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barnacles34 · 6 days ago

Text

Your Totalitarian Touch

MEOVV Anna X Male Reader

18+ smut

5k words

TW: Rough sex

a/n: I'd like to thank @capslocked for helping me revamp a part of this story that drove me nuts... Thank you so much. Your help did everything and more.

—

You needed a rebound. A quick fix. A body to sweat against, to burn through the feelings. No strings, no weight—just skin, just heat. Someone reliable, discreet.

Someone who wouldn’t ask for more. That’s where Anna came in. That’s where your assistant came in.

No emotions. None. Just work and release, routine like clockwork.

A blowjob over the desk. A quick fuck in the janitor’s closet. A suite at the Four Seasons, the sheets barely wrinkled before she leaves.

It’s part of her duties now, unspoken, expected. She places the clipboard down—mahogany, polished, bronze fixtures catching the light.

She unfastens her heels, the dark nylon clinging to her feet, creased where the fabric hugs her toes. The reinforced toe section—slightly darker, sheer but dense—outlines the curve of each digit, a faint imprint where the pressure of her shoes had been.

The necklace—diamonds, fine, insignificant—left beside the papers. Shirt loosened, top button undone.

Then she kneels on her stocking-clad heels, like worship, poised, perfect. Ready.

And then, with the same quiet devotion, she leans in. A tentative breath against your tip, her lips parting, her tongue flicking out—just a taste, a whisper of heat before she lets you feel her fully.

She takes her time, slow, deliberate. Tongue warm, wet, tracing along your shaft. Licking, sucking, teasing—hot breath right on your wet tip, soft hums in her throat.

Her hair, once perfect, now a tangled mess, strands sticking to her damp forehead.

She works you to the edge, holds you there right in the perfect clench of her throat, then pushes you past.

You break, pulse, spill—thick, warm—catching in her palm before she lets it slip between her perfect breasts, glistening along her sternum. Like a painting. Like worship. Like Aphrodite herself.

What cascaded along your cock—this viscous amalgam of cum and spittle—coalesced upon her palm as if nature herself had wept a forbidden nectar; her eyes crease. There's a satisfaction in her expression, like the residue of collapsed constellations, like take this, take more, like finally.

That's the fervor, you suppose, of an artist; tending their piece-de-resistance; each pass along her palm a meticulous act of affection, a pure assimilation into her role; then she's pumping her fist around you and you cannot believe how soft how palm feels, how lithe her fingers work in gentle twists—she's gazing at you with the serene madness of a sibyl who'd licked the ink from her own prophecies.

And then—her hands, wrapped entirely around your cock, instruments of havoc, descended once more.

Not one, but two now. Moving with the precision of clockwork doves, her two-handed grip (Fucking fuck!) alternated between silk and vise and utter destruction, coaxing from you not mere surrender—

But a total sacramental undoing. A bead of spit swelled at her lower lip—a viscous shiny pearl—before plummeting to crown your tip, where it quivered, blasphemous and bright under the lamplight.

How neatly this situation mirrored your customary routine: the assistant’s demure blouse, starch-stiff and virtuous, clashing deliciously with the wet ruin beneath her skirt.

The sheen of spit, of sweat, of something filthier still, trailing down her fingers, her wrist, sinking into the taut fabric stretched across her thighs. Pre-ejaculate, saliva, tears—pure ruination.

Your fingers laced through her hair, gripping, guiding. This was where her mouth belonged.

What she would take.

What she would choke on.

She descended in one motion, a slow, measured collapse, until the tip of your cock struck the back of her throat—an impact like a detonator, like pressing the switch on nuclear obliteration.

Her gagging was no mere reflex. The convulsion of her epiglottis, the shuddering clench of her throat, the way tears welled and fell—not in drops, but in rivulets, a silent confession of servitude.

And then—as her fingers worked between her wet thighs—a seizure of pleasure overtook her, body arcing as if struck by divine voltage.

The first spasm hit like a shockwave, wracking her frame, and then—wet, hot—her climax tore through her in a violent surge, a squirt painting the garish paisley carpet, anointing the fibers in utter pleasure.

It came in spurts, uncontrolled, writhing through her as she clung to you, nails digging, throat still fluttering around your length, her body unable to decide between rapture and collapse.

Later, she would kneel, breath still uneven, gathering stockings and the last shreds of decorum, fingers trembling as she fastened the final button of her blouse. You’d murmur something about discretion, and she’d nod, lips still swollen.

But there was no secrecy here, no fleeting lapse. This was routine. She was pinned and preserved—pressed into place beneath the totalitarian weight of you.

You straightened your cuffs. ‘Tend to the emails I sent. They're urgent.’

‘Yes.’ The softest response, her voice barely more than the pluck of a harp string.

‘And—I’ll need you at my house. No later than seven.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ A bow, reverent. One hand drifting low, pressing firm against the heat between her thighs, as if to quiet the ruin left there, as if to contain what was already yours.

That was 6 PM. Everyone was out. Anna was second to leave.

You clean the room. Perfume it. And Anna waits rather than go home first.

She follows you to the car, moving in that quiet, seamless way of hers. The faintest click of her heels on pavement, the sound swallowed by the evening hush.

She slides into the passenger seat, composed, familiar. The scent of Dior Mini Miss Fragrance¹ drifts in with her—soft, floral, expensive.

The one you gave her. She wears it every day. Not heavy, not cloying, just enough for you to notice in passing. Just enough to remind you.

She’s changed. The workday rigidity is gone—no more stiff blouse, no more severe pencil skirt. Instead, a cashmere sweater, fine-threaded, molding itself to her shape.

Dark leggings, stretching smooth over long legs, hugging the delicate curve of her hips. Casual, but deliberate. Nothing out of place. Nothing ever is.

You ease the car into the road, the city moving past in slow, rhythmic streaks of neon and streetlights.

—

¹ Anna described the olfactory notes once: ‘The floral freshness of lily-of-the-valley notes, an expressive peony accord and caressing iris notes accompany a slightly dewy verdant quality.’ You thought it was cute, how immersed she is when given a gift.

—

'Traffic’s bad today.'

'It is, sir.'

Her voice is light, composed. Almost neutral.

You glance to the side. A peek of her face, then her entirety.

There’s something in her lap. A small box, folded parchment paper lining the inside. Her hands rested on it, fingers laced, steady.

You glance at it. 'What’s that?'

'I made something.'

'Made something?'

'Yes, sir. For you.'

She doesn’t elaborate. Just lifts the lid slightly at the next red light, tilting the box so you can see. Inside, golden shells, delicately dusted with powdered sugar.

'Madeleines?'

'Yes, sir.'

A faint scent rises—warm, buttery, kissed with vanilla and lemon.

'Why?'

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers shift slightly against the box. Then, softly:

'You left the office late yesterday. And I baked. These are the remaining ones; I thought you might want something sweet.'

You look at her. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t avert her gaze. Just sits there, watching the road, the passing headlights tracing slow highlights against her skin.

'You’re not paid for this time.'

'I know, sir.'

'And yet.'

A blink. Barely even that. Then she looks back at the road, voice even.

'I don’t mind.'

No excuses. No justification. Just fact.

You reach into the box without another word, pick one up. The shell ridges are soft beneath your fingertips, delicate but firm. You take a bite. Warm. Light. It dissolves on your tongue—soft butter, a whisper of citrus, the faintest trace of honey.

They’re good.

They’re so damn good.

The light turns green. You drive on.

—

The house is quiet. Dimly lit.

Anna moves through it like she always does—not like a guest, but not quite like she belongs. Just… seamlessly, like she’s smoothing out existence itself.

A chair slightly out of place? Adjusted. A misplaced coaster? Set right. Her movements are precise, unconscious.

She’s not intrusive. She doesn’t linger. Just straightens, aligns, clears away the invisible disarray before finally settling on the couch, hands resting lightly in her lap, posture flawless.

Waiting.

For instruction, maybe. For you.

You watch her for a moment. The soft knit of her sweater catches the low light, the fine curve of her collarbone disappearing into its folds. The leggings stretch tight over her legs, her knees pressed together, the only sign of tension in her otherwise poised frame.

She’s waiting for a command.

Instead, you move.

She barely reacts when you settle in beside her, when your hands find their place—one on her waist, the other against her throat, fingers ghosting along her pulse.

She breathes in, just a little too sharply, when you lean in, burying yourself into the curve of her neck.

She smells like warmth. Like the faintest trace of the Dior fragrance, now mingled with something softer—her.

Your lips graze the smooth line where her neck meets her shoulder. You feel the shiver before she even exhales, the tension in her body coiling tighter, thighs pressing together like she��s trying to contain something.

Then, you move.

She gasps when you push her back against the couch. Her body gives before she does—pliant, waiting, so beautifully obedient, a lamb before the altar, a sacrifice before the flame.

You take your time, peeling away the layers. The sweater first—soft, cashmere, clinging to her warmth before you strip it from her, exposing bare skin, goose-pimpled under the cool air.

Her hair—usually so neat—catches in the fabric, strands tangled, framing her flushed face like the ruins of something once meticulously constructed.

Then the bra—lace, expensive, some French confection meant to be seen only by her own reflection. A whisper of fabric, a gentle surrender, and then she is there, bare-breasted, her nipples stiff under your gaze.

You drag your palms over them, slow, teasing, and she twitches beneath you, breath hitching like a string pulled taut.

Then the leggings. Tight. Stubborn. Peeled away inch by inch until the last scrap of decency is nothing more than damp lace pressed against her cunt.

Her thighs are trembling before you even touch her, a subtle, anticipatory quake—she knows, she knows what’s coming.

You hook your fingers into the thin fabric, drag it down slow, torturous, and the way it clings to her—the way the wetness sticks, clings—dear God.

And there she is.

Her pussy is glistening, flushed, lips swollen with need, the delicate bud of her clit already peeking out, desperate for attention. She parts her thighs, hesitant, then obedient, and fuck—the sight of her spread like this, pink and drenched and open, makes something sharp coil low in your spine.

You don’t waste time.

You drop to your knees and devour her.

Her hips jerk the moment your tongue meets her slit, a sharp little gasp escaping her, hands flying to the couch, gripping for dear life.

You taste her—warm, slick, sickeningly sweet—something obscene and divine in the way she spreads for you, the way her body reacts like an instrument tuned to your precise touch. You drag your tongue from her entrance up to her clit, slow, languid, savoring. She twitches. Her back arches.

Then you do it again.

Flicking against that swollen, aching bundle of nerves, pressing firm, circling, watching the symphony of her undoing—hips jerking, thighs trembling, fingers curling against the upholstery.

She’s panting now.

'Oh—sir—'

Her voice breaks when you suck, hard, pulling her clit into your mouth, rolling it against your tongue, letting the sharp little whimper she gives you burn itself into your memory.

She is soaked. Drenched. Slick spilling down your chin as you fuck her with your tongue, pressing deep, curling inside her, feeling the way her walls flutter, tighten, her body begging for the inevitable.

And then she breaks.

She screams, a sharp, glorious cry of ruin as she shatters, her pussy clenching around nothing, a desperate, needy spasm that makes you groan into her cunt.

She’s shaking, violently, thighs squeezing around your head, heels digging into the couch as if trying to escape the force of her own pleasure.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You lap up every drop of her, let her ride it out, make sure she feels every second of it—her body writhing, nerves burning, overstimulated and helpless.

Her hands find your hair. Not to push you away, not to stop you, but to hold, to cling, like she’s afraid she’ll fall apart entirely if she lets go.

And then—her moans collapse into ragged, broken little gasps, her chest heaving, her body slumping, her legs twitching with aftershocks.

When you finally pull away, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, she looks wrecked.

Utterly, gloriously ruined.

And you haven’t even begun yet.

You don’t give her time to recover.

She’s still sprawled out on the couch, thighs trembling, breath uneven, pussy dripping from the orgasm you just tore out of her. But you’re not done. Not even close.

You grab her—rough, possessive. One arm around her waist, the other under her thighs, lifting her like she weighs nothing. She gasps, hands clutching at your shoulders as you haul her up, her legs dangling over your arm.

'Oh—sir—'

She doesn’t protest. Just breathes, just clings, just lets you take her.

You carry her through the dim house, her skin warm, soft against yours. She smells like sweat, sex, Dior Mini Miss Fragrance—heady, intoxicating.

The bedroom door swings open.

You drop her onto the bed. She bounces slightly, wide-eyed, lips parted, still trying to catch her breath.

'Get on your knees.'

She obeys instantly. Crawls forward, knees sinking into the mattress, hands smoothing down her thighs like she’s preparing herself.

You undo your belt. Your pants drop, and your cock springs free—hard, aching, tip leaking.

Her breath hitches.

She licks her lips.

Then she’s on you.

No hesitation, no teasing. She wraps her fingers around your cock, strokes once, twice, then takes you into her mouth—wet, warm, sucking you down with obscene desperation.

'Fuck—'

Her tongue drags along your shaft, swirling, teasing the sensitive underside. She moans around you, and the vibration sends a shudder straight down your spine.

She’s filthy with it. Spit pooling in her mouth, dripping down her chin, strings of saliva connecting her lips to your cock every time she pulls back to breathe.

'Look at you. Fucking messy.'

She whimpers in response, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Wide, needy, shimmering with submission.

You fist her hair, pulling her deeper. She chokes. Gags. A muffled, desperate noise escaping her throat as you hit the back. But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

She takes it.

Her throat tightens around you, clenching, convulsing as you fuck into her mouth. The wet, lewd sounds filling the room—the slick suction, the choked moans, the obscene slurp as she swallows around your length.

Tears streak down her cheeks. Her mascara smudges. Her nails dig into your thighs, clinging, steadying herself as she takes every inch of you.

She pulls back with a gasp, drool spilling down her chin.

'You like this, huh?'

She nods, panting, eyes hazy. 'Yes, sir.'

'Then get on your back.'

She scrambles to obey, shifting, lying back on the bed, legs spreading automatically.

Her pussy is a mess—slick, glistening, aching for more.

You climb over her, positioning yourself between her thighs. Press your cock against her entrance, rubbing, teasing, feeling the heat of her.

She whines. Writhes. Lifts her hips, trying to take you in.

'So fucking needy,' you murmur.

And then you thrust in.

She cries out, head tilting back, legs wrapping around your waist as you bury yourself inside her. Tight. Wet. Clenching around you, this velvety slick, like she was made for this.

You fuck her hard. Rough. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound of aggressive skin slapping against skin filling the room.

She’s loud now—moaning, gasping, whimpering every time you slam into her. Her nails rake down your back, her body arching into you, her tits bouncing with every thrust.

'Oh—sir—'

She’s close. You can feel it—the way her walls flutter around you, the way her moans turn high-pitched, desperate.

You reach down, rub her clit, fast, hard, and she shatters.

A scream rips from her throat as she cums again, body convulsing, pussy clenching around you so fucking tight you nearly lose it yourself. She’s trembling beneath you, a shaking, gasping mess, barely able to catch her breath.

And then, through her wrecked panting, she breathes out—

'Do whatever you want. Anything.'

Your grip on her hips tightens. Something snaps.

You don’t hesitate. You grab her and flip her over, face down, ass up, pushing her into the mattress. She gasps at the sudden motion, hands clutching at the sheets, legs still shaky from the orgasm that just tore through her.

You grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back, lips brushing her ear as you growl, 'Anything?'

She nods frantically. 'Yes, sir.'

'Then take it.'

You press your cock against her drenched slit, teasing, dragging it along the soaked folds before shoving back inside her in one brutal thrust.

She screams.

The bedframe groans under the force as you fuck her into the mattress, hard, unrelenting. Her back arches, fingers gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded.

'Fucking filthy,' you growl, landing a sharp smack on her ass. She jerks, a choked moan ripping from her throat. A perfect, red handprint blooms across her skin.

Again.

Another slap, harder this time, and she cries out, pushing back against you, greedy for more.

'You like that?'

'Yes—yes, sir—'

Another slap, her ass jiggling under the impact.

'You like getting used like this? Bent over, taking my cock like a fucking slut?'

Her breath stutters. 'Yes, sir—please—'

You lean over her, press your chest against her back, keeping her trapped beneath you. Your hand slides around her throat, tilting her face to the side until her cheek is flush against the mattress, lips parted, eyes half-lidded, fucked-out.

'You belong right here, don’t you?' you murmur against her ear.

She whimpers, nodding as best she can with your grip still firm on her throat. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good girl.'

You fuck her deeper, harder, your pace ruthless. She’s completely at your mercy, pinned, her body taking everything you give her. She can barely form words anymore, just gasping, squealing, moaning, every sound raw, unfiltered.

You drag your teeth over the shell of her ear, your free hand grabbing her hip, nails pressing into her skin as you pound into her, feeling the way she grips you, tight, hot, dripping around you.

She’s a mess beneath you. Drool on the sheets, her body trembling, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

And she’s still fucking begging for more.

She’s wrecked. Completely and utterly gone.

A limp, shivering mess beneath you, body sprawled, face pressed against the sheets, ass still in the air like she’s waiting for something, though she can’t possibly take more.

Her breathing is uneven—ragged inhales, stuttering exhales. Drool glistens on the corner of her lips, a dazed expression on her face.

Her body twitches with aftershocks, thighs slick, trembling, a masterpiece of ruin.

You should stop.

You don’t.

You thrust once more—deep, unthinking—and the second you feel it, the molten, overwhelming rush surging up your spine, you yank yourself back—but not in time.

The first pulse spills hot inside her, and fuck—fuck—you weren’t supposed to—

You pull out, grip tight on your cock as the rest of it spurts across her ass, her lower back, painting her in thick ropes of white. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Just breathes, just exists, heavy, warm, unbothered, like this is nothing, like this is expected.

And that does something to you.

You collapse on top of her, forehead against her shoulder, both of you sweaty, exhausted. The room is thick with the scent of sex, the sheets tangled beneath you, the air humming with the echo of what just happened.

For a second, there’s nothing but breath. Her chest rising and falling beneath you, your fingers twitching weakly against her waist, the heat of her body stuck to you.

Then—

Soft. Feather-light. Her fingers, sliding into your hair, grazing, soothing.

You freeze.

'Do you want anything to eat?' she murmurs.

Your brain short-circuits.

You lift your head slightly. Blink at her.

'What?'

'You didn’t eat much today,' she says, her voice gentle, maybe even… worried? 'I can make something.'

You don’t respond. You can’t.

The sex was expected. The obedience, the silence, the waiting—expected.

But this?

This soft, effortless care? This unwavering, wholehearted, unpaid concern?

You don’t move. Just stare down at her, this woman you’ve ruined, this woman who still, for some unfathomable reason, looks at you like this.

Something tightens in your throat.

You swallow it down.

'You just got absolutely wrecked, and you’re asking about my dinner?'

Her fingers continue grazing your hair, slow, absentminded. She hums softly, unbothered.

'You worked late today.'

It’s not an answer. Not really.

But it’s also not not an answer.

Your lips twitch.

'You’re unbelievable.'

'Mm.' She yawns, stretching slightly beneath you, utterly boneless. 'Do you want something heavier?'

You stare at her.

She stares back, expectant, utterly serious.

And for the first time, you have no fucking clue what to say.

So you don’t.

You just watch her, the way she shifts beside you, soft and warm and real, your mind grasping at something it refuses to name.

Then, before you can think too hard about it—before the weight in your chest can settle into something recognizable—you close your eyes.

And when you open them again, it’s morning.

The scent of butter and coffee drifts through the air. Eggs sizzle in the pan.

And Anna is still here.

For a second, your brain doesn’t register it. Your body is sore in places you don’t usually feel sore. There’s the distinct scent of coffee, butter, and something vaguely sweet floating through the air, and that’s not normal. Your sheets are a tangled mess. That’s normal.

What’s not normal is the fact that the kitchen isn’t empty.

You sit up, and there she is.

Anna.

Wearing your shirt.

It’s too big for her, obviously—practically a dress, hanging off her shoulders, one sleeve falling loose, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone. Her hair is messy, slightly damp, as if she just showered. Bare legs, no pants, just standing there at the stove, flipping eggs like she owns the place.

She hears you shift and turns slightly, tilting her head. 'Good morning, sir.'

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

'What—' You gesture vaguely at the situation. 'What are you doing?'

'Cooking.'

'Yes, I can see that—' You rub your temples. 'Why are you still here?'

She blinks. Like she hadn’t considered that an actual question. 'You told me to stay.'

'I—'

Did you?

No. That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. You think back to last night.

Sex. A lot of sex. The memory makes your jaw tighten slightly. Then—post-sex delirium. Her ridiculous, casual Do you want anything to eat? and your inability to answer like a normal person.

You might have grumbled something that could have been interpreted as stay.

That’s not the same thing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. 'Anna—'

'You like your eggs medium, right? Not too runny?' she interrupts, completely unbothered.

You stare at her. 'How do you even know that?'

'You leave your plates out sometimes. The residue on the fork is usually a bit firmer, so I assumed you don’t like them too soft.'

There’s a beat of silence.

'You analyzed my egg residue?'

She shrugs, flipping one onto a plate. 'It was a reasonable deduction.'

You have no response to that.

She turns off the stove, grabs the plate, and walks over to the table like this is just a completely normal part of her job description. Like this—standing in your kitchen in your shirt, feeding you after a night of getting absolutely ruined—is just another Monday.

She sets the plate in front of you, slides a cup of coffee next to it, then stands there, watching.

Waiting.

'What are you doing now?' you ask, eyeing her.

'Seeing if you like it.'

'You think I’m gonna complain about a free breakfast?'

She hums. 'I think you’ll find something to nitpick. You’re very detail-oriented, sir.'

That—okay. That’s fair.

You grab a fork, take a bite. Chew. Swallow. It’s good.

Infuriatingly good.

You glance at her. She looks pleased.

And for some reason, that does something weird to your chest.

'Stop looking so smug.'

'I’m not, sir.'

'You are.'

She takes a sip of her own coffee, utterly unbothered. 'Would you like me to do anything else before I leave?'

You pause. You should say no. You should tell her to go. This was already weird enough. But then you hear yourself saying—

'You have anything else you can bake?'

There’s a flicker in her eyes. Amusement. Maybe something softer.

'Yes, sir.'

'Stay.'

And just like that, she does.

The sun is high, the sky is clear, and you’re doing something you never do—taking a walk.

Anna walks beside you, hands clasped behind her back, her usual composed self. She’s quiet but not waiting. There’s something different about today, something easy in the way she moves. Like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. Like this isn’t something unusual.

Maybe for her, it isn’t.

For you, it’s strange.

The park is full of life—joggers passing in rhythmic huffs, old men feeding pigeons, kids shrieking at nothing. The kind of environment you usually avoid. You don’t know why you agreed to this. Maybe it was because Anna just assumed you would. Maybe it was because she made you breakfast, and the thought of sitting in the house alone while she moved around, humming under her breath, felt… off.

Or maybe it was because of the way she touched your hair last night. The way she stayed.

You glance at her, hands still in her lap, eyes forward, posture perfect.

And before you can even think about it, the words leave your mouth—

'Be my girlfriend.'

She stops walking.

You take another step before realizing she’s not beside you anymore. You turn, and she’s just… standing there, blinking at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible.

'What?'

'Be my girlfriend,' you repeat, because she obviously didn’t hear you.

She tilts her head. 'Sir.'

'What?'

'You can’t just say that.'

'Why not?'

She exhales sharply. 'Because you didn’t even do anything first.'

You frown. 'What does that mean?'

She waves a hand, flustered, searching for words. 'You didn’t—you didn’t ask me properly, or—I don’t know, do something nice first! You can’t just say it like it’s an item on a checklist.'

'I let you sleep in my bed.'

She glares.

'I didn’t kick you out in the morning.'

Glaring intensifies.

'I let you make me breakfast?'

She groans. 'Oh my god.' She rubs her temples, looking physically pained. 'This is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.'

'You’d prefer flowers?'

'It’s not about flowers—'

'I can get you flowers.'

'Sir.'

You smirk, just a little.

She exhales through her nose. Collects herself. Closes her eyes for a moment like she’s resetting before opening them again. 'Okay, let’s try again. Say something that makes me feel like a human being before dropping that on me.'

You look at her, really look at her. The way her arms are crossed, the way she’s genuinely annoyed for the first time ever. The way she’s standing in front of you, not as an assistant, not as someone waiting for orders, but as someone who expects something from you.

And for some reason, that makes you want to push her just a little further.

'I like having you around,' you say simply.

She blinks.

That seems to throw her off more than anything else.

'That’s—' she stumbles slightly, the heat in her expression dimming into something softer. 'That’s better.'

Then, before she can fully collect herself—before she can regain her footing, before she can push it down into something manageable—

You grin. 'So. Be my girlfriend.'

And that’s when she kicks you.

It’s meant for your shin. You think it’s meant for your shin.

But it lands slightly higher.

Right into your fucking balls.

Pain explodes through your body. Your breath cuts out.

You drop to your knees.

Anna gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes wide, full of instant regret.

'Oh—Oh-my-god.'

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

She crouches in front of you, hands hovering, panicked, unsure if she should touch you or start drafting her resignation letter.

'Are you okay? Sir? Oh my god, I didn’t mean—'

You let out a slow, ragged breath.

And then you laugh.

She stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

'Why are you laughing?!'

You don’t know. Maybe it’s the pain. Maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the moment. Maybe it’s her—flustered, apologetic, real.

Because this? This is the first time you’ve ever seen her uncomposed.

And it’s kind of perfect. The latter half of her you’ve never witnessed. The whole Anna.

She looks at you, at your stupid, half-pained, half-delighted expression, and before she can stop herself, the words just spill out—

'I love you.'

Your laughter stops.

She freezes.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then—very softly, very, very horrified—

'Oh, no.'

You blink at her.

She physically recoils. 'Oh, no, no, no—'

'Anna.'

'I take it back!' She looks pale. 'It didn’t happen. I didn’t say it. Forget it. Forget everything.'

You tilt your head, choking on a laugh. 'You kicked me in the balls and then confessed.'

Her hands cover her face. 'Please stop talking. I’m sorry.'

You smirk.

Then, ignoring the pain still throbbing between your legs, you reach out, grab her wrist, and pull her hands away.

She won’t look at you.

'Anna.'

Silence.

Then—soft, defeated—

'Yes, sir?'

You squeeze her hand.

'Don’t take it back.'

And that’s when she finally meets your eyes. And that’s when you finally meet her soft lips.

—

It comes up later, as these things do, somewhere between the second round of coffee and you pretending the pain in your balls never happened.

'So.' You lean back against the park bench, watching Anna stir her drink like it personally insulted her. 'You despised me at first?'

She stiffens, mid-stir.

'I didn’t despise you—'

'That’s what you said.'

'I misspoke.'

'Did you?'

She exhales. 'It’s not my fault you were kind of rude.'

You smirk. 'Go on.'

She gives you a flat look. 'You never listened. You cut people off mid-sentence. You said things just to watch people get flustered. You refused to respond to emails that had more than two paragraphs. Oh! And once, during an all-hands meeting, you left in the middle of someone’s presentation to get a coffee and came back with a croissant.'

You raise a brow. 'Was it a good croissant?'

'You got three.'

'Right. And?'

'And I—' she hesitates. Then sighs, like she’s already exhausted by herself. 'And I started to like you.'

You tilt your head, watching her carefully. 'Why?'

She glances away. A faint pink dusts her cheeks. 'You’re… unique.'

'Hm.'

'A brilliant, infuriating oddity.'

'Interesting.'

'Something that needed fixing,' she mutters, mostly to herself.

Your lips twitch. 'Fixing?'

She doesn’t take the bait. Just sips her coffee like she didn’t just say something completely insane.