully unaware of how you're leaning more weight in to Jihoon's side. It's absolute torture, he thinks.

"Better," you mutter. A beat. Your drowsy inquiry comes in next. "How do you feel about the tempo in the bridge?"

He forces himself to pay attention. He runs the song back once more, this time paying particular attention to the bridge. It doesn't take him long to identify the issue— one of the main ones, anyway.

"A little too dragging," he replies. "It slows the track down a bit too much. I think it disrupts the flow. Makes the chorus—" He suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Because, for some reason, he's become acutely aware of the way your head fits perfectly into the crook of his shoulder.

He's now fully conscious of how close you are. Of the way your breath fans against his neck. Of the way your knee seems to bump against his whenever you unconsciously readjust your position.

Jihoon feels his pulse pound at his chest as he tries to keep his tone steady.

"It disrupts the flow," he repeats, his voice slightly gruff. "Makes the chorus less of a��� high, for lack of word."

When your initial response is a thoughtful hum, he bites back the urge to smirk. It should come to no surprise that you're about to disagree with him. More often than not, you butted heads over minor things like this.

"Thought it was too fast," you grumble, somehow sounding a little sulky because of your drowsy state. You're usually a lot more adamant and fiery when it comes to asserting your opinions. But in the late— or early, since it's already past midnight— hour, you've tamped down my temper.

It does absolutely nothing for Jihoon's poor heart.

Your cheek nuzzles against Jihoon's sweater as you shake your head in a very that won't do manner. "The lyrics might suffer. Try slowing it down by 8 BPM so we have more space for vocal delivery."

8 BPM? Jihoon nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh. The number is so arbitrary, so out of pocket. "The tempo's already sitting at 139 right now," he bites out. "It's not like slowing it down by another 8 BPM is going to—"

Jihoon makes the mistake of glancing down at you, and damn it. You're not just leaning against his shoulder at this point.

You've practically cuddled into him.

Jihoon's breath catches in his throat as you shift once more, leaning your chin against his shoulder.

He finds himself wanting to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. Press you into his chest until your cheek is up against his. Until your head is tucked right under his chin.

But then you're grumbling out your next words. "139?" you repeat. "Notch it down by 9, then."

The slur in your tone is just enough to remind him that you're not entirely coherent. He swallows hard, his fingers a little too gentle as he inputs the changes. 9 BPM it is.

It's a bad call, one that's made abundantly clear when Jihoon plays the track back. He doesn't even have to tell you; you're already groaning, pressing your face in to his shoulder. Your words are muffled against the soft material of his sweater.

"You were right. Should have amped it up instead of slowing it down," you mutter, though there's a distracted edge to your tone. He gives it a cursory couple of seconds, letting you gather your thoughts.

"There's an issue with the kick and the bass, isn't there?" you note.

He listens closely— and, as always, you're right. There's a dissonance between the kick and the bass.

Jihoon frowns, a little more focused now. "Yeah, I hear it too," he manages to say succinctly.

His brain is still trying to conjure up a solution when you let out a slight huff and finally peel away from Jihoon's side. He doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed because of it.

You're bleary-eyed and your fingers fumble but your work is efficient as you click away at his mouse, at his digital audio workstation. He watches with a straight face as you add sidechain compression to the bass, as you drag the bridge's BPM up.

It's not just the music that's synced, but the way the two of you work as well. A little push, a little pull, and you manage to find balance. You know exactly what to do, even when you're tired.

Jihoon listens closely as soon as the bridge plays back and he's pleasantly surprised.

"That fixed it," he says, his eyes darting rapidly as he takes in the revised audio levels. "Yeah, I think it's good. We should move on to verse three now."

"Jihoon."

He blinks and glances over at you. You've slumped back heavily in to your chair; it spins slightly on its wheels when you do.

"I'm not going to make it through another verse," you warn. "I think I need, like, a power nap."

"Power nap?"

Despite Jihoon's best efforts, a corner of his mouth twitches. A glance at the clock tells Jihoon that it's past one in the morning. They'd been working on the track for a solid eight hours now.

He lets out a low, considering hum, before looking back at you with a slight frown.

"How long is this power nap supposed to last?" he asks dubiously.

"I only need fifteen minutes," you respond.

There's a decisiveness to you tone, one that brokers no argument even if you're rolling your shoulders from sheer exhaustion.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," he replies, though not unkindly.

He rolls the chair back, moving so that he's facing you fully. One leg is crossed over the other, his eyes studying you carefully. He's going to attempt to convince you, obviously.

"You need a good night's rest. You won't be any use at all when you're this tired," Jihoon insists, but he immediately regrets his choice of words when he sees you wince slightly.

You're no stranger to his bluntness; you know just as well that he can be both brutally honest and painfully inconsiderate. That he shows his care and concern in much more roundabout ways compared to others.

And so when you insist that you'll be good as new in fifteen minutes, he can only sigh, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his knees.

"And if you're still tired after fifteen minutes?" he counters. His tone is gentler, softer, this time.

"I'll go home," you grumble, like the thought physically pains you. "If I'm still out of it after my nap, I'll go home."

Jihoon feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate as you finally agree to a compromise. "Fifteen minutes," he reiterates firmly, holding up a single finger for emphasis. "And if you're not ready to work again by the end of it, I'm driving you home."

You open your mouth, almost like you're about to argue at the thought of Jihoon driving you home, but then you opt to purse your lips. You know how the two of you can go in absolute circles some days and so you merely shoot him a heatless glare before stalking over to his studio's couch.

It's not really the type that should be slept on. With its stiff, black leather, the couch is an awful makeshift bed for anyone. But you and Jihoon have figure out little workarounds after spending so much time working together— like the fluffy, folded comforter at the foot of the sofa and the throw pillow that's shaped like an onigiri.

Jihoon watches with a small smile as you curl up on the sofa, underneath the blanket and with the pillow. "G'night," you call out mid-yawn. "See you in fifteen."

He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing the way your expression relaxes, just a little, as your head hits the pillow. After a moment, he manages to tear his gaze away. He really had to work on his habit of staring.

"Yeah," he huffs as he tries to go get a head start on the third verse. "Night."

It's difficult because he can't help but steal glances, and every single time he does, he's struck by a wave of affection. You're so small, so fragile-looking, burrowed in to the sofa. He notes the way the pillow's slightly squished underneath your head, your face half-buried in the plush material…

He almost feels the urge to take a picture just to capture the scene.

And then he realizes: Why not? You're friends, aren't you? And friends take embarrassing photos of each other.

He picks his phone up from his pocket with one hand and angles the camera with the other. He knows just what he wants to take a picture of. The way your cheek is squished against the rice ball pillow, just barely visible underneath the edge of your tangled mess of blankets. The way your expression is relaxed, softened in sleep, with the slightest pucker to your lips.

He presses down on the snap button, and the shot is just perfect. The way the glow of the monitor catches in your hair, bringing out the natural color. The way your eyelashes fan out over your cheek, and the way the shadows highlight the sharpness of your features.

Jihoon's eyes linger on the image, something akin to longing twisting in his gut.

This time, he doesn't bother to push the feeling away. He does go back to work, though.

Fifteen minutes pass. And then twenty, thirty. The longer you sleep, the more Jihoon's guilt gnaws at him.

He knows he's about to wake you up, to ruin the temporary blissfulness that sleep has brought you. He knows he's about to drag you back to the studio to work again, despite the bags that are under your eyes and the exhaustion that is evident in every line of your body.

He knows he's going to be the cause of your fatigue. And he hates that— hates himself, just a little, for his need, his drive.

Still. At the thirty-minute mark, he makes his way over to your side. He reaches out, fingers hesitating for a second, before he gently shakes your shoulder.

"Hey," he calls, his tone soft and neutral. "Wake up. We need more work done."

It's very likely that the unceremonious way you've been dragged out of your sleep has gotten to you, because how else can Jihoon explain the way you drowsily move to hold him?

Your fingers reach up and curl gently around his wrist. Your eyes are still closed as you exhale, "Jihoon-ah."

It's more of a whine than anything, really, but it's one that he can't deny, not when you clutch his wrist like that. "What," he asks, his tone flat out of panic. "What is it?"

It's surreal, in a way. The way your tiredness has loosened your inhibitions, has stripped you down to the simplest, most vulnerable version of yourself, one that's practically begging for closeness.

You give his hand a gentle tug. "Come nap with me. Y'need to rest, too."

Jihoon's mind goes blank the moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body freezing. Because no, he didn't just hear that, you didn't just ask that—

And then you tug on his wrist again, and he swears his heart stutters.

On one hand, the rational, reasonable part of his mind is screaming at him to push you away, to reject the idea entirely. He needs to focus. He needs to finish the track. He needs to work, not rest.

But then he looks down at your sleepy form, the way you're clinging on to him, and all those thoughts are thrown out the window.

Slowly, Jihoon lowers himself onto the couch, his body sinking against the plush material. It's a tight squeeze. Months ago, the two of you might have called each other ridiculous for even trying to fit in a piece of furniture that was clearly not for two people to lay on.

The thick of comeback season absolutely shatters any attempts of appropriateness or discretion. As Jihoon complies with your absurd request, you somehow manage to throw the blanket over the two of you.

Jihoon isn't a stranger to casual touches— he's had to survive through years of constant skinship between the members— but there was something different about this.

The feeling of your body, curled against his own. The way you hold his fingers in your grip, like a comfort, like an anchor. The scent of your hair, so close he could just nuzzle his face into the messy strands.

He tries very hard to focus on the negatives. On how cramped and uncomfortable the couch is, how he's going to end up with a backache—

— but his mind doesn't want to cooperate. Because all he can see is you, all he can feel is you; the way your soft, warm body is pressed against his own, the gentle rise-and-fall of your chest against his, you, you, you.

His mind goes blissfully vacant, and before he can even think to stop himself, Jihoon is wrapping his free arm around your waist, drawing you in.

Jihoon doesn't mind the sudden increase in body heat that comes with having you pressed so close to him, not when your back is solid and warm against his chest, not when the curve of your hips slots so smoothly against the shape of him.

He lets out a shuddering breath as you press his palm against your stomach, the fabric of your shirt slightly rucked up by the motion. You're so soft.

For once, Jihoon finds himself hating everything else— the studio, the album, the uncomfortable sofa, this damn comeback for robbing him of an opportunity to simply hold you.

Jihoon swallows, his throat suddenly dry as the words slip past his mouth before he can even stop himself.

"You're too close," he mutters in your ear, his lips so close to the shell that he's half-convinced you were going to feel his words against your skin. He's being a hypocrite, really, since he's the one holding you, but he needs to maintain some sense of propriety.

"Mmm," you hum, still more asleep than awake. You exhale an apology as you try to sleepily shift away, mumbling something like "didn't notice" in your languid effort to disentangle.

Your movement has to be the most half-hearted attempt at putting space between the two of you. So Jihoon tightens his grip, his fingers curling over your hip to keep you from shifting away.

He doesn't want you to move, not even an inch— and it's greedy of him, really— but the thought of losing the heat from your body is more than he can bear, not when you're here and you're so close.

His hold is firm, almost demanding. As you settle back down, Jihoon buries his face against the back of your hair, his mind going blissfully quiet.

"Dunno why y're so cozy," Jihoon murmurs, his words slightly slurred with the exhaustion that's catching up on him now, too.

He tries not to think too hard about it, the intimacy of it all. He tries not to focus on how he's practically molding his body against yours.

Just a nap, he thinks. It's just a nap.

Your voice is so soft, so quiet, nearly lost against the sound of Jihoon's thrumming pulse in his ears. He catches it anyway. Your quiet murmur of "G'night, Jihoon-ah."

He feels strangely light-headed. It's hard to focus, hard to think, his thoughts fuzzy around the edges as he slowly starts to succumb to drowsiness.

Jihoon lets his lids flutter shut, his mind sinking into darkness. "Sweet dreams," he mumbles back.

In the end, Jihoon is the one who has sweet dreams.

They're fractures of a bigger picture, pieces to a puzzle he could never piece together.

He sees your tired smile, hears your soft laugh, feels the brush of your hair against his chin. He sees you in flashes, in glimpses, always out of reach. Never close enough.

They're so vivid, these dreams— so real— that Jihoon swears he can almost feel you, can almost hold you. When he reaches out for you, for the dream version of you, it feels like he's grasping at air.

There are hints of other things— flashes of studio lights, melodies and songs that drift in snippets. But they all fade to the background in the face of you, the way you shine in his dreamscape like a sunbeam.

Seungcheol is the one who finds Jihoon and you the next morning— or, rather, the next early afternoon.

He's not surprised to hear that Jihoon didn't come home to the dorm. He's not surprised to find Jihoon asleep in his studio. He is surprised to find Jihoon spooning you— his co-producer, the one they all thought he was a little too soft towards.

Seungcheol's eyebrows raise to his hairline. Jihoon was never the affectionate type. And yet here he was, curled around you like a parentheses. Seungcheol takes a quick picture on his phone before gently nudging Jihoon with his foot.

"Yah," the leader says, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants; his tone, a little too-amused. "Jihoon."

It takes a few nudges for the words to register, for Jihoon's sleeping mind to slowly come back to the world of the living.

He feels… groggy. Exhausted. And strangely warm.

After several long moments, reality catches up with him. As his sleep-addled mind slowly pieces everything together, Jihoon's eyes flutter open and it takes all of two seconds for him to process the fact that he's spooning you.

Jihoon's eyes widen, and his head snaps up to a grinning Seungcheol.

"This isn't what it looks like," Jihoon says immediately, his words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

He almost screams when he tries to move away, when he tries to untangle himself from you, and your soft, sleepy whine sounds more like a protest than anything.

He should've let you go. He should've, but when you make that noise, when you curl in closer to him, the part of Jihoon's brain that's awake shuts down entirely.

Jihoon freezes and tries desperately to ignore the way Seungcheol snickers.

Seungcheol keeps his hands in his pockets as he watches Jihoon with growing amusement. Put-together, frumpy Jihoon, stunned in to silence because his co-producer is latched on to him.

It is, as Jihoon had said, very much not what it looked like. Seungcheol can see that the two of you are still fully clothed. Hell, he wouldn't have even imagined Jihoon going that far when the boy barely thought of romance that way.

Still, it's just a little funny. "Long night?" the leader drawls, not even trying to conceal his sheer mirth at the situation.

Long night is a huge understatement, and Jihoon shoots Seungcheol an acerbic look that's not nearly as effective as it normally might be. Not when he's still trying to detangle himself from you without waking you up.

"You have no idea," he grumbles under his breath, his eyes flickering down to your exhausted expression as you cling to him.

He can feel the way his heart stutters at your closeness, the way his chest tightens. Not the time, he scolds himself.

"We were working on the album," Jihoon says, as if that explains everything.

He's given up on trying to move, because he knows that if he keeps trying, you're going to stir— and the last thing Jihoon needs is an awake you, all warm and soft and adorably disheveled.

"Can you... leave?" he croaks to Seungcheol. Jihoon's cheeks are tinged with a furious red color; he prays to any deity that Seungcheol will simply chalk it up to shame. "I'll give you details later, just..."

Jihoon shifts minutely, and a muted noise of protest escapes from you. He shuts his eyes and sends a silent plea at the ceiling of Please, God, not now.

Seungcheol, for his part, lets out an amused huff, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Alright, alright," the leader says, holding his hands up to show he's conceding. "I'll leave. I'll talk to you later."

He grins. "And try not to have too much fun, yeah?"

The smirk only widens when he sees the flush on Jihoon's face. The leader saunters out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him.

And Jihoon is... well... left with you.

Silence descends, and it's deafening.

Jihoon can feel each and every beat of his own heart, can hear your slow, soft breath coming out in steady, even exhales. You're asleep— still clinging on to him, your body pressed firmly against his own— and Jihoon tries not to focus on the feeling, tries not to think about how you're so soft, so warm.

He should move, he thinks. He should untangle from you, put at least two feet of space between you, and yet.

Jihoon can't, not when you look so peaceful against him. Not when you're making little noises every now and then, the soft, low sounds coming from somewhere in your throat.

It's a special kind of torture, having you so close when he knows he can't do a single thing about it. Just a taste, an inkling of closeness— and now he's hooked, wanting for more.

He knows it's selfish, what he's doing. To have his arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than he should. To relish in your warmth as you sleep— but Jihoon can't help it, not when he knows this might be the only way he could ever get to hold you.

He knows you're not his. You can't be his, for several reasons.

But for this brief, quiet moment in time, you feel like you could be.

There's no way of telling how much longer you stay there. To Jihoon, it feels like an eternity and then some; in reality, it's probably only a couple more minutes. You shift in your sleep, letting out a big yawn. Jihoon tries to not flinch when you stir.

For one ridiculous moment, he considers closing his eyes and pretending to sleep, so he can have a few more seconds, a few minutes longer with you in his arms. But then you're moving again, and Jihoon can feel his heart in his throat as you blink, shifting to look up at him.

"Huh," is the first thing you say as you squint up at him. "Hi."

"Hey," is his lame response, his tone oddly, uncharacteristically soft. He swallows when he catches the way your eyes flicker all over his face, as if drinking him in.

There's a lot to take in, he's sure. His arm is still around your waist and your leg is slotted between his. The blankets are a mess; the noonday sun, peeking through the studio's heavy curtains.

As your mind finally seems to catch up, you let out a groan. "S'rry," you slur, voice still thick with sleep. "We overslept. I'm a bit clingy when 'm tired."

Yeah, right. Clingy is not a strong enough word for what you had become in your sleep.

Jihoon tries to ignore the feeling of your legs tangled together, the way you're practically molding against him. He tries to tamp down the way his breath hitches, to ignore the way his heart skips a beat when you let out a sleep-filled groan.

"You were hanging on to me for your life," he remarks in a tone that is far more amused than exasperated.

"Yeah, I figured," you say wryly, glancing over at the clock to see the damage. Jihoon's eyes follow your gaze. Two in the afternoon. Your shared 'nap' had lasted a full twelve hours.

"Wow," you huff. "We were out for a while."

"That we were," Jihoon agrees, and he's more than a little reluctant when he lets you go, unravelling his own limbs from yours. The space between your bodies feels like a physical blow, but Jihoon tries not to seem too put off by it.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept that long since I was a trainee."

"That's unhealthy."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

There's a calculated casualness in your next words. "Did you at least sleep well?"

The slight concern undercutting your tone makes Jihoon rather light-headed. "I slept like the dead," Jihoon answers easily, and he doesn't even have to lie about that.

His rest had been more peaceful than it had been in years, and if he's truthful, he'd blame it all on the fact that you were wrapped so firmly around him, all soft skin and sleepy warmth. You'd fit so perfectly with him and Jihoon is fairly sure he's never going to get the sensation of you pressed against him out of his mind.

A corner of your lip twitches upward. "Don't say that," you tease as you stretch your arms over your head. "Because we may actually be dead soon enough."

There's still an album to finish. A couple more tracks due in mere days. But Jihoon's suddenly feeling much better in a way that he hasn't in a while.

Even the ever-present stress and exhaustion feels almost like an afterthought, like it's barely even there. In the midst of it all, there's only you, still mussed from sleep.

It helps that you're taking the little cuddle session with surprising grace. "Wanna order in breakfast? Lunch?" you inquire, like you can't quite decide what to call your first meal of the day when it was well in the afternoon.

"Breakfast-slash-lunch sounds good to me," he answers, a hint of a smile visible in the curve of his mouth.

You order Chinese food. Something proper and real, a break from the convenience store rice balls and energy drinks. In the time it takes for the takeout to come, you and Jihoon speed through the song that had been plaguing you both last night. It seemed that being well-rested did you both well.

When the food comes, you go to collect it. In your absence, Jihoon finally checks his phone.

Suddenly, the studio feels ice cold, because he has seventy-something unread messages from his group chat with the boys.

He clicks the little arrow that takes him back to the first unread message, and surprise, surprise— it's from Seungcheol. The stolen snap of Jihoon and you cuddled together glares up at the producer, paired with the world's most annoying message.

🍒: Our Woozi-yah's a big boy now. ㅋㅋㅋ

The messages don't stop there, because Seungcheol had essentially given the others the green light to blow his phone up.

Jihoon scrolls through them, his expression growing more and more irritated as he reads through the suggestive and ridiculous messages the boys have chosen to send.

⚔️: Jihoon-ah~ Who knew you had it in you~ 🐈‍⬛: finally! 🦦: LET'S FUCKING GOOOO

Jeonghan, as per usual, is the worst offender of them all. Jihoon is just about to try and get a word in when a new, rapidfire sequence of texts pop up, the second eldest member clearly having entirely too much fun with this.

👼: So cozy, our Jihoon-ie! So cozy ♡ ♡ ♡ 👼: Finally, our Jihoon found himself a pretty girl 👼: We didn't know you were such a cuddler~~~

Jihoon's fingers are itching to reply something back, but it's hard to even make sense of the messages; they're coming in so fast. Every time he tries to type something back, another notification pops up with more texts, so he's forced to sit and watch as the members tease him relentlessly.

But then—

🐱: Cough up @Joshua @Vernon 🐢: dammit. couldn't have waited four months, woozi hyung? -_- 🦌: I didn't lose as much, so it's okay~ 🐯: WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER

The other boys all chime in with their own odds, and Jihoon realizes with horror that his bandmates had bet on him.

The horror quickly morphs into disbelief mingled with irritation.

So they'd bet on him? And on what exactly? That he wouldn't fall for a girl over the course of three years working together?

He doesn't even look at the odds before he types an aggravated reply.

🍚: You guys bet on me???

No one even tries to deny it. Soonyoung, the menace that he is, is the first to respond.

🐯: Not all of us ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ 🐈‍⬛: and it's just if you'd get with your fav producer. lol

It occurs to Jihoon, then and there, that the boys presume him and you are dating. It's a misconception he has to amend before any of the twelve can make some wisecrack about it in front of you.

🍚: We're not dating.

Jihoon doesn't bother to hide his irritability.

🍚: We were just napping together.

It's not the last of it, as it turns out.

More texts flood in after his message, and while there aren't as many jokes as before, it's easy to tell that the members are just dying to tease him about this whole thing.

When you return to the studio bearing your takeout, you're greeted with Jihoon typing furiously away at his phone, a disgruntled sort of look on his face. "You alright over there?" you call out amusedly as you pad over to the studio couch.

"Yes, and no," Jihoon answers shortly, a hint of petulance to his tone. If he looks up at you, it's only for a moment.

For someone who tends to be stoic and brooding, he's not exactly having the best morning right now. Jihoon is more than a little annoyed from the relentless teasing, and while he tries to fight it, there's a lingering feeling of humiliation, too.

A part of him wonders if this is what he deserves— for having had that moment with you this morning.

"Well, whatever it is—" you give a dismissive wave of your hand before plopping down on the couch.

He almost smiles at that; you've known each other for an odd number of years. It was enough time to be fairly acquainted with each other's habits and mannerisms, to know when something was worth pressing in to or not.

"Come on," you urge him. "The faster we eat, the sooner we can finish."

"Okay, yes, I'm coming," Jihoon answers hurriedly, and he makes a hasty beeline for the coffee table, where your takeout boxes are set out neatly.

He gives the group chat a final glance, just to make sure they're not texting anything too embarrassing. The more he scrolls the more he's bombarded with messages about you, and you would have thought the group chat was dedicated entirely to you, considering the number of texts.

He groans and locks his phone, turning it face down on the table as he takes his seat.

"Here," you say as you gently place Jihoon's order in front of him. Chao fan with a side of sweet and sour pork; a can of cola.

The way you seem to automatically know all the things he orders, the way you know what the right order to pick for him is, it almost gives Jihoon the sense that you've been working with him for even longer than three years.

He's not sure what to make of it, but it feels strangely nice, somehow, knowing that there's always something or the other that you would already know. He takes a bite out of his meal, wondering when it was that this relationship of his with you had become so comfortable.

It's an odd sensation, really.

Jihoon had always been more than content to keep to himself. But there's no denying that he feels a certain kind of peaceful contentedness when he's with you.

Perhaps it's how the two of you work so seamlessly together. Perhaps it's how you somehow managed to get under his skin. There's a certain comfort that Jihoon isn't used to having that's settled around the two of you.

And it's the kind of comfort that might make him vulnerable.

He can't have that, so he privately decides to keep you at a distance.

It's a distance you reciprocate. Both Jihoon and you know better than to tread the careful line of your friendship, especially in your line of work.

The two of you work like a well-oiled machine, like a lit match being tossed in a haystack. Jihoon and you are relentless, as always, and you finish off the rest of the mini-album in the next three hours.

There's still fine-tuning to hurdle through, but as Jihoon and you replay the last track for the first time, he has to concede. The worst is over.

You slump forward in your chair, your forehead resting against the work desk of his studio. "Done," you breathe. After a moment, you add, "For now."

"For now," Jihoon echoes.

There's a long pause between the two of you as you both relish the peace and quiet of a fully completed mini-album.

"Let's go for coffee?" he finally asks, glancing to where you're slumped in your chair.

You tilt your head ever so slightly until your cheek is pressed against the desk and you're looking up at Jihoon. You smile ruefully as you speak, your tone almost apologetic. "No to coffee. I think I want to go home and knock out for twelve hours."

You go on, "You should do the same. We've been in this studio for…" You pause like you're doing the mental math, and then a disbelieving laugh slides past your lips. "About thirty-three hours, Jihoon-ah."

Thirty-three hours is almost incomprehensible. Jihoon isn't even surprised, because of course, that's the kind of work ethic you've come to expect from an idol— but, thirty-three hours?

Jihoon's head is spinning. There's a strange, odd kind of haze settling around him, almost like he's caught between a dream and consciousness. He's tired, yes, he's more than tired, but Jihoon knows that he doesn't really need to go home to sleep.

Except he can't say no, not when your words are coming with all the weight of a command, not when you're looking at him like he's some helpless, pitiful wreck, needing some sort of care. He hates it.

He hates that you see him.

"Okay, okay," Jihoon says in a rush, standing from his chair. "I'll go home."

He's always known that any work done with you ends with him doing exactly as you say. You might have never said the words to his face before, but Jihoon isn't an idiot.

He's wrapped around your goddamn finger some days.

The thought that he's now more than willing to do whatever you want from him has never occurred to him before now, and it leaves him feeling slightly shaken, slightly unsure of everything.

It takes you both about ten minutes or so to get everything in order, then another seven minutes to head out of the company building. The relief Jihoon feels as you finally find yourselves outside is immense, even if it is a chilly, early winter evening.

You glance at your wristwatch before distractedly asking him, "You'll be okay behind the wheel?"

"'Course," he says as he fishes for his keys. For a moment, he contemplates asking if you want a ride home. It'd be out of his way, but it's something he's almost willing to bear.

Almost.

Instead, he forces himself to say, "See you. Take care."

You give the same pleasantries back before beginning your trek to the train station. Jihoon, for his part, finds his car in his designated parking space.

The drive home is the most boring and uneventful thing ever— except when Jihoon looks in his rearview mirror. The sight of you disappearing into the distance makes him feel strangely hollow and a bit wistful.

His stomach gives a weird, twisting lurch, and he's tempted to make a U turn right there and then and find a reason to be back in his company.

Maybe he'll tell you just how alone he can sometimes feel after an album is completed. How there's always this sort of lull in the days, hours after his work; how he fights it off by doing more work, even if it's not all that necessary.

He wants to ask if you ever feel the same way, too.

But you had never really been a part of that loneliness, and now you were leaving. And— just for the night— Jihoon can't help but feel more lonely than ever.

He doesn't want to be lonely.

He wants to be left alone, in a company of his own thoughts, with nothing and no one to distract him. But, for some odd reason, he wants you around.

It's almost too much to bear, so Jihoon turns the radio on louder and lets the sounds of music drown out the patter of his ragged heartbeat.

Jihoon and you are forced to reconvene a couple of days later, albeit on circumstances that neither of you are particularly fond of.

Sungsoo, the company's CEO and executive producer, is already seated at the head of the table when you walk in. Jihoon sees the way your eyes scan the meeting room; he tries not think too much of the way the tension in your shoulders seem to ease when you spot him.

The sight of you makes Jihoon's heart do a little dance, which makes him want to both pull you close and run far, far away from you.

For now, he just gives you a nod of acknowledgement and shifts his eyes back to the older man sitting across the meeting table from the both of them.

You sit across from Jihoon. Sungsoo doesn't even bother to sit; he merely launches straight in to his agenda.

"Good work on SEVENTEENTH HEAVEN," Sungsoo says right off the bat. Jihoon knows it's more of a cursory greeting than anything; there was always going to be more than just a pleasant compliment.

The other shoe drops soon enough. "I think there's more work to be done, though, specifically on three tracks," the CEO presses on.

Three tracks.

Jihoon feels his jaw clamp tightly. He's been through these kinds of corrections before, of course, both from himself and the company. Sungsoo says things about the lyrics of Back 2 Back, and the organization of Yawn, and the chorus of Diamond Days.

And while Jihoon has been through this, has needed to take things apart or put stuff together to appease the higher-ups, it's never any easier. His hands are clasped tight, and he's trying his best to hold himself together, but on the inside, he wants to scream.

This is a part of him. These are all parts of him, big and small, and it's always just a bit of a jab— to have his heart put in someone else's hand, and then to watch that heart be poked and prodded for the sake of... what? Commercial gain?

At one point, Sungsoo pauses to look between Jihoon and you. "Are you not going to take notes?" the older man asks.

You respond before Jihoon can. "Rewrite the second half of Back 2 Back, tweak the instrumentation balance and structure of Yawn, adjust the rhythm for Diamond Days' chorus," you rattle off. "I— we got it, sir."

"Right. Good," he says, and Jihoon doesn't like the condescending tone that Sungsoo uses with you, but at least it's not aimed at him.

The older man sits back in his chair, and Jihoon lets his eyes drift away from the company boss just for a moment to look at you. A strange feeling fills him. He wants to name it appreciation, wants to claim it's nothing more than a little admiration.

But then he'd be lying to himself. Because that warm kind of feeling shifts into— just a little— something a bit more than what he's supposed to be feeling for a co-producer.

Before he could dwell on this thought any longer, Sungsoo clears his throat and Jihoon quickly tunes back in. He's not thinking about that right now, and that's final.

The meeting wraps up not too long after with some parting reminders on deadlines and the upcoming comeback. Jihoon can tell by the look on your face that you're a bit dazed, and Sungsoo's parting words only add gasoline to the fire.

The CEO says both your names as he readies to dismiss you. "The two of you are a good pair," he notes, and Jihoon almost short-circuits.

Pair.

Right. A good pair of co-producers. Not anything else, not anything more.

Both of you mumble your appreciation for the CEO's remark. And Jihoon, like the fool that he is, feels that warm, fuzzy glow bloom again. He doesn't care what it signifies; at the moment, he's just too happy to work with you again.

By the time you head back to his studio, there's not much that either of you can really say. Marathon edits were not new to either of you; you both slide in to work mode without much preamble.

The music starts playing and the edits start pouring in, and the five or six hours spent on the three tracks fly by without Jihoon even noticing it. It gets to the point where he's working on autopilot— one hand on the mouse, fingers flying across the keyboard.

The thing about working on autopilot was that it made the process quicker but left little room to feel or think, which was both a blessing and a curse.

At the six-hour mark, he finally deigns to glance at you. Your gaze is focused on the digital audio workstation as you cut some low frequencies from the guitar on Diamond Days, but there's a slight quiver in your hands as you do it.

While Jihoon doesn't see what you're having trouble with, he can sense that you're off. He knows the signs of stress and exhaustion better than most, what with the hours he puts in.

"Aigo," he calls out to you, and his voice is a little raspy— hoarse— because he's been humming and singing for the better half of the evening. "Are you okay?"

"Still in the green," you say wryly. You had a bit of a traffic light system to refer to when talking about how far gone either of you were.

He watches intently as you implement the changes to Diamond Days, as you give a disapproving shake of your head at the revision. Still not to your standard.

Of course you wouldn't be at the red light stage— not even close, he muses. But in Jihoon's head, there was already one foot on the red light spectrum— and it wasn't just because of the revisions.

"Let's take a break," he suggests.

The idea comes out of absolutely nowhere, even for him. A break—? When was the last time he had voluntarily done that?

Jihoon's been having more questions than answers lately, but he just chalks it all up to being stressed. And maybe a little tired.

Anything except what it really is.

This time, you actually do glance up from the workstation. There's mild surprise on your expression as you tease, "Yah, who are you and what have you done to the indomitable WOOZI?"

"Huh?" he deflects. For a brief moment, he almost feels a little shy around you.

"I'm just bored," he explains, and he's surprised that he can lie so well and sound so casual. "You don't need to come if you don't want to. I just wanted to get some air."

But of course you're coming, already pushing back against the table at the rare invite from Jihoon. "The usual?" you prompt.

To others, a 'usual' might have indicated a trip to the cafeteria, a smoke break on the sidewalk. But Jihoon and you both hated the company's food and neither of you smoked, and so your breaks were spent somewhere a little more unorthodox.

"The usual," he agrees.

He leads you across the company building, the walk to your destination full of comfortable silence. Eventually, you make it to your designated break place: The company's rooftop.

Jihoon takes his usual seat at the far end while you sit closer to the ledge. The atmosphere is thick and humid from the weather, but there's a breeze to keep the heat bearable.

When Jihoon said he wanted to get some air, he meant it quite literally.

He doesn't want to give away his real intentions on calling for the break. Still, he can't help the question that slides out of him as he watches the glittering lights of Seoul beneath the two of you.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, glancing at you.

"I am," you answer quietly, your gaze still fixed on the city. "Thanks, Jihoon-ah. I needed this."

He almost smiles. "Of course."

This was the first time since he's met you that he'd asked you to do something just because he thought you needed it. And it isn't long until that fact has Jihoon wondering why the heck he's been putting things off so much lately.

He doesn't get to mull over his thoughts for long though— not when there's a sudden urge to do another thing that he realizes he hasn't ever done.

He takes out his phone and opens up the camera app. "Yah," he calls. "Look here for a second."

You do as he asks, glancing over your shoulder, and the soft click of his phone breaks through the white noise of the city below. When you let out a surprised laugh, he thinks it's the second best thing he's ever heard. Only after music.

"What are you doing?" you chide, a bit of a giggle in your tone as you raise your hand— palm facing Jihoon— to your face, as if trying to shy away from the camera.

"I don't know," he admits. A laugh tumbles out of him, and he knows he's blushing— but he's not ashamed of it this time, not really.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he assures you. He holds in a chuckle at the way you're blocking your face and snaps another picture.

Maybe he's delirious from all his work. That has to be it, he thinks, as he clicks away despite your sputtered protests.

"Alright, fine," you huff, feigning annoyance. And then— oh.

You brace your hands against the ledge and tilt your head to one side so you can flash Jihoon an easy, practiced grin. "Cheese," you sing-song.

It takes quite a lot of willpower for Jihoon not to just sit and stare, that strange feeling welling inside of him coming to fore. He's not proud of it, but it's there, and the fact that there's something about you that makes him feel this way makes everything a little bit more complicated.

"Cheese," he agrees, taking just one more picture of you.

He knows he's smiling too hard, his eyes turning in to crescents with just how damn fond he feels to be snapping photos at your side.

You can never tell from the expression on his face, but he's wrecked with the knowledge that he had just done three things he had never done before:

He's asked you to do something solely because he thought you needed it.

He's taken a picture of you (with your knowledge, this time).

And he's let this thing he has for you be so in control of him.

It's a damning thing, he muses as he tucks his phone away. What would happen next was up to the universe.

Admittedly, it almost all felt like a test, and Jihoon is terrified he had failed.

But then you reach out, your hand casually resting atop of Jihoon's. You don't clasp your hands together or intertwine your fingers. You merely keep it there as you cast your gaze back down at the city, like you're giving Jihoon a chance to pull away.

It's almost instinctual, how he turns his hand over and links his fingers together with yours. His fingers are longer, so your fingertips curl over his and you’re left holding his hand for the first time.

You don't say a thing about it. Jihoon tries to rationalize the action on your behalf. Maybe you're just delirious and tired, too. Maybe it's cold and you need something to hold on to. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All the while, his heart thumps in his chest.

Did he even deserve this? Was this okay?

Would it be okay if he just sat there, looking down onto the city, holding your hand and nothing more?

His brain refrains the earlier remark he'd given you. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just a hand in his, a quiet evening, a moment that will eventually pass.

It doesn't have to mean anything, but why does Jihoon want it to?

Back in the studio, neither of you say a word. Not about the photos of you that Jihoon now has in his phone; not about the way you initiated holding his hand. Not about how the two of you held on for just a bit too long before heading back from your break.

The two of you do what you do best: You throw ourselves in to the last of your work.

It takes you two a record of fifteen minutes to fix what had been wrong with Diamond Days, and then some twenty more minutes to make sure the three other tracks are alright. Jihoon does the honors of sending them over to Sungsoo for some final checks.

Once the email goes through, you lean back in to the couch of Jihoon's studio. "And now we wait," you exhale, sounding equally exhausted and elated.

With your work for the day done, it feels like whatever veil of formality had held the mini-album together is broken— and you're now just two people in Jihoon's workplace, tired, and done working for the day.

Jihoon stretches his arms out and sags against his chair, letting out a groan.

"And now we wait," he repeats. A beat, as he keeps his eyes trained to the ceiling. Then, softly, he adds, "You did good, you know."

He sees you glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. "You, too," you offer quietly, sincerely. "You did well, Jihoon-ah."

His eyes remain on the ceiling, his mind taking him back to how it felt when your hand rested atop of his. It had felt strange and it had felt good— and the fact that you'd so boldly initiated it in the first place made it even better.

The thought that there was a possibility of it being a one-time thing made him almost want to cry, for whatever reason.

It's just so weird, and Jihoon has never felt like this before. He's never caught in a complicated sort of feeling like this. But the way you'd held his hand was different— and the more thoughts he thought about it, he realized that your touch was different from the touch of anyone else's.

"Can we talk for a second?" is all he finds himself able to ask, and it's a surprise to him— considering how much the two of you have never talked about things that were just about you and him.

Still, he wonders that perhaps now, with everything that's happened here, there was something he needed to tell you. Something he wanted you to know.

He hears you shifting on the couch, spots a corner of your lip quirking upward in a show of interest. When he fully turns to look at you, he notices the way you've braced yourself against the back of the couch to meet his gaze.

"Sure," you say. "What's on your mind?"

Jihoon rubs his hand over his mouth as he thinks of a way to articulate his thoughts.

There are so many words here that don't need to be said. There are some words that he wants to say but that you simply don't need to hear.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he needed to filter them very well because he wasn't sure if they'd cause a misunderstanding.

"I'd like to keep doing this," is what eventually comes out.

His fingers find his earlobe out of nervousness. His heartrate only seems to spike when you stare back at him for a moment, your eyebrows raised like you're waiting to see if he'll elaborate.

And so elaborate he does. "All of this," he goes on. "Producing for the group, collaborating with you, just… seeing you and talking to you and… having you around."

It feels a bit weird to express after three years of working alongside each other, but it's also the first explicit admittance Jihoon has made abut wanting to keep up your collaboration.

He's not surprised when you try to pass it off with some humor. "I'll stick around for as long as you'll have me," you say almost jokingly, but there's almost a desperate weight of truth in your words.

Jihoon sighs, his expression tightening. There was a whole lot he wanted to say to you— he wanted to make a lot of things very clear— but he also wanted to keep whatever was blooming between the two of you going.

He tries not to dwell on it. Not now, with his feelings as fresh as they were.

"I've been thinking," he starts, his voice quieter now. "Maybe we could… get to know each other or something. Spend the day together— away from the company. Away from this life. Just as… two normal adults."

Another pause.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Jihoon-ah?" you kid after a torturous minute.

Jihoon goes quiet for a moment, the gears turning in his head.

He really was asking you out on a date, wasn't he? How would he even spin this as something simple and innocent?

What had he been expecting in return when he asked you? Why did he ask in the first place if it wasn't to actually find out who you were and why you were the only person he could really say he wanted to spend time with?

Questions, no answers. He's going to go insane.

"You know what," he blurts out before he can lose his nerve. "Yeah. Yes, I am asking you out on a date."

You're both stunned in to silence, and you look like you're just about to say what you should. A 'no'. Something about this not being proper.

But then there's a faint ding from Jihoon's laptop, and he glances over just in time to see that Sungsoo had responded in the affirmative to your revisions for the group's eleventh mini-album.

A stuttering, relieved breath escapes you. Jihoon, for his part, lets out a huff, his shoulders falling. He hadn't even meant to ask you out on a date; he was only going to ask you to spend the day with him.

Now, though, it was out in the open. And he'll be damned to take it back.

"Looks like we're free now," he muses, far too prideful to let Sungsoo derail this conversation. Jihoon's voice is edged with hope as he goes on, "So, what do you say?"

Jihoon has no way of knowing this, but you admire his persistence. When you laugh, it's what changes your mind, what privately convinces you to take him up on his offer.

Because Jihoon had still somehow managed to make you laugh despite it all.

"You know what? Okay," you say readily, one shoulder raising in half a shrug. "Let's go on a date next week, Jihoon-ah."

It would definitely beat sitting in Jihoon's studio, alone and bored, until Sungsoo had sent over their next project.

"Okay," he repeats, his lips curling in a tentative smile. "I'll let you know what plans I come up with, then."

"Alright." You're already rising from the studio couch, preparing to take your leave for the evening.

As you gather your things, Jihoon tries to look back at his workstation instead. Like the sight of it might somehow give him the answers to where to take you, what to do, how to go about all this.

You pause at the door of his studio. "Text me," you say.

It's nothing short of a miracle, how Jihoon is able to respond "I will."

And then you're gone, but the loss doesn't feel as prominent as it usually does. Because now, Jihoon has something to look forward to.

He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to be so selfish.

His thoughts over the next few days are consumed with the upcoming date.

Everything he does seems to center around how the date will go, where he'll bring you, and how he would survive a day in your presence without completely humiliating himself.

He takes his time planning. By the time next week rolls around, he's a mess.

His ears are burning as he dials your number and presses the call button.

Your tone is casual on the other line. "Hey, Jihoon-ah," you greet. "What's up?"

Jihoon takes a moment to just hear your voice. He internally groans at how a simple what's up already has his heart rate picking up like nobody's business.

"Hey," he finally says after he gathers himself, his free hand shoving into his pocket. He's pacing his apartment bedroom, fighting for his life to keep calm. "I… just wanted to call about tomorrow."

When you respond, your voice is cautious. "Sure. What about tomorrow?"

There's a slight pause again, and Jihoon can already feel the sweat forming on the inside of his palm.

Surely, you wouldn't think he was calling to cancel? Why would he have waited until the day before?

"Just needed to ask you about something," he admits, his free hand coming up to fiddle with the hair on one side of his ear. "I just wanted to… ask a question. Uh…"

"What… are you going to be wearing?" he finally spits out, his face already going red as the words leave his mouth.

Why the fuck can't he be cool about this? Why can't he be casual and chill about the date and about seeing you? It's so goddamn frustrating— he needed to get a handle on himself and soon, he thinks with despair.

"Oh. Uh…" From the other end of the phone, you seem to be shuffling around. "I was actually going to ask what our plans were," you admit rather meekly. "So I can dress accordingly."

Jihoon's eyes widen, and for a moment, he feels even more like an idiot than he usually does.

You had no idea where you were going, he realizes, and as a result— you had no idea what to wear.

"Oh… right," he says, mentally facepalming himself. He was supposed to be the one giving you information, not the other way around. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

He takes a second or two to collect himself, because— God, he did not want to mess this up. If you found out about the amount of work and effort he'd put in this thing, you'd definitely laugh at him.

"Nothing too formal, but don't be super casual," he says slowly. "You'll want a jacket, maybe. And wear comfortable shoes."

He takes another deep breath, steadying himself before he adds, "And I'm going to pick you up at ten. Is that alright?"

Jihoon's instructions are a touch on the vague side, but you don't seem to mind as you let out a huff of amused laughter. "Dress warm, comfortable jacket and shoes, ten in the morning," you repeat. "Okay. Got it."

You go on, "I'll text you my address. I— we've known each other so long, but I don't think you've ever come over, have you?"

Another good point. Jihoon and you spent most of your time at the company. There were rare occasions where you'd join the group's post-comeback celebrations with the rest of the staff, but those were always at some rented-out restobar.

"Yeah. Well. Just text me, then," he says lamely, already mentally berating himself for how much of a fool he's acting. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Jihoon-ah," you bid, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

Just like that, Jihoon's heart rate picks up again— except this time, it's not just nervousness he feels.

There's that strange sense of anticipation, the slight thrill of excitement he gets with the mere thought of seeing you the next day, and he nearly lets out an exhale to quell all those feelings.

"See you," he says finally, his voice barely above a murmur.

And then suddenly— he's hanging up, the realization of everything finally settling on him. This was actually happening.

He sits on his bed for a moment, just mulling over the conversation, before he lets himself fall back onto the mattress in horror. He had just hung up, hadn't he? Did he even say goodbye? Did he even say something nice? He was a mess.

He lets out a long, pitiful whine in to a pillow as he wonders for a second or two if he should call back just to say good night to you properly.

In the end, he decides against it. He didn't want to come off as desperate and it was pretty likely that he'd just dig a deeper hole for himself.

Still, he can't help but let out an annoyed, strangled sound as he turns to look at the ceiling.

He was going to have to put a lot of effort if he didn't want to embarrass the hell out of himself.

Come the next day, Jihoon is standing outside your apartment at exactly ten in the morning.

He knocks almost tentatively, and he's only a little surprised that you swing the door open without missing a beat.

You flash him a smile in greeting. "Come in," you say, ushering him in to what he can only describe as uncharted territory. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, juice?"

He's so tripped up over how you look— the smart-casual outfit, focused on warmth, as he'd advised— that he almost misses the offer.

"Ah," he stutters. Barely a minute in and I'm already done for, he thinks ruefully. "Do you have— cola?"

You give a small sound of assent as you move further in to your apartment, towards what he assumes is the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," you call, and Jihoon is left to bear witness to your space.

It looks very much like that of an artist's. There's floor-to-ceiling corkboards on almost every wall and a blackboard full of chalk markings— bearing everything from concepts to half-finished lyrics.

You have bookshelves groaning under the weight of music albums— Jihoon sees a number of SEVENTEEN's— and instruments crammed in to nooks and crannies.

He suddenly remembers how, for some reason, you had never really let him come over to your apartment before. And now, he understands why, because your apartment almost felt like a reflection of your own brain— chaotic, but brilliant. It was a creative genius's studio, and it was more than just a little bit captivating.

You return with a can of Coke. "It's a lot, isn't it?" you muse.

Jihoon shakes his head. It is a lot. But also— he knows how gifted you are, knows how driven you can be. Seeing it here, so openly on display, has something stammering in his chest.

"Is this all your work?" he asks a moment later, still glancing around. "Is this… everything you've been working on? You've been keeping it here?"

"Not all of us have separate studios," you shoot back. There's an easy smile on your face, indicating that you're just teasing.

When you seem to realize that your initial jab hasn't answered Jihoon's question, you amend, "It's not all of my work. You should see my childhood bedroom back in Jeju."

"Jesus," he says with a slight chuckle, his fingers pressing around the metal of his soda can.

He doesn't know why the thought of your childhood room in Jeju having more of this surprises him. But, then again, that was just the kind of person you were. An ambitious, freethinking, creative genius, the same qualities he'd grown to appreciate over time.

And now he was about to go on a date with you. How the hell had he gotten this lucky?

He isn't quite sure what compels him. All he knows is that the question, almost rhetorical in nature, is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in.

"You really love music, don't you?"

The question seems to throw you off-kilter, but you recover surprisingly fast. You're thoughtfully smoothing out the patches on your denim jacket as you retort, "I love it about as much as you do."

If it had been any other person, Jihoon might have scoffed, might have privately thought they were cocky or just outright lying. But it's you, and his heart twists in to a knot at the thought of how willing he is to accept that cardinal truth.

That you and him loved music in equal measure.

In a hopeless attempt to collect himself, he shoots back his soda in several big gulps. The carbonated drink burns as it goes down his throat; he forces it to stay down.

"We should probably get going," he prompts once he's done with his drink.

"Right, of course."

You go to throw away his empty soda can for him, and the way you move makes it abundantly clear that you're unaware of the effect you have on him.

As the two of you step out of your apartment and find your way to Jihoon's car, he can only hope that it won't be that long of an afternoon.

Despite the way he keeps both hands on the steering wheel, Jihoon can still feel the nerves racing up and down his spine. He's nervous, excited, his emotions a mess as he tries to get himself together.

He can't believe that after years of talking about music and just working together, after all this goddamn time, you were finally going on a date together.

The car radio is just a touch too loud, which is to be expected, considering that it was Jihoon's vehicle. You have to pitch your voice above it to be audible.

"Where are we going?" you ask as he peels in to traffic.

"You'll see when we get there," he responds.

The disapproving pinch of your expression draws a laugh out of him. He doesn't give you the opportunity to press any longer as he fiddles with the radio dial, upping the volume just a touch more.

He'd planned this date carefully after spending far too much time agonizing over all the details. He was damned if he wasn't going to keep some things in the dark.

It's a quiet drive for the most part, with only the radio keeping the silence from being too deafening. But, frankly, Jihoon isn't too bothered by the silence because it gives him ample time to collect his thoughts, to try not to focus on the way your hand is right there, a few inches away from his on the gear shift.

He keeps his eyes on the road, keeps his expression neutral, and keeps his cards as close to his chest as possible.

Once Jihoon is finally pulling in to a parking lot, he manages to find his voice. "We're here," he notes, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world.

He waits a moment for you to also unbuckle your seatbelts, and only then does he climb out of the car. He quickly walks around to your side, pulling open the door for you and gesturing for you to follow him as he crosses the parking lot.

"What is 'here', exactly?" you ask Jihoon as you walk up to the building in front of you. It looks rather unassuming; nothing on the outside giving out what it might be. Just white walls and a sign outside that's still too far to read.

Jihoon catches the way you try to make out the sign, and he can't help but find himself feeling a touch flustered because goddammit, was he allowed to find everything you did endearing?

He clears his throat before finally answering. "A planetarium."

Now, Jihoon definitely doesn't miss the way your eyes widen, nor the small tone of excitement that betrays the otherwise casualness of your voice.

"That's cool," you say with your hands shoved in to the pockets of your jacket. "Never been to one before."

He can clearly see how excited you'd gotten just at hearing where he'd brought you. And, frankly, it just makes his pulse race all that much more.

"Well, let's go in and have a look then, shall we?" he offers, his voice a little on the quieter side as he tries valiantly to not mimic your excitement.

As you approach the building façade, the signage comes in to better view. It boasts of an immersive planetarium experience, but what stops you dead in your tracks is a note tacked on the front door.

Closed for a private event.

"Oh?" you're saying, a slight edge of disappointment in your tone. "It's looks like it's—"

But before you can finish your sentence, the door is pulling open, and an important-looking man— the manager— is already stepping up to address Jihoon.

"Mr. Lee, right on time," the employee greets with a bow. "We've set everything up for you."

The oh that escapes you, this time, is a lot softer.

Jihoon can't help the small grin that immediately works its way across his lips at your reaction. He'd been hoping to catch you by surprise, and he can tell that it worked.

He gives a polite, somewhat formal half-bow in return to the manager before glancing over his shoulder to you. There's a hint of smugness in his voice as his gaze lands on you again. "C'mon," he says as he starts making his way in to the planetarium.

The inside is mostly dark; Jihoon gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the change. There's no one else here but the two of you, and Jihoon isn't really complaining about the emptiness. It just means he can have you all to himself, without having to worry about having anyone else around.

He can hear your footsteps, following behind him, and he has to mentally remind himself to keep himself together before he finally glances over his shoulder at you.

"Surprised?" he teases, the ghost of a smirk making its way on to his face.

He revels in the look of awe on your face, the way you all but ignore him to pull a couple of steps ahead. You're surveying the lobby like it's already the main exhibit, and Jihoon has the sudden urge to rent out every gallery in Seoul for you to see.

Your next words are one-two punch on Jihoon's poor, poor heart. "I think you've got some nerve, Jihoon-ah, pulling out all the stops on our first date," you muse, your face still upturned to the entryway.

Jihoon almost trips right over his own two feet as the casualness of your words registers in his mind.

Multiple dates. You were implying that there might be multiple dates to follow. That you wanted there to be multiple dates.

He takes a quick breath, trying to maintain any semblance of a nonchalant attitude as he responds. "What?" he says, the smirk just a touch more shaky on his lips. "You think this is 'going all out'?"

He continues to walk, catching up to you a few moments later. "I'm offended. How dare you think that I'd settle for anything less than perfection."

"If this isn't 'all out' yet for you," you quip. "I'm a bit nervous as to what is."

He only responds with a small chuckle. "You'll see."

He leads you to the next room over, and this particular one is far more darker. The only source of light is from the projector against the back wall, projecting a constellation map on the opposite wall.

Jihoon glances over his shoulder once more, watching the small look of wonder on your face. He leads you to a small couch in the center of the room before sitting comfortably beside you on it.

His face is partially illuminated by the lights of the projector, and he can clearly see the way you're taking in everything around him.

"You like it, hm?" he gently prods, watching you again.

It's a lot to take in, honestly. The high ceiling, the projected constellations, the lights dancing across both your faces. Even the way the room has been rearranged— the single plush couch, the type that allows you to recline and gaze up at the faux sky of constellations— is all so damn good.

"I like it," you concede, your voice barely above a murmur. You speak like you're scared that talking any louder will break an illusion. "It's— yah, Jihoon-ah. It's so pretty."

In that moment, Jihoon almost forgets how to breathe.

There's something so soft and gentle and fond to your voice as you speak, and the way your words came out almost reverently does something to Jihoon that he couldn't quite explain.

"Pretty," he repeats, eyes still trained on you. "It is, isn't it?"

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a long time; Jihoon still watching you instead of the exhibit. You didn't just say it was pretty. You'd said it with words and tone and expression that told him just how much you loved it.

Christ, he was a goner. He was far gone for you.

After what feels like both an eternity and a second at the same time, Jihoon finally shifts his gaze away from you, glancing up at the ceiling above him. He's quiet for a few more moments before he finally speaks again.

"Y'know…" He starts, the sound of his voice just a touch quieter than usual. "When I was a kid, I always thought the stars were my favorite thing."

Jihoon glances over at you again, noticing the way you were still practically enchanted by the projected stars above you. It makes him bite back a small, amused smile, before he continues.

"I used to sit out in the field by my house and count them, name them, make up my own stories for each of them. I thought they were the most magical, most incredible things in the whole universe."

He thinks of his home back in Busan, the way the moon reflected over the sea water. He thinks of a version of him from lifetimes ago— a boy he'll never be again.

He almost misses him.

Jihoon lets out a soft huff. "And then I got older, and life got really shitty and busy, and..." His voice falters a bit. "The stars were no longer as important to me as they were before."

He exhales, the sound filling the quiet room. He can feel you listening, can feel you taking in every sincere word of his. And that's enough. That means something.

"But..." He goes on quietly. "Sometimes, there are moments that come, and the only things that matter are the stars again."

It's just like Jihoon to spew something poetic without pretense or shame. In his peripheral, he sees you glancing at him, and it takes everything for him to not let this feeling overwhelm him.

"I hope you have more moments like that, then," you say, your voice equally soft.

There was something so endearing about the sentiment you'd said, and he knew that you meant every word of it. And that made it all so much worse for his heart.

He's so whipped, it almost makes him want to laugh.

This is one of those moments, he almost says. Even if it's not real stars.

He can't help it anymore. Despite all the times he's had to keep up his usually cool, calm demeanor with you, despite his usual attitude, despite his usual shyness, the urge is just too much and—

He slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

That was one thing the stars could do: Give him a bit of courage.

When you don't resist his gentle tugging, he figures he can do just one more thing.

His free hand moves to your chin, gently coaxing your head up so that you’re looking at a specific point up at the ceiling.

You're so focused on the stars, you barely even register the sound of Jihoon’s voice again.

"The most special stars," he murmurs. "They all have names."

He’s still speaking into your ear, and you can feel his warm breath against your skin. "That one," he says, his voice like gravel. He slowly, carefully tilts your chin up just a little more. Coaxing you to look up even further. "Is my favorite."

His calmness is belied by the fact that his heart is a jackhammer in his chest. All he can do, really, is try to get you to look at one of the larger stars that's almost dead center in the middle.

"Why is it your favorite?" you inquire, the genuine curiosity in your tone almost mistakable for breathlessness.

"It's the brightest star in the entire sky." His gaze darts between the star and your face, the shadows of the room hiding the way his chest tightens at the sight of you listening intently. "It's called Sirius."

His voice is still soft, but there's a new note to it that you've never heard before. It's quiet, reverent, almost like he's about to tell you a secret.

"The Romans called it the 'dog star'," he continues. "Because it's the brightest star in Canis Major, the big dog constellation."

He lowers his head a little so that his chin is almost resting on your shoulder, and his arm around your shoulders tightens just a fraction.

"But to the Chinese, it was known as the 'heavenly river commander'," he goes on. "And the Arabs called it the 'chief star in heaven'."

Jihoon is getting nervous, now, but he has to do this. He has to.

It feels like the first flicker of a neon sign as he goes on, "To all those different people, it was all of those things. To me—"

He pauses, feeling the words stick in his Adam's apple.

The brightest star in the night sky.

For the longest time, Jihoon had wondered whether he would find something to call it, too. The closest he's come has been the boys, his music.

But that felt like an understatement. They weren't just a group, after all; they were his whole life. And so it was more apt to describe them as the universe, as the entire planetarium.

Which left him with the brightest star—

"To you?" you repeat, tilting your head back to meet Jihoon's gaze head on.

"What's it called to you?" you prompt.

In the relative darkness, he can't read you as well as he might have wanted.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't change what's he's going to say, anyway.

He gives you his answer—

He says your name.

And then he leans in— his heart at your feet, all yours for the taking.

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.1k

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Secret mutual pinning, angst, emotional turmoil, mentions of insecurities, EVENTUAL SMUT, confessional sex, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v sex, long distance relationship

𝐀/𝐍: I didn’t expect this to be so long. Also hey @lazyjellyfish300 remember this blurb?? We’ve got the smut🥳

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Saying goodbye to you wasn’t part of Miguel’s plan. As you prepare to leave Alchemax for a prestigious new role, Miguel struggles with the realisation that he’s about to lose more than just a colleague.

“What are you doing?”

Miguel watched intently as you packed away your belongings in a box, clearing up your workstation. It wasn’t just a casual clean up— this looked like something more final.

You meticulously removed the photos from the wall, gathered your notes, and neatly stacked your research papers. The once vibrant workstation, full of personality, now looked eerily bare.

“Clearing my work station.” you said matter-of-factory. His chest felt heavy with uneasy tension, a sense of foreboding growing with each second.

“Yeah, I got that much, genius,” he shot back, stepping closer and stopping right next to your desk. “Why are you clearing your desk?”

You turned to face him wordlessly, his question only carrying more weight between the two of you like an unwelcome guest. His mouth went dry as he locked eyes with you.

Up close, you always managed to take his breath away, a quiet beauty that never failed to stir something deep within him. But today, there was a different kind of tension in the air, a sense of finality that he couldn’t grasp.

“Well?” he prodded, though he had a sinking feeling that whatever was going to unfold would change everything.

“Well uhm…I put in my two weeks notice today.”

He almost choked at your words. This was worse than he anticipated. He thought maybe you were moving to a different workstation, not leaving the company entirely.

“What?” his voice was barely a whisper. He could feel his pulse thundering in his ears. You were leaving— he was losing you.

“I’ve been offered a lead geneticist position at another company. But it’s in Raleigh, so…I’m gonna have to move.”

You had worked as a research scientist at Alchemax for several years, and because of the nature of your work, you and Miguel collaborated on a daily basis.

Discussing experimental results, debating research protocols— it all came so naturally. Over time, what began as a professional respect grew into something more personal. And now, that bond was about to be severed.

You were leaving for a bigger, fancier job in North Carolina. The thought twisted something deep inside him and he struggled to keep himself together.

“I can’t turn it down. I’ve busted my ass on the application and the whole interview process.”

“Congrats…” The word came out strangled, forced through clenched teeth. Trying to talk without being overwhelmed with emotions was like trying to hold back a flood with a paper dam.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” you half-joked, but there was a note of concern in your voice.

You were right, his response wasn’t the best cover-up for his true feelings. The mere idea of you leaving filled him with dread, despair and most of all, jealousy.

“Of course I’m happy for you. I know you’ve been working hard— you deserve the opportunity.” He managed to hide most of his turmoil behind a cold wall of control. But deep down, the words felt hollow.

He knew he had no right to feel this way. You had every right to leave, to seize this incredible opportunity. This wasn’t something that came around often, and he didn’t want to be the one to hold you back.

You set the box down on the desk— the box that held all your belongings. “I’ll still be here for another two weeks.”

“Two weeks…” he echoed, the words sticking in his throat like a curse.

Two weeks. How was that enough time to prepare for losing you? What was he supposed to do after that? Just accept that you were gone? His heart couldn’t take that.

“I’ll visit Nueva York whenever I get the chance,” you said, trying to sound reassuring.

“You better. You’re not allowed to just drop off the face of the earth once you’re gone…” it was getting harder to keep his tone light.

“Of course…Nueva York and Alchemax aren't going to leave my mind anytime soon.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of us every now and then���and I’m certain this place won’t forget you…”

“I doubt it.” you scoffed, a bit of edge to your voice. “The higher ups will probably replace me before I even step foot in North Carolina.”

Miguel’s heart sank at the thought, though he knew there was some truth to it. The idea of someone else taking your place, of your work station filled with notes and projects by another rando, was too much to bear.

He could already picture the empty space where your personal touch used to shine through, replaced by some faceless new hire who was unaware how amazing you were

“Yeah, knowing them, they’ve probably already written up your job description, listing your position open for applications.” he sighed solemnly.

The company never had the best moral compass when it came to their employees, and would replace anyone that wasn’t serving their needs in a heartbeat.

“It’s okay, I’m sure I’ve left my mark here, even if I feel like I didn’t do much.”

Miguel almost let out a laugh in disbelief. You were always such a hard-worker, always a quick-thinker. You had single-handedly helped him out more times than he could count.

Another company had even recognised your talent and wanted you to work for them…yet you still doubted your capabilities.

“Are you serious? You’re irreplaceable. You’ve saved my ass more times than I could remember.” His voice was firm now, desperate to make you see things from his view.

“Mhmm.” You hummed. “Now, I’ll soon be the lead geneticist in another company, just like you.”

The enthusiasm in your tone was impossible to miss, and it reflected in your eyes. It should have made Miguel happy for you, and in a way, it did.

But the guilt still gnawed at him, guilt that he couldn’t match your excitement. Deep down, all he wanted was for you to stay, for purely selfish reasons.

“Yeah…just like me.” he repeated your words, the tiniest edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

You didn’t seem to notice. “I guess all those late nights of research finally paid off. And all your teachings too.”

Miguel recalled all those nights together— just the two of you, the lab quiet save for the hum of machines and the scratch of pen on paper.

Mundane tasks became memorable simply because you were there. The memories sent a shiver up his spine, a bittersweet reminder of what he was about to lose.

It was a painful realisation that not everything lasts forever, especially the good things.

“Don’t count all this success as being attributed to just me, you did a lot of studying, too.” he chuckled lightly. “You really put in the hard work…you earned it.”

But even as he spoke, the words tasted bitter. Even if he was proud of you, it didn’t make the ache in his chest any less potent.

He glanced back at the box on your desk. No one could replace you— not in the lab, and certainly not in his life.

“But, I wouldn’t be here without you, so I have to give you some credit.” you smiled warmly. “If I ever win an award in this field and they make me stand on those podiums and talk to a huge audience, I’ll be sure to mention your name.”

Miguel felt his stomach flip at your words. He was at a loss for words. You’d mention his name if you won an award? He didn’t realise he had made such an impact on you— to be someone you viewed as admirable enough to acknowledge publicly.

The thought alone could possibly make him faint. To have his name mentioned in such a light by you…it was almost too much to handle.

He swallowed thickly. “Ah…you don’t have to go that far. I’m just some scientist,” he said coolly, though his pulse quickened. “Really, you’re gonna go places, make a name for yourself— you don’t need to credit me.”

“But I will. You've been a big part of my career here,” you insisted.

Your words hit Miguel square in the chest. You were adamant about recognising his role in your life. It was almost overwhelming, the way you considered him to be that much of an integral part of you.

He forced out a playful scoff, hoping to mask the surge of emotions rising in him.

“Yeah, I guess I helped you with some projects…but don’t go listing me as some co-author in your resume.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I know my limits.”

~

The next few days felt like treading on thin ice, where one wrong move could crack the fragile tension between the two of you.

Since the day you told him you were leaving, you’ve been unusually reserved, quieter than usual— a shift that didn’t go unnoticed by Miguel.

The sudden change in your energy tightened the coil of anxiety in his chest, and it was made worse by his inability to figure out why you were acting this way.

Whenever he would look your way, you always seemed distracted, lost in thought. Your responses were always brief and you would only speak when spoken to.

Miguel couldn’t help but feel concerned over you, but he was hesitant to ask you about it, not wanting to intrude or overstep any boundaries.

One evening, you both found yourselves working late again in his lab alone. The atmosphere was quiet— filled with the soft sounds of typing and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Miguel couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at you. You were staring at your work, but he could tell your focus was elsewhere, lost in your own thoughts that were weighing you down.

As the evening wore on, the solitude of the lab and the waning hours seemed to offer the right moment. His concern outweighed his hesitation, and he turned his chair to face you.

“You’ve been quiet all day. Is everything okay?” He asked gently.

You looked up at him from your papers. The lightning highlighted the tiredness in your eyes, your expression weary and distant.

“Yeah, just thinking.” you mused.

“Is it about leaving? Are you upset?”

He could see the hesitation in your face, your eyes darting away from him and focused on the desk in front of you. “It’s not about leaving…well, maybe it is, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about how I’ve been in relationships…you know, what I wanted, what I didn’t get. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve been asking for too much.”

Miguel blinked, taken back by your admission. He hadn’t expected that, but now that you brought it up, he was curious to know more.

“Too much? What could you possibly have asked for that was too much?”

“Just…little things. Being held, feeling safe, someone who actually listens after a long day,” you replied. He didn’t miss the tinge of bitterness in your voice. “I thought those were normal things to want, but it was like… like they were a burden to give.”

Hearing you feel so unappreciated made his chest tighten with frustration. How could someone make you think you were asking for too much? You deserved everything you asked for and more.

“That’s not too much to ask. It’s not a burden— it’s what you deserve.”

This wasn’t a passing thought; it was clear you’d been hurt before. The idea that someone had made you feel unworthy of love you craved infuriated him.

If you were with him, you wouldn’t even have to ask for that. He’d give you everything you wanted, and then some.

You let out a tired sigh, still not fully convinced by his words. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find that. Or I’m chasing something unrealistic.”

No, don’t think that.

“You deserve someone who will give you all of that.”

You looked up at him. He could tell his words resonated with you when he saw something hopeful in your eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said— he kept his tone low, hiding the fierce enthusiasm he felt. He could go on about everything you deserved, but he didn’t want to come off as desperate. “And if you have found it yet, it’s not because you’re asking too much.”

There was so much more he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do— but he held himself back. He wanted to pull you into his embrace, just to share your warmth.

He wasn’t going to confess to you, that wasn’t the smartest move. Instead he pushed his feelings down for your sake, and pretended his love for you was just platonic.

“Are you in a relationship?” you asked suddenly.

Miguel had to hold himself back from giving a puzzled look. You’ve worked together for years now— wasn't it obvious that he was single? Maybe he’d been too vague about his love life, that was probably why you were asking.

He thought that by never mentioning a partner, it made him seem more available to you. But it seems you’ve overlooked that.

Not that he was inexperienced. He had his fair share of relationships— some short-lived, others too casual to be called serious.

They were a balance of good and bad, each leaving him with lessons to learn.

But he could confidently say that none of them had ever made him feel the way you did. He longed to express that with you, to tell you why you had his heart wrapped around your finger. But he knew that would only complicate things more.

“No…haven’t been in one in a while.”

And you’re the reason, he wanted to add.

“What about you? Found anyone special yet?” A small part of him dreaded to hear you answer, even if either response wouldn’t serve him any good.

“No.”

If you weren’t leaving the company, that answer would’ve brought him joy. But now, knowing that you were available it made the situation more poignant— a reminder that he had missed his chance.

Ironically, it would’ve given him more clarity if you said yes.

He had gotten used to concealing his true feelings since the day you told him that you’ve given your two weeks notice. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

So he offered you a reassuring smile instead, “Don’t worry. You’ll find someone who will cherish you the way you deserve.”

I’m right over here.

From the look of your face lifting up, he knew he managed to sound convincing and encouraging.

“I do have my eyes on someone though…” you added.

Your words echoed in his head and wrapped around his throat like a vice. A storm of emotions hit him all at once, leaving him struggling to navigate through the confusion.

On one hand, he was dying to know who you were referring to. On the other, he felt shattered that someone else managed to make their way into your heart and he wasn’t even aware of it.

He swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking. “Oh really? What are they like?”

Each question he asked felt like digging himself deeper into a pit he might never climb out of. Even while he forced himself to act neutral, it was hard to predict when the nonchalant facade would eventually crack.

You let out a sheepish laugh before answering. ”Well…he’s pretty tall,”

Miguel’s mind raced through every tall colleague he could think of, analysing every conversation you’d had with them, and trying to think back to any clues that would give away your feelings for them.

Miguel knew he was probably being overly cautious, but his instincts flared up. It wasn’t just his jealousy— though there was no denying that he was feeling a tinge of envy— but he didn’t want to see you get hurt by anyone.

Especially after what you revealed to him earlier. But he brought those thoughts to the side for a moment and continued to listen to you.

“He’s… a little grumpy but that’s what adds to his charm,” you added. There was something reflecting in your eyes, a sparkle that he couldn’t quite grasp, but he dismissed it.

Grumpy? You found that charming? He thought back to all those times you had called him grumpy.

His stomach fluttered as he felt a new sense of hope. But he didn’t let that sway his judgment and got optimistic too quickly.

“What else do you like about him?” Miguel asked. Deep down, Miguel felt a change of heart and he was desperate to know more, hoping that there was even the slightest chance that it might be him.

“He’s always there when I need him, even though he tries to hide it, he secretly has a heart of gold.”

You were killing him, little by little, with every answer you were giving him. It was all the qualities he was proud to have, yet he still felt doubtful.

He managed a small smile, trying to hide the longing in his heart. “Sounds like a good man. I’m sure he’s lucky to have your affection.”

“Yeah. I really hope he feels the same. Otherwise, all those coffees I gave him would be a waste,” you let out a sigh, clearly lost in thought about the man you admired.

You couldn’t have been more obvious. His heart fluttered as he recalled all those coffees you would give him in the mornings, especially during your joint projects.

Thank the stars that he was a master at keeping a tight lid on his feelings. There was no way he was going to let his excitement show— not yet, not until he was sure

“Those coffees?” he asked. “Why do you give them to him?”

“I was hoping I’d stand out to him and not just be a colleague he sits with.”

“Stand out? What other things are you willing to do?”

“Maybe offer to help with his paperwork— if he doesn’t mind.”

Miguel couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but his heart swelled with happiness with each word. You wanted to stand out to him. Offer to do his paperwork.

You didn’t have to do all of that to get his attention; he had eyes on you for a long time, but all these little things you did were an added bonus.

“Do you think I should buy him more coffee?” you asked, you gaze locked with him, searching for his approval. You were asking for his opinion too.

“Coffee’s a good ice breaker. Maybe you could add a little note too, I bet he’ll notice you after that,” he kept his tone casual, but Miguel couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

You looked so eager, willing to take whatever advice. After all, if you were talking about him, you’d take his advice even more seriously, right? It only made sense.

“Maybe you could ask him out on a casual date, nothing too big. Just to see how he reacts,” he teased, way too excited with how you’ll respond.

Will you ask him out now?

“You know…I think I’ll call him now,” you got up to leave the room.

Everything came crashing down on him in an instant. His heart shattered, taking all his hopes with it. So, you weren’t talking about him after all.

“Ah, alright…good luck with that,” he tried to maintain a neutral tone, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

The weight of his unrequited love pressed heavily on his chest, it was almost palpable. Each step you took away felt like a knife twisting deeper into his heart.

How could he have been so foolish? Of course, it wouldn’t be him.

From the sound of your footsteps, you walked a few doors down, away from his earshot. You probably didn’t want him to overhear.

Sadness and disappointment surrounded him like a suffocating fog as he slumped back at his desk. He hadn’t heard from you in half an hour.

You were either working up the courage to call your love interest or caught in an extended conversation. But what he didn’t expect was to see your name pop up on his phone screen when his phone rang.

Although he didn’t want to hear how your conversation went, he still wanted to be supportive. He loved you too much to ruin your happiness.

He cleared his throat, bracing himself for whatever you had to say, expecting to have his heart shattered again, before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, don’t say ‘hello’ like you haven’t saved my number,” you teased.

Miguel forced out a chuckle, trying to match your lightheartedness. “You got me there. Of course I have your number saved. So, how did it go?” he asked, his voice filled with forced anticipation, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

“Well, that guy I was talking about earlier…”

You left the sentence hanging, as if daring him to grasp the meaning. Miguel cleared his throat, keeping his composure and hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his pain. “Go on…what happened?”

There was a pause that went on for a few seconds, but it was enough to make his stomach twist as he waited for your response. Finally, you spoke.

“Well, did you know that it was you and were just acting clueless? Or did you not pick that up, yet?” you asked.

Miguel froze, the words processed in his mind. For a moment, he was stunned into silence, his grip tightening around the phone near his ear. His mind replayed the conversation you had just shared to see if he missed anything.

Then, a small smile slowly crept on his face, a mix of disbelief and dawning realisation. Now, hearing you confirm that it was true, he couldn’t hide his relief and the warmth that spread across his chest.

“I…uh…had…my suspicions,” he stuttered, his voice thick with emotion. “But hearing you say it now…it means more than you know.”

He paused for a moment, realising he might be sounding too eager, too vulnerable. “But what did you mean when you said ‘did you not pick that up’? Was it…was it not obvious that I had feelings for you too?”

“No, actually.”

A soft sigh of relief escaped Miguel’s lips. He’d tried so hard to keep his feelings for you hidden, fearing rejection to avoid an awkward situation that might follow, especially with you leaving the city.

But knowing now that he hadn’t been as obvious he feared— that you hadn’t noticed— was a strange comfort. Still, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different if he’d confessed first. Would he have had the courage? Probably not, even with your imminent departure.

“Well…now that we both know how we feel, what does that mean for us? Are you…happy that I have feelings for you too?”

“Duh.”

Miguel let out a chuckle at your blasé response. The tension in his chest from earlier was starting to ease, allowing him to bask in the moment.

But the reality of your limited time here was starting to set in, dulling his joy with a stab of regret.

“So…you’re still leaving, huh?” he couldn’t hide the solemn tone in his voice.

“Yeah, I am. But that doesn’t mean this has to end before it starts.”

His heart stuttered at that. “You really think we could make it work.”

“If we both want it, I don’t see why not.” The determination in your voice was palpable, even through the phone. It made him feel more desired than ever.

“I want it. More than anything. And right now, I really want to kiss you.”

“Hold on, let me come to you,” you hung up the phone and Miguel could hear your footsteps getting closer.

Once you finally arrived, you looked back up at him. Miguel could see the eagerness and the tinge of mischief in your eyes.

“Kiss me please.”

At that moment, he knew there was no use waiting any longer. His lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive.

He couldn’t believe this was really happening, he had always dreamed of this moment but now that he was experiencing it in person, it felt too surreal to be real.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as his lips moved lovingly against yours. Breaking the kiss, he took a moment to study your face.

He wanted to kiss you again, to tell you sweet nothings that he had been holding back for so long. But he knew he had to compose himself and give you a moment to breathe.

“Lock the doors,” your voice echoed in his mind, sending his mind into a frenzy. He chuckled but still obliged, giving you both a newfound privacy.

Everything else felt like a blur and the next moment, he was unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it to the side. He didn’t waste any time doing the same to your pants.

His throat went dry when he noticed the wet patch on your undies, a sign that you were just as turned on as he was.

Just as infatuated.

It drove him crazy. As he leaned in, he felt your hands hike up under his shirt too. He took this as a sign to remove it, his toned body now in full view. His muscle’s glistened under the light.

He pressed your bare chest against his— the raw feeling of your skin against his was pure ecstasy. He lifted your body with ease and set you on a clear desk.

His body was still pressed against yours as he kissed over your neck and down your collar bone. He felt so lucky to have you in his arms like this, even better in his lab.

You were finally his…

He knelt down between your legs, his hands caressing over each thigh. His lips found your inner thigh, kissing over your skin, dangerously close to your core.

It was his ultimate goal to memorise every curve and crevice of your skin, what made you tick and all your favourite spots you liked to be touched. He wanted to savour this moment as much as he could.

His tongue slowly ran over your soaked cunt, finally getting a taste of you. Immediately, you gasped and your legs twitched in response.

You tasted incredible, or maybe that was just the heat of the moment. He continued to pleasure you with his mouth, his tongue tracing delicious, slow patterns around your sensitive bud.

He heard you gasp out his name which motivated to continue. His hand reached up to intertwine with yours, his touch grounding and tender as he continued to pleasure you with his mouth.

“Oh God…right there, Miguel—”

Your free hand reached into his scalp and gently tugged on his curls. Feeling your hips grinding against his tongue only drove him further, desperate to coax your orgasm.

That’s it…

Give yourself to me.

He knew the moment you reached your peak when he felt you tighten your grip on his hair and cry out his name. Seeing the way you threw your head back in the throes of your climax sent an overwhelming shiver through his body— a sensation he couldn’t describe.

Your body convulsed against his mouth as you squirted on his tongue— and he licked you clean eagerly. Finally, he pulled his mouth away, his tongue leaving your body with a final, tantalising flick.

He ran his fist across his mouth to rid your wetness before rising up to his feet. You were completely spent, your body limp and your breath came out ragged.

Your legs were still shaking from your fresh release. He couldn’t help but glide over your cheeks, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone.

He felt you lean into his touch as he savoured the feel of your skin beneath his fingers.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, catching your breath. “Like this? All sweaty and musty? You must really love me then…”

Only you would throw a sarcastic comment after he ate you out. After a moment of stillness, you came down from your high. He spread your legs apart as he hovered over you on the desk.

The precum that leaked from his tip mixed with your wetness as he positioned his tip over your entrance. Slowly, he pushed himself in and was immediately overwhelmed by your cushiony grip over his tip.

Your fingers gripped onto his biceps, keeping yourself steady as he pushed further. Once he bottomed out, you lifted your head to see the light bulge on your belly.

A sense of pride washed over him, seeing your eyes feast on the lewd sight of him filling you up. Every inch of him was all yours.

He dragged himself out with your wetness coating his dick before pushing back in again. His body moved against yours in a perfect harmony, every motion was driven to heighten the pleasure between the two of you.

As the ecstasy reached a new height, Miguel’s body trembled slightly. He couldn’t resist letting out a soft moan followed by your name, his voice filled with all the love he had for you.

“Just like that…” you murmured against his lips.

Hearing your praise, Miguel’s lips curled into a smile, his expression filled with a mixture of confidence and pride.

Every stroke hit a new depth, sending a shiver through both of you.

All he could think about was being connected with you in every way possible. Physically. Emotionally. He angled himself so his pelvic bone could rub and stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“Miguel-!”

You let out a cry when he changed his pace, your nails digging into his back. He wanted you to feel him for weeks, remembering this night. Each sharp, precise thrust, hitting your sweet spot over and over and driving you over the edge.

He could feel his own peak crawling up with each passing second. His thrusts grew more desperate and frenzied, aiming to chase his high with your body wrapped around his own.

“Look at me…I want to see you,” he breathed.

The sight of you under him, taking everything he was giving you, sent him over the edge. His body tensed as he reached the pinnacle of his own climax.

With one last thrust deep into your heat, his cum pulsated into you in strong waves. He stayed balled deep until each were drained and waited for a moment before he pulled his hips back.

He felt withdrawal as he released himself from your grip, his deflated dick now hung between his legs.

His body slumped weakly against yours, the intensity of the moment leaving him content and blissfully exhausted. The world around him faded into the background. In that instant, everything felt perfect.

The pulse in his ears gradually quieted to a gentle hum, and his muscles started to relax as he settled against you.

As he kept his arms around you, holding you close, he felt at peace for the first time in what felt like ages. It all felt so right— like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He wanted to stay like this, savouring the closeness, but your soft gasp tugged at his concerns.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still feeling lightheaded from the afterglow. “What’s wrong?”

You quickly sat up on the desk, adjusting your clothes with a sense of urgency. “We need to put our clothes back on.”

The seriousness in your voice jolted back into reality. The sterile scent of the lab and the harsh fluorescent lights snapped into sharp focus, reminding him where you were. He carefully pulled himself away from you, his mind scrambling to catch up.

As he gathered his clothes from the floor and desk, the remnants of your passion, he couldn’t help but glance back at you— disheveled, flushed and utterly captivating.

Once he was fully dressed, he looked at you with amusement. “I think we can slip out before anyone asks what we’ve been up to,” he teased with a grin.

You buttoned your shirt, still appearing slightly frantic. “Did we make a mess?”

Miguel scanned the lab, his eyes sweeping over the desk and the floor. He didn’t spot any obvious signs of a mess, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. The weight of what had just happened hung in the air.

Still, the room would be locked overnight— no one would see anything.

“Well…” he replied with a casual shrug. “I’m not too worried about any physical evidence. As long as they didn’t hear you cry out my name.”

You shot him a mildly annoyed look, pressing your lips together. “We should clock out before anyone suspects us.”

Just as you were about to move, Miguel gently pulled your arm. “Before we go…I need to know if this is something you truly want. Not just a temporary escape.” His voice was soft with vulnerability as he searched your eyes.

Your lips curled up into a reassuring smile. “Let’s go out to dinner and talk more there.”

Miguel’s eyes sparkled, the tension on his shoulders lifting. The idea of an intimate dinner, just the two of you, felt like the perfect addition to the connection you had just deepened.

He felt a sense of triumph as he allowed himself to experience this with you after the long, silent yearning.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love to have dinner,”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Come on then, let’s get out of here.”

Miguel quickly switched off the lights and locked up before taking your hand in his. The two of you stepped out into the crisp night air, leaving the lab— and its memories— behind.

~

Miguel sat behind the wheel of his car, gripping on the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. You both agreed that he’d drive you to the airport, allowing you to spend these last moments together.

The car ride was silent, save for the occasional crackling of the chip packet in your hands. Miguel's eyes flickered towards you as you reached for another chip. You seemed calm and collected, but he knew better.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to break the silence, but nothing came out. Words that normally flowed so easily from him were caught in his throat. What could he possibly say that would make it any easier?

“Do you want some?” you offered, holding out the bag.

He shook his head, lips twitching into a forced smile. “I’m not really hungry right now.”

His eyes were back on the road. The thought of food was the furthest thing from his mind right now. All he could think about was the impending goodbye as the streets of Nueva York blurred past.

“Are you okay?” your voice, a soft caress.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. Of course he wasn’t okay. How could he be? But he nodded anyway, giving you a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m fine…just a little nervous about dropping you off at the airport, that’s all.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either.

The truth was too raw, too painful, to voice. He didn’t want to admit how devastating he was and burden you with his feelings, not now.

“I’ve never done anything this big before.” you confessed. He could hear the uncertainty in your voice. “Moving to a completely different state…”

He felt a mix of sadness and pride in his chest. He was so proud of you for taking such a big step, but at the same time, he wished things were different and you could stay with him a little longer.

If only he had known sooner, maybe he would have had the courage to confess— to hold you close and never let you go. To have you to himself just a little longer.

“I know, it’s a big deal,” he tried to sound comforting. “But you’re smart, and capable, and I know you’re gonna do amazing.”

“Thanks, I needed that reassurance.” you sighed. “I’m a little nervous. What if I don’t fit in and I’m too…Nueva York-y for them.”

With one hand, Miguel reached over and gently squeezed your thigh, while the other gripped the steering wheel.

He tried to radiate some of his warmth and comfort, despite his emotions swirling like a vortex inside him.

“You’re going to fit in just fine. You’re the most adaptable person I know. And even if you are a bit ‘Nueva York-y’, as you put it, I think the people of North Carolina could use a bit of that.”

He glanced back at you, catching the flicker of unease in your eyes. It was refreshing to know that, despite your excitement, you were still feeling the same apprehension that had been eating him.

It gave a sense of connection— knowing this change was just as daunting to you as it was for him.

“You’re going to enlighten them with your 'Nuyorican’ charm, trust me,” he said lightly.

As the airport car park came into view, Miguel felt a shudder. The moment of truth was closing in with each passing second. The parking lot was busy, surrounded by the hum of engines and the distant echo of rolling suitcases.

Once he found a parking space, he switched off the engine and sighed— the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Part of him wanted to stay rooted in his seat, to delay the inevitable just a little longer.

But he knew better. There was no escaping this. No loophole.

Even if it killed him.

He stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. The reality of the situation was hitting him as he helped you with your luggage. This was really happening.

Inside the terminal, the building was bustling with activity— people rushing to catch flights, families reunited, and others parting with goodbyes. The overhead announcements echoed across the vast space, creating a backdrop of noise.

But the chaos felt distant to Miguel, like it was happening in another world. His entire focus was on the small details of you— how tightly you gripped the suitcase handle, the way your eyes darted around and scanning signs to find where you were supposed to go.

Every little movement you made seemed to carve into his memory, as if he were trying to etch these final moments into his mind.

He tried to keep himself distracted by glancing at the departure board, watching to see when your flight’s status changed to ‘boarding’. Meanwhile, you checked in your flight and dropped off any checked baggage.

Once that was done, Miguel walked with you to the security gates. His heart grew heavier with each step. The moment of separation was looking closer and closer like a looming shadow.

“Alright…this is it…” you announced, finally reaching the security gates. Only ticketed passengers could pass, so this was where he would have to let you go.

There were a few guards already waving people through, urging the crowd to keep moving. The noise of shuffling feet, distant conversations, and the occasional beep of the scanners filled the air, but it all seemed muted to Miguel. He looked back at you one last time, his heart hammering in his chest.

He wanted to say something— anything— to keep you from leaving. Words like ‘don’t go’ or ‘I love you’ hovered on the top of his tongue, but he knew they were pointless. You were leaving, the ticket was booked, and nothing he could say would change that.

“I’m… I’m gonna miss you…” the word felt insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But they were the only truth he could manage.

He knew it was pathetic to confess that now, like it wasn’t obvious already, like it was going to change anything.

“I want to give you something…” you reached for your bag, and Miguel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw what you pulled out— a Polaroid picture.

He took the picture from you, a nostalgic smile spread across your face when he saw the image. It was a picture from your early days at Alchemax, back when he had still been pretending to be annoyed with you.

In the photo, he was giving his signature grumpy glare, arms crossed over his broad chest, while you stood behind him and grinning widely. You were not bothered at all by his gruff demeanor.

“I wanted to wait until the last minute to give it to you,” you rubbed your neck sheepishly.

Miguel chuckled at your words. It was so typical of you, waiting to give him something special at just the right moment.

“Of course you did.” he replied fondly, his fingers tracing the picture gently. He slipped the photo in his wallet, a place where he could keep it close. “It’s perfect…thank you,”

It was more than just a picture, it was a snapshot of a moment in time, a memory he’d hold onto long after you were gone.

You look back up at him, your expression earnest and vulnerable. “Bésame?”

“Con mucho gusto, mi amor,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he closed the distance between the two of you.

He cradled your face in his hands, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His lips traced over the contour of yours, savouring the moment before fully capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

The kiss was everything— desperate, filled with unspoken words and unfulfilled yearnings. He wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to keep you with him like this just a little longer, but he knew he had to let you go.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, though he rested his forehead on yours, his breath becoming in ragged gasps.

“Be safe, okay?” he murmured.

“I’ll call you when I land...if I get any signal,” you replied with a shaky smile.

You start to queue up for the security gates, your luggage trailing behind you. Miguel’s heart twists as the line slowly gets shorter, the distance between you growing with each passing second.

He couldn’t do anything but watch with his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. His eyes were fixated on your figure, memorising every last detail of you.

He knew that once you went through those gates, he would never be able to kiss you, or hold you, or touch you.

Just as you disappeared out of sight, behind the security gates, the airport intercom called out your flight number and announced the final boarding call.

He watched the departure board change to ‘In Air’ which was the final push to turn away. He walked back to his car, the Polaroid photo in his wallet burned into his psyche.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @nina-from-317 @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @cupcakeinat0r @club-danger-zone @kavimoo

@fullmetalgizzy @frogs-and-oscar-brainrot @embearlyhere @soymiguelsesposa @twwcs

@safixiovi @tatatida @ghostsdoll @hyjionie @tomalymme

@saintdiior

Look, I know the smut seems a little rushed here but I didn’t want to focus on the spice in this story but rather the bittersweet, emotionally rollercoaster.

Ayrus xoxo

[princesssmars]

victoria with lab tech reader…nsfw.

when you were approached at your basic post-grad biomedical science research program with the opportunity to "study and develop a potentially groundbreaking medication", you immediately, but politely, called bullshit. but your boss and coworkers encouraged you once they heard the pay, so you accepted.

it was…challenging to say the least.

the lab and the workers were shady as hell, not telling you any details about the company you were working for, if you were even working for a company, what exactly this medication was for, etc etc. but the pay really was good, enough to help you splurge on yourself while also saving and paying off your student loans, so you couldn’t really complain.

after about two months of great work and progress on your tasks, the leads of your team told you that one of the head donors would like to “talk about utilizing your full potential”. you were expecting further praise for your work and maybe a pay boost, not to walk into an office with the super attractive congresswoman you’d seen on tv sitting at the desk.

she has just as much mysterious charisma as she had then, keeping eye contact as she pulls out your chair, waiting for you to sit before she places herself on top of the desk, pantsuit-covered leg only a few inches from yours. she gives you a mini rundown of why she personally picked you out from your university and she's been keeping a close eye on your personal progress to develop a cure for an unknown but deadly disease you had been keeping track of.

"so that's why im here? we're working on a disease?"

"yeah, you could say that."

her smile unnerves you but you don't mention it. nor do you bring up how weird it feels that a congresswoman would be following your manic studies over a disease that only ten thousand people in the world had. you do have to reel in your ego slightly, figuring this meant that your theories were legitimate.

things are weird after that. now that you have some more hints about what you are actually doing your work starts to move along slowly, even impressing your lead with the progress you started to make.

ok, maybe a tiny little part of it was so that when victoria came in on her weekly walk-throughs she'd observe your work and give you that pretty smile of hers, maybe even a 'great job, hun' if you were lucky.

as the weeks went by and the medication came along her affection only grew in intensity, from leaving coffee at your workstation to inviting you to take lunch breaks with her. it was odd and completely unprofessional, but when those slender fingers would move one of your stray hairs back in place while telling a story you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

but then it happens - that dreaded period in any medical science where just one stupid little thing stumps you for a week. you should be used to it at this point, having been through this process since you bought your first microscope in middle school. it doesn't make it any easier to power through though, especially when you know everyone on your team is depending on you to finish up your labs.

so now you've resorted to this, three red bulls and a heap of paperwork around you while you frantically rework the math on some of the work you need to turn in. you're a few minutes away from slumping over when a loud door slam forces you upright, looking to the entryway to make eye contact with victoria.

you dont know how it happens but you go from hunched over in your chair to lying on the comfy couch in her office, a short blanket draped over your body as you drowsily explain your conundrum to the older woman. she nods along the entire time, a soft hand rubbing up and down the bare expanse of your arm while she listens to your rambling.

'what on earth are you doing?' your brain asks yourself when you shift closer to her body that's sitting next to you, head delicately resting in her lap. 'are you really going to jeopardize your career like this?' when your eyes flutter when she runs her hand over your cheek and down your neck. she leans her head down ever so slowly until her lips are just barely pressing into yours, corners pulling up when she sees you arch your back in wait for her neck action.

"but you'll figure it out for me, won't you smart girl?"

you solved the problem the next morning.

i dont even wanna write for her GIVE HER BACK TO ME

[ns-games]

2024 CrowdStrike Incident

I just wanted to document my day today. Since I feel this is a pretty major historical event in the history of computing.

From my understanding, the update that CrowdStrike pushed occurred last night, but I wasn't made aware of it until this morning.

I heard the notification for Microsoft Teams go off on my work phone a couple of times while I was still in bed. I decided not to answer right away since employees are supposed to call me directly if there's a production issue. However, around 5:30 this morning, I got a call from one of my team leads telling me that a CrowdStrike update got pushed earlier that has now "BitLockered" a bunch of computers.

For context, my team uses the term "BitLockered" for any time a computer crashes and requires the BitLocker encryption key to recover.

In any case, I was asked if I could run over to our local distribution center right away to start mitigating the damage. I immediately got up, got dressed, grabbed my work laptop and bag and left. I skipped my morning coffee and shower so I could get there ASAP.

When I finally managed to get inside the building, I started taking a look around the front office and saw several computers stuck on the Windows Recovery Mode screen. Already starting to look like a bad sign. I started booting up my work laptop, which I thankfully did not leave turned over overnight, and headed upstairs to a bank of production computers. As soon as I got up there, I saw a sea of Windows Recovery Mode screens.

By this point my Microsoft Teams notifications started going off non-stop, and I started running the recommended fix on one of the computers. Basically I was trying to make sure I understood how to perform the fix. At this point, it became apparent we were going to have to touch every endpoint in our network at every facility.

Around 6:00AM, I got a call from a manager from a separate facility asking me about what was going on. This is someone that's constantly just called me instead of submitting a help desk ticket, and I've tried to be patient with. Today I had to be a bit more blunt and state that I couldn't drop what I was doing to come over and help, but that someone would be there later today to assist. This manager continued to try and call me throughout the day, but I had to keep telling him that I was not going to be available all day.

Around 6:30AM one of my co-workers made it to the distribution center to help. I ran the fix on his laptop and we started working to fix each computer one by one. A bit later I noticed my mom texted me that she heard about this in the news. So I looked up "CrowdStrike" on Google and found that not only were we affected by it, but many other major companies were.

As we started getting workstations back online, it became apparent that was only going to be half the battle, as this issue caused most of our servers to crash as well. But at this point, we figured it would be best to continue to get as many workstations back up and running one by one. But because the servers were down, I kept getting asked if I could restore a connection, which unfortunately we couldn't do until the server team could run the fixes on our servers.

Eventually I was asked to join a Zoom call so I could start providing other facilities with BitLocker keys so they could start running the fix on their own computers. Some machines we determined could be fixed by reverting to a restore point. Others we had find a way to manually remove the "C-00000291*.sys* file by booting the computer into Safe Mode with Networking. Those devices ended up costing us a bunch of time to get back up and running.

By the time 5:00PM rolled around, I asked if I could go home and continue to work from there. So I took the opportunity to go home, get myself cleaned up, and continue to work. By 8:30PM it seemed that things had died down to the point we could stop for the day. I'm sure we've got a few machines we still need to apply the fix to, but we managed to get our core business back up and running within the matter of a few hours.

So yeah, long story. But I just felt like documenting it, given that this is an event that's probably going to be pretty well remembered in the history books.

[ofallthingsnasty]

tw: workplace harassment, mental illness, gn reader, make sure to read the last paragraph as well characters: Crocodile, Doflamingo word count: 1k

While I may be suffering from "I'm a total newbie and scared shitless of my boss" disease + an anxiety disorder, this would be so perfect for either Crocodile and Doflamingo.

Just think about it… You just started working for one of them - and both men certainly demand respect, can be quite scary when provoked, but you think you can weather any storm that might be coming your way. You’re grown, you’ve got bills to pay, they’ve been professional enough so far, it won’t be too bad, right? Oh, stupid, stupid you - because they can smell your little authority figure issues ten miles upwind.

Both notice that you're green, easily impressed and hurried by their presence, notice how sweaty your hands and furrowed your brow gets - and both definitely corner you; try to get you into a frenzied state, right into panic mode just because it’s fun to see how you slowly fly off the hinges. They both toy with you in their own ways - Crocodile is just always standing behind you, silently watching, only the smell of smoke and his cologne telling you he's right there, looming over your shoulder. He enjoys the way your hands shake with whatever it is you’re doing, how you cough and shift around while he does absolutely nothing. His mere presence makes you so antsy he doesn't even have to say something and his silence is easily interpreted as criticism and mistrust by your anxious little brain. It only gets worse when he never talks about his little staring/surveillance sessions, never explains why he randomly shows up at your desk or workstation, never asks you for a word afterwards - you always feel like you’re not good enough, that no matter how long you’ve been by his side, he needs to check up on you. He’s an imposing man, too - so much bulk and smoke, just the thought of him asking you for a vis-a-vis keeps you up at night. And every day, every week spent fretting over him and his perception of you (coupled with the fact that you really, really need this job) makes you more and more insecure, makes it hard to unwind after yet another long day, makes you overanalyze every single glance, every word and move of his. He slowly creeps into your after-hours, your conversations with friends, your weekends, even your vacations.  And he can tell. Crocodile notices the slight, subtle changes. The way you smooth over your clothes before talking to him, how you place an index and middle finger over sternum as if to shield yourself from him, the fucking cold sweat shining on your forehead whenever he does question a decision of yours with a gruff bark. The way you avoid his eyes, stumble over your own feet in a hurry, the way he can see that you sleep worse and worse - that’s how he knows he's got you hooked, fully and wholly. That all you're thinking about is him and work and pleasing him and being good at work and again, him and work and him and- Your job is the only thing in your life now, from the moment you wake up to the time you lay your head down to sleep, everything is consumed by thoughts of him and his opinions about you and your abilities, always aiming to please and so, so nervous to fail. It’s perfect.

Doflamingo is way more vocal about it. He'll throw your work right back into your face, all sneers and acid tongue. It’s just not enough, never enough, reflects badly on him, on his company - whatever it is you do, it hails nothing but criticism and mockery and late nights to fix your stupid mistakes. He doesn’t even give you moments of rest, he just constantly picks on you until you’re seriously considering just resigning for your own mental health. He’s methodically destroying your self-esteem, makes you doubt your own abilities - you know you shouldn’t let him creep into your head as much as he does, but when all you hear is that you’re so fucking bad at your job, how much you suck - it sticks. You’re so stressed because of him you almost have a panic attack over putting your two weeks in and despite your suffering, you keep procrastinating, keep telling yourself you’ll do it tomorrow, when you have had a full night’s sleep. Problem is - you never do. He can tell by the way you’re idling, fiddling with the straps of your bag whenever he comes in for the day that you’re trying to leave - but that you're simply too scared of his reaction to pull the trigger. And that right there; that fear, that pedestal you put him on is the perfect breeding ground for all sorts of unethical things he can push you to do for him. He starts out small; things like getting him coffee in the mornings when you never did that before, a too-warm, lingering hand on your shoulder, a comment about your outfit - every little thing is calculated, tailored to slowly destroy your boundaries while you fear him more and more, give him way more authority over your life than you should. He knows it’s psychological, that someone else might be able to flip him off and leave without ever thinking twice about him. But you… You have accepted him as the one part of your life everything hinges on - you give him all that power in your sick little brain. Oh, he’ll use it well. The fun has only just started, rest assured. 

And while Crocodile gets to click his tongue, scoff and tell you that he'll take over from now on because clearly - you're just not capable and you obviously need him (not only at work but also in your whole life, silly), Doflamingo taunts you and tells you to make yourself useful, then, if you can't even do your job right. Maybe sucking his dick is your true calling - come on, let's see if you can do at least one thing right. One man wants to take your life over completely, sees you as the malleable (perfect) mess that you are, with all the potential that comes with it - and the other just wants to fuck you up for the next decade of your life, wants to be reason you wake up in the middle of night because his vicious smile still bounces around in that head of yours

[celenawrites]

After Hours: CH2 — It's Friday then…

Pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader, previous! Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings - Office AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Praise Kink, Dry Humor, etc.

Summary -

Life has been out to get you ever since you found your ex cheating on you. To add salt to your wounds, your beloved pet dog goes missing while you try to recover from your nasty breakup and your company has been overloading you with piles and piles of paperwork you can never seem to finish; along with a bunch of babbling interns who can never take a hint when it comes to shutting the fuck up, along with a scary, firm-handed supervisor who seems oddly interested in getting to know you better, despite your reluctance. 

Chapter Summary -

Your week cannot get any better (or any worse).

Read on AO3? | Masterlist | Navigation

<- Chapter 1

Your day comes to an end with relatively no new disasters springing up on you. 

The lack of chaos almost has you suspicious, but you overlook it in favor of clocking out earlier than usual, which is a good half an hour after almost everybody has left the office. You are quick to email all the edited files to Joseph, leaning back in your weary chair as you end your day with a pained groan. About time you get that memory foam mattress, you think to yourself as you clean up your workstation and call it a day. 

Your black pump heels click against the smooth marble floor as you try your best to join the world outside the gray confines of your company walls.  The usual path consists of making an obligatory patrol across the west wing of the building, checking in to ensure nothing was amiss before taking the elevator down to the ground floor and punching out by tapping your ID at a weird angle on the automatic scanner. 

The west wing seems to be almost empty, save for the dim glow of an active computer at the very back of the technical staff room. 

You rarely paid this place a visit, mainly burdened by your duty to keep the office running and putting out all dumpster fires Price cannot deal with. The few times you have been here has been solely due to your need to share lunch with Johnny on relatively slower days. 

With quiet apprehension, you walk towards the object of your attention - only to find Simon hunched over his desk, with squinting eyes as the screen is reflected in his square blue glasses. Underdressed is a word that seems to describe his style - unbothered enough to never dress up when he has to show up for work, you find the man slouching in his chair while wearing a frayed beige hoodie with some gray sweatpants that make it almost impossible for you to look at him without feeling your cheeks heat up in mortification. 

Clearing your throat to grab his attention, you meekly meet his dark eyes as you inquire, “Not going home today?”

He shakes his head, almost as if he’s waking up from a nap and you almost find him endearing in this moment. He responds, “No, have some work. Will lock up and leave in an hour.”

“Okay.”

Silence follows your short dialogues with the senior staff member, making you tap your foot against the floor thrice in order to comfort yourself before you offer him, “I can make you another brew. Should last you until you finish your work.”

He averts his eyes away from the screen and looks at you again, and you feel yourself shrink under his inspection - almost like a timid bunny. You can see him contemplate your offer seriously for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Don’t bother, I haven’t got much left here anyway.” 

“Oh, okay.”

That is all you can manage to tell him before you leave the room, eager to just crash on your awful bed and end your day early. 

The calm that has befallen your office has you on edge, for you are not accustomed to spending your days without being forced to juggle Herculean tasks every hour of your work day. 

Even when you’re on edge with it, you come to appreciate how the almost sluggishness of days filled with nothingness allowed you to just be. A sudden breather in your busy life, one that you appreciated very much. 

Of course, as life would have it, it all comes crashing down Friday morning once you check into the office and find Gracie, a new intern, pacing near your desk back and forth. The moment she spots you she corners you against your workstation, frazzled as she plays with the threads of her sweater sleeve, unraveling just like her. 

“It’s all gone to hell, I tell you!” she tells you, before quieting down as she realizes how loud she’s being. She whispers to you, “It’s a hellhole and all because of him!”

You find yourself awfully confused by her crypticism, so you ask her to elaborate - already preparing yourself to add another petty matter into your long list of events to attend to. Fridays seem to be unusually long for you solely due to the fact that people seem to either forget to work in their eagerness for the weekend, or some ‘emergency’ pops up when all you’d like to do is drink your coffee, answer some emails and force Price to attend his weekly meeting before he fucks off to who knows where. 

“Joseph made a simple mistake. A small one really. We’re interns, for god’s sake! Of course, we’ll be dumb and make mistakes every day. And I don’t know who that man thinks he is, cuz the next thing I know”, Gracie pauses to anxiously chew at her thumb, red hangnails and raw skin evident of the anxiety that’s been plaguing her all morning. 

“Next thing I know is Simon’s losing his head over something and he’s chewing us all out for being ‘incompetent fucks’, and he takes it out on all of us. But it hits Joseph the most, and the next thing I know is he hasn’t turned up for work today”, she finishes her anxious ramble, looking at you with doe eyes and you mentally note to check up on Joseph when you have the time. 

“Don’t worry, Gracie. He’s probably taking a day off in order to cool down. I’ll talk with him”, you reply to soothe her worries and she looks at you as if you’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky for her. 

Her sudden hug catches you off guard, and after profusely thanking you (“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re such a doll!”), she waves you adieu as she exits the floor and you are soon seated on your desk, groaning at the sight of your filled calendar and unanswered emails being reflected on your screen. Joseph will have to wait, you think as you massage your temples - your body betraying you with a migraine for only having iced coffee for breakfast.

You decided to tackle the mountain of unfinished workload, hoping to at least catch the last subway back home before it gets too dark. 

After three hours of uninterrupted screen time that made your eyes water and your back creak whenever you shifted in your chair and an hour after having a cold lunch of leftover salad and toasted bread with gummy cheese, you finally find yourself with a few minutes of leeway to finally look for Price. Not just because you wish to talk to him about Joseph, but also due to the pile of unsigned documents you currently carry in your hands that need his immediate approval. 

After a few minutes of mindless walking to and fro and asking your co-workers of any sightings of your boss, you finally find him exiting one of the conference rooms located on the upper floors and there’s another man alongside him. 

They both seem to be extremely close, and John claps the other man on the back and laughs heartily with him, but you’re too focused on the tip of your shoes to hear their conversation. Everything sounds static to you for now. You blame your anxiety for it. 

“Oh, it’s you”, John’s eyes widen slightly in surprise and he mockingly clutches his chest, “You’d give me a heart attack one of these days with how sneaky you are.” 

You are just unusually quiet around unfamiliar people. You roll your eyes at him, unamused, “Ha, ha. Quit those cigars and I promise you, your heart and lungs will thank you.” 

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with radiance. 

“You worry about me too much”, gesturing you inside the meeting room, he asks you. 

“What brought you here?”

“Well, the project deal with Crofters underwent its final review for the proposal and I needed your approval for them before I gave the team the green light. And there’s some more files that could use your ink”, you point to the stack in your hands and he beckons you to sit in the seat beside him as he takes the pile from you and clicks at his fancy little golden pen, skimming through the documents and signing them. 

While he does that, you muster up the courage to talk to him about Joseph. This could’ve been an email, but you decided you owed him that much. Moreover, feeling as if your contribution in ‘proof-reading’ his work could’ve led to him getting unfairly scolded by his superior and his uncle makes your throat dry out constantly. 

And there’s only so much water you can drink before you’re forced to take a bathroom break. Or a few. 

Clearing out your throat in order to begin talking leads to Price to look up from one of the files, as he eyes you with a scrutinizing gaze.

“Yes?”

You gulp, not being used to ‘complaining’ about one of your coworkers behind their back. You have rarely had any problem with anyone that required you to directly report your higher ups or HR about them. And doing this to Simon, of all people, who has never really troubled you….

“Well, you know Simon can be a bit stern.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you know how he can expect a bit too much from others…”

“I know how Simon is. Please get to the point”, he rubs his eyes, already sighing out in anticipation. 

“One of the interns came to me this morning, and she told me that he kind of went off on them for messing up. Things got pretty rough, and another intern hasn’t shown up to work today. So I was a bit worried”, you trail off, hearing John groan audibly in frustration. 

“Who’s the intern?”

“Um, it was Joseph.”

He curses, wiping at his forehead with his palm and tucking away stray hair as he tells you, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a talk with Simon. Things have been…tough with him. And he’s only this strict because he wants to believe in the absolute best of people. You check up on Joseph and see that he’s alright.” 

“Will do that”, you promptly pick up the signed documents and exit the room, already dialing Joseph on your phone - hoping for him to pick up your call and not ignore you. 

You are at your desk and at your third call when someone picks it up. 

“Hello?” a nasally congested voice asks, and you sigh out in relief as you inform him it’s you who’s calling him. 

“Are you okay, Joseph? Why didn’t you come today?”

“Gracie told you, huh?” 

“Yeah, she was worried sick. She’s a sweet girl.”

“Had to take a day off, or I’d have thrown fists at him.”

You don’t know how to react to that. You haven’t expected Joseph to be angry still. 

“I get it can be frustrating to work in such a stressful environment, and Simon expects perfection - which may make it all the more harder for you to make mistakes. But I hope you realize that the senior staff genuinely wants to help every intern develop themselves so that they can be ready for the industry after graduation.” 

“...”

“It’s okay, take your time. Hopefully you will feel better after the weekend. Take care, Joseph.” 

“Goodbye.” 

A click. And the call comes to an end. 

You exhale through your mouth, not expecting all this to drain you out already. 

And you still have four hours to go. 

Sitting back at your desk with a hot cup of black coffee, you stir the drink with the wooden stick after dumping a small packet of sugar in it. The afternoon sun is sublime, shining through the windows and getting reflected off of the photo frame you have of you and Butters, kept on the desk to curb your nostalgia of your furred friend. 

Almost a week of futility, of just work and no sign of your dog in sight. The police have been essentially useless in the search and you have had to design missing posters to put up around your street and at the dog park you used to go with him, hoping that someone would eventually spot him and bring him back home to you. But still, to no avail. 

Sipping on the warm drink, careful to not burn your tongue, you are happy to spend the last two hours of your work day just organizing some things for Monday and playing card games to kill some time - happy to clear up all the major events and tasks before the day ends. You think you might be able to leave a little early for home, planning on getting some takeout for dinner and watching some trashy late night reality TV until you snooze off in your cozy bed. 

And then the chatter in the room dies, which is strange as everyone around you has been jovially conversing to make the last hours of the day pass by faster. You look up to see Simon standing in front of you and he looks pissed. 

Guess that talk with John did not go well, and this is when you’d tuck your tail and make a run for it - if it wasn’t for Simon already anticipating that and blocking any possible escape for you. Your widened eyes meet his, and he takes it as his cue to go off on you. 

“How dare you?” he grits out, his jaw ticked and voice tense with restraint. 

“How fucking dare you? The fuck you think you are, going behind my back and bitchin’ to Price?” His voice booms around the room, and the few people who were pretending to be busy with work are now looking at him with unbridled trepidation. 

“I-”

“Who are you to say what’s right or wrong?”, he goads you, towering over you with such dark eyes you were scared they’d suck you in and never let you out. 

“I didn’t mean to-”

“They’re my interns, and if they fuck up, they better own up to their shit. They’re mine to manage, and your coddling isn’t going to save them either”, he spits out, looking at you with such resentment in his eyes you wonder if Price had said something to tick him off more than usual. 

“It’s not your bloody job to mother them, and it sure as hell is not your job to bitch about me. If you have that much of a problem with me, say it to my face and stop being a damn coward about it.”

There’s eyes everywhere, and they’re trained onto the scene Simon has caused with you - and you take a shudder of a breath before getting up and standing to face him head on. Your lip wobbles for a moment, before you look at him and tell him, “You’re a dickhead for this, Simon.” 

And with that, you just swiftly leave the office space and make your escape; almost short of running in your block heels as you quickly lock the bathroom door behind you, leaning against it as you wipe away the few tears of frustration that escaped your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup. 

Your life has been a shitshow for the past month or so, and god forbid, you let another man ruin the weekend for you now. 

You gently wash your hands and clean up after yourself, deciding on leaving much earlier than usual for a change. There’s no way in hell you will stick around the office after getting humiliated like that. There’s a knock on the door, and Gracie’s there as instructed (by text), holding your purse for you. 

She meekly glances at your weary face, and begins, “I heard what happened. Are you okay? I know how much of an ass Simon can be, but he probably didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You decide to not respond to her, not feeling up to the task of psycho-analyzing your colleague and his short temper. That’s not your bloody job. 

“Thanks for getting my bag”, you send her off her way after that, and shooting off a quick text to Price, you quietly exit the office - all the more eager to gorge yourself on some takeout, watch TV and get drunk enough to forget that this day happened and ignore all texts and calls you get tonight.

Note -

After a month of inactivity(cuz I was busy interviewing in different places and studying for it) and writer's block, I finally updated. Updates will be sparse, but I will try to be more consistent.

[succubusonthedoorstep]

ArtTeacher! Geto x Fem Reader (Part Two!)

Warnings? Explicit Language and Smut, sir kink, choking, breeding kink, possessiveness, reader is inexperienced.

2.5 Word Count. Read Part One Here!

Author's Notes? finally uploading this <3 send requests and hcs, while i still work on longer fics mwah

ArtTeacher! Geto’s yawn echoes throughout his empty classroom- the lights flickering to life a beat late. The room smelled of paint and morning air as the windows were left open from the day before. 

To say the least, the room was a mess. The freshman class seemed to have the cleaning habits of toddlers. He rarely even came in at this time, but he made an exception for you. 

The previous day, late into Saturday night, you texted Geto about coming in early for a head start on your new project. He assumed you must’ve gotten his number from the school website, while yours was already saved in his phone. He felt his ears go hot as the next text came in.

(Name:) i’d love to get your feedback on it too!

He glanced at the clock that read eight am- an hour Geto usually spent out on a jog or still in bed because the weekend allowed him. He’d prefer your company over breakfast or coffee, but he’d settle for class with no way to comfortably bring a date up.

He spent the next few minutes obsessing over the state of his classroom. During the week it served as the beginner’s art course and they often left it in disarray. Geto had to start locking up the resources and completed works from his class, as they often went missing.

But with no time for him to worry about it, Geto began setting up your workstation. You’d be here any minute and he didn’t want you to waste your time doing something he could’ve started. All of your time should be dedicated to your art.

The soft knock at the door signaled your arrival, and Geto felt his heart drop in his chest. He sets down clean brushes at your easel before making his way over to the door and opening it for you.

Looking down, his eyes gravitated to the sundress you must’ve worn for him. Making his way down, your hard nipples poked through the thinness of the cloth and Geto’s mouth watered. He wrote it off, as he hadn’t had breakfast and you looked good enough to eat. If he had you how he wanted, you’d be spread across his desk with your toes in his mouth and his fingers in your cunt. 

“I brought you coffee, sir! I wasn’t sure how you’d like it, so I got the good sugar and cream from the cafe,” Bright as always, you gave him a sweet smile and entered the class to set the cups down. “I really appreciate you letting me come in early.”

Firmly shutting the door behind him, Geto watched your ass in the dress as you set your bag down to pull out packets of sugar and cream. “It’s not a problem…” He lost what else he had on his tongue, enamored by your thinking of him. 

“Aw, and you got me all set up?” You asked, gathering the ends of your dress to sit on the cushioned chair. “Where’s yours?”

“My what?” He asked, picking up a lidded cup from the on-campus cafe. 

“Your chair?” You say it like it’s the most obvious thing. With your half-done canvas in front of you, Geto handed you a palette while he sipped the caffeinated drink. While he’d love to keep you company as he watched you do his favorite activity, the room was trashed. He’d think those damn freshmen were doing this on purpose, keeping him from you.

Grabbing a chair and pulling it beside yours, Geto looked at you pointedly. “I’ll check on you in a minute; I just have to do this before my next class,” he explained. The (unintentional) doe eyes you gave him didn’t work- only creating thoughts of those same eyes filling with tears as he face-fucked you.

A playlist Geto selected before you came in tuned out the sounds of him tossing empty bottles into the trash and sweeping the floor. The jazzy mix of melodies helped the both of you at your tasks- you’d begun the next step in your art process, and Geto got to sneak peeks at your cute face scrunched up in concentration. 

Cleaning the room was soon insignificant; reduced from an hour of work for anyone else to 30 minutes for him. 

Rolling up his sleeves he finished wiping down a few more easels before lowering the volume and taking his seat next to you. The black coffee had done its job, that’s for sure. 

“Do you like it?” You asked, setting your brush into a cup of water. His mouth was set in a hard line as he analyzed the brushstrokes and tones of color you’d created. He wasn’t sure before this how proficient you were before, but now there was no doubt in his mind. 

“It’s beautiful,” he began, leaning back into his chair and making his legs comfortable before scooting closer to your easel. “But, let me show you something. Pick up your brush.”

You obeyed, taking your brush in your hand and standing from your chair at the flick of his chin. Large, warm hands rested on your waist as he guided you back into his lap. With your palette in one hand and your waist in the other, Geto could watch you work from a much better angle.

“A-Are you sure this will help? I don’t wanna block your vision…”

“You won’t,” He simply said, already feeling his cock growing in his pants. The curve of your lower back into your perfect ass had Geto’s hand dangerously low on your hips. “Watching you from here allows me to see from your perspective. Are you uncomfortable?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t allow me to delay you any longer,” he concluded, setting you on his clothed cock and watching you work. You could feel his eyes on your canvas, examining the vulnerability you expressed through your medium. Adjusting yourself on his lap, Geto let out a barely audible groan at the friction.

So you continued, despite the growing heat between your legs. When you’d lean forward to dip your brush into water, Geto’s thick bulge would grind deliciously into your cunt. You probably looked so slutty, you thought, sitting in your teacher’s lap like this. 

Idly whining your waist in Geto’s lap was just pleasurable enough to continue working, until he couldn’t take anymore. 

“Wait, (Name). Like this,” The hand on your waist guided you back and forth over his dick print. You weren’t sure how this could help with your art, but he was the expert, right?

At least he sounded pleased. The light breathing became heavier and the hand on your hip lost its innocence. Thick fingers dug into your ass, slowly lifting the thin fabric of your dress until Geto revealed your cute light pink thong. The brush you held between your fingers trembled from the bliss of finally having him beneath you.

Next came the clinking of Geto’s belt unbuckling and hitting the floor, your panties not following long after. He had set the palette down in favor of pulling down the front of your dress to pinch and flick at your nipples.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” He demanded, slapping your ass and humming in appreciation at your desperate whimpers. The paintbrush slipped from your fingers and landed at your feet. ��Not your first time seducing an older man?” 

“S-Seducing?!” You exclaimed, shifting to sit on his thigh and catch his lust-filled gaze. His lips were hovering over yours, maintaining eye contact as he took your hand and guided it over the bulge in his underwear. Watching your expression, Geto felt your inexperienced fingers stumble and stutter over the length of his cock. He could see the bashfulness seep in until you broke eye contact and pressed your face onto his.

Geto, completely enthralled, gave in to the amateur kiss without any doubts. Easily overcoming you, he guided your lips to smooth over his and pick up the rhythm of kissing. The room filled with hums of approval and the sounds of light smacking from your tongues tasting each other.

“Seducing,” he confirmed, moving his hand from yours to the center of your legs. Finding your clit immediately, he ran a digit up and down your slit. “With your cunt dripping all over my finger. Did you plan this?”

It was a rhetorical question, you assumed because he didn’t pull away from your lips to allow you to answer. Instead, he worked his middle finger in slow circles over your clit, drinking in the sweet moans you gave to him. When you dug your nails into his shirt, all decorum snapped in Geto. Picking you up bridal style, he effortlessly carried you to his desk and laid you down, slotted between your legs. 

Feasting your eyes on Geto undressing was a delicacy you didn’t know you needed. He first started with his shirt, loosening button after button and exposing his broad chest. You resisted the urge to sit up and touch, knowing from the look in his eye that he’d disapprove.

“First time seeing a man up close?” He inquired, shedding the thin fabric from his shoulders. Long fingers trailed to his loosened slacks, awaiting your answer.

“Yes sir,” you nearly moaned, drinking in his obvious arousal. The slacks he wore slipped from his hips, boxers following not long after. 

His dick was eight inches of perfection. The trail under his belly button led down to neatly trimmed hair, a pretty sight if you had ever seen one. 

He gave himself a few languid strokes, keeping his eyes on yours as he lifted your leg over his shoulder.

“I’m assuming it’s your first time,” he hummed, nudging your other leg open slightly. “So I can’t be too rough with you, hm?” His lips gave your ankle a few slow, wet kisses before he started running the length of his cock up and down your slit. 

You shivered, watching his cock thoroughly coat itself in your wetness. Geto’s hips rolled against yours, nudging your clit with every push he gave. 

“She’s greedy, baby. Look how she’s twitching under me.” His lusty voice deepened as he slapped your cunt with his heavy cock. You gasped at the contact and tightened your grip on the desk, hopes of receiving Geto’s mercy flying out of the window… The sight of your cunt gushing for him so prettily had him completely narrow-minded. 

With the tip of his cock pressed to your twitching hole, Geto admires his best work yet. He thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful, but being sprawled out on his desk with smeared lip gloss and desperate tears in your eyes proved him wrong. 

“Be good,” He cooed, giving your hip an affectionate squeeze. Geto pressed and split you open on his length, watching your mouth open wider the deeper he slid into you. 

Any mere passerby could incidentally stroll by the isolated classroom, peek in, and find the usually quiet teacher railing his newest student. They’d hear the crescendo of moans echoing through the room (and in turn the halls) and know how much your sensei wanted you. 

Your legs settled on Geto’s rolling hips, the steady rhythm he set shaking the desk with each thrust. One hand remained firmly on your hip, while the other was placed affectionately on your neck. 

“Oh, sir,” you encouraged, his eyes holding yours. “Please, just a little tighter?” Taking a hand from the desk, you placed it delicately on his wrist and pressed his hand harder. Geto had to break eye contact to not cum too early, giving you a quick peck on your lips and tightening his grip on your throat. 

“You ask so nicely; how could I deny you?” His lips brushed yours mercifully, maintaining the harsh strokes that had your release creeping up on you. 

The hand he set on your hip pulled your legs around his waist, a satisfied hmph coming from his throat when you locked your ankles together. 

“So demanding, baby,” he cooed as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck. “If I didn’t know better, I'd think you’d done this before.”

His hand tightened at the insinuation, but only briefly. You were just too cute under him, writhing with the pleasure only Geto could grant you. His silky hair slipped from the elastic he loosely had tied, pathetically landing on the floor by his feet.

“Eyes here, princess.” His hand left your throat to take your chin in his fingers and make you look at him. His hair was draped over his shoulders and he had the pinkest tint to his cheeks. Geto wanted you to see; he was just as ruined as you were. 

“You gonna cum?” He asked, not allowing you to answer. His hips met yours in a quick snap, and you watched a sick grin spread across Geto’s cheeks as your face contorted with pleasure.

Your cunt gushed around him, your wetness coating the art teacher’s legs and causing him to chuckle. He released your neck to prop himself up onto the desk, pushing your legs up and settling himself into a mating press. The hand on your neck trailed down in favor of playing with your clit.

“Watch me,” He demanded, giving you a quick slap on your pussy. “We’ll paint the prettiest picture of this.” 

Keeping your eyes on where you connected, Geto painstakingly fucked you with slow, deliberate thrusts. Holding your gaze where he wanted it through the bliss he was giving proved almost too big a task. Every time your eyes threatened to roll back in pleasure, he’d give your clit an affectionate rub. 

“You’re mine, you know that?” He looked so primal, hair shadowing his face as he watched you nod your head furiously. “My pretty little wife. How clichè is it that we met in class?”

His newest name for you went straight to your cunt, both of your imaginations running wild with thoughts of domesticity and late nights of lovemaking. You couldn’t hold on much longer; before long the thumb Geto worked over your clit and had you squirting on his cock. Your chest heaved with heavy breaths as he continued fucking you, mumbling praise as his own orgasm rushed through him.

Geto couldn’t resist giving your cunt a few final sharp thrusts as he painted your walls white. The muscles in his arms flexed, his eyes shut tightly and he let out the prettiest moan under his breath. The light sheen of sweat glistened under the dull schoolhouse lights, making the thought of being Geto’s wife impossibly more digestible. 

“Ah, I’m surprised the desk held up,” He sighed, slowly pulling out of you. Warm cum dripped from your hole, only to be scooped back up and pushed back in even deeper.

“Can’t let it go to waste. We’ll try as many times as we need to, hopefully at mines next time?” He climbed off the desk and offered you a hand and a kiss on the forehead.

“I love to,” you stood on shaky legs, leaning on the desk for support.

With his cum running down your leg and his hand mark imprinted on your neck, ArtTeacher!Geto impatiently waits for the portrait he’ll paint of you pregnant. 

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© succubusonthedoorstep2023. all rights reserved. please do not copy, repost, steal, or translate my work.

[darkskippychan]

Temp Work and the Dangers of GMO

By DarkSkippychan

Hello fans of my darkness.  I wrote this story for a fan of mine who decided to share herself with me when I was feeling down as a token of appreciation.  I hope you are able to afford to go back to university soon and things work out better for you.  This story contains Non Con, Sommnophilia/drugging, F/Monster, Tentacles, Forced Orgasms, and Impregnation.  Please do not read this story if any of these things may be triggering for you.  You have been warned.

Marin Biotech (the 3rd largest biotech firm in the world) had just opened its newest research campus two months ago in her local suburban town.  The new work campus provided the nearby community with an influx of much needed capital as well as fueling a new boom in housing, local shops, and (of course) jobs.  Their sprawling 43-acre campus was home to many lab facilities, greenhouses, and office buildings all catering to the global companies’ many research projects.

She had been lucky enough to land an afterhours temp job entering data from several of the many research groups and labs.  Her normal shift ran from 6pm to 2am, so she seldom saw other employees of the company. 

Some people would have found the work conditions lonely, but she actually enjoyed the solitude and freedom to work at her own pace.  Not to mention she got full access to the company’s well stocked employee lounge and was pretty much left alone to do her job with little to no supervision as long as she was completing her assigned tasks.

After parking her car in the near empty concrete employee parking garage, she hurried quickly to the main facilities building, her breath fogging out in front of her from the winter cold.  Fortunately, snow hadn’t started falling yet, but it always felt right around the corner.

The building was quiet, and she didn’t see another soul as she used her employee pass to enter the building.  She crossed the lobby and took the elevator down to basement floor 1 where the buildings main labs and her computer terminal awaited her.

Upon reaching her workstation, she quickly removed her coat, scarf, and gloves before the heat of the heavily climate-controlled basement overwhelmed her.  The company always kept it a bit warm down in the lab levels, and she wasn’t sure why.  She had learned to drink generous amounts of coffee to offset the urge to doze or sleep while she worked in the comfortable warmth.

The hard copy file ‘In box’ on her desk had several inch thick manila files of printed paper data for her to enter, but she noticed that her workload was about half of its usual size.  Thinking it over, she figured some of the researchers had decided to get a head start on the three-day weekend with Monday being a company holiday.

She settled down and woke her computer from sleep mode, as she fell into a rhythm and began to get down to work entering all the collected data.

Lab 3 (of 8) of Marin Biotech main research building was currently devoted to the development of new Genetically Modified Organisms (or GMO for short) mixing plant and animal DNA to create new fast growing and disease resistant strains of plants and animals.

The work was slow and tedious and led to hundreds if not thousands of non-viable products.  More recently work had begun to create mutations of promising strains by bombarding them with different forms of hard Alpha, Beta, and Gama radiation, hoping to create organisms with a more favorable outcome.

Among the newest batch in the lab was genetic specimen Beta-317.  The Beta series were all different Amazonian Jungle species (picked for their high growth rates and competitive nature) mixed with different ocean animals to try to cultivate their unique properties.  Beta-317 or B317 was specifically Cissus Amazonica also known as the Amazon Jungle Vine propagated and enhanced with spliced genes of the Enteroctopus dofleini or Giant Pacific Octopus for its RNA editing abilities and regeneration properties.

Work in Lab 3 had ended early in the day as the staff left early for their vaunted three-day weekend.  Multi spectrum bulbs illuminated the far quarter of the lab where the Beta specimens were constantly exposed to full spectrum light as to encourage their rapid growth.  Each GMO hybrid had also been placed in a nutrient rich water bath to provide each with the proper nutrients to sustain rapid growth.

Unseen by human eyes, experiment B317 quivered under the constant UV assault, before unfurling several of its thin appendages in its nutrient bath.  Roots quested out and dipped into its neighbors fluid baths, draining the fluids and growing in size and length from the additional nutrition. 

One appendage discovered the edge of the pool of light and B317 quivered as it began to pull itself out of the damaging brightness still growing from all the rich nutrients it had just absorbed from its neighbors.

A couple of hours had passed in the blink of an eye while she worked when she suddenly let out a big yawn.  Stretching, she decided it was time to take a break and get some coffee to help her finish her work shift.

The employee lounge was just down the hall from her workstation, the ecofriendly lights automatically turning on as she entered.  She picked up a cup and placed it in the coffee machine, then frowned as nothing happened after she hit the dispense button.  Looking at the illuminated control panel she saw the machine was displaying an error code.

She sighed loudly and instead selected some Lavender tea from the tea display beside the coffee machine.  A little hot water, milk, and honey later and her second drink of choice was ready.

As she headed back to her workstation, sipping her tea, she didn’t notice the quivering greenish form of B317 clinging to the ceiling down the hall behind her.

B317 had moved through the empty building hallways virtually silently despite its growing size, but not finding anything of interest until it had spotted the woman’s movement as she left the employee lounge.

Attracted to her heat and scent, it slowly began to follow her down the hall moving silently along the ceiling, vine-like tentacles spreading it’s weight evenly as it moved.

She sat down and began working again, taking a sip from her tea now and then.  After a while she suppressed another yawn just as she finished up her current folder.  She stretched again and leaned back in her chair deciding to close her eyes to rest for just a moment.  After all, she thought, her workload was light, and a little nap couldn’t hurt.

B317 found its prey not moving as it slipped past the door frame and into the room.  The only sound in the room was the gentle rhythmic breathing from the woman reclined in the chair, and the quiet hum of the lights and office equipment around the room.

Slowly it moved along the wall and down onto the office floor.  Moving carefully, it cautiously reached out several tentacle vines towards the sleeping woman.  Delicately they brushed across her warm skin, savoring the heat from her body, before stopping as she murmured in her sleep.  As she settled back down, they continued to move along her body exploring.

B317 was confused by the cooler non-living clothing around the body of the young woman, but it began to become more excited by the closeness of her warmth and scent.  More of its appendages began to move to the body of the woman, wrapping around her very gently as not to wake her.

As B317’s vine tentacles began to move up her body to explore the woman’s face she suddenly shifted and began to blink awake, unconsciously knowing something was wrong.

‘Whaaaa..’ she began, her brain still foggy and dazed from her short nap.

B317 struck out of instinct, jabbing a needle like barb into her neck and injecting her with a potent venom.  The woman cried out and her body tensed at the sudden prick of pain.  Her eyes shot open, then almost just as suddenly her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body went limp as the creature’s venom coursed through her system.

The newly born mutant vibrated in pleasure as its prey surrendered to its toxin.  Hungrily it began to tear through the young woman’s clothing, vine tentacles desperate to expose more of her soft warm flesh.

The woman moaned weakly as the mutant creature stripped her body roughly and she involuntarily shivered at her body’s sudden exposure.  Questing tentacles began to explore every inch of her body, causing her body to react of its own accord.

Her nipples began to harden as her body was roughly explored and goose flesh rose as it attempted to fend off the sudden change in temperature.  The creature lifted her whole body up off the chair, easily holding her weight aloft.  Her head fell back, causing her mouth to open, which B117 took as an invitation to explore.  One thick tentacle vine pushed into her mouth, and began to slide down her throat, enjoying her mouth’s warm wetness. 

Her heart began to beat faster, her body aware of the danger, even if she herself was not.  Warmth flowed over her as her body flushed and reacted to the creature’s touch.  Moistness gathered as her juices begain to drip from between her legs.

The creature’s body quivered, and a bulge began to form along its body before bursting forth into a new appendage from its central mass.  More of the mutant’s vine tentacles wrapped around the woman’s legs, spreading them wide while it held her in the air before it.

The new appendage moved towards her exposed womanhood drawn there by her musky scent and dripping juices.  It slowly began to rub along her slit, collecting her juices along its length and head before nuzzling against the opening of her sex.

A soft moan escaped her lips around the vine tentacle in her mouth that quickly grew to a cry as the creature suddenly forced itself inside her.  Her cries just as suddenly turning into soft whimpers as the large appendage slid deeper and deeper inside her, stopping only once reaching the opening to her womb.

Suddenly the creature began to roughly pound its length in and out of her, causing the woman to involuntarily orgasm after just a few thrust of its large phallus like vine tentacle. 

B117 greedily absorbed her juicy discharge and the rich nutrients it carried, not stopping for one moment to let the woman rest as it continued to forcefully fuck her.  The head of the appendage struck the entrance of her womb like an ancient battering ram trying to forcibly enter a besieged castle.

The woman’s whole-body shook, and her breast bounced with each hard thrust into her limp unresisting body.  Orgasm after orgasm ripped through her as the creature continued to have its way with her and absorb her rich juices.

Finally, after several minutes of attempting to force its way inside her, the creature was able to modify its breeding appendage.  The tip forming petals that it used to pry and force her cervix open, thus allowing its head to slip deep inside her womb and nestle inside her.

Her stomach began to bulge as it worked more and more of itself inside her, stretching her out birth canal out.  She moaned in unconscious protest as the mutant filled her body fuller and more completely than ever before.

B117 pulled the young woman close to it as it felt something deep inside itself grow, then detach, and begin to work itself along the length of its body and down into the appendage connecting them.

Slowly bit by bit, it contracted and moved the hard lump along its length.  Reaching the connection between them, the creature was stymied by the tightness of the woman’s body wrapped around its breeding tentacle vine.

Slowly it began to push, harder and harder, increasing the pressure until finally with a loud moan from the woman, her vaginal passage stretched out far enough to allow the hard mass to pass.  Using more and more pressure now, the creature continued to push the hard lump of its seed deep inside her.

Centimeter by centimeter the seed moved up her birth canal to be stopped once more as it reached the much smaller opening of her cervix.  Twisting and pushing, B117 thrashed the tip of its tentacle inside her womb, causing her to orgasm once more.   The sudden tensing and relaxing of her body with each pulse finally allowing the seed to continue millimeter by millimeter up inside her until finally it plopped into the warmth and wetness of her womb.

The woman’s whole body suddenly relaxed as the mutant finished implanting its seed inside her.  Sweat dripped from her limp body to be collected greedily by the vine tentacles enveloping her as they sucked at her skin.

Content for now, the creature labeled B117 began to move out of the room, holding its prize in a cocoon of vine tentacles above it.

The woman rose to conscious slowly, her mind still slow and foggy from the mutant venom the plant hybrid had injected her with.  Her whole body felt sore, and every muscle abused as if she had run several marathons or had climbed a couple of tall mountains.

She could feel the cool air of the room on her naked skin and her throat felt raw and dry.  Her eyes moved around the room, not recognizing where she was.

A very bright group of lights was over a table in one corner of the room.  All around her was a green vine type plant mass, covering what she could only assume were tables, chairs, and office equipment.  The plant covered the walls, and even parts of the ceiling, and seemed to pulse almost as if it were breathing.

As she looked around, a vine began to move towards her mouth.  She tried to turn her head, or to pull back, but she found she didn’t have the strength to even do that much.

As the tip of the vine tentacle opened her mouth and slid inside, it suddenly pulsed and began to disgorge a warm, thick, starchy tasting liquid into her mouth.  Disgusted the woman had no choice but to swallow the liquid or risk drowning in it.  After a minute or so the vine tentacle stopped and slid back and out of her mouth.

Even as she was disgusted by what had just happened, the woman was surprised to find that she felt better and a little stronger.  But before she could even begin to adapt to her situation, she felt something twitch inside her lower belly.

She looked down and her eyes went wide as she saw that her belly had grown and was now stretched out as if she were six months pregnant.  Her eyes darted around wildly, looking for something to help steady her mind with.

She saw a clock on the wall displaying the time and date.  Only a few hours had passed since she went to the lounge for her tea.  It seemed incomprehensible to her.

How could all this have happened in only a couple of hours?

Suddenly she felt a large movement inside her growing belly.  She managed to flop from her side onto her back as the first contraction hit her.  She cried out loudly and moaned as she felt something moving, fighting its way out of her.

‘Oh god… noOOOOOOOO!’ her hands each wrapping around a vine and squeezing hard as her legs spasmed.  The vines felt almost like a kind hard rubber with very little give in them as she panted and struggled with the new life growing inside her trying to be born.

Sweat covered her entire body as she panted and felt the organism inside her moving towards its birth and freedom.  She cried out again as another contraction helped to move it along.  Two small vine tentacles burst from the slit of her red swollen sex and began to wrap themselves around her thighs, giving the creature additional purchase to pull itself out of its mother.

She came then, hard and long despite everything, the pain and pleasure signals mixed up and scrambled in her brain.  The hard rubbery body of the birthing creature pushing hard against her G spot as it pulled itself out of her, raping her from the inside out.

With a final push she collapsed back against the labs floor, totally spent.  Her eyes fluttered as she fought to stay conscious despite the struggle of birthing the creature and her ordeal. 

The newborn creature began to slide up its mother’s body, two vine tentacles questing for the milk already dripping from her nipples.  Attaching themselves to her hard nipples, they began to suck greedily on their mother’s breasts, nourishing itself on her milk and already beginning to grow.

B117 began to stir once more.  Vine tentacles quested out for the young woman’s warm sweat covered body once again.  After all, her womb was now empty and available, and it had a full three-day weekend to procreate and progenerate…

As the young woman began to slip back into unconsciousness, she felt the touch of B117 along her body once more and wondered if taking the temp job had actually been such a good idea….

I hope you enjoyed my little dark story.  Thanks for reading and congratulations for making it this far.  If you did in fact enjoy the story, please feel free to buy me a coffee or send me a nude or two.  Nudes nourish my soul and fuel my imagination.  Till next time friends, stay dark and weird.  DarkSkippychan Feb/2024

[salternateunreality2]

Kunsel says:

We should maybe have a stricter definition of what counts as "hacking", okay?

It was a slow day at work, and he decided to guess people's email passwords in 10 attempts.

How does it go?

YESSSSSSSSS

Pro tips: make your password long, that is the most important factor. Use a password manager, most of them have a free option. Adding complexity does help, but focus on length first. Size does matter here. Multi-factor authentication (MFA) also helps a lot.

---------

Kunsel: Zack, gimme your password!

Zack: ...

Kunsel: Come on man, I need it for something!

Zack: 😭😭😭 buddy I would, but I forgot it again 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Kunsel: Ok man, it's ok, let's look around your desk...here, under this pile of chip bags, I think i saw...yeah, here's the penguin toy...and yep, Password Penguin has "Zack'ss00p3rp4ssw0rd!" written on the bottom. Let's try it!

(it works)

Zack: THANK YOU KUNSEL I THOUGHT I'D LOST HIM AND I COULDN'T REMEMBER AND-

Kunsel: *wheeze* Zack let go, I need to breathe *wheeze*

-----------

Kunsel tries to guess Roche's by typing it in.

M0t0rcycle!

ShinyDancer

Sh1n33D4nc3r!

He's in.

------------

Kunsel tries to guess Sephiroth's. On the 9th try, he gets it: Seph+Jenova4ever

Horrible things are uncovered along the way and now he needs to send Sephiroth some information very discreetly.

------------

Lazard. Kunsel knows better. He gives a few guesses, but decides to actually hack this.

He sets up a hash capturing tool over the internal network and waits for Lazard to log on. He does. Kunsel captures the hash and starts cracking it.

Three days later, the hash cracker has not worked and he has to give up on that.

Kunsel: Sir, I need to get into your email, will you please send me your password?

Lazard: Of course not, that is unsafe and against company policy. However, you're welcome to come to my office to perform any actions we both deem necessary.

Kunsel goes over and Lazard is using multifactor authentication, so just having the hash cracked wouldn't have worked anyway. He sets up a keylogger surreptitiously on Lazard's workstation while "performing updates" and showing Lazard new features in his email.

The things he captures with that keylogger:

* Numerous emails covering for boneheaded shit the SOLDIERs did.

* The letter "A" typed about a thousand times into a text file labeled "definitely not screams.txt".

* Moogle searches for "how to convince your employees to get therapy", "pasta recipes", "therapists near me", "child psychology for adults", "play therapy for adults", "cat psychology", and "shrimp pasta recipes".

* The password: &oh'ihiy_-8_gi"it"gi_ipkb0(-ur#3-@--LXS4ever--9(9;0(!08(098+pihjboigig(@ukopih

Then it is a simple matter of finding a zero-day race condition hack in the MFA software, timing things just right, and entering the password and hacked MFA key at the perfect moment.

Kunsel of course has pity on the man after seeing even more emails such as...

* Explaining to Roche that doing squats over his motorcycle makes it look like he's humping it, and it is making people uncomfortable.

* Asking Genesis to please not actually firaga the recruits this week, they don't need a lawsuit. No, it's not character building. No, even though it was part of his home training and Shinra sanctioned training a few years ago.

* Inviting Sephiroth over for shrimp pasta to discuss strategy.

* Asking Angeal to seek therapy so the others will follow his lead.

* Telling Zack that he could not have a therapy flamingo in the office. Even if it was a lawn ornament.

* Warning Hojo not to take Sephiroth this week.

* Warning Hollander not to take Genesis and Angeal this week.

* Reaming Heidegger out very politely for all his BS.

Kunsel logs out without doing anything. Lazard needs a break.

--------

Kunsel calls Angeal pretending to be the help desk. Angeal, a bit embarrassed over his upbringing and unsure because he feels unused to technology, eventually gives Kunsel the password: BanoraBoys123!

----------

Genesis' is guessed on the 7th try because Kunsel didn't want to bother typing in an entire stanza of Loveless with numbers instead of vowels.

1nf1n1t3_1n_myst3ry_1s_th3_g1ft_0f_th3_g0dd3ss__w3_s33k_1t_th7s_4nd_t4k3_t0_th3_sky_r1ppl3s...

He sends an email from Genesis inviting everyone to a Loveless recital on Tuesday. It backfires because several people, including Genesis, show up and have a great time.

-----------

Kunsel tries Zack's little trooper friend next. He's a tough nut to crack. He won't pick up his PHS to get vished, won't click on Kunsel's phishing emails, and won't tell Zack or Kunsel his password.

Kunsel captures his hash and cracks it. It takes a full 24 hours, but he gets it in the end:

!1986fuck_this_shit

[nordschleifes]

chapter two — moscow mule

➝ after two intense days, fernando decides to take his racing team to a tapas bar. charlie considers staying at the hotel, but something tells her that if she doesn't go, she might seem unfriendly. little does she know that that night will show her a completely different side of fernando.

➝ word count: 5,9k

➝ warnings: mentions of sexual harrassment, therapy session

➝ author's note: yeah, it will be a chapter a day around here. tagging @christianpulisic10 and @alonsogirlie as requested. enjoy!

Charlie felt a little uncomfortable as she followed after her colleagues down the cobbled street. It wasn't that she was the only woman in the group, or that they were going out drinking on a Tuesday; it was because of who made the plans to go out to a bar in Jerez de la Frontera. 

Fernando's invitation didn't surprise Charlie, given his attitude lately. Fernando, even beyond treating her with more respect than in their McLaren-Honda days, seemed interested in developing some kind of friendship with her. At first, she thought he was teasing her, the way he asked her so many questions. That is, until the previous Thursday. 

She was in her office at the factory, sitting at her workstation, drinking a cup of lemon ginger tea, and watching an onboard video of Fernando in Bahrain when she heard Fernando’s voice down the hallway. Charlie knew that he was coming over to the factory almost every day at that point for video and photo shoots for the marketing department, and for simulator sessions. 

Turning her eyes back to the screen, which showed Fernando making a wide line to avoid the raised curb at the apex of turn eight, Charlie took another sip of tea as she tried to ignore his approach.

— Hi, Charlie — he greeted her, leaning against the wall of her cubicle. His hair looked damp and was sticking up at strange angles. “He must have been in the simulator”, Charlie thought.

— Hi — she murmured, pulling her headphones down to hang around her neck.

— What are you watching there?

— Your race in Bahrain last year — Charlie said, setting her teacup down on the desk. He crouched down beside her, one arm resting on her desk.

— Cute cat — Fernando said. It took her by surprise, and she glanced over to him. His eyes were fixed on the photo of Ron that was pinned just below her race season calendar — I had one, once.

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

— You did?

— Yes, her name was Cleo. Linda liked cats and wanted one to keep her company.

— What happened? Did she die?

— Linda?

— Of course not, I'm talking about the cat.

— No, no, she's doing very well. She’s with Linda in — he paused for a few seconds — Argentina, I guess. Linda took her after we broke up.

There was a moment of awkward silence between them. 

— Do you miss her?

— Linda?

Charlie shot a sidelong glance at Fernando, making it obvious she didn’t care about his ex-girlfriend.

— Oh, Cleo. Well, a little, but deep down, I've always preferred dogs. More active, you know.

— Yeah.

There was another moment of awkward silence as Fernando continued gazing at the photo of the orange cat. Through Charlie’s headphones, the sound of the Renault engine drowned out the other conversations across the office.

— What's its name? — Fernando finally broke the silence.

— Its name?

— Your cat. What's its name?

Charlie pursed her lips, realizing what he was trying to do. He was trying to get close to her, create some camaraderie, or worse, strike up some sort of friendship. “This is just a dirty trick”, she thought, shifting in her chair.

— It doesn’t matter — she replied, dryly.

— But I told you about my cat.

— You mean your ex-girlfriend's cat, right?

— We adopted her together, so she was my cat too.

Charlie sighed, running a hand over her face before looking up at him again.

— Look, I was over here preparing your first race of the season, and you came over here bothering me about my cat. If you don't have any input on racing in Bahrain, I strongly recommend you go find someone else to bother.

— I just asked you your cat's name...

— And I can only imagine what you want with that, so please go bother the IT guys and let me get back to work.

Fernando sighed and stood up. He was staring at the cubicle wall again, but at a different point than before.

— Will you at least tell me your father's name? — he asked, pointing to the photo of her next to a man tinkering with a dismantled engine sitting on a table

— His name is Jamie. And he is not my father.

— No?

— He’s my grandfather. Now, go away.

Fernando pursed his lips and turned around, mumbling “have a nice day” as he left. Charlie put her headphones back on and tried to concentrate on the video she’d been watching again. However, her coldness did not cause Fernando to give up, quite the contrary. It seemed that Charlie's reluctance to interact with him made him try even harder to get closer to her, to breach the walls she’d put up for him. Little did Charlie know that he would eventually succeed.

It happened on a two-day trip to Jerez, Spain, for annual tyre testing for Pirelli. Fernando had taken the entirety of the first day of testing, while Lance would take the second. It was tiring to spend a whole day at the circuit, but Charlie thought it was better than alternating half-days like Mercedes had planned to. 

— Fernando — Charlie called, waving him over to the pit wall. He was talking to Edoardo, one of his physiotherapists, and made a gesture with his hand that looked like a phone back to him as he walked over the pit lane. He tied the sleeves of his green race overalls around his waist, leaving his white fireproof undershirt visible. Charlie couldn’t help but notice the way it was sticking to his skin. 

— Yeah? — he asked, causing Charlie to notice where her eyes were. She swallowed hard and scrambled to remember what she wanted to talk to him about, blurting out a question instead.

— Are there any problems?

He smiled.

— Well, my sister said she would be here to watch testing, but she missed her flight, so we were trying to get her re-booked to try and get her here this afternoon.

Charlie nodded, looking again at the computer screen in front of her, trying to find the telemetry that she remembered that she wanted to discuss with him. However, Fernando had other ideas.

— Do you have siblings?

— In theory — she muttered.

— What do you mean, ‘in theory’?

Charlie sighed and rolled her eyes.

— I have two younger brothers, but I think I've seen them two or three times in my entire life, so…

— You were raised by your grandparents.

Charlie glanced at him, a bit startled by how he’d deduced that. 

— How did you know that? — she asked quietly.

— It was more of a guess, since you have a picture with your grandfather in the office — he said, leaning his elbow on the pit wall’s rail — What about your father?

— I don’t know who he is — Charlie replied.

— But, how? — he asked. He sounded almost indignant at the idea — Your mother…

— My mother never told me who my father is, as she said that she doesn't like to “remember the mistakes of her youth” — she said, trying to tamp down the irritation in her voice — Now we can concentrate on your telemetry and not about who fucked my mother?

Fernando smiled like he was trying to stifle a giggle.

— As you wish — he said, resting his hand on his hip and turning his attention to the screen.

The day of testing seemed endless, with Pirelli technicians insisting that they test all available compounds and asking for feedback on their performance. The fact that Fernando was also in the process of adapting to the car didn't make Charlie's task any easier, because he also wanted feedback on the times he was doing and where he could improve his lap times.

However, after 130 laps and a rather uncomfortable journey back to the hotel, she was excited to have a shower, lie in bed, and read the book she had brought with her — an autobiography of an actress who discussed the relationship with her mother. It had been a suggestion from Hannah, her therapist, as a way for them to begin exploring issues surrounding Charlie's upbringing, and from what she'd read on the flight to Jerez, it was a very good place to start.

However, Fernando thought it would be a good idea to take the team to an authentic Spanish bar as a way for him to get to know everyone better. And, if she knew her colleagues, they would never turn down a chance to relax and drink, especially with a two-time Formula 1 world champion picking up the tab.

— And you, Charlie? — the driver asked, smiling — Are you coming with us?

— No, thank you.

— Why not?

— I just think there are better ways to enjoy my night than watching you get drunk with your mechanics and having to drag you back to your hotel at the end of the night.

He laughed.

— First, it's Checo who likes to get drunk, not me. But I understand the confusion, since we both speak Spanish and for you Brits, we are all the same.

Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Fernando continued.

— Second, I'm pretty sure I don't need anyone to drag me back to the hotel unless they have a very good reason to. And finally, it seems like you need to relax. This is your chance.

— I'm fine, thanks — she murmured, looking out the window of the briefing room, crossing her arms.

— I can see that — he said. He clearly wasn’t convinced — We’ll meet in the lobby at eight.

As the group walked through the streets, following Fernando, Charlie ruminated on the fact that the driver seemed to know that she would change her mind and join the group in the hotel lobby. She’d prepared a lame excuse, and could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but to Fernando’s credit, he didn’t rub it in her face. All he said was that he was grateful that he had his entire team there. 

The procession squeezed its way down narrow streets, everyone chatting and laughing as they walked. Charlie condemned herself for not bringing a jacket or jumper, feeling chilled in the late February air. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Fernando led the group to a dark wooden door, opening it to let everyone else in ahead of him. Charlie glanced at the sign affixed to the wood as she stepped inside.

— Tabanco La Pandilla — she said softly. The scent of sweet wine and something that reminded her of the ocean filled her nostrils, and the interior of the bar reminded Charlie strongly of typical English pubs, though with undoubtedly Spanish features in the architecture and the decor. The walls were covered in vintage posters for bullfights and black and white photos from around Jerez, elegant handwriting in the corners of them indicating the place and date they were taken.

— Charlie — someone called out. She looked away from the photo she was poring over and she saw Raúl sitting in a corner — Come sit here.

As she approached the table, she realized that there weren’t many vacant chairs to choose from, since Mikey and the mechanics were already occupying most of them. Almost all of them, apparently, as she had chosen the one that Jimmy, the team’s social media admin, had already claimed. 

— That one is free — the mechanic said, pointing to the sole remaining empty chair.

It was the one right next to Fernando.

Heaving a sigh, she made her way over to the chair, settling down silently with a serious expression on her face. Charlie could feel Fernando’s eyes on her, which made her feel unsettled. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and looked at it in an effort to distract herself.

— You know it's not very polite to be on your cell phone when you're out with friends, right? — a male voice murmured beside her. When he looked up, he found Fernando with a small smile on his face.

— I was checking the time. 

— Do you have other plans later on?

— What if I do? — Charlie asked.

— I'm happy to keep an eye on the time so you can enjoy your evening — he replied, holding up his left wrist. He showed her the royal blue watch he was wearing, with a large square face, outlined in yellow. Inside, there were three bands in red, yellow and blue, which were the base of the hands, while all the black and silver internal gears were visible behind the face.

— A Richard Mille? — she asked. She would recognize his watches anywhere. When she was with McLaren, the brand signed a sponsorship deal with the team. It obliged all of the trackside staff to wear the watches given by them, a special model with the orange strap and black dial.

— Yes, RM 67-02 — Fernando said with a smile — Richard designed it exclusively for me, based on the colors of my helmet. We even partnered up last year and developed one based on the armor worn by the Samurai…

— It's awful — Charlie said, dryly, cutting him off.

— What? — he said, shocked.

— Let's face it, Richard Milles are terrible watches. They’re over-the-top, you can hardly read the dials, they’re huge and heavy on your wrist, and a lot of them look like children’s toys anyway, which, considering how expensive they are... They’re all flash and no substance. 

— I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to disagree with you...

— As always — she murmured.

— Richard's designs are well thought out and not at all cluttered, plus the colors are really nice and the size seems ideal to me.

— You never had to wear that awful watch he made for McLaren — Charlie replied.

— Of course I did. We all got one of those in 2017, don't you remember?

She was about to respond when one of the owners of the place approached the table. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair and a wide, excited smile on his face.

— ¡Bienvenidos a nuestro tabanco! ¡Es un honor recibirlos aquí! — the man said. Fernando smiled at him politely. 

— Les agradecemos por estar disponibles para recibirnos hoy — Fernando said — Tenemos muchas ganas de experimentar lo que tienes para nosotros hoy.

— Oh, estoy seguro de que les gustará lo que tenemos para esta noche. ¿Podemos empezar con las bebidas?

Raúl translated for the man — the owner, apparently — and everyone started to place their orders. After taking orders for a variety of beers and a shot or two of the famous Andalusian sherry, the man glanced at her.

— Y la señorita, ¿qué desea?

— He wants to know what you want — Fernando said.

Looking up at the man with the notebook in his hand, Charlie smiled.

— A Moscow mule would be excellent.

Suddenly, she heard laughter next to her.

— A Moscow mule? Charlie, you know you're in a tabanco, don't you? — Fernando said.

— Of course I do, I saw the sign.

— Then… You should know they don't have those kinds of drinks.

— What kind?

— You know, girly drinks.

Charlie clenched her jaw and pursed her lips, feeling rage creep up the back of her neck like a tingling wave under her skin. “Don't let him get inside your head”, Charlie recalled Lewis telling her. It was a mantra that she repeated sometimes when dealing with Fernando, a plea that she not lose control and slap him across the face.

But then, Fernando decided to provoke her one last time.

— If you don't know what to order, I can recommend a bar that's more to your tastes, one that has those kinds of girly cocktails.

Before Charlie realized what she was doing, she stood up abruptly and stormed away from the table, the protests of her colleagues becoming distant to her ears. Her throat felt tight and her eyes burned. Once again, he had disparaged her, calling the things she liked feminine, insinuating they were lesser, suggesting that she didn’t fit in.

As Charlie walked away from the bar, down the dimly lit street, tears began to stream down her face. She felt anger consuming her as she cursed at herself for not having some sort of comeback for Fernando, for not putting him in his place. She should have slapped him. Or even better yet, she should have called Mike and quit her job on the spot. She thought about what it would take for Fernando to be fired, realizing it would take something incredibly serious, nothing short of literal murder, more likely. 

— Stupid, stupid, stupid — Charlie muttered, as she continued walking down the street. She’d gone a fair distance before realizing that she had no idea where she was going. At some point she would have to get to the hotel. She glanced down at her phone, trying to open a map, until she walked into something.

She looked up from her phone and realized that she’d run into the back of a man, standing and chatting to two other men. They looked like they were in their twenties. They were each wearing jeans and puffer jackets. They were each holding a bottle of beer, and reeked of cheap cologne, booze, and cigarettes. As she stared at them, the man Charlie had bumped into smiled at her, but it was not a kind smile — it was a smile that made Charlie’s skin crawl and her stomach churn. 

— Miren lo que tenemos aquí — the man said, taking a swig from his bottle — ¿Estás sola, princesa?

Charlie took a step back and tried to swallow down her nerves. She had no idea what he said, or what to say in response. She knew very little Spanish, limited to a few greetings and how to count to ten, whatever she’d picked up from being with Carlos Sainz when he was with McLaren. The man repeated himself as Charlie visibly hesitated, stepping closer to her.

— ¿Qué es, princesa? ¿El gato te comió la lengua?

— Debe ser sorda, Pablo — the man on the right, with curly hair, said, with a laugh.

— No, ella puede oír. Me escuchas, ¿no? — he said, pointing to his ear. Charlie understood that it might be a question about listening, so she nodded, taking another step back — Ves, ella escucha.

— Pero no responde nada. Esa perra debe ser muda — the third man said, his voice deep and gravelly.

— Si es muda, mejor para nosotros — the curly-haired boy said, running his tongue over his lower lip — De todo modo, es hora del postre.

She could feel the adrenaline kicking in, making her feel hyper-aware of her surroundings. She wanted to run away, but she felt frozen on the spot as the men got closer, their eyes dark and sinister, murmuring things in a language she didn’t understand. She felt one of the men wrap his hand around her wrist, and understood what they wanted. Charlie knew she wasn't going to get rid of them until they got it.

— Vamos, princesa, no seas mala — the first man murmured, tightening his fingers around her arm — Si no, tendremos que utilizar la fuerza.

Fear had rendered Charlie unable to say anything. She couldn't scream, couldn't protest, couldn't call for help. With more tears streaming down her cheeks, she realized exactly what was about to happen to her, on some dark street in Jerez, all because she got into a fight with an asshole coworker.

She hadn’t expected this night — and maybe her life — would come to such a ridiculous and tragic ending.

— Cariño — she thought she heard someone say through the fog of dread that shrouded her mind. Her throat was getting tighter by the second, and she could feel a nervous sweat breaking out across her lower back — ¡Espérame, cariño!

The words seemed to have a repelling effect on the men who were surrounding her, their expressions startled as they watched someone approach behind her. "This is a trap, I’m so fucked", Charlie thought, gasping when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was about to try to run before she realized who had been calling her name. Fernando stepped in front of her, his expression mixing relief and concern.

— Por favor, mi amor, nunca vuelvas a hacer eso — Fernando said, cradling her face gently in his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks — Nunca, nunca más. Casi muero preocupándome por ti.

He pulled her into a tight hug, nestling her head in the crook of his neck, cradling the back of her head with one of his hands. Wrapped in his arms, Charlie felt a whirlwind of emotions. Her confusion only grew when he whispered in her ear in English, requesting that she follow his lead and not say anything.

As the man that grabbed Charlie’s wrist backed further away, Fernando returned to run his hand through her hair, tenderly.

— Perdóname, mi ángel, realmente fui un idiota contigo. Pero no salgas así, sin rumbo. No sé qué haría si te hubiera perdido, mi corazón — he said, planting a kiss on Charlie's forehead before hugging her again, his hand resting on the back of her head — Gracias por encontrar mi novia. No sé qué sería de mí sin ella.

If the three men said anything in response, Charlie didn't hear them. As Fernando held her close, her face buried in the white sweatshirt Fernando was wearing, she forced herself to focus on the sound of his heart pounding against his chest instead. Being in such close proximity to someone she didn’t like was strange. It was even stranger to her that she wasn’t feeling annoyed, or even disgusted with such close physical contact with him. What she felt then, wrapped in his arms, wasn’t anger, but safety and relief. 

— Gracias, buenas noches — he said, before pulling away slightly to look into Charlie's face. She could feel that her tears had smeared her mascara — Vamos, cariño.

As Fernando led her down the street, still holding her hand, she felt like she was having some strange out-of-body experience. She was just a spectator, unable to act or intervene. Walking next to her, Fernando seemed to be talking on the phone with someone, but the way her pulse pounded in her ears stopped Charlie from being able to tell who she was talking to or what they were discussing.

— Necesito que vuelvas al hotel ahora. Por favor, no puedo explicar por teléfono. Charlie está bien, dile esto al resto del equipo y que se queden al tabanco y disfruten de la noche. Si, te espero. Hasta luego — Fernando said, before putting the cell phone back in the back pocket of his jeans — Are you okay, Charlie?

— Yeah — she replied in a whisper.

— I'm taking you back to our hotel, okay?

— Okay — Charlie said, finally managing to find her voice. She felt a strange, pleasant heat rising around her shoulders. It was a welcome relief in the chilly night air that prickled at her skin, even under her thick woolen sweater.

The rest of the walk to the hotel was a blur. Neither her or Fernando said anything. There wasn't much to say. She was still processing what had almost happened that night, all because she was unable to keep her anger in check, especially where Fernando was concerned. However, contrary to what she expected to feel, given the situation, she didn't feel angry with him.

The only thing she felt was guilty.

As they got to the hotel lobby, Charlie spotted Edoardo standing by the reception desk, looking at his phone. When he looked up and saw the two of them there, the expression of concern on his face changed to relief.

— Thank God you're here. Are you all right, Charlie? What happened? Can I help?

— Edo, I'll explain later — Fernando said. He cut himself off as soon she placed her hand on his fingers, which were still on her shoulder.

— I'm fine — she replied, her voice hesitant — I just need to go to my room.

— Do you have your key? Those guys didn't steal anything, right?

— It's in my purse — Charlie said, running a hand over her cheeks, wiping away her tears with the back of her sleeve. 

The three of them rode the elevator to Charlie’s room in silence. Edo helped her find her key card and Fernando stepped into the room first, giving a cursory check before signaling to the other two to enter. Charlie trudged to the bed and sat down on the mattress, still in disbelief over the evening’s events. It replayed over and over in her mind. She shook her head, as if it could physically eject the memories of the men’s sinister, knowing smiles and the rough hand around her wrist.

— Here, drink this — she heard Fernando say from in front of her. She opened her eyes, and saw him bent over, a soft expression on his face as he offered her a water bottle. Without protesting, she drank the water, realizing how parched her lips and throat were. Then, she propped the bottle against her leg and looked up at him.

— Why?

Fernando blinked, confused.

— Sorry, I don’t understand.

— Why did you run after me?

He sighed.

— My initial intention was to apologize and bring you back to the bar. But when I realized you were gone, I — he hesitated for a few seconds — I knew you didn't know the city and didn't speak the language, which, unfortunately makes you an easy target for bad people. I feared the worst, so I asked a guy that was in front of the bar which way you went and I followed.

— Why did you defend me from them?

— Because I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something bad happened to you.

— But it was my fault...

— No, it's not. It's my fault, Charlie. I'm the one who was giving you a hard time, and made you react that way. I apologize for everything that happened today.

She couldn't deny that there was sincerity in the way Fernando was speaking to her and looking at her. His eyes were filled with obvious guilt. “Maybe he is actually sorry,” Charlie thought, sniffling.

— It’s alright. I'll be fine.

— You will be, I'm sure — he said quietly, before getting to his feet — Well, I'll let you rest. You go back to England tomorrow morning with the team, right?

— Yeah.

— Excellent. But if you need anything, message me. You have my number on Whatsapp right? I know you don't have Instagram anymore since I...

— Oh, I still do. I blocked you — Charlie muttered.

He stopped for a few seconds.

— You blocked me on Instagram?

— After your third or fourth request to follow me — she replied quietly.

— Ah — Fernando said, trying to disguise his discomfort with Charlie’s admission — Well, you know how to reach me. Good night, Charlie.

— Good night and — she paused for a few seconds, her eyes locked with his — Thank you. Honestly.

Fernando looked at her for a few moments, and then smiled.

— It was the least I could do — he replied, placing a hand on Edo's shoulder. His physiotherapist also wished her a good night before following Fernando into the hallway.

When the door closed, Charlie let out a heavy sigh, realizing the tension that had built up in her muscles. Perhaps a bath would help cleanse her body, and maybe, her soul of everything that had happened that night. There was one thing she needed to do before she did anything else, though. 

Removing her phone from her purse, she unlocked it and logged into Instagram. Going into the search bar, she typed in a name and found the correct account immediately. So Charlie tapped the blue button and then the confirmation that popped up on the screen. Finally, she clicked the 'follow' button, dropping her phone onto her bed. “Maybe he feels better now”, she thought, as she walked towards the bathroom.

That night, her sleep was disturbed by nightmares. The next morning, Charlie woke up to the sound of her cell phone alarm feeling more tired than she had been when she’d gone to bed. However, she couldn't afford to stay in bed any longer, as she had to be at the airport in an hour.

The trip back to the UK was uneventful, and she took the opportunity to sleep during the flight. On the way to Northampton, she shared a car with Mikey and three of Fernando’s other mechanics, all chatting animatedly about the results from testing, and what their hopes were for the season.

However, Charlie couldn't think about sectors, telemetry or lap times. All she could think about the previous night, how Fernando had suddenly appeared from the darkness and embraced her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, and not someone he hated.

She sighed, deciding that this was something she’d need to talk about with Hannah.

Her session with the therapist had been scheduled for that Friday, late afternoon. Charlie started therapy in early 2016 as a way to deal with the anxiety she had begun to suffer from after a miserable season with Fernando and his constant haranguing and requests that she be swapped for another engineer.

However, she hadn't been Charlie's first choice, as she believed that a psychologist specializing in sports medicine could best help her. However, one session with the one that McLaren kept on retainer was enough for the therapist to tell her that her issues ran deeper than performance anxiety, and that he would recommend a colleague of his. Fortunately, his recommendation proved to be the right one for her.

— Charlie? — Hannah said with a smile. She was standing in the doorway of her office, with her curly hair tied up in a kind of bun and wearing an orange suit that looked vibrant against the dark color of her skin — Shall we?

— Yes.

After entering Hannah’s office and settling into the white armchair, Charlie dropped her bag on the side table. Then she took a deep breath as her therapist settled into the chair across from her.

— So it's been some time since our last session, has it? About 10, 15 days?

— Yeah.

— Then I think you have plenty to tell me. Shall we start with the book I recommended?

— Actually — Charlie said — I wanted to talk about my last trip.

— Oh, you had a work trip, right? Where was it again?

— Jerez — she answered softly.

— Is that in Spain? — Hannah asked, and Charlie nodded — Oh, I imagine that was quite interesting considering your relationship with…

— I'm not sure if interesting is the right word, Hannah — Charlie said quietly. 

— Did something happen, Charlie?

— Well, not during testing. That bit all went as expected. But later, the night after testing was done, Fernando invited everyone to go to a bar.

— Everyone but you?

— No, he invited me as well, and I went. It was one of those traditional Spanish pubs that looks like a basement, I can't really explain it. But he and I ended up arguing because I ordered a Moscow mule, so I left.

— You argued over your choice of drink?

— He said it was a girly drink, that they didn't have that kind of stuff in that kind of bar, and he kept teasing me, so I lost my patience with him. But, after I left the bar, I ended up getting lost in the streets and I ran into — she paused for a few seconds — Some guys.

Hannah nodded, waiting for her to continue.

— They were drunk, speaking Spanish, but you could tell what they wanted. They cornered me, and I couldn't scream or call for help — Charlie's voice cracked, her eyes filling with tears.

— Did they do something to you?

— No, they did not. They couldn't because… Fernando followed me.

The therapist raised an eyebrow.

— But…

— He said he asked a guy who saw me leave the bar which way I'd gone and he went after me. He arrived, put his hands on my face and then hugged me. Then he said something to the guys and managed to get me out of there.

— And then what happened?

— We went to the hotel, where we found his physiotherapist, Edoardo. And the two of them went with me to my room. Then, Fernando gave me water and told me if I needed anything I could send a message that he would do his best to help me. I thanked him, and he said it was the least he could do, because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something bad happened to me.

Hannah opened her mouth, as if to say something, but then closed it again, her expression thoughtful.

— And what do you think about that?

— About what?

— About Fernando's attitude.

Charlie pressed her mouth into a thin line, trying to organize her thoughts.

— Well, all of my feelings are kind of contradictory. I'm surprised, since he hugged me, kissed my forehead, kept his arm around me while we walked back to the hotel, tried to calm me down the whole time, I realized that he's not being as nasty as he used to be. It's like he’s putting in an effort on his part to try to have a cordial relationship with me.

— So you notice a change in his attitude towards you?

— Well, a little? — Charlie answered, a little uncertainly. Noticing Hannah's expression, she corrected herself — Okay, yes, the change is considerable.

— And how does that make you feel?

— I'm still suspicious, I don't believe someone can change like that...

— Charlie, you haven't seen him on a daily basis in nearly five years. People can change in that time, even more so in a volatile environment like your job. You told me yourself that you’d noticed how Daniel Ricciardo changed from his first to his second year at McLaren and how that affected your team as a whole.

— But Danny never stopped being polite to us.

— And Fernando isn't being polite?

— Well, he is, but...

— Charlie — Hannah interrupted her — Have you ever thought that maybe your perception of Fernando might be changing?

— What do you mean?

— When we started our sessions, one of the first things we explored was your relationship with him. You were 27 years old, you were starting to become more established in your career and you were particularly disappointed because the driver you were excited to work with and thought was handsome was an asshole. But, I don't think you ever stopped to think that maybe he was disappointed too.

— Hannah…

— The point is, you're not the same now. You're 33 and he's over 40, right? You both have grown and matured. You’ve dedicated yourselves to other projects and dreams, as well as personal goals.

Charlie remained silent, trying to concentrate on her breathing.

— Just like you sometimes don't recognize that woman from 2015, who cried hiding in the paddock after Fernando said something rude, maybe Fernando doesn't recognize the guy that was yelling about GP2 engines and looking like an amateur — the therapist said — And that's okay. What I mean is, are you able to recognize that he is no longer McLaren Fernando, and are you open to meeting Aston Martin Fernando?

Charlie looked down at her hands, contemplating Hannah’s question. It was true that the Fernando she knew now was not the same Fernando she’d met in Woking. He was no longer the driver looking for a second chance in an older team, nor was he the frustrated veteran not given the proper tools to achieve his goals, but someone more mature, with more experience and, more than anything else, still hungry to win.

Just like her.

— I think I am.

[rotten-hearts-sharp-teeth]

Alone No Longer Ch.9 - Stand By Your Man

A young woman seated beside the set of double doors snapped to attention when Sabine approached. She stepped around her tiny workstation and raised her arms in an attempt to block her path.

"I'm sorry Madam, but Sir Hellsing is in a very important meeting right now. You will have to wait until-"

Sabine narrowed her eyes and lengthened her stride. She was all too familiar with the timid set of the secretary's shoulders. Women like her passed through the cabaret a dime a dozen, but they never lasted long. They were weak. Easily broken, like Lydie… like Inge.

Her smile stretched to reveal her fangs as she pushed past the startled secretary.

"Out of the way, la petite fille. What I have to say to your boss will not take long." (little girl)

Sabine slammed open the double doors with enough force to send them crashing against the opposite side of the wall.

Arthur Hellsing glared at her from behind his oversized desk.

Seated before him were two middle-aged men that Sabine didn't recognize. The one on the left was slightly overweight with brown hair parted to the side. His lip quivered below a thick mustache as his eyes nervously bounced between the other two men. The slim blonde on the right gave her a quick once over before scoffing and turned back to Sir Hellsing.

"Honestly, Arthur. It's the middle of the day!"

Sir Hellsing grinned as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee.

"Give me some credit Hugh. She's not one of mine."

Sabine knew what type of company Arthur kept at all hours of the night. She had even formed a mutually beneficial comradery with a few of the women. Once they understood that she had no interest in the man or his money.

With her fanged smile firmly in place, Sabine marched across the checkered tiles to stand in the center of the room. She planned to reason with Arthur and bargain for Hans' safety, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she knew there was no hiding the outrage in her voice.

"You keep him chained and muzzled in the basement like an ANIMAL!"

[bramblesbriars]

Middle of the Night: Chapter 1

Terry Silver is a prominent business owner, who happens to be a powerful vampire leader in the LA area. From waste disposal to escort services, Terry has a market for just about everything. But when a strapping new intern arrives from the local community college, he begins to rethink his priorities.

Trigger warning: This story is filled with drugs, smut and less than pleasant situations. If these bother you in any way, please, DO NOT READ. Definitely 18+. You've been warned.

First days were always the hardest, that’s what Mr. Miyagi had told him anyway as he scuffled from the table and headed out the door that morning. As helpful as the advice was meant to be, it only made Daniel nervous on the drive over to the place, nearly getting lost at one light. He had made the drive before, twice even, and a little anxiety was going to throw off his whole day? He shook his head, doing his best to shake it off as he pulled into the parking lot of the massive building, glancing at the sign out front.

DynaTox Industries was a well-known staple in the area, as was it’s owner, Mr. Silver. He seemed to be a pretty decent guy, always participating in charities and community programs. That was the only reason Daniel got accepted to the internship program in the first place, no million dollar company would have dreamed of taking in a pathetic community college intern unless they were showing a little pity. The entire admissions process had been intense and a little extreme though, yet not once had Daniel met the mysterious executive.

With this in mind, he wondered if he would get a chance to see the man on his first day in with the other interns. Not that it mattered much, he expected to be working with a supervisor or something in the sales departments, that was his focus anyway. It was just always nice to know who you were working for.

The building was plated in glass, reflecting Daniel’s awkward form back at him as he made the trek up to the revolving doors, heading inside. Exotic plants decorated the entry way, the teen pausing to touch a petal of one of the flowers to see if it was real. The purple flake broke into his hand causing him to panic and tuck it into the pot before he darted over to a nearby desk where a lady sat. He gave his best smile, weight shifting from foot to foot when her gaze found him.

“Welcome to DynaTox Industries. How may I help you?” The woman flashed a kind smile, hands folded over her workstation as she addressed Daniel.

“Hi, I’m Daniel LaRusso, I'm an intern” He started, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “I was wondering where I’m supposed to be. It’s my first day.”

“Oh, right, one of the interns.” The assistant checked the index card holder on her desk. “La…LaRusso…Ah, here you are.” After a moment of reading the card, she wrote down some information on a slip of paper and passed it to the teen. “You’re going to floor three, conference room B. There should be someone there to help you.”

“Thank you so much.” Daniel nodded, rushing towards an elevator just before the doors were about to close. He clutched the piece of paper in his fist, glancing over it as the elevator ascended to his floor just to give himself something to do. Once the car paused on the third floor, he hesitated before stepping out into the hall where a some other people lingered.

A few other interns congregated in the hallway, Daniel spotting them by their dazed looks and questionable attire. Despite his best effort to smile and appear approachable, none of the others paid him any mind, nor did they speak to each other. He figured it was every man for himself around there, but still, he had to at least try to be civil. He was going to be stuck with most of these people for a few months, the last thing he wanted to do was to piss everyone off on his first day there.

Per the assistant’s directions, Daniel scoped out the right conference room, surprised to find an elderly lady waiting for him. She was helpful though, giving Daniel his name tag and a folder of paperwork. Most of it needed to be signed and returned, but the brunt of it was information on the company and its owner. The pamphlets would come in handy for his paper later on, and he did have an interest in how the company worked. He didn’t like to be superficial of others, but he wondered if the other interns actually cared about why they were there or if they only saw a multi million-dollar company and flocked to it. DynaTox hadn’t been his first choice for an internship, but they were the ones who had accepted him, and he was grateful for it.

“You’ll be shadowing our sales team.” The old woman explained. “There will be another intern joining you later this week, so you won’t be the only greenhorn around for long.” Her leathery face crinkled into a smile. “You seem like a good kid, you’ll fit right in.”

“Thanks, Miss Margaret.” Daniel smiled, but his nerves pinched the ends of it, a hand bunched at the hem of his shirt. “Where do I get started? I mean, what will I be doing?”

“For now, just shadowing, watching.” Margaret shooed him towards the door, making sure he had the file in his arm. “Mr. Silver would have a heart attack if interns touched anything.”

Mr. Silver. The name sounded so refined and regal, Daniel had to at least acknowledge that. No wonder the guy was rich and owned a nice chunk of the valley, he probably came from a prominent family with a name like that. That’s where his mind wandered off to when Margaret spoke, not where he was supposed to be or what he was meant to be doing. He blinked then when he heard his name, inhaling a sharp breath.

“Just shadow the sales team, got it. Thank you, Miss Margaret.” Daniel again grinned for the old woman, who by then had turned to walk away, going towards the elevator. He sighed, trying to recall where exactly the sales team was.

It took some trial and error, a little embarrassing, but he found the assistant head of the sales team. A balding man, who was not nearly as talkative or friendly as he was hoping he was going to be, who made sure Daniel did nothing but stand back and watch. Later he was introduced to the actual head of the team, the lady far nicer but still pretty strict. It was during this interaction that he learned what he was mostly going to be doing over the next few months.

Coffee duty.

Oh, he was seething, the mild scent of sandalwood seeping into his clothes. What was he supposed to learn by just standing and watching? That wasn’t how he learned karate, and that wasn’t how he expected to learn how to run a business. If that was the case then he guessed he shouldn’t have even gone to college. He almost hadn’t taken the risk, but Mr. Miyagi had convinced him to push himself further. Whether he would make it or not was still up in there air.

For the time being, he found himself running back from the nearest coffee shop with orders for nearly every member of the sales team. He was lucky to have a drink carrier, but hot beverages and cardboard don’t always mix. He didn’t spill any, but he stopped just short of losing the entire carrier, setting it down on a table in a waiting area. Daniel adjusted the cups and again tried to pick it up, one of the drinks tilting a bit. He was quick to set it back down, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Do you need help with that?” A voice came from next to the teen, soft and amused.

Daniel’s eyes met an icy blue stare, freezing him in place for a second. The man beside him looked so out of place, pale skin, raven hair, and eyes that just screamed intense. His clothes fit the part though, the guy decked out in a fancy business suit. He looked a little too nice to be working there though. Who was this guy?

“Oh, no, I’ve got it.” Daniel was quick to try and grab the carrier again, but the same thing happened. “Yeah, I might need some help actually. Thanks.”

“No problem.” The man picked up three of the coffees, while Daniel grabbed the other two. “It’s not easy being the intern.” The teen shot a look over at the guy who smirked. “It’s not hard to tell. You’re all over the place.”

“That easy, huh?” Daniel chewed his lip, kicking himself for looking like such an idiot. He led the way to the elevator, punching three with his elbow once they both were inside. There was something about this guy’s scent that made Daniel sway, he couldn’t put a finger on it. It wasn’t like any alpha scent he had smelt before, it was stronger.

“It gets easier, so I hear.” While he spoke, the man cut a glance over at Daniel, tracing his profile. Daniel tried to avoid the man’s wandering stare while they stood there together, but it was hard to ignore. Was it his clothes? He had worn the best clothes he had, but he didn’t have too much to pick from, hoping he could buy new stuff with his first pay check.

“I just wish people would let me do something.” He sighed. “I get I’m an intern and a student, but I can’t learn if I don’t do anything.” Daniel huffed the last part, stepping out onto the floor when the doors opened up. The man followed behind him, mouth slightly pursed and brows arched.

“So, you’re a kinaesthetic learner.” When Daniel gave the man a confused look he laughed. “You learn by doing. You’re a physical learner.”

“Oh, well, yeah.” Daniel shook his head at the strange word the man used. “I just hope this entire intern thing isn’t going to be like this the whole time.” The beta sighed as he paused at the conference room door to open it.

“If they see potential in you then they’ll give you a chance.” He set the coffees he held on a console table by the door before motioning towards it. “I better get going. Me and these guys don’t really get along.” It was a strange thing to say, but Daniel brushed it off, realizing he didn’t get the man’s name.

“Oh, I’m Daniel, by the way.” He wedged his foot in the door to keep it open, disappointed he couldn’t shake the guy’s hand like a professional.

“I know. It’s on your shirt.” The man cut a sly grin Daniel’s way as he pointed to his name tag, before turning and walking down the hallway.

The guy hadn’t even given him his name! How rude could one person be? Well, he did help him carry the coffees to the room, but wouldn’t go inside? Daniel found himself troubled by the exchange the rest of the day, zoning out a good portion of the time that the sales team were going over figures that he could barely understand. He recalled what the man said, that if they saw potential in him that they would give him a shot. But how was he supposed to show any potential by just standing around?

As the work day drew to a close, the murmurings of a get together at a bar across town reached his ears. Something about celebrating the arrival of the new interns or some nonsense like that. Daniel didn’t see the harm in it, not a big drinker but he saw it as a chance to meet some of the other people he worked with. It was all a part of the college experience, right?

Some folks went home after work to change, while the majority of others left work and immediately went to the bar. Daniel was one of those people, not wanting to explain to Mr. Miyagi why he was leaving home after getting back from work. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a night out, clad in dress pants and a sweater, but he didn’t look bad. There were plenty of other people in the bar who looked worse than he did.

Once other employees from the company began to filter into the bar, Daniel tried to strike up conversations with a few of them. Some ignored him, while others referred to him as a child and outright insulted him. There were a couple who humored the teen, it mostly being the younger women of the company, batting their eyes at him and asking how his first day was. Daniel didn’t mind the attention, it was a nice change after losing touch with a few of his old flames. The wounds were still a little fresh though, and most of the conversations died down soon after they began.

Daniel found himself at the bar halfway through the night, ordering Dr. Pepper and people watching to pass the time. He had tried to order a beer, but the bartender wouldn’t let him, just chuckling at him and giving him a soda on the house. Even when he was trying to be badass, he couldn’t win. So he sat there, drinking his soda and staring off at the other bar goers. Until a familiar voice echoed from beside him.

“Whiskey, please. Neat.”

The man from earlier perched on the bar stool next to Daniel, now dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt. His dark hair was slicked back into a ponytail, a few stray pieces curling around his forehead and ears. Daniel was quiet while he cut his eyes over at the man, the same odd scent of smoke filling his nose. It made sense that he would be there too. The guy did work at the company. But for him to find Daniel at the bar like that? It was weird. As if on cue, the man seemed to focus in on Daniel’s insecurity.

“Oh, hey, Daniel.” The man grinned, sipping his whiskey. “How was the rest of the sales meeting?”

“Boring.” The brunette admitted as he picked at his cuticles. “I did get to drink one of the coffees though. Apparently, I messed up the order.” He shrugged then, tan cheeks flushed. “What branch are you in…You know I never got your name!”

“Terry.” He held a handout to the teen, who gave it a firm shake. “Ah, I really do a little bit of everything. I’m particularly good at business management, the administration side.” Terry explained, gesturing with his hand before taking another sip of his drink. “So, you want to go into sales, is that right?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet. I just know I’m interested in business. I’d like to have my own someday.” It was the first time Daniel really smiled that evening, the once agitating scent of smoke now oddly comforting. “Not sure what kind yet, but I’d like to have my name on a sign some kind of way.”

“That’s a pretty big ambition. All you need is the drive to get there.” Terry finished his drink, nodding to the bartender for another. “And maybe some money.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m going to save everything I get from this internship…” Daniel paused when the other laughed. “What?”

“This internship doesn’t pay its interns. Most internships don’t actually.” Terry thanked the bartender when he got his drink, setting it aside. “So you won’t be making anything, Danny-boy.”

It was definitely news to him. He had specifically applied to the DynaTox internship program because it offered a paid internship and now some guy was telling him that it was a lie? It had to be a joke. But what if it wasn’t? That meant he was going to have to find some other way to save up money while also going to school, and that hadn’t been part of his thinking going into this. Daniel went quiet, pushing his empty glass around on the counter.

A hand pressed into his back then, the pressure soft against his spine. He blinked, head snapping round to meet Terry’s electric gaze and faint smile. Daniel’s mouth opened though no words left him, the strangest sensation jostled through his veins to have another man look at him that way. Specifically, to have that man look at him that way.

“If you’re strapped for cash I know a way you can make some extra money.” Terry kept his voice low, sliding his hand down Daniel’s back and off his hip. The teen tensed when the man did that, averting his eyes. “It’s totally discreet. I mean, hell, how do you think all the other interns are making their money?”

Daniel’s body warmed. Was this guy really propositioning him? He dug in his pocket for his wallet, pulling it out only to drop it on the floor. He slid from the bar stool to grab it, but a foot stopped him. A lump settled in his throat as he stared at the shoe that rest on his wallet, not daring to look up.

“Let me get those for you, Danny-boy.” Terry slid his foot off Daniel’s wallet then got out his own, paying for both of their tabs. The teen snatched up his wallet, ready to run out of the bar when a voice called after him. “Remember what I said, Daniel. Think about it.”

Was he desperate enough to consider such a thing? No, never, that was disgusting. Besides, he had never been with anyone, why would he drop as low as to have his first time be with someone he didn’t even know? And for a few bucks too? He wasn’t ready to be that pathetic. He preferred to be a broke loser than a floozy degenerate. The entire incident left him shaken and made him regret ever asking the guy his name.

[thestalwartheart]

Asking them about their family for 00q, pretty please! 🙏🥰

Thanks for the prompt, Alex! This is admittedly a bit of a twist on it, but you and I both enjoy a bit of ambiguity, so I thought I'd be forgiven for it!

You can read it below or on AO3.

Enjoy! 💖

It’s only Bond, Q tells himself. He’s just a man, for goodness sake. This whole situation is proof of that.

Q clears his throat and gestures for Tanner to give them some space in the lab, then wishes fervently for the ground to swallow him whole. He grips the edge of his desk. Perhaps, in the next three seconds, he’ll think of a way to give Bond some mind-reading powers so they can avoid a conversation. Hardly worth the risk, normally, but on this occasion…

“Before you go, 007, I’m er—”

“Spit it out, Q.”

“Right. Yes. I’m going to need you to change the password for your company-assigned laptop.”

Bond narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you a bit overqualified to be delivering messages usually sent by automated prompts?”

“And here I thought I still had too many spots to be qualified.” Bond gives him a look and Q remembers why jokes are a terrible idea in times like this. “You’re right, I am usually. But given the security fiasco with Denbigh and the merger, I’ve been doing some manual audits. Your password passes most requirements, but it’s—”

“—easy to guess,” finishes Bond. His hand twitches. Whether it’s out of annoyance or the desire for a strong drink, Q doesn’t know. He sympathises with the latter thought—he could certainly use a scotch or two himself.

“Yes. It’s linked to your file, and therefore a security risk. This isn’t something a computer would normally pick up, especially with the state of our backend systems. I’m sorry, Bond.”

Bond’s face remains unreadable, but he nods and promises to sort it out as soon as he gets back to his desk.

For a moment, Q is pleasantly distracted by the thought of James Bond sitting at a desk in an open-plan office, a human like the rest of them and just as subject to the indignities of hierarchy. Q wonders if he drinks coffee out of that awful, too-small company mug everyone’s got, or whether he’s put a few government-issued pens in it instead. Neither, probably. Bond has taste. Q would put money on him favouring better coffee and pens.

“Good,” says Q with a thin smile. “Good, thank you. You’re free to go, then.”

While he tries not to choke on the awkwardness in the room, Q turns toward a half-finished surveillance device on his workstation.

“Q?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” At the look Q gives him, he elaborates. “I can’t imagine everyone else who failed your security audit got the personal attention of the Quartermaster.”

That’s true. All the other agents and analysts who failed it got emails written by one of his graduate techs. Q tries not to linger on the thought that he’d probably have gone out of his way to talk to Bond anyway. Thinking about it for too long would mean interrogating why, and he’s fine with living in ignorance on that particular subject.

“Let’s call it luck of the draw.”

His discretion is awarded with a rare smile. He carries it with him until two days later, when he does a follow-up check of the admin systems. It reveals a clean sheet of secure passwords.

Q leaves dealing with Bond’s for last. He knows the man has more sense than to make the same mistake twice, so Q could leave unchecked. It’s not as if it matters whether he knows the password or not; he has full remote access to everything on Bond’s laptop anyway.

But he’d be naive to believe most passwords didn’t reveal some secrets about the person whose data they hide.

Q isn't sure he's ready for more of Bond's secrets.

No favouritism, he reminds himself. You’ve checked everyone else’s. God knows Bond already gets handed enough exceptions around here.

With that rebuke to himself in mind, he clicks the button to reveal the new password.

He taps his pen on the desk twice, then laughs. There is no mention of Delacroix, nor any other baggage-laden names in Bond’s file.

Instead, translated into an agent's approximation of leetspeak, blinks the word Temeraire.